A Scottish Love Page 15

  If you eat your porridge, darling, I’ll give you a pastie.

  His long-dead mother’s voice made him wonder, suddenly, if medals were the army’s equivalent of a pastie. The more medals a man had, the more obedient he’d proven himself to be?

  At least they hadn’t sent one of his father’s subordinates to plead their case. No, this man had the ear of Prince George, the Duke of Cambridge, who’d become the commander-in-chief of the army a few years earlier. As such, General Abbott was often courted, endlessly praised, and continuously feared.

  “I’m not interested in going back into the army,” he said, before the other man could speak. “So if you’ve come for that reason, I’m sorry you’ve traveled all this way. If you’ve come to extend your condolences, consider them extended.”

  “I haven’t come for either reason,” General Abbott said.

  He didn’t think so. “Why are you here?”

  “For a very important matter, Gordon. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have disturbed your retreat.”

  The fact that the man called him Gordon, conveying a camaraderie the two had never shared, didn’t bother him as much as the fact that Abbott was smiling. Nothing good could come from General Abbott’s smile.

  “I’ve resigned,” he said flatly, closing the door with more force than it required. He didn’t sit, but began a slow pace in front of the chair, from the fireplace to the window, now darkening with night.

  Abbott didn’t say a word, either to urge him to sit or calm or listen, another clue that this wasn’t a normal visit. General Abbott was an autocrat. His men were terrified of him because he demanded it. No doubt the general reasoned that terror and deference were brothers.

  After several moments of silence, the only sound the thump of Gordon’s boots on the polished floorboards, he spoke again.

  “It’s not a retreat, General. It’s my home.”

  “I beg your pardon, Gordon. I only availed myself of the term your father used.”

  “My father considered Rathmhor a place to come between wars,” he said. “I don’t.”

  Abbott nodded.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, tired of being patient. He wasn’t Abbott’s subordinate anymore. He didn’t have to worry about being sent off to some god-awful duty because he’d annoyed the great general.

  “To ask a question, and convey a request.”

  Had Abbott always been cryptic? They’d never actually spoken at length before, since being a colonel didn’t put him in the upper echelon of the British Army. But he’d been forced to listen to Abbott’s speeches, addressing his line officers, and he’d heard of him often enough from his father.

  “Ask your question, General. And your request.”

  “I understand you’re working on a secret formula for an explosive.”

  It wasn’t surprise that halted him, but the amusement that came from being right. Slowly, he resumed his pacing, his gaze never leaving the other man.

  “My father,” he said, after two passes across the floor. “My father told you.”

  Abbott nodded. “Was he incorrect?”

  “He was wrong to tell you,” Gordon said. “He violated a trust in doing so. But, no, he wasn’t incorrect.”

  Abbott drew himself up, a commanding position despite still being seated. “What use do you have for such an explosive?”

  “Is that why you’re here, General? To ensure I use the formula for the good of the British Army?”

  “Let’s say that I am. How would you feel about that?”

  “Wary,” he said.

  “The army treated you well.”

  “The army treated me competently,” Gordon said. “I wouldn’t take that to mean well.”

  The general eyed him with some caution, as if just learning the hound he’d raised from a pup had suddenly turned rabid.

  “Your father said you were rebellious.”

  “Did he?” A mark of his maturity, then, that he no longer cared what either general thought of him.

  Abbott was silent, seemingly unconcerned that darkness was almost upon them, that the roads leading here were circuitous and dangerous to travel at night, or that there wasn’t an inn for some distance.

  He was going to be forced by good manners, if not decency, to offer the man a room in his home.

  “It’s blasting powder, General, for that purpose. Not to be used in warfare.”

  “You were very good at war, Gordon.”

  He turned and stared out at the night, wishing the man to perdition. “I was a soldier. I fought where I was told to fight. I won where I fought.” He glanced over his shoulder at the general. “Because I didn’t want to die.”

  “For that, you were awarded a baronetcy.”

  He felt another surge of amusement. “And for developing a way to make rifles shoot straighter.”

  General Abbott inclined his head in wordless acceptance of that clarification.

  “A teaspoon of initiative, General, in an effort to save a pail of blood.”

  “You’re a very bitter young man.”

  He smiled. “On the contrary, sir, I’m not bitter at all. I’m simply done. I don’t want to be a soldier. I don’t want to fight any more wars.” And I no longer want to be my father’s son.

  “And the Commonwealth? Is it safe?”

  Into those few words, Abbott managed to infuse memories of all the prejudice he’d faced as a Scot in the British Army. Although the last battle between them had been fought a hundred years ago, there was still suspicion on both sides. The British regulars made remarks like “soldiers in skirts” when the Ninety-third appeared. A part of him, the Scottish part, looked on the British as a conquering force to be endured. Never once had he truly felt a part of the army, but he was soul and heart part of the Ninety-third Highlanders.

  Abbott would never understand that, and no doubt saw his nationality as a threat.

  He forced a smile to his face, and nodded. “The Commonwealth is safe from me, General.”

  “We’re interested in seeing what it can do.”

  That was a surprise. The Duke of Cambridge was not known to be a forward-thinking man. Instead, he was considered to be conservative to a fault.

  Did Abbott speak for him? Or only for himself? A question he decided not to ask.

  “I’ll consider a demonstration,” he said.

  “I devoutly hope you will.”

  Was that a threat? If it was, it was a politic one, couched in polite terms and accompanied by a razor-thin smile.

  “You’ll stay the night, of course,” he said, grudgingly offering his hospitality.

  “I must decline,” Abbott said, the smile changing character to one more genuine. “I’ve friends not far away. They’re expecting me.”

  Another surprise.

  Gordon moved to the door, opened it, and stood aside.

  “We’re interested in seeing what it can do,” Abbott repeated.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, General.”

  “You’re not going to cooperate, Colonel?”

  “I’ve left the army, General. I prefer not to use my rank anymore.”

  The other man looked as if he was about to say something further, then evidently changed his mind, merely nodding as he passed Gordon.

  He had the distinct impression, as he saw General Abbott to his carriage, that the War Office wasn’t done with their efforts at persuasion. A thought that, surprisingly, only amused him.

  His father was attempting to pull the strings, even from the grave. Why else would he have told Abbott about the blasting powder?

  Nothing would change his mind or his course. Not General Abbott or his father. Not even Shona Imrie Donegal, who might prove to be more of a threat to his peace of mind than any emissary from the War Office.

  Chapter 15

  Brian MacDermond came north to Gairloch with seventeen people, among them his wife and child, a boy of only three. Fenella, his wife, was a calm and approachable woman with a serene smile regardles
s of the situation surrounding her. He’d always appreciated her demeanor, and her lack of complaints.

  “I have little to complain about,” she’d once said. “You’re a good provider. You’re kind to our child and to me. In addition, you provide for my parents, and never seem to mind that my father is sickly.”

  The marriage had been arranged, a joining of lands and hands. He’d no complaints himself. Fenella was sweet, of good disposition, and pleasant to all who met her.

  When he went away to war, she missed him, she said. When he returned, saddened and sickened, she tried to tend to him. Something had changed, however. He wanted more. He wanted someone to talk with him about momentous things, such as freedom and a man’s soul. He needed to share these thoughts he had, things he’d never before considered before facing his own mortality at Culloden Field.

  Instead, they shared silence, once companionable, now only devoid of speech. When his mind was troubled, he took to the pipes, setting aside his work on his house for a time. When the sound eased him, he began to build again. The structure would be sturdy and large enough to hold Fenella’s parents and other members of his clan, but nothing the size of the giant castle that shadowed the glen.

  Sometimes, at night, he’d stand in the glen and watch as the lights in the upper floors winked at him like stars. Sometimes, he’d play his pipes, but by that time, it was not so much in solace as it was in sadness.

  The wife of the Laird of Gairloch was a woman with soft brown eyes and black hair. She’d spoken his name aloud when meeting him for the first time, and he’d thought there was magic in her voice. Her name was Anne, a simple name for a complex woman, one who looked at him with questions in her eyes.

  By unspoken agreement, they didn’t see each other often, and never alone. They spoke, when circumstances forced them to meet, of his wife and her husband, of their fealty and assets. They never discussed either’s flaws, or the fact that each felt loneliness more often than any other emotion.

  If her eyes strayed to him when he played the pipes, it was in appreciation of his skill, of the fact that he could cause the very air to weep. If he watched her surreptitiously, it was because she was the Laird of Gairloch’s wife, and a woman greatly to be admired.

  Shona didn’t want to go down to dinner, all too aware what her reception would be. Instead, she busied herself with sewing on two buttons, examining the cuffs of a dress to see if they could be turned so as not to show their frayed edges, and cleaning her one and only pair of well-fitting shoes. When those tasks were finished, she relaced her corset since she’d broken a lace tightening it that morning. She kept herself busy so as not to think of the debacle in the Clan Hall and what an idiot she’d made of herself.

  Whatever Miriam wanted to say about her, she would simply have to bear it. If the woman flirted with Gordon, she’d smile. If Miriam linked her arm in his and pretended to be helpless and incapable of walking more than a step or two without assistance, Shona would simply ignore it.

  The sudden knock on the door surprised her. So, too, did Helen’s admonitory look when she opened the door.

  “You can’t hide in here,” Helen said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it will only make it worse when you do have to face everyone.”

  Helen pushed open the door and entered the room. “Whatever could you have been thinking, Shona?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Thankfully, Helen didn’t agree, leaving her some dignity.

  Her companion sat on the edge of the bed, waving her hand toward the wardrobe. “Are you going to change? Or wear what you have on now?”

  “This will have to do,” Shona said.

  Helen nodded, stood, and reached out to help her button one of her cuffs. She could manage the left one fine, but the right always gave her trouble.

  “I wasn’t thinking,” she said again, staring down at Helen’s nimble fingers. She’d just been feeling. All sorts of emotions had jumbled up inside her, resulting in a lapse of judgment. When she said as much to Helen, the other woman just shook her head, lips pursed.

  Helen could sometimes be a very tough taskmaster.

  “I have every intention of apologizing,” she said.

  “It should be tonight,” Helen said. “I think Miriam will just be more upset if you don’t.”

  Everyone seemed to be very protective of Miriam, even Helen. If Shona had half the hovering nannies Miriam seemed to collect, she wouldn’t be in the predicament she found herself. Shona? Oh, we’ve provided well for her. She’ll never have to worry another day of her life. Reassurances she might have received from her parents or her husband.

  Instead, she was fending for herself while Miriam was congratulated for drawing breath.

  Well, that attitude certainly wasn’t going to ease the situation, was it? She’d have to get beyond her feelings about the woman. Perhaps if she got to know Miriam, they’d be able to find something in common.

  Gordon.

  No, that wasn’t a thought she wanted to have, either.

  She frowned at Helen. “I shall apologize. Or grovel. Or whatever is necessary,” she said. “I shall be nearly angelic.”

  Helen looked doubtful.

  She bit her bottom lip, released it, then blew out a breath. “Shall we go in to dinner?” she asked. Her lips didn’t want to curve into a smile, but she forced them just the same.

  “Is that your angelic look?”

  She frowned at Helen again. “I’m practicing.”

  “Practice harder,” Helen said, urging her to the door.

  They were silent down the stairs, and once on the threshold of the dining room, she forced her expression into one of contrition, and entered the room.

  Elizabeth Jamison hadn’t been this miserable for a goodly number of years. Ever since she’d returned from the Crimea, as a matter of fact.

  Fergus was smiling at Miriam, his expression so solicitous that her stomach soured whenever she looked in his direction.

  Her plate was filled with food, but she wasn’t hungry for any of it.

  The china was quite lovely, a pattern of purple flowers interspersed with green leaves. The dinner china was different from the morning china which had been different from the china used on the trays sent to Mr. Loftus’s room.

  That fact illuminated just how much difference there was between their roles in life. Fergus Imrie had not only won the Victoria Cross, but he was the laird of this sprawling, massive castle, the first sight of which had rendered her awestruck.

  How could he think to sell such a magnificent place?

  “Good evening.”

  The Countess of Morton entered the room with a bright smile on her face, her eyes darting from person to person. She drew out her chair, took a deep breath, and looked directly at Miriam.

  For several heartbeats, they did nothing but stare at each other.

  “Forgive me, Miriam,” the countess said. “I have no excuse for doing something so foolish. Blame it on an excess of atmosphere, if you will.” Her gaze shifted to Mr. Loftus. “I do hope you’ll be able to excuse my poor judgment, sir. I would never have caused your daughter any harm.”

  She stretched out her hand across the table, too wide for her to touch Miriam, even if Miriam would consider joining hands.

  “Tell me about the secret passages,” Mr. Loftus said.

  The countess drew back her hand, placed it on her lap, and studied the plate before her. A moment passed, then another, before she finally spoke.

  “They were designed to keep the laird and his family safe,” she said. “The location of the entrances and exits is a family secret, but if you purchase Gairloch, of course, the information will be provided you.”

  Fergus cleared his throat as if to admonish his sister. The countess, however, wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she and Mr. Loftus were regarding each other in a way that made Elizabeth think they were acknowledging each other as adversaries.

  She would have thought, prior to
arriving at Gairloch, that Mr. Loftus would win every battle he joined. He was very set on getting his own way.

  Even though she’d been hired to monitor his health, he didn’t pay any attention to her recommendations. He wasn’t to drink spirits, but he’d shooed her away the other night when she’d murmured something about his consumption of whiskey. When she’d cautioned him about not eating too many sausages, he’d just waggled his fingers at her, too intent on chewing.

  The Countess of Morton, however, was his equal in stubbornness. That was evident from her very posture: shoulders level, chin squared, gaze direct. She might have been forced into apologizing for behavior that had been curiously out of character, but she wasn’t pleased about it.

  Fergus might well be as stubborn as his sister. From time to time, he would glance at her, and she’d avert her gaze. Earlier, in the Clan Hall, when Shona had pretended to be a ghost, she’d looked at him and found herself mesmerized.

  She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “A party,” Fergus said in the silence.

  Elizabeth glanced at him, then away before their eyes could meet.

  “A party?” Miriam said, her eyes sparkling.

  The last month had given her enough insight to know that Miriam loved parties, or entertainment of any sort, preferably events that involved other people paying court to her.

  “A party,” Fergus repeated. He smiled at Miriam. “To celebrate your arrival at Gairloch. A way of both welcoming you and making amends.” His look shifted to his sister.

  The countess looked panicked, but the expression disappeared too quickly for Elizabeth to be entirely certain she’d read it correctly.

  “A party,” Mr. Loftus said, sitting back in his chair and regarding Fergus with more favor that he had previously.

  “We’ll invite the villagers, of course. And the neighboring houses.”

  “Will Gordon be there?” Miriam asked.

  The countess sent an irritated look in Miriam’s direction, then immediately smoothed her face of any expression at all.

  “Of course,” Fergus said easily. “We’ll make it the social event of Invergaire,” he added. “Everyone will be there.”