The people of Crieff found their way to say goodbye, after all.
The tears of sorrow she had fought to control turned into tears of gratitude that could not be checked. But Greer did not care—let them see. Let them see that she shared their loss, and Ewan would never be forgotten. Not by her.
While the new laird could not forget soon enough, it seemed. He either did not see the mourners, or he chose not to acknowledge their presence. Neither did they doff their caps, or in any way acknowledge Malcolm Cameron as he turned away from the grave to make his swift way back to the castle.
Perhaps the staff were not so ready to forgive the new duke the slight of not including them in the service? Or perhaps, this was their way of telling the new duke he had not got the correct measure of the old. Not in the least.
Some of the tightness in her chest eased. If she had been looking for some sign of reassurance, this was it. She had not been wrong to trust Ewan with her love.
The one she would not trust from this day forward was Malcolm Cameron. No matter how he inserted or insinuated himself, not matter how many pots of hothouse tulips, he would find no welcome from her. In fact, if he kept on in the same vein without correction, he’d have no servants, and no friends at all in the Highlands—no matter that he was a duke, Scots were not the sort whose friendship or admiration could be bought.
The words “out carousing with friends” leapt back into her mind—such friends would clearly already know of Ewan’s sudden demise. Who had he been with, if not the quadrumvirate—as Ewan’s letters called them—of Alasdair, Marquess of Cairn, the Honorable Archie Carrington, and Rory Cathcart? “Those disreputable fellows,” Malcolm Cameron had called them, and they must be so, if they had not come to Crieff with dear Ewan’s body, as they ought. Where were they, who had accompanied him through every other journey in his life? Surely they ought to have come at the last to mourn his passing?
She resolved to finally write them and ask them such impolite but necessary questions the moment she was home.
And while she was riled up and taking people to task, she wanted a word with Dewar. She meant to ask him what on Earth he meant by telling her the fellow was dead—there was far too much death as it was, without filling imaginary coffins.
Unfortunately, Malcolm Cameron claimed her attention. “You’ll of course come back to the drawing room for some refreshment before you make the trip back to Dalshee? Unless I can prevail upon you to enjoy Crieff’s hospitality and spend the night here at least?”
Greer and her parents had already agreed that there would be no cause to stay at Crieff, no matter His Grace’s potential pleas. “No, though I thank you, Your Grace, for your hospitality at this difficult time. Please convey my thanks to your staff as well.”
He waved aside the idea. “You’re more than welcome, my Lady Greer.” Malcolm Cameron bowed over her hand. “I wish there were some way I might convince you to stay.”
Greer wanted no convincing—she wanted the solace of the familiar and was heartsore enough from the cheerless day to say so. “There is nothing more to keep us here, Your Grace. Now that His— Now that Ewan has been laid to rest, I want the comfort of home.”
Home. It felt strange to say the word standing in the place that she believed would be her home forevermore. She had lived with that expectation for years—ten years, during which the thought had been a comfort—an ambition even.
But it was not to be.
“Your offer of refreshment would be most appreciated, Your Grace.” Her Mama was ready to be out of the rain. “Greer, dearest? Lend me your arm.”
There was nothing for her to do but let Cameron escort them back to the drawing room while their carriage was readied. Greer could not keep herself from casting one more glance around the comfortable room, much as she had done upstairs in the chamber Ewan had furnished for her. Of seeking one last time the serene beauty of the portrait of Ewan and his parents painted with the parkland and Castle Crieff in the background.
But where the family group had hung above the mantelpiece, there was now an equine portrait of the magnificent, tall black horse with a white star on his chest—Ewan’s Cat Sìth.
Ewan’s beloved horse was, of course, Malcolm Cameron’s now, and must be much admired to have such pride of place. She supposed it was only right that he rearrange the paintings. But her temper, already made thin and combustible by the events of the day, flared at this latest erasure.
“Your Grace, if it is not too much trouble to locate, I should like the portrait of the late duke you had removed from the duchess’s chamber.”
Malcolm Cameron’s reaction was the picture of concerned astonishment—all raised brows and wide, questioning eyes. “A painting was removed from your bed chamber?”
“Not mine,” she hastened to correct him. “The painting hung in the duchess’s chamber. As did a family portrait hang here.” She gestured to the portrait of the horse. “Quite understandable that you should arrange things to your taste. But as the portrait in question was intended as a gift to me”—she debated how best to phrase her request so as not to engender another tarnishing of Ewan’s reputation—“and is clearly no longer needed, I should like to take it with me.”
Cameron was all open chagrin—those hot spots of color rose across his cheeks. “Ah, yes. As you say, we are in the process of going through the rooms, moving things about, finding things more to my taste to decorate the public rooms.”
“Aye, just so.” She nodded her understanding to help him along. “Like this magnificent portrait of Cat Sìth by the famous Mr. Stubbs.” She waited for some recognition of the artist to cross his expression, but there was none. Perhaps he wasn’t a sportsman, to know what a coup it had been for Ewan—through Rory—to secure the services of such a painter. She had supposed Cameron was outdoorsy in that English, horse racing and fast driving sort of way, though now that she took a more cynical gaze, he looked as if a long walk up and across the Highland moors would make him wilt faster than a day lily.
“You have a very discerning eye”—he frowned at her even as he complimented—“to recognize a horse by name.”
“Thank you.” She took the compliment without any explanation of her knowledge—Ewan’s letters were like to be her best and only remembrance of him, and after such a contradictory accounting of his character from his cousin, she wanted them to remain private and unsullied by doubt. And she wanted Cameron to stick to one topic at a time. “I am sure there is more than enough to suit your tastes in Crieff’s magnificent collection, that you won’t miss one portrait.”
He shook his head in sad denial. “A collection acquired, I’m afraid, by much debt.”
The news was as unwelcome as a hard skelp to the face, knocking her angry confidence back a peg. Heat rose in her cheeks, and every fiber of her being tensed in rejection of his declaration. “Debt?” She raised her voice so her father, who had been more privy to Crieff’s ledgers over the years in making the marriage settlements, and would know even better than she what was the truth, might pay heed.
For her own part, Ewan’s letters had never spoken of such a thing—indeed his every word and action had been indicative of fiscal prudence. Make haste slowly.
“Yes. I suppose I ought not say so publicly, but I should like to think you are—or will be—my friend. I can safely confess to you”—he lowered his voice to impart his confidence—“that I find Crieff in a terrible state of finance.”
Greer risked a glance at Papa, whose forehead was creased with a terrible frown, but who thankfully held his peace, though he continued to listen. “How distressing,” she offered. “But if that is so, then perhaps it would be more appropriate for me to offer to buy the portrait in question.”
His Grace’s brows rose at the suggestion, before he pleated his lips in contemplation. “I’m not sure I should like that. How strange it would be to think of the young woman sighing over a portrait of one’s ri—one’s relation, like an old widow, not a beautiful,
young, unmarried lady.”
For the strangest moment, she had thought he had been about to say “rival.” But that was entirely nonsensical. Was that how he saw Ewan, as a romantic rival? She did not think that was how Ewan had seen Malcolm. Indeed, in the whole of their correspondence, Ewan had never once mentioned Malcolm.
And he had certainly not mentioned debts, either.
She rephrased her request in a way that might not ruffle his proprietary, masculine feathers. “I should only like to have a gift that was promised me—a remembrance of a friendship that afforded me great pleasure over the years, Your Grace.”
“Let me think upon it, if you would.” He smiled, not unkindly. “I will write you if I may?”
What could clearly not be avoided, must be faced with equanimity. “I would appreciate that, Your Grace.”
“Will you not call me Malcolm? After all, we are to become friends, are we not?”
There was enough warmth in his expression to tell her that His New Grace of Crieff indeed intended to persist in calling upon her—whether she wanted him to, or not.
“I don’t see how, Your Grace.” She did not want to be flattered on such a day. There were too many hard questions that did not have easy answers.
But though she would not encourage, she must still be polite. “We want different things in this life, Your Grace.” He wanted Crieff made over in his own image. And she—she still wanted Ewan.
More than ever.
Lady Greer Douglas
Dalshee House
Perthshire, Scotland
5 September, 1788
Dear Lady G,
Enclosed with my highest and kindest regards, C
Lord Ewan Cameron
St. Salvador’s College
St. Andrew’s, Fife
20 October, 1788
Dear Ewan,
More books! Such treasures you send to me! I had no idea how interesting and fascinating the study of geology and soils could be. You have more than my thanks ~ you have my delight! And certainly my encouragement to send along whatever else you may lay hands on to improve me for Crieff. Send as many as you like ~ as many as you can carry! (Although one hopes some future parcel might contain nothing but kisses!)
Mama obliges me to tell you that she does not allow me to spend all my day with my nose in books, and asks me to tell you of my other accomplishments ~ that I can wield an embroidery needle to tolerable (but only just!) result. But I will tell you I think all my accomplishments nothing alongside my ability to climb to the top of Glas Maol.
(And I hope you will smile to read that, for that is my goal.) Your devoted, G
Lady Greer Douglas
Dalshee House
Perthshire, Scotland
22 November, 1788
Dear G,
I cannot keep from smiling. Pray do not tell your lady mother, the countess, that I depreciate all your learning and accomplishments in favor of your climbing abilities—she will think me foolishly sentimental. But I confess it makes my heart calm and glad to think of you up there in the wind looking over from Dalshee toward Crieff. Shall you go up today? The weather is clear here on the coast, and perhaps if you go to the top and stand on tiptoe, and I climb to the top of the highest tower in St. Andrews, we might see each other across the miles.
Your devoted servant, EC
Chapter 15
The lass came over the lip of the ridge like the sunrise—sweeping the glen with light and warmth. Not that he had been watching for her, but the peregrine falcons high on the cliff tops had nothing on him for sharpness of eye.
He had been up with the dawn, hoping that today was the day she might come, keeping busy with chores—putting the tiny bothy to rights, gathering, splitting and stacking wood for the fire, setting another portion of the ancient tumbledown stone walls to rights as a method of exercising his body to regain his strength. And when there was light enough, taking a bracing dip in the cool of the burn.
But mostly watching for her—it had been two days since she had promised to return. Two long days, and two longer nights without her glad presence to relieve the lonely drag of time.
And return she did, just as the morning sun crested the moor, riding her slender white mount, while leading the dun-colored highland pony laden with wicker baskets. Just as she had promised.
“Hallo!” She reined to a halt and slid easily from the saddle before he could move to help her. “Good morning, Gent,” she greeted the dog before she turned to him. “Good morning…” She tipped her head to one side as she contemplated what to call him. “…friend.”
Her welcoming smile and confident cheer was like a tonic—he immediately felt better. Stronger, calmer. He reached into the tangled knot of his brain for her name. “Good morn, Greer.”
“You look better,” she observed. “Your eyes are clear. Why, they’re green.”
“Are they?” He had no idea—the reflection on the surface of the burn was no pier glass.
And there it was—the image of a mirror. Oval and ornate and standing in the middle of a chamber reflecting his own form back to him, the mirage arose in his mind like a ghost, gone before he could see anything more substantial. Yet he was glad for even that insubstantial glance—the images came infrequently when he was alone, but something about her presence seemed to make them come with greater ease. And clarity.
“What color were my eyes before?” The words and sentences were coming easier—or at least he seemed to be remembering them more easily after days of practicing speaking into the silence of the glen—making it more of a pleasure and less of an effort to converse with her, who was everything of confident grace and ease.
“Blood red.” She shook her head as if she didn’t like to remember it. “And swollen closed the first time I saw you. It was terrible to see.”
While she was everything bonnie and wonderful to see—mirabile visu. Her eyes were a clear grey blue and her freckles a lovely warm brown—the rich color of expensive sherry.
But how in the hell did he know what expensive sherry was? And mirabile visu—that was Latin. He closed his eyes to try and conjure up some image, some other word, some clue to this knowledge.
But she misinterpreted his frown as pain. “How do you feel? Is the ache in your head quite bad?”
“Nay.” He opened his eyes to see both her anxiety and her kindness writ across her face. “Not so pure done in as before. I feel much better.”
She let out warm sigh of relief. “That’s good. And encouraging. And I mean to encourage you further.” She went to the pony’s wicker saddle baskets. “I’ve brought more food, as well as some clothes that might suit you better than what I imagine must be Dewar’s ill-fitting cast offs, as those breeks are Crieff’s plaid—you must be a good foot taller than the keeper. But we’ve several lads at home who are closer to your height, so I’ve brought you some shirts and breeks so you’ll have a change of clothing to—Wait! What are you doing?”
Trying to shuck off his soiled shirt—he had bathed his body, not his clothes.
“Nay. Stop.” She waved her hands at him in distress.
Damnation. He had forgotten more than just the words—he had forgotten how to behave.
But when he tried to reverse the action to cover his nakedness, she stopped him again. “Nay—I meant your ribs. I forgot you were all bound up. Here, let me help.” She moved to ease the shirt from his elbows.
It was rather nice to have her so near. Better than nice. So much better, it gave him ideas. “Ought to take the binding off, I suppose. I’m not so sore anymore, and I reckon I could breathe easier without it.”
Her hands stilled. “How long did the doctor say your ribs ought to stay wrapped?”
He didn’t remember much of what the doctor had said, apart from the fact that he’d been kicked by heavy boots. So how did he know his ribs ought to be healed? How did he know Latin and sherry?
He searched the dusty attic of his brain, but nothing came out into the light
.
It was so bloody damn frustrating.
Yet his frustration disappeared the moment her cool fingers grazed against the skin of his chest. “I suppose the practical thing to do is to give it a try,” she murmured, “and see how you feel without the binding.”
What he felt was the subtle press of her clever fingers untying the knot he had made in the bandage. And the cool drag across his sensitized skin as he slowly turned so she could unravel the cotton swath. And the disorienting ecstasy of being so near to her.
But it was somehow she who became dizzy—she stumbled and faltered. “Gracious me.”
He put a hand to her elbow to steady her. She was so close—close enough for him to see the bright flush across her cheeks and feel the sweet warmth of her body next to his. “Are you all to rights, lass?”
“Oh, aye,” she said, but she sounded like he had the first few days he tried to walk more than a few steps—as winded as if he had tried to run all the way up to Glas Maol.
But she was herself again in no time. “There.” She shook out the bandage and stepped away. “Can you manage the rest without my help?”
“I hope not.”
“Oh.” She looked confused. She did not understand that he was teasing—flirting, actually.
Flirting. And yet he knew—knew in his bones—that he had never flirted in earnest in his life. Never felt this strange, damn near disorienting physical attraction to a lass before.
“Then let me help.” She was easing the clean linen shirt carefully over his head, standing on tiptoe before him so her cool, articulate fingers could guide the fabric over his shoulders and across his ribs. “There.” She stood back. “Better?”
MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4) Page 13