In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams Read online

  “It won’t take long to finish.”

  “Do you mind caring for Father?”

  She glanced at him in surprise.

  “Why would I mind?” she asked. “Hasn’t he always cared for us?”

  He nodded. “But in the last two years you’ve changed,” he said, the first time he put his concerns into words.

  She walked to a side table, occupied with gathering up the silver.

  “The accident was a terrible thing to happen,” she said, glancing over at him. “I can’t imagine how awful it must be to be able to see one moment, and the next to be blind.”

  “You didn’t cause it, Mary,” he said.

  She just sent him a look, gathered up the soiled napkins and dropped them in the basket at the end of the table.

  “I can finish the rest of this,” he said. “You should go to bed.”

  She smiled at him. “I’m not tired. Tonight was a very successful evening, don’t you think?”

  “Thanks to you.”

  His sister acted as the heart of Hillshead. Everything ran perfectly because she was at the core of the house, planning, organizing, ensuring he and his father were comfortable.

  Didn’t she want her own home? A question he’d never asked and one startling him now. She had never given any hint of wanting a husband or a family, but shouldn’t she?

  Perhaps if she weren’t so involved in running Hillshead she could devote herself to her own life.

  “I want you to take Father to Bute for the waters.”

  She turned to him, her eyes widening. “Bute?”

  He nodded. “People come from all over Scotland to stay at the hotel. The water comes from a mineral spring. It will be good for him.”

  She folded another napkin, the task evidently requiring her full attention.

  “I don’t think—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Please, Mary.” He came and took the napkin from her. “It would do both of you good to get away.”

  She stared straight ahead. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “You’ll meet new people.”

  She sent him a quick glance. “Do you think I need to broaden my social horizons, Lennox?”

  “I think you need to stop catering to me and Father so much. What about you, Mary? Don’t you want your own life? Your own family? Don’t you want to find someone to marry?”

  A shadow flitted over her face. “My life is fine,” she said, walking to the final table to be stripped.

  The clink of silver, the murmur of the maid’s voices behind them, the soft sigh of wind through the open terrace doors supplied the only sounds for long moments.

  Evidently, he shouldn’t offer suggestions to Mary about her life.

  “I was surprised that Glynis came,” she said, gathering up the last of the silver from the table. “She’s been home for a week and hardly anyone has seen her since she arrived. Of course, being a widow, she wouldn’t socialize much.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Why do you think she came tonight?” she asked.

  “A gesture of friendship? Our families are close.”

  “I always thought she was a beautiful girl. She’s not a girl any longer but I think she’s even more beautiful.”

  He would be wiser not saying anything.

  “Don’t you think so?”

  He nodded.

  “There’s something about her, though.” She stopped placing the silver in the box and turned to him. “I don’t think she’s very happy.”

  He braced himself against the wall, folded his arms and regarded his sister.

  “She’s a widow. She’s not supposed to be happy.”

  She shook her head. “Glynis was always basically happy. That was her nature. Remember when the mare she loved died?”

  He nodded again.

  “She cried for days and she mourned for weeks, but grief didn’t change who she was. I think the woman we met tonight isn’t the Glynis we knew.”

  She’d been talking to Matthew Baumann. That encounter still troubled him.

  “I’ve always wanted to be more like her, fearless and daring. But tonight she didn’t seem the same, did she?”

  “No,” he said, compelled to answer. “She didn’t.”

  “Do you think marriage changed her?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Perhaps she adored her husband and grief has made her listless.”

  He was not going to discuss Glynis’s dead husband. He didn’t want to talk about Glynis at all.

  Thinking about her, however, was a different matter.

  GLYNIS WAS different, and it was a change Baumann couldn’t put his finger on, something disturbing and fascinating at the same time. Until tonight he thought he knew Glynis Smythe very well. Evidently coming back to her homeland had given her a dimension she previously lacked.

  Tonight she stood her ground, leveled that pointed chin at him and insulted him, something she hadn’t done in Washington. He felt like a boy being upbraided by his schoolmaster.

  Being in Scotland had made her brave. It fascinated him to see her in a different environment. Glynis had always had her share of courage, but she’d never defied him.

  She’d been wasted on that bastard she married. Richard Smythe had been an opportunist who knew how to take another’s work and claim it as his own. He was a master at exploiting his wife’s talents. Any success he had at the legation was due to Glynis. She had a natural ease with people and was well liked, something Smythe was not.

  At least she was no longer wearing full mourning, but he still didn’t like to see her showing respect for Smythe. The man didn’t deserve it.

  He’d asked for this assignment. Not only to follow Glynis back to Scotland, but to investigate what he could about Cameron and Company.

  The War Department was correct. From every indication he’d had, Lennox Cameron was more than happy to build up the Confederate navy all on his own. Not only was Cameron building steamships, but they were iron-hulled behemoths that could turn the tide of war.

  He was damned if he was going to let that happen.

  ONCE THEY were home, Duncan bent to brush a kiss on her cheek.

  “Lennox thought you looked beautiful,” he said.

  Before she could comment, he was ascending the stairs.

  She watched him, wishing her heartbeat hadn’t spiked at the news. She wasn’t a child to be assuaged by compliments. Nor did she quite trust them anymore. In Washington, nothing was ever adequate, sufficient, or commonplace. No, a dress, a reticule, a hair style must be described as exquisite, magnificent, glorious, or superb. Anything less implied an insult.

  Beautiful?

  Who was Lennox Cameron to note her appearance at all? Seven years ago he hadn’t known she was alive.

  “Are you all right?” her mother asked, removing her shawl and hanging it on the hook beside the door.

  Glynis nodded, turning to Eleanor. “I’m fine.”

  “Was tonight so difficult?”

  She shook her head. “I had to see him again.”

  Now she could put a checkmark beside that duty: encounter Lennox. Smile and be pleasant to him. Express not one emotion in his presence. She’d done that, too, hadn’t she? She’d been a sawdust figure with a sawdust smile.

  “He looked well, I think.”

  “Yes.” He hadn’t changed. If anything he’d grown more arresting. The intervening years had given him authority; there was no doubt who was the head of Cameron and Company. She suspected that Lennox would have risen to the position early even if Mr. Cameron had not been injured.

  “How very sad about Mr. Cameron,” she said.

  Her mother sighed. “William is the very best person. He hasn’t complained or become querulous. Some men might have, I think.”

  “How did the accident happen?”

  “An unbalanced load of timber, I think. Still, he’s lucky to be alive. The blow to the head could have easily killed him.”


  “And Mary cares for him?”

  Eleanor sighed. “To her detriment, I think.” She reached over and hugged Glynis. “I think she’s heartsick. I know the signs.”

  Glynis tried to smile but it was a feeble attempt.

  “Come, I’ll make us a cup of tea,” her mother said. “We’ll talk of other things.”

  “I think I’ll retire,” she said.

  “Are you very sure you’re all right?’

  “I am. I had to see him and I have.”

  “Oh, Glynis.”

  Those two words contained a world of patience and kindness.

  She blinked back tears and bent to kiss her mother on the cheek.

  “I’m going to visit Father’s grave tomorrow,” she said. “Would you like to come with me?”

  “No, I’ve been there enough. After he died, I visited the mausoleum every day for weeks and months. I realized, finally, that he wasn’t there.” Her mother tapped her chest over her heart. “He’s here. But you go and say your farewells.”

  She nodded, bid her mother good-night, and mounted the steps.

  The night of pretense was over.

  She hadn’t expected to encounter Baumann, however.

  Why had he come to Scotland? The man was cunning, dangerous, and knew entirely too much about her.

  She’d thought she could leave the war behind in America. Baumann had brought it back to her doorstep.

  Chapter 5

  The strange night, marked by her fitful sleep, finally ended. Glynis rose from her bed at dawn to see the view of Hillshead obscured by fog. At first only a wisp appeared, then a white, smoke-scented cloud settled over the house.

  She waited until almost noon and the appearance of a bright, tardy sun to travel to the Necropolis.

  The carriage wheels rumbled over the arched Bridge of Sighs, the crossing over the Molendinar Ravine from Cathedral Square, and crept up to the cemetery. The Necropolis, a spectacular city of monuments and crypts, sat on a hill above the Clyde and overlooked the Glasgow Cathedral.

  Her father had been buried here five years ago. She’d been en route from Cairo to the United States and hadn’t known of his death until well after the funeral.

  She untied her bonnet and left it sitting on the seat. As she opened the carriage door, the soft wind keened, the sun tucking itself behind a suddenly appearing gray cloud. A greeting, then, from the dead to the living.

  She shivered.

  Following the instructions Duncan had given her, she took the narrow path to the MacIain crypt. The sculpture erected atop the roof stopped her, tears coming to her eyes. The statue of the angel resembled her father, down to the small smile he always wore, as if a secret amused him.

  Five years ago the MacIain coffers had been large enough to afford such a costly mausoleum. Now the mill teetered toward ruin and Duncan’s haunted eyes weren’t the only evidence. Economies were everywhere in the household.

  She couldn’t even help her own family.

  Richard hadn’t left her an inheritance or any funds other than his salary. At his death she had the contents of her modest jewelry chest, her more extensive wardrobe, and the best wishes of the diplomatic service to which she was now a liability.

  A penurious widow embarrassed the legation.

  She took a few steps toward the crypt, studying it with awe. The builder had constructed it to resemble their manor house. Hedges grew around the walls and rosebushes were in beds on either side of the door. She smiled. Had her mother arranged to have them planted there?

  Even as a little child she’d known her parents loved each other. The knowledge shone in the flash of eyes across a room, in gentle smiles and soft laughter. Love cemented their family, had given her and Duncan a foundation of security and joy.

  How strange she’d married as a business proposition and without thoughts of love.

  The door opened easily on oiled hinges. Inside, two brass sconces on each wall sat above stone benches, no doubt placed there for solemn contemplation. Leaving the door ajar so the muted sunlight could illuminate the space, she walked to the catafalque in the middle of the room, pressing her hand against the cold stone.

  “Hello, Papa.”

  How did she apologize for not being here? For not knowing of his death until word had reached her?

  He’d been the most wonderful of fathers, gentle and filled with humor, telling stories of his days and the men and women who worked at the mill. He’d been an amateur historian, proud of his heritage as a MacIain, and determined to pass on a love of Scotland to his children.

  Duncan had his stubborn chin and a fixed expression in his eyes that spoke of determination. Perhaps she had a bit of obstinacy as well. Or maybe pride had fueled the last seven years.

  Bowing her head, she said a prayer, the one he’d taught her as a little girl kneeling beside her bed.

  O Lord, see our souls as we slumber.

  Give us rest that we may do thy work.

  Look over us and guard us with thy love.

  And forgive us our sins that we may be better people.

  Did her father look down on her from heaven? If so, did he judge her? Would he pity her for the decisions she made or would he understand?

  “Forgive me, Papa.”

  Her entreaty wasn’t entirely for being absent all these years, but incorporated all the other mistakes she’d made. Things she’d done that had caused the deaths of others and for which she couldn’t forgive herself.

  After a few moments reality seeped in along with the chill. Her mother was right. Her father wasn’t here. There was nothing here but cold stone and the musty scent of a closed and empty space.

  She turned and left the mausoleum softly so as not to disturb death’s slumber.

  GLYNIS STOPPED when she saw him, her eyes widening. She remained at the door of the mausoleum a few moments before stepping down and closing the door behind her.

  Lennox didn’t apologize for startling her. He wasn’t the one who needed to explain himself. He simply stood beside his carriage and watched her.

  Finally, she began to walk toward him, choosing to look at the path rather than in his direction.

  Once she neared him, he asked, “What were you doing talking to Baumann last night?”

  The sun slid out from behind a cloud, bathing the gray stone of the mausoleum. Glynis, with her lavender dress and auburn hair, was the brightest object in the monochrome Necropolis. She tilted her chin back, firmed her lips and stared at him with flat eyes.

  “Who are you to question me, Lennox Cameron?”

  “Is he a recent acquaintance?”

  “Is that any of your concern?” she asked.

  “You had an animated discussion with him.”

  “Were you watching me?”

  “Yes,” he said, the one word causing her eyes to narrow.

  He’d spent most of the night thinking about her meeting with Baumann, and when dawn arrived he’d shot beyond annoyance into full blown anger.

  He’d gone to the MacIain home, only to be told she’d come to the cemetery. The Necropolis was a good enough place to have a confrontation with her.

  She gathered up her skirt with one hand and would have walked past him if he hadn’t reached out and grabbed her arm.

  She swung around, her face inches from his. They hadn’t been so close in years. The last time was when she’d kissed him, a memory suddenly at the forefront of his mind.

  She’d asked him to come to the anteroom. Once there, she’d kissed him. By the time he could search her out she’d disappeared. He’d learned that she and her mother had left the ball. Only later did he realize she’d left Glasgow, too.

  “Why did you never come home after going to London?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Why did you marry a stranger?”

  “Why didn’t you marry Lidia Bobrova?”

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “Lidia Bobrova. You were supposed to marry her.”

  “Where did you get that id
ea?”

  She didn’t answer him, only jerked away.

  Her face, half gamine, half seductress, fascinated him. He wanted to place his hands on either side of her head and keep her still to study her. Perhaps he’d brush his lips across the contours of her cheeks just to learn them, and kiss her throat to measure her pulse. Desires he’d never had before but that felt natural now.

  He stepped back, his thoughts tumbling one over the other.

  “You thought I was going to marry Lidia?”

  “All of Glasgow thought it.”

  He tucked that information away to study at another time.

  “How do you know Baumann?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because he’s a spy,” he said.

  She surprised him by nodding. “Yes, he is. How do you know that?”

  “He told me he worked for the War Department.”

  “If Baumann gave you any information,” she said, “it was for a reason. He never divulges anything unless it serves a purpose.”

  “You met him in Washington,” he said, guessing.

  She nodded.

  “One of your many admirers?”

  His question was rewarded with a smile, her expression lighting something up inside him.

  “You’re evidently not aware of Washington society,” she said. “A married woman isn’t allowed admirers, especially if her husband is attached to the British Legation. If so, she’s on the next ship home with a reputation for being scandalous.”

  “Why weren’t you?”

  She frowned at him. “What, scandalous?”

  “On the next ship home. You didn’t come home for over a year and a half after your husband died.”

  She huffed out a breath. “There’s a war on, Lennox. Passage wasn’t easy to arrange.” She glanced at the MacIain mausoleum. “I wish I’d come back sooner,” she said. “Before my father died.”

  Shame flooded him. He shouldn’t have followed her here. He shouldn’t have intruded on what was a private moment.

  “Avoid Baumann.”

  “Gladly,” she said. She tilted her head and studied him. “I despise the man. Why did you invite him to Hillshead last night? Especially if you already knew the War Department sent him?”