A Scottish Love Page 19

  A few moments later, she watched as he directed Helmut to begin poking the section of wall that had opened when Shona had played ghost.

  “It’s got to be here someplace,” Mr. Loftus said from his perch on one of the benches Helmut had moved in front of the fireplace. He pointed his finger at a likely-looking brick.

  Elizabeth stood behind him, glancing toward the doorway occasionally, wishing that either Fergus or the countess would appear.

  “Should we be doing this, sir?” she asked finally. “It’s a family secret.”

  “I won’t be put off by that chit,” he said, annoyed. “If I buy her castle, then she’ll tell me the secret? I’ll not buy a pig in a poke.”

  She couldn’t imagine Mr. Loftus ever being cheated by anyone, but surely the countess had a right to retain the knowledge of the secret passages until such time as Mr. Loftus purchased Gairloch.

  “Perhaps the laird will tell you where the passages are,” she said.

  Miriam, however, hadn’t returned with Fergus, a fact that Mr. Loftus didn’t seem to notice. Where were they?

  “Then go and find her,” he said.

  Evidently, like Helmut, she was to have a myriad of duties: nurse, peacemaker, and now chaperone.

  An autumn day in the Highlands was the perfect place to be, last night’s storm clearing the air. The ground was soggy, so Fergus had to watch his step, but even so, he couldn’t imagine a more glorious day. The sky was a clear blue, the winds were blowing cold, stinging his eyes and chilling his skin. He should have worn a coat, but he didn’t retreat back into Gairloch, enjoying the day too much for caution.

  He stood in his mother’s garden, long since gone to ruin. The weeds looked hardy, however, some of them almost as lovely as flowers.

  One day, he’d take on the chore of readying the beds again. When he was feeling more up to it. When his damn leg didn’t ache all bloody day.

  For now, he envisioned a future that could be, instead of a past he hadn’t enjoyed.

  Most men thought the army too regimented, but it had been exactly the opposite for him. His life had been too uncertain, never knowing where he’d be tomorrow. Would he be fighting in some damn hot place where he hadn’t understood the culture, the language, or even the reason they were there? Or freezing his arse off in Russia?

  No, he wanted certainty to his life, and Gairloch offered that to him. A line of permanence stretching back three hundred years.

  He could see himself living here with the woman he loved, with their children laughing and playing throughout the castle. He’d teach them about their heritage. Sit them down in the library and oversee their study of the most famous books. Take the shields and spears down from the walls in the Clan Hall and allow each to hold them for a bit while he talked about the men to whom these weapons had belonged.

  None of that would come to pass if Gairloch was sold.

  Somehow, he had to convince Shona that more money wasn’t the answer. Somehow, she’d have to come to grips with her memories of Gordon and realize that they could do very well at Gairloch with a bit of inventiveness.

  “Have you seen Miriam?”

  He didn’t turn at Elizabeth’s voice. Instead, he took a deep breath, wondering at the sudden rapid beat of his heart. His mind might realize that she’d rebuffed him, but his body had yet to understand.

  “No,” he said. “I haven’t seen her.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, but he could sense her growing closer.

  “I think it would be better if you weren’t alone with her,” she said.

  He turned, angling his foot correctly so no further pressure was put on his leg. He wasn’t about to either wobble or fall in front of Elizabeth.

  “Why, does she have designs on me?” he asked, forcing a smile to his face.

  “I think she does,” she said.

  A curl had loosened from her coronet and he stared at it as if it were a magical tendril of hair. If he held it in his hand, would it wind around his fingers, ensnaring him as ably as Elizabeth had?

  “I doubt Miriam Loftus would settle for a cripple,” he said.

  “I thought you a smarter man than that, Fergus Imrie,” she said, frowning at him. “First of all, Miriam Loftus is a child. A cunning child, but no more than that. She toys with people because it amuses her to do so. Secondly, you’re no more a cripple than I am.” She surveyed him with a scorching look that took in his windblown hair and traveled down his body to his feet.

  Even in the army he’d never been inspected so thoroughly. Or left to feel so lacking.

  He had only one recourse—to retaliate. “Why did you never answer my letters?”

  She twisted her hands together, looking down at them as if they held the answer to his question.

  “Miss Nightingale told us not to form attachments. Men would come to think of us as angels, and imbue us with traits we didn’t have. They’d fall in love with us out of gratitude.”

  “I wasn’t your patient,” he said. “And it wasn’t out of gratitude. Perhaps it was due to lunacy, instead.”

  She glanced at him, her eyes widening.

  “I was an idiot,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “An absolute besotted fool. Who’s exceedingly grateful that you’ve pointed it out to me.”

  She nodded again, her face carefully expressionless.

  “Be careful of Miriam,” she said. “And Mr. Loftus. I think he might prefer to marry into Gairloch rather than having to buy it.”

  He smiled, grateful to her for giving him a source of amusement.

  “I could do worse than to marry her, don’t you agree? Mr. Loftus could take himself back to America and leave me a very wealthy bride.”

  Without another word, she turned and left him.

  By mid-morning, Gordon had arranged most of the crates and bags on one side of the cavernous floor of the Works.

  He’d already received a shipment of potassium, but he’d paid double in freight what the material had cost. Once the dock was built, supplies could be sent directly from Inverness via the River Mor to the loch.

  The Invergaire Works was ideally suited for a large production facility. He wished some of the staff were still employed, but the general had shut down the Works when he was in India, a way of demonstrating his power. Why not? He’d been safely in London while Gordon was in India.

  Rani wasn’t here yet, the tardiness surprising him. Today, they’d put the final touches on the explosive formula.

  He walked to the other side of the workspace, hearing his boots echo throughout the space. In shape and structure, the Invergaire Works was not unlike Inverness Station, tall gabled roofs supported by metal beams and struts. The only difference was in the two smokestacks and the matching furnaces on the work floor.

  He went to one of the furnaces on the far side of the building, opening the front metal door and allowing the heat to escape. Today, they’d begin to melt one of the ingredients in their blasting powder. Each step would have to be done using an infinitesimal amount of material due to the danger. Rani had already briefed him on the cautions.

  The scurrying sounds indicated that they would need to rid the place of vermin. He’d also have to get around to cleaning some of the windows, but for now he wanted to rid the work floor of debris and accumulated signs of neglect. He grabbed the broom from its storage space and began to sweep, taking pleasure in this small task.

  Each step was part of the journey, not only to making his own life, but to bringing a new industry to Invergaire Glen. Nothing was too small or too onerous a task. He wasn’t, as his father had been, above certain chores. Need his boots shined? Have a subaltern do it. Need a glass of wine? Wave to his aide to attend him.

  General MacDermond had been surrounded by men whose main function in life was to ensure that he was fed, shaved, outfitted, and made comfortable.

  Not one of them had attended his funeral.

  He heard another sound and glanced up, facin
g the one person he’d never thought to see.

  Shona stood just inside the door, a shawl covering her shoulders and clasped by her gloveless hands.

  “You should be wearing something more substantial,” he said. “It’s cold this morning.”

  She only nodded.

  “Has something happened?”

  She shook her head.

  “What’s wrong, Shona?” The silence wasn’t like her.

  He leaned the broom against the wall and began to walk toward her.

  “Nothing,” she said. She remained in place, her hands clasped around the ends of her shawl.

  “Then why are you here?”

  She looked around the Works, her eyes scanning from the floor to the ceiling.

  “I’ve never been here before,” she said. “All these years. Isn’t that odd?”

  “There was never a reason. Besides, it was dangerous.”

  She glanced over at him.

  He told himself it wasn’t fear he saw in her expression. Shona Imrie was rarely afraid. She turned in a slow circle as if the empty building was noteworthy.

  “How did you get here?” he asked, wondering if she’d answer that question.

  “I walked.”

  “You walked?” It was a good two miles to the Works from Gairloch.

  She nodded.

  “Why are you here, Shona?” he asked again.

  “Mr. Loftus is waxing eloquent about his Scottish relatives in the library,” she said. “With Helen as his audience. Miriam is complaining that she’s cold and Elizabeth is eyeing everyone as if they’re perched on the edge of illness. Fergus? He’s taken himself off somewhere, again.”

  Not quite an answer, but he didn’t challenge her.

  She turned and walked away from him, keeping as much distance between them as she could. Even from here, he could smell her perfume, as if it trailed behind her like a scent marker. Very well, he’d be the hound to her fox.

  But he wasn’t going to beg for answers.

  As she glanced over her shoulder at him, he modified that thought. Perhaps he would, after all.

  In his hands was a broom, and his simple act of sweeping the floor had rooted her to the spot. She’d never seen Fergus do such a thing. Or her father. Or even Bruce. But Colonel Sir Gordon MacDermond was engaged, and happily so, if the look on his face was correct, in cleaning.

  A lock of hair had fallen against his brow. He’d rolled up his sleeves to the elbow and there was dust on his black trousers and on the toes of his boots.

  The sounds of her breathing seemed to echo in the cavernous space. She turned, the hem of her skirt swirling over the dust and looked around her, amazed at the emptiness and the sheer size of the Works.

  But the strangeness of her environment was not what was keeping her silent now.

  He was.

  She forced herself to face him. “Do you still hate me?” she asked, a question that had been festering for days.

  He looked surprised. “No,” he said, beginning to smile. “I don’t.”

  Did he feel anything for her?

  His look was grave and steady, but she didn’t back down.

  “I need to ask you something,” she said, daring herself.

  He remained silent.

  She’d come to appeal to Gordon for money. Now she couldn’t. How could she? He stood there looking strange and familiar all at once. The boy buried in the man. A strong, well-built man who intimidated her just a little.

  She shook her head and began to make her way back to the door.

  He covered the distance between them with a few strides, grabbing her arm before she could leave.

  “What is it, Shona?” he asked, his tone impatient. His grip, however, wasn’t punishing. She could pull free if she wished.

  He turned her to face him, placed his fingers beneath her chin, and gently urged her face up until she was looking at him. Dear one. He’d not been the only one to use that term. She’d always thought of him that way, until it was simply easier to hate him.

  In the silence of the Works, she felt the past push in, over the barriers she’d erected, and into her mind and her heart. She felt swamped, overcome, and near tears.

  Dear one. Do you like this? A kiss at the base of his throat. Dear one, I love touching you. Her fingers stroking his penis softly until he moaned. Dear one, please, now. Her body arching as he entered her, the teasing forgotten.

  Seven years ago, he’d not yet gone away to war. Seven years ago, Fergus hadn’t yet joined the army, since he’d lacked the funds to purchase a commission. Seven years ago, she was madly in love, and nothing was as important as this man.

  She wished it were possible to turn back time, to give her a respite from this world, this life, and this existence. For a moment, she wanted to forget, to roll back the years, and pretend they hadn’t happened. Please, and it was a solicitation to God or Providence, Fate, or any greater power, let it be seven years ago. Let her be Shona Imrie, not the widowed Countess of Morton. She wouldn’t have experienced a marriage steeped in boredom and regret, and filled with hidden longings that kept her on her knees beside her bed in desperate prayer.

  Or if that couldn’t happen, then for a little while give her something to assuage her thirst, ease her hunger: a cup of water in the desert, a loaf of bread.

  Or Gordon.

  The minute she touched him, she’d be lost, incapable of thought. She wanted to study him, take in the perfection of his body, note the way the morning sun streamed in through the high windows and played across the planes of his face.

  She wanted, dear God, to feel him.

  She should run as far and as fast as she could. Instead, she stood where she was, drinking in the sight of him, feeling herself weaken, and tremble, and wildly excited about her own disgrace.

  Chapter 20

  Instead, she approached him. With slow, measured steps, she walked toward temptation, her body recognizing both want and need in the figure of Gordon MacDermond.

  One step took her closer, until her shoes met the toes of his boots. A single slight sway, and her skirt flirted with the wool of his trousers.

  Slowly, she placed her hand flat against his shirt. A simple white shirt created by a meticulous tailor, with almost invisible stitches and bone buttons. Had the tailor known that he would be covering a chest shielding a heart beating so steadily and with such honor? Had he known that one day, a woman would wish to tear the shirt off, uncaring for his hours of labor or the cost of the material?

  Love me.

  Words she’d often said, but never on this spot. Words that sounded too risky now. She gently placed her fingers on his cheek, traced the angle of his jaw, his cheekbone. She couldn’t look into his eyes, keeping her gaze on her fingers. But the feel of him was the same. Warm skin, smooth from his morning shave. The almost dimple beside his mouth seemed to encourage her touch.

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him there.

  At his sharp intake of breath, she smiled. He felt the same, then, trapped inside restraint, desperate to break the shell that protected the people they’d become from the people they’d once been.

  Her heart expanded, the joy she felt unexpected and shocking. She placed both hands against his chest, her fingers stretching up to his shoulders.

  “No one ever kissed me the way you did,” she softly said, pressing a kiss to his shirted chest. Beneath it, his heart beat as fiercely as hers.

  Slowly, he lowered his head, waited until she lifted her head, then touched his lips briefly to hers, coaxing her mouth open. This was new and different and yet so familiar that her heart ached with remembrance. How many hours had they spent knowing each other’s kisses? Testing what each other liked until their breaths were hot and their pulses raced.

  Perhaps a woman never forgot her first lover. Or her first love.

  Without saying a word, she unbuttoned one of his buttons, the one at the very top.

  His hand slapped against hers.

  She rai
sed her gaze to his. In his look was a warning, and something else, a spark of hunger.

  Wiggling her fingers out from under his hand, she continued on her task. An answer asked and given, yet no words passed between them.

  He lowered his head, intent on doing the same to her. Sixteen buttons stood between him and her skin. A monstrous number of buttons, an almost impossible amount.

  By the time she’d unbuttoned his shirt, however, he’d already finished with her bodice.

  Twice, she glanced up at him. The first time, there was still that edge of caution in his expression. The second time, his cheeks had bronzed, his lips thinned.

  Passion had always done that to him.

  Her fingers were trembling as she loosened the last button and pressed her palms against the chest revealed by her explorations. Leaning forward, she kissed him on his bare chest, feeling both their hearts leap in excitement.

  He made an inarticulate sound, grabbed her waist with both hands, and pulled her up to him.

  Yes, kiss me. Please.

  He was too slow. She framed his face with both her hands, held it still and placed her lips on his.

  His mouth was hot, soft, and intensely talented. His breath was life. His tongue swept along her bottom lip, not in a gesture of coaxing as much as acquainting. A dance of the memory that was as seductive as his hands stroking her skin.

  He pulled her with him, their feet dancing across the floor and into an alcove of sorts. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, her heart was pounding so quickly. And then breath didn’t matter as much as the touch of him, the feel of his skin beneath her fingers. Her thumbs stroked his throat, pushed aside the shirt. She wanted, suddenly and desperately, to run her hands down his back, scratch at him with her nails, mark him so that he would always and forever remember her.

  The tightness she felt inside loosened, became lax limbs, soft lips, and pooling warmth where she dampened from a single, lingering kiss.

  He stripped her skirt and petticoat from her, tossing them anywhere; it didn’t matter. She fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, annoyed when her fingers weren’t as quick. His hand covered hers and he stepped back.