My Laird's Love (My Laird's Castle Book 2) (24 page)

“On foot?” she asked. Light-blue eyes regarded me with surprise.

“Yes. Thank you so much for stopping.”

I smiled, turned away from her and headed down the trail in the direction of the stone bridge, which I could not see from this distance, but knew it was there. I felt the woman’s eyes boring into my back, and I turned and gave her a polite wave. She lifted her hand in response, and with a shake of her head, turned and continued on her hike along the river.

I reached the bridge and crossed over it, grateful to leave the main hiking trail and possible encounters with other hikers. I didn’t know what I was going to do if Gordon wasn’t home, but at least I was back in the twenty-first century—land of telephones and credit cards and my cousin, whom I could contact and who could dispatch a taxi to pick me up.

The path toward Gleannhaven was surprisingly overgrown considering that it was much wider in the eighteenth century. I guessed that no one used it much these days, certainly not for wagons. Gordon drove in and out of the estate on an asphalted road now. Given the thickness of the encroaching grasses against my wide skirts, the walk took me longer than I had imagined, and I entered the estate parklands as the sun started to dip behind the surrounding hills.
 

I followed the path through the forest and emerged onto the parkland to see the castle. It looked much as it had in the eighteenth century. Soft lighting showed through several windows and from sconces outside the front entrance. Gordon’s sports car was parked in front of the door, and I snatched up my skirts and hurried toward the entrance.

I trotted up the steps and pounded on the heavy wooden door. Within minutes, an elderly man in an unassuming dark-gray three-piece suit opened the door and eyed me with surprise. He looked beyond me to the driveway, probably looking for my car, before returning his gaze to me to study my clothing.

“Is Laird Anderson here? Gordon Anderson?” I asked breathlessly.

“May I ask who is calling, madam?” He wasn’t letting me in at the moment.

“Please tell him it’s Maggie Scott.”

“Very good, madam. Could you please wait here?”
 

The butler, I assumed, closed the door in my face, albeit gently, and I waited on the top step. Three minutes later, the door was hauled open again, and Gordon reached out to pull me inside. The butler waited behind him, looking somewhat chastised.

“Maggie! You’re back! I’m so sorry we left you standing outside like that. You must be exhausted. Percy, please get us some tea. We’ll take it in the library.”

Gordon, dressed in well-worn jeans and a casual light-blue long-sleeved shirt, looked handsome, casual and relaxed. Given his resemblance to Colin, I realized how handsome Colin would be in modern clothing. I had no doubt that James would have looked just as handsome in a pair of blue jeans. I bit my lip and shook my head to rid myself of the thought of James.

A black-and-white sheepdog ran up to Gordon’s side to investigate me. I shook my head in disbelief.

“You have a sheepdog.”

“Aye,” Gordon said. “My family have always done so.”

He ushered me into a wonderfully cozy room filled with books. What stone walls were not covered with bookshelves were covered with faded tapestries and a few pastoral paintings. Lovely old carpets featuring a blue-and-red tartan covered the wooden floor. A fireplace, at present unlit, dominated one wall.
 

“Please sit, Maggie,” Gordon said, guiding me to a dark-blue velvet sofa. “I see you are still dressed in traditional clothing, although I believe this dress is different. Have you just come from the eighteenth century?”

I pressed my clammy hands against the dark-green fabric of my skirts and nodded.

“I have. I’ve left,” I said in a fairly dramatic tone.

Gordon seated himself in an antique brocade high-backed chair across from me. The dog sat down at his heels.
 

At my words, Gordon quirked an eyebrow.

“You’ve left?” he repeated, as if waiting for me to say more.

I nodded. “Yes. James Livingstone is on the mend, and I’m ready to go home. I’m done.” Why couldn’t I seem to speak in less melodramatic tones?

“You sound distraught, Maggie. Then the medication worked?”

I nodded. “Yes, I believe he’s getting better. He’s weak, of course, but I think he’s recovering.”

“And you decided it was time to leave?”

I nodded. “Yes, that’s right.” I looked up from fidgeting with my skirts. “I didn’t know what to do when I got back here, so I came straight to you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Maggie. How can I help? Do you need a place to stay?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I think I need to head on down to Glasgow to the hotel where Julie and I were supposed to stay. My luggage, purse, money and passport are there. I’m going to try to book a flight home tomorrow, if I can.”

Gordon’s smile drooped for an instant, but he recovered himself.
 

“In such a hurry,” he said quietly. “Is all well? Did something happen? That is all in the past now, you know. Nothing can harm you here in the twenty-first century.”

Unwilling to talk about the past, which seemed all too recent, too painfully raw, I studied Gordon for a moment.

“You look so much like Colin,” I said with a gentle smile. “I saw him several more times. He picked me up when I returned, and he came to see me at Castle Lochloon to bring me some clothing. Such a good man.”

Gordon beamed. “I’m so pleased. I would love to meet him in person.”

“I told him about you and Beth. He was thrilled.”

Gordon nodded. “But tell me why you look so sad, Maggie.”

I put a hand to my face.

“Do I? I don’t mean too. I’m very anxious to get home.”

“To?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said you were anxious to get home. I asked to whom or what?”

I bit my lip.

“Familiarity, a sense of security, Sam.”

“You did not mention a Sam when you were here. Is that someone special?”

“Sam was my fiancé.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry.” Gordon tilted his head when he looked at me, and I knew what his unasked question was.

“I know he’s dead, Gordon. Believe me. I know he’s dead. But I miss him, and I’m terrified that if I stray too far, I’ll forget him.”

Gordon looked at me with sympathy.

“Such a heavy sigh, my dear. What do you mean by stray too far? Have you fallen in love with James Livingstone?”

I drew in a sharp breath and looked at Gordon, surprised at his frankness.
 

“Fallen in love?” I squeaked. “With a man from the eighteenth century? Oh, no!” I dropped my eyes from Gordon’s unconvinced expression. “I mean, I care for him. I really do. A great deal. But in love?” I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. How can I be? What about Sam? He only passed away six months ago!”

Gordon was prevented from replying, thank goodness, by a soft knock on the door and the arrival of the butler with a tray of tea and small sandwiches.

“Thank you, Percy. We’ll serve ourselves,” Gordon said. The butler nodded and left, and Gordon reached for the teapot to pour out some hot water into several sturdy-looking mugs.

“I’m not partial to the delicate china. It’s safely stored away for another generation. I hope you don’t mind.”

I gave Gordon a half smile and shook my head.

“Not at all.”
 

Gordon handed me a mug of tea and a plate of several small sandwiches. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I bit into one.

“Now, where were we?” he said, settling back into his chair. “Ah, yes. You were fretting about your fiancé, suggesting that you feel falling in love within six months of his death is a betrayal.”

I choked on my sandwich and set it down.
 

“Yes, something like that,” I said, feeling somewhat foolish. I wasn’t wrong though, was I? I needed more ammunition.
 

“Do you have any idea how harsh life is in the seventeen hundreds, Gordon? The deprivation? The cold? Disease, death? Not to mention superstition.”

Gordon shook his head. “I can only imagine. I do live in a cold castle, so I know about cold. But no, I truly have no idea. Is that the real reason you wish to return home?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I just know that I have to go home. Once I’m there, I can think again. I can put Scotland, the eighteenth century and James Livingstone behind me.”

“And my ancestors, Colin and Beth. And me.”

“Oh, no! Not you, Gordon. I’ll be forever in your debt for all you’ve done for me. And no, I don’t want to forget Colin or Beth. I didn’t tell them I was leaving,” I said in a mournful tone.

“I imagine Beth may have taken that hard.”

I nodded, guilt washing over me.

“I didn’t tell James either. I just ran away. I asked someone to tell them for me, but I didn’t say good-bye in person. I was afraid if I took too much time to say good-bye, if I waited until I could say farewell to everyone in person, that I wouldn’t leave.”

“What a dilemma,” Gordon said sympathetically. “Well, I’m glad you came to me. I don’t mind driving you down to Glasgow tonight, but we won’t arrive for some time. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here and have me drive you down in the morning?”

“I have to go, Gordon. I just have to. At this point, it’s an obsession, not something I can even reason through.”

“I understand, Maggie,” Gordon said. “Finish your tea, and we’ll go.”

I nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat.
 

Two hours later, Gordon pulled up in front of the Thistlebriar Inn in Glasgow. I looked at the hotel, brightly lit and modern, and then eyed my clothing.

Gordon covered my fidgeting hand with his own.

“You’ve come this far, Maggie. In less than half an hour, you’ll be in your room, shed of the unwieldy skirts and soaking in a hot tub. I’ll walk you into the hotel.”

He climbed out of the car and came around to help me alight. I followed him into the hotel, trying to ignore the stares of passersby and guests in the lobby. My cheeks burned, and I sidled up to the front desk.

“Hello, my name is Maggie Scott. I called you about an hour ago and booked a room. I believe you have my luggage and belongings in storage?”

“Yes, madam, we do. We delivered your things to your room.” The professional, if young, blonde female clerk had me sign for the room before giving me a key card.

Business done, I turned away from the desk and faced Gordon.

He took my hands in his.

“If there is anything you need, Maggie, anything at all, call me.” He handed me a card with his phone number on it. “Will you be all right here?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Gordon was my last link with the past. I would be gone from Scotland within twelve hours. In addition to using Gordon’s mobile phone to call the hotel, I had booked a flight out of Glasgow at nine in the morning.

I clung to his hands for a moment before reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. Gordon was a lovely, handsome man—too much like Beth’s Colin for me to ever contemplate as a romantic interest, but still a wonderful man.

“Thank you again for everything, Gordon,” I whispered. I hurried away, stepping into the elevator that stood, thankfully, open, and I headed off to my room.

Chapter Twenty

I opened my eyes, disoriented. Gray light filtered through the thick velvet curtains. I gasped and pushed myself upright.

Scotland! I was back!

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light before searching the corners of the room. A dresser stood against the far wall, a television set perched on top. A painful realization took my breath away.
 

No, not Scotland. I was in my bedroom at home in Washington state. The eighteenth century and Scotland were far, far away. James was far away.
 

I swallowed hard against the knot forming in my throat and turned to look at my bedside clock. Six a.m. What time was it in Scotland? I picked up my phone and checked the time in Glasgow. Two p.m., eight hours ahead.
 

I had been back two weeks, but still I kept track of the time in Scotland, my other life. Jet lag had come and gone, yet I didn’t know how to turn my face forward, how to stop looking behind me to the past.

I had gone to Sam’s grave four times since I’d come back. Neat and tidy, his marker of granite shone in the rare Northwest sunshine the last time I’d gone to the cemetery. At first I’d kept my mouth shut, but on the fourth visit, I had finally told him about James.

As I had told my cousin, Julie.

“You what?” she had screeched over tea in her kitchen. She had laughed, bent over double and guffawed at first. Straightening up, she had seen that I wasn’t laughing.

I had been lucky she had allowed me to come over to talk to her. Her anger hadn’t eased by the time I came home.