To Love a Scottish Lord Read online

  “For how long?” she said, her voice sounding tremulous and too faint to be hers.

  “For as long as we both wish it,” he said, an impulsive request and one that hinted at a future together.

  She stepped away from him, deliberately distancing herself. “I cannot, Hamish. I’ve been foolish enough to remain here this long.”

  “Is that what you call it? Foolishness?” He waited for her words, feeling a vulnerability unlike him. Even the Atavasi hadn’t been able to make him feel this defenseless.

  She didn’t look at him. Instead, she closed one of the shutters, concentrating on the wood beneath her hands.

  “Yes,” she finally said, and he almost wished that she hadn’t answered him at all. “What else would you call what I’ve done?” She glanced at him, the smile on her face containing little humor. “It’s foolishness to remain here solely for the sake of pleasure.”

  He wanted to shake her. Or shout at her. But he shouldn’t have been surprised at her words. Mary had always given him the truth, even when it was unpalatable.

  “Was it only for pleasure?” What a fool he was to ask.

  “I’ve never felt such delight, Hamish, nor wanted it more than with you.”

  He didn’t say anything, stripped of a rejoinder by the directness of her words. It should have been enough, but oddly, it wasn’t. He’d lived in silence for more than thirteen months. He’d not understood the language of his captors. Nor had the Atavasi bothered to attempt to communicate. He was told what to do and when at the point of a knife. He felt the same right now, as if he were being directed to the table with a sharp point at his spine.

  She would never know it, but he’d opened his heart to her.

  Suddenly, she was at his side, her hand on his arm.

  “Stay with me,” he said softly, pulling her to him. He breathed the words against her temple, into her hair, against the tender skin of her throat. Never before had he realized that he might need something so beyond his own capability to acquire it.

  “I cannot, Hamish.”

  “Stay with me,” he whispered once again.

  This time, she didn’t answer.

  Alisdair MacRae circled the pedestal on which the bust rested. Without a doubt, it was a perfect likeness of him. Iseabal had worked diligently on it for months, followed by months more of polishing. Then she’d put it away, hiding it from his view until this very day.

  She’d set it on a pedestal and had it placed at the very end of the newly restored corridor of their home, so that the sunlight struck it through the lacework of the curved bricks. It was the first thing that any visitor to Gilmuir would see.

  The last five years had been devoted to the restoration of the castle, the ancestral fortress of the MacRaes. Only one solid wall of the ruin was left, now incorporated into what was the new clan hall. The color of the bricks was different, enough that even a casual visitor would note the great age of the old stone, and wonder at the structure that had stood there for four hundred years.

  The undertaking had been a difficult one, and there were times when he and Iseabal had grown weary of the sound of chisels and hammers, if not the incessant dust. Through it all, however, they’d comforted themselves with notions of what Gilmuir would be like when it was completed.

  Two years ago, the exterior had been finished, but it had taken an army of masons and other craftsmen to finish the interior to Alisdair’s specifications.

  “Your work is magnificent, of course,” he said now. “But must I be here? It’s all that anyone sees when entering Gilmuir.”

  Iseabal laughed gently. “As well they should, Alisdair. If it were not for you, Gilmuir would not be rebuilt at all.”

  He glanced over at her. “I think the stonemasons worked harder for you than they did for me.”

  Tilting his head back, he stared up at the broad beamed ceilings. The roof had been finished over two years ago, but he was still not used to the sight of it. For decades, Gilmuir had sat abandoned and neglected, open to the elements. Now, the inside walls were painted a pale yellow, the embrasures finished in blue with designs festooning the sides of the arches.

  What he lacked was some of the treasures of the MacRaes, and he’d already sent word to Nova Scotia. By return ship, he expected to receive the pipes from his great uncle, and a few broadswords and claymores that had not been lost to the centuries. Whatever his clan could give up, he would gratefully mount on the new walls of Gilmuir.

  A woman in the village was crafting a pennant based on a design he’d heard about in his childhood. Iseabal had given some thought to their own flag that would fly above Gilmuir. However, his wife’s greatest talent was in creating masterpieces from stone, and never more so than his own face staring back at him in ebony marble.

  “I had hoped you would have forgotten about it,” he said honestly.

  Again, she laughed. “You knew I would not. It’s my best work.”

  “Perhaps I should be grateful you didn’t wish to carve me whole and naked.”

  She smiled at him, and it seemed to him that it was a mischievous look she gave him. A year ago, they’d traveled to England, to oversee some of the properties he’d inherited. They’d remained, as they did when visiting England, at Sherbourne Hall, where there was an impressive statue of a near naked man. He’d always thought his wife took too intense an interest in the techniques employed in its creation. From time to time, he’d seen her glance at him as if wanting to replicate his body in stone.

  “Don’t even be thinking it, Iseabal MacRae,” he said, shaking his head at her.

  She only continued to smile at him, a look that summoned him to her side. He bent and kissed her lightly, then stared at the bust again.

  “I look very imperious. Is that my normal expression?”

  She tilted her head, surveying both the bust and him. “I think,” she said, after considering the matter, “that you are a very imperious looking man. But then, you’re an earl, and I suppose earls are.”

  She was the only one who teased him about his rank. Other people were either in awe of it or contemptuous of the fact that in addition to being a MacRae, a laird, and lord of Gilmuir, he was an English earl.

  Next week, they would have the ceremony blessing Gilmuir. A priest was coming from France to do the honors in the old religion, and a few days later, a Presbyterian minister would perform his own blessing. All they needed now was a Saracen, a Jew, and a Buddhist, and Gilmuir would be blessed from all four corners of the earth.

  “Do you think Brendan and Hamish will be here in time for this ceremony?”

  He shook his head. A few weeks ago Brendan had sailed into Loch Euliss, anchoring his ship and disappearing as quickly, giving them a disjointed explanation of Hamish’s illness. Only by talking to Brendan’s crew had Alisdair learned of what had truly befallen his brother in the years since he’d seen him last. It wasn’t a pleasant tale, and what irritated him even more was the fact that Brendan hadn’t divulged a word of it.

  “You could go after them,” Iseabal said.

  “Perhaps at another time I would have,” Alisdair said. “Not now. They’re beyond my control, and I doubt they’d listen to my counsel. Besides, my place is here, at Gilmuir.”

  “You’re still angry,” Iseabal said, extending an arm around his waist.

  He placed his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. “I am, it’s true. I expected more, perhaps. I hadn’t seen either of them for three years.”

  “At least Brendan left his ship here,” she said. “You know you’ll see him again.”

  “But it’s Hamish I’m concerned about,” Alisdair said. “From what I’ve learned, the past years haven’t been easy for him.”

  “Then we’ll simply have to wait for him to come to us. And if that doesn’t work,” Iseabal said, “we’ll go after him.”

  Alisdair smiled down at his wife, thinking that she had truly become a MacRae in the years since they’d wed.

  Sir John Pet
tigrew adjusted his stock in the mirror. The last fold in place, he let his fingers rest on his chest, his thumbs hooked into his vest. His hair was thinning on the top, but full and curling on the sides. His face was full, a crease forming from midpoint at his nose to travel down his cheek to burrow into a fleshy chin. Another line led from the corner of his mouth to curve in a disapproving comma on his flesh. They were marks of somberness, a serious demeanor of a man who wielded great influence and power.

  He looked every inch the sheriff, Charles thought.

  “I summoned you to learn of the truth of these rumors I’ve been hearing,” Sir John said, staring at himself in the mirror and appearing to approve of his image. “But the person I truly wished to examine was Mrs. Gilly herself.”

  “She is out of Inverness at the moment,” Charles said. Part of his plan had already succeeded. The citizens of Inverness were a garrulous lot, and rumors spread quickly from one interested person to another. Adding to the fever pitch of the stories being spread was the fact that it involved a young, attractive woman and a great deal of money, twin inducements to gossip.

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” the sheriff said, frowning. “What do you know of Gordon Gilly’s death?”

  “I believe that Mrs. Gilly is troubled,” Charles said, lowering his voice as if he were reluctant to admit the truth. “At night, when she believes herself alone, I’ve heard her talking to her dead husband as if he’s still in the room with her.” The best lie was one made up of snippets of the truth. He’d often heard Mary converse with Gordon as if he were sitting in the chair in the corner.

  “What does she say to him?”

  “She begs him not to haunt her.” He bent his head, staring at his interlaced fingers.

  “The man has been dead more than a year. It concerns me that these stories are just now beginning to surface.” Sir John seated himself at his desk and peered at Charles.

  Charles sat up straighter in his chair. “Doesn’t truth always have a way of surfacing, Sir John?”

  “It would do no harm to investigate this matter,” Sir John stated. “A woman cannot be allowed to get away with murder. Not even one whose conscience so obviously troubles her. More and more of the miscreants brought to my court are female. I’m not inclined to pity them for their sex. Even if a woman claims her belly, asking for a reprieve because she’s pregnant, I ignore her plea and sentence her to the punishment befitting her crime.”

  He stood, surveying Charles. “How am I to keep Inverness safe otherwise?” Sir John reached behind him and jerked on a bell pull. “Where is she now? I’ll send my men to detain her.”

  “Do you believe it important enough to seek her out?”

  Sir John frowned at him. “If she’s committed murder, then she should be punished for it. Surely you agree?”

  “Of course,” Charles said, standing and bowing slightly, and trying not to reveal how pleased he was at the sheriff’s decision. Mary would be returned to Inverness in disgrace.

  Then he would allow her to choose her fate.

  Chapter 17

  M ary came into the courtyard, looking for Hamish, but he was gone. For a moment, she thought he might have gone fishing again, but a quick, cursory glance around the courtyard showed her that was unlikely. One of the horses was missing from the lean-to that served as their stable. He’d gone hunting as he’d promised the night before.

  Their provisions were dwindling. Soon they would have to go into Inverness, and she would no longer have an excuse to stay. Her mind slid from that thought, but the abrupt regret she felt made her realize the depth of her jeopardy. The longer she remained at Castle Gloom, the greater the grief she’d feel when she left. Giving up Hamish would be more of a loss than she’d initially imagined.

  Dear, brave Mary Gilly. The words floated in the air, a reminder of all the times the matrons of Inverness had looked on her with pity. She wasn’t the only woman to be married to a man of advanced years, but she’d been treated as if her circumstances were different. When Gordon had died, it was the same, kind looks sent in her direction and whispers following.

  She wanted to be envied for her happiness, not pitied for her sorrow.

  What would the good matrons of Inverness have to say to her now? She could only imagine. At least when she’d lost Gordon, her friends and acquaintances had looked on her with kindness. If she were sad from time to time, it was no less to be expected. No one would understand this grief. She could almost hear their words now. It’s what she deserves. Foolish woman. Didn’t she think about what would happen?

  She had considered the cost, but the truth was that it hadn’t mattered. She’d even considered the fact that she might have a child from this arrangement. Because of the risks, she’d begun using sponges soaked in vinegar after that first, and unexpected, coupling with Hamish. Nothing, however, was foolproof. A week from now she would know for certain. If she weren’t with child, she’d leave Castle Gloom with all possible haste, return to her pious role of widow once again, and consider herself fortunate despite her foolishness.

  And if she was? A fanciful notion, since she’d never had a child in ten years of marriage. A week’s reprieve, then. Until that time she wouldn’t share Hamish’s bed. A helpless laugh escaped her at that foolish idea. She wanted him even now.

  The castle felt so empty. A deserted structure made even more so by the absence of one man.

  But he wasn’t just any man. The longer she knew him, the more fascinated with him she became. All the warning bells that had pealed so ominously in her conscience had been muted by a stronger emotion. Not lust but something else entirely.

  She’d gone from her parents’ home to Gordon’s. In the intervening years, her fondness for her husband had turned to love. At least she’d always thought so. But comparing that emotion against what she felt for Hamish MacRae was like comparing a gray, overcast sky to the sun.

  Stay with me. A few days had passed since Hamish had made the suggestion, and he’d not mentioned it again. But she’d not been able to forget it.

  Entering the kitchen, she stood, admiring the room. The place looked lived in, less orderly than when Hester had been in charge, but still a welcome place. All that was needed were a few pots of herbs on the windowsill, and perhaps a savory pie cooling on the table, and one or two children gamboling under foot. For a second, she could almost see them playing tag, being boisterous and in the way. Unbidden, she’d made herself part of the vision, as a mother of those children.

  That scene brought her abruptly back to reality.

  This interlude was only that, a time out of her life that she could recall with fondness and a smile. A secret that she would hold to herself, one that was hers alone. No one else would know that the oh-so-proper Mary Gilly had once been a wanton.

  During these past weeks, she couldn’t imagine leaving Castle Gloom, and consequently envisioned staying forever. Hamish’s words didn’t promise anything, just the same sort of impermanent arrangement they had now, living as children might in an abandoned fortress. She wanted to go home, yet she never wanted to leave him. She wanted propriety, but she wanted him.

  Those wishes weren’t compatible with each other.

  She left the kitchen, walking back into the courtyard. The day was a sunny one, although the temperature had dropped in the past few days. She blew a breath and saw it smoke. Last night, she’d curled next to Hamish for warmth, and he’d laughed at the coldness of her feet, before getting up to light the brazier. When she’d awakened that morning, it had been to find him curled behind her, his front warming her back. She’d smiled in drowsy contemplation before going back to sleep.

  She needed to leave. But how could she bear it?

  Each night, they’d played a game of shatranj, the stakes more and more decadent. But there were times when the game ended in laughter, and the experiments did also. She’d never known delight so sharp that it had cascaded into joy. Nor had she thought that these days of abandon might give way to cur
iosity, and empathy, and feelings she’d never expected.

  She’d learned of Hamish’s childhood in Nova Scotia, of the good-natured rivalry among the five brothers. The year of his imprisonment was never discussed, but never forgotten. Every day she bathed his chest and back, applying a mixture of barley root and mustard to the deep scars.

  They’d tortured his body, but they’d never degraded his spirit. When she’d said as much to him, he’d only smiled that half smile. “You wouldn’t have thought so to see me during that year. I was little more than an animal.”

  She’d never known anyone who had been through what he’d had to endure. What would she have done, in his place? She wasn’t entirely sure.

  “You’re amazingly brave,” she’d said. He’d only focused on the game, giving her the impression that her words had embarrassed him. “Or are MacRaes always brave?” she asked, to lighten the moment.

  He finally looked at her. “I had a remarkable will to live. It’s elemental, and all creatures have it.”

  She didn’t think it was that simple, but she’d not pressed the matter.

  A noise at the land gate made her turn. She walked toward the opening with a smile on her face.

  “Have you caught our dinner, then?” she asked. “Something easy to prepare, I hope.”

  To her surprise, it wasn’t Hamish standing there, but two strangers. Her first thought was that these people were the actual owners of Castle Gloom, and they’d come to the castle demanding a reason for Mary and Hamish’s trespass. Her second thought, following immediately on the heels of the first, was that they didn’t belong there at all.

  One of the men was short and stocky, with brown hair cropped so close that it made him look almost bald at first glance. The other man was of average height with a mane of black hair, cut in a bowl shape around his skull with bangs stopping just short of his eyebrows. Both were attired in dark-colored coats and breeches.