A Scottish Love (12 page)

She knew she didn’t look the part of countess, and felt even less so. She hadn’t become used to her title, especially since she and Bruce were not often in society. Her servants addressed her as Your Ladyship and even that had taken some acclimation. She and Helen had agreed that they would not have formality between them. Only today, with the Americans, had she reverted to being the Countess of Morton.

If a title helped sell Gairloch, then so be it.

She whirled to leave the room, his words slowing, but not stopping, her.

“I’ll send over a likely candidate tomorrow.”

She hesitated at the door, turning to look back at him. “I’d prefer this afternoon,” she said, wondering why he smiled.

The Americans must be fed dinner, and Thomas Loftus didn’t look as if he’d be satisfied with a bit of cream soup and toast. And that giant of his, what would he eat? A side of beef at each sitting?

“This afternoon it is,” Gordon said.

His blue eyes twinkled at her.

Don’t do that. Do not attempt to charm me. I can’t be charmed by you. I mustn’t be.

She nodded, intending to leave before she could put breath behind the words.

His question stopped her.

“Why are you so intent on selling Gairloch?”

At that moment, she wished she had more experience in society. More than the occasional dinner or rare ball that Bruce agreed to attend. Her husband was older, and in the last few years, hadn’t been a well man. With a bit more sangfroid, achieved through countless societal obligations, she might have been able to answer that question with a haughtiness that would discourage further interest.

Instead, all she could do was stare at him.

“I would have thought that coming home would be a blessing, of sorts,” he said. “Unless you don’t consider Gairloch home anymore.”

“Why are
you
here?”

“Because it’s home,” he said, a smile still in evidence.

“It never has been before,” she said. “You were always off soldiering.”

“I’ve come home.”

“For how long?”

“For good.” Finally, the smile was gone, but in its place a regard that was proving to be a bit too intense. “I’m opening the Works,” he said.

Now
that
was a surprise.

“Why?”

“If I tell you, will you tell me why you’re set to sell Gairloch? I’ve some interest in the people who’ll become my only neighbors, you know.”

“I would think Miriam would be just the sort for you,” she said.

She’d never before been petty for the sake of it, but his resurgent smile irritated her. “Perhaps you can convince her that the crofter’s cottage is the perfect trysting place.”

His smile vanished.

“Or perhaps she’ll marry an old earl, to better herself. I hear some women do that.”

She didn’t have a rejoinder for that.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said easily. “Perhaps Miriam is just the sort for me.”

This time, she did leave, and not one word or question he asked could have made her stay.

To blazes with a cook. She’d find something for the Americans to eat even if she had to prepare it herself.

Chapter 9

A
hundred years ago, a man came to Gairloch, a man made friend by the laird. A man with experience in war, Brian MacDermond nevertheless possessed a gentle manner. None suffered from his temper. Not one person felt his rage. That was given for his enemy in battle, and for the person gone from friend to foe.

His birthplace was far away, in the border lands, the disputed lands that faced and defied England. In his early years, he’d spent too many nights reiving against the English, punishing them for the fact of their presence, if nothing else.

Brian MacDermond and Magnus Imrie had fought together in the last rebellion, had healed together, each congratulating the other on the fierceness of his wounds and the scars they would make. Each man had eaten roasted hare over an open fire, talked of shelter with longing in his voice when the pitiless rains fell. When failure found them both accepting and unsurprised, they planned for what future the English would allow them. One coaxed the other to put aside his petty border wars for another life, one dedicated to raising sons amid the peace of Clan Imrie.

And, so, to the Highlands Brian MacDermond went, accompanied by his earthly possessions, a wagon filled with what he’d inherited or won in reiving. With him were seventeen people, members of his clan who, if they doubted the wisdom of this northward migration, kept it secret.

By urging the Lowlander north, Magnus accomplished two tasks—brought into Invergaire Glen a man of great strength and bravery, a man who would play the pipes no matter that they were now banned. He also, by his actions, put into motion a love so strong that the echoes of it would be felt a hundred years in the future.

“W
here have you been?” Shona whispered, catching sight of Fergus before he entered the dining room.

He stopped and stared at her. He looked tired, which had the effect of mitigating her irritation more than his careless shrug.

She’d spent the last three hours fulfilling the Americans’ wishes. Hot water?
Yes, of course, it would only be a moment.
More Scottish whiskey?
That would be no problem at all, Mr. Loftus.

Gordon hadn’t just sent an applicant for the position of cook, but the undercook from Rathmhor, in addition to a young girl who was serving as maid and general helper.

Shona really wished she had the option of sending them back to Rathmhor with a curt instruction to tell their employer to kiss his own well-formed arse, but she didn’t. Besides, the younger girl—Jennie—was obviously excited to be there, smiling throughout her introduction.

“We’re to tell you that it’s a bit of vacation for us,” the younger girl said, bobbing a curtsy. “It’s Gairloch, after all, Your Ladyship.”

In other words, she didn’t have to pay them.

“Where were you?” she asked Fergus now.

“I needed some time alone,” he said, and from the look on his face that was all he was going to say.

“Are you going to have dinner with us, then?” she asked.

He nodded again, staring at the entrance to the dining room with reluctance. She couldn’t blame him. She didn’t want to spend the next hour in the company of Miriam Loftus and her father, either.

Or was it seeing the nurse he dreaded?

“What is she to you, Fergus?”

He waved her question away, and she huffed out a breath, annoyed beyond measure.

What a bother men were.

He turned and entered the dining room, and she followed a moment later, saying a little prayer that the meal wouldn’t be as dreadful as she feared.

T
he dining room had been carved from the Clan Hall, partitioned off a few decades ago to allow for dining in a more sophisticated manner than trenchers and rough-hewn tables. This table was mahogany and had been imported from Edinburgh two dozen years ago. The chairs were carved in the same pattern and upholstered in a deep red fabric. Fergus had heard it called something else, once, but he couldn’t remember the name.

He was damn lucky to remember who he was at the moment.

Elizabeth was there, attending to Thomas Loftus as if he were a wounded soldier and not a hale and hearty-looking wealthy American. He was seated at the head of the table in his chair, an odd thronelike chair that had been passed down from laird to laird.

In the American’s case, the word should be lard.

None of them noticed him until he was almost at the table, and then Miriam smiled at him, a lovely and gracious mistress-of-the-manor smile that Shona should have worn. Instead, his sister was a few steps behind him and he could almost hear the grinding of her teeth.

Loftus merely nodded at him, intent upon his tumbler of whiskey. Perhaps he should have invited Old Ned to the dinner as well. The two men could have discussed the relative merits of different casks in the cellar.

At least Gairloch had plenty of wine and whiskey on hand.

Miriam turned to him, extending a delicate hand, an encouragement for him to sit beside her. He’d gladly take that particular chair, since it would be as far from Elizabeth as possible. She still had not looked in his direction.

Shona sat to the left of Mr. Loftus, while Helmut sat to his right. He couldn’t help but wonder if the bodyguard also chewed the man’s food for him first.

Was the American so loathsome a creature that he was in danger of being killed? Or did he simply put too great a price on his own existence?

The soldier who did that endangered others, a fact he knew only too well.

Elizabeth was thinner than he remembered. The look in her eyes was more cautious. Only the smile was the same.

Was she as solicitous with Thomas Loftus as she’d been with the men of the Ninety-third? Did she fluff his pillow, leaning over to brush back his hair? Did she come so close that her patient smiled, thinking himself in heaven and this glorious woman an angel?

Every day, for weeks, he’d gone to check on his men. Miss Nightingale’s contingent of nurses had helped to save countless wounded. Elizabeth, working in the ward where most of his men had been taken, gave them the first ray of hope and beauty in a very long time.

Did she remember those days? How could she forget them? He remembered every moment of battle, every second of every war. He’d been desperate to survive. And afterward, those little bits of respite he’d been given were even more precious.

Did she recall how he’d told her, when the Ninety-third was being sent home to Aldershot, that he loved her? Would she wait for him? Or had she forgotten that, too?

Evidently, she had, or she wouldn’t be ignoring him so pointedly now.

He directed his attention to Miriam Loftus. The American woman was quite lovely and very much impressed by his title of Laird of Gairloch, if he wasn’t mistaken. Twice, she’d asked him to describe the duties of his rank. Did she think him a duke? Or an earl, like Shona’s husband?

He didn’t know what Bruce had done during his life. When he was younger, of course, he’d attended Parliament. He’d proposed a number of good works in his time. When Shona had married him, however, the man had been older, a little worn, and tired. A man who was damn lucky to get Shona Imrie, even if he was an earl.

For all the love he had for his sister, he wasn’t blind to her faults. Too impetuous, rash, and emotional for her own good. Lately, however, she seemed to have developed a wide practical streak. If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t be talking now to an American woman with an atrocious accent, and a way of treating others as if they were beneath her notice.

Unless they had a title.

As for being the Laird of Gairloch, his main duty was ceremonial. Once, the Imrie lairds had been responsible for the welfare of the clan. If any of his ancestors had been faced with the bleak circumstances he now found himself in, they’d probably have resorted to stealing cattle again.

The idea of being a reiver struck him as a damn sight more agreeable than selling Gairloch.

Someone with skill had produced this wonderful dinner, a feast he had every intention of enjoying despite the company or the fact that Elizabeth, the woman he’d once loved, was pretending she didn’t know him, hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t looked at him with love in her eyes.

“New cook, Shona?” he asked, between listening to Miriam’s endless tale of the voyage to London, the carriage trip to Gairloch, and being aware of the awkward silence at the other end of the table.

She nodded, her firm look warning him to be more politic around the Americans. Who cared? He didn’t. He wasn’t for selling his birthright anyway. With a little economy, they would manage. His sister, however, was notoriously stubborn. Once Shona was set on something, God Himself couldn’t dislodge the thought.

S
he hadn’t entertained much as Bruce’s wife, but Shona knew a disaster when she saw one. Mr. Loftus refused to be engaged in conversation, and when she’d attempted to say something to the giant, the American had interrupted her.

“Helmut doesn’t speak very much English, Countess. He’s German.”

She didn’t speak a word of German.

Miriam had changed for dinner. No doubt most of those trunks the giant had hauled up the stairs were hers. Just how long did they plan on staying? Was Mr. Loftus going to make an offer, then remain at Gairloch? Or was he going to return to New York? Or, an even more hideous thought, was he going to spend a few weeks here in order to “experience” Scotland?

She’d much rather concentrate on Miriam’s dress, a peacock blue silk adorned with bangles. The garment bared her shoulders and too much of her bosom, especially for a dinner in a remote Scottish castle.

Miriam was directing all her attention to Fergus, who was looking pained from time to time. Not that anyone would know. He was the epitome of decorum, answering questions, passing a platter, and pouring the wine.

Thank God the Americans didn’t object to the dinner being served a la Russe, which eliminated the necessity of footmen or maids.

What was Mr. Loftus’s ailment that he required a constant nurse? She and the woman had exchanged a look, curiosity meeting curiosity. Here was someone with whom she might have been able to converse, if the nurse hadn’t been sitting on the other side of Mr. Loftus. Helen, however, was engaging the woman in conversation when Elizabeth wasn’t directing her attention to her patient.

Mr. Loftus was concentrating, rather fiercely, on his dinner, and when he wasn’t eating, he was drinking. Helmut had poured him three glasses of whiskey so far, and the meal was only half done.

But everything tasted wonderful. Was it because she was so hungry or was the woman in the kitchen just such a wondrous cook? She suspected both were true.

“When did you lose your husband, Countess?” Mr. Loftus abruptly asked.

She kept her voice low, but it vibrated with emotion. “A little over two years ago, sir.”

“Sudden, was it?”