by Karen Ranney
He didn’t want to talk about Shona now.
“So about the baronetcy—” Fergus began.
“More my father’s work than mine,” he said, interrupting.
Fergus shot him a look. “Not what I hear. I repeat, you’re a damn national treasure.”
He shrugged.
“You’ve gone and gotten modest. Unlike you, Gordon.”
He smiled, suddenly glad he’d come. No one else poked at him like Fergus. Perhaps he needed that.
Fergus placed the glass on the arm of the chair. His hand trembled with the effort, an indication of how weak he really was.
“Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?” He patted Fergus’s arm, hating the thin frailty of it.
“Come and see me from time to time,” Fergus said. “Rescue me from the care of women.”
“That I’ll do,” he said.
“Even if Shona refuses you.”
“I won’t give up,” he said, standing. “You know that much about me.”
“You did once,” Fergus said.
Those words were a damn bullet to the heart.
He smiled with ease, charming Fergus into a laugh. Her brother hadn’t laughed in a good long time. Perhaps she should forgive Gordon for that alone.
Once, she would have forgiven him anything.
The past swooped in like an arrow’s point, spearing her heart.
“He’s got a bright future, Shona,” General MacDermond had said, standing in the Acanthus Parlor at Gairloch. A particularly odious room colored olive green, with carvings of acanthus leaves strewn over the ceiling in a montage that had pleased one of her ancestors.
“You can see, surely, that if he remains here, that future will be blighted.”
“He has the Works,” she’d said, aware that Gordon had inherited the three armament factories belonging to his maternal grandfather.
His father had glossed over that with a thin smile.
“If he marries you, Shona,” he’d said, his voice strangely kind when he’d never been kind to her in the past, “it will be because he pities you. Or because you’re Fergus’s sister. I doubt you’d want to be such a burden.”
They’d been in such desperate straits, however, that she’d known something had to be done, including marrying the first wealthy man who’d offered for her. Someone who hadn’t wanted to marry her out of pity.
But marrying Bruce hadn’t turned out at all well.
Here she was, seven years later, in an even worse situation. Now, not only did Fergus need her help, but Helen depended upon her, too. This time, marriage wasn’t a solution to their problems.
Nor was thinking about the past.
She had a plan, however, and unfortunately, Gordon MacDermond was going to have to play a role in it.
“I promise I’ll be back,” Gordon said. “Even if it means bodily moving Shona to see you.”
Fergus only chuckled, as if the thought of that confrontation was amusing.
Gordon said good-bye, crossing the lawn to the steps. He didn’t expect Shona to be standing at the back door, watching him. Nor did he expect her words as he entered the house.
“Did you disturb him?” she asked, waving the piece of paper in her hand toward the garden.
“Disturb him?” he asked.
“Bother him, confound him, annoy him. Ask him questions that make him remember or think. That sort of thing.”
He studied her for a moment. Tiny lines radiated outward from the corners of her eyes. The years had made a mark, but a subtle one.
“He’s not dead, Shona. Or a bairn. He’s a man. He’s going to remember things without my prompting him. He’s going to feel things despite your wrapping him in a blanket of concern.”
She glanced away, the line of her jaw firm, her lips whitened as if she held back words.
If he were another man, he’d have said or done something to comfort her. If it were another time, she might have allowed him to do so. Neither was the case, so he remained silent.
“How did you find him?” she finally asked, still staring out the back window.
“Weak,” he said, startling himself by uttering the truth. “Despondent. Why the hell didn’t you let me know?”
“Would you have come, Gordon?” she asked, still not looking at him.
“You know I would.”
She nodded, the point too easily conceded.
“Will you let me know if he needs anything?”
She looked down at the paper she held in her hand.
“He needs a home,” she said, surprising him. “My husband’s nephew is taking possession of the house in a short while. Fergus needs a place to live.” She folded the paper, still not looking at him. “My new house is being readied,” she added. “But, for a few weeks, conditions will be difficult for Fergus.”
“He can stay with me if he wishes.”
“You’re back, then. In Inverness.”
“Yes,” he said, not giving her the whole truth. To compensate, he offered her a bit more information, something he wouldn’t have ordinarily told her. A peace offering? “I’ve left the War Office.”
“No more soldiering?”
He smiled. “No more soldiering.”
Now she looked at him, her thin smile not matching the expression in her eyes. He’d had years of studying Shona Imrie. Shona Imrie Donegal.
He disturbed her.
“The Empire may crumble,” she said, “without you to fight for it.”
She hadn’t lost the ability to infuse her words with derision.
“Indeed,” he said, still smiling amiably.
She turned, leaving him no choice but to follow. As they headed toward the front door, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
“Why didn’t you ever write to Fergus? If you were so concerned for him?”
He was wrong to think she’d conceded the point.
“And have my letters returned?”
She stopped, squared her shoulders, but didn’t answer, merely opened the door, standing aside for him to leave. He picked up his hat and gloves from the side table.
“How soon will your husband’s nephew be taking possession?”
She skirted that question, asking one of her own. “How soon can Fergus come and live with you?”
Evidently, she was desperate enough to allow some of her anxiety to show.
“Give me two days to make arrangements,” he said.
She nodded. “That will be acceptable.”
As he left the house, she stood queenlike at the door, her hand on the frame, her smile firmly fixed and false.
Had she just made the worst mistake of her life?
Shona watched as Gordon strode toward his carriage, never turning and looking back. He wouldn’t. Once on a set course, Gordon MacDermond was as immovable as Ben Nevis.
He walked with confidence, as if the world should give way before him. He was Colonel Sir Gordon MacDermond, son of Lieutenant General Ian MacDermond, both father and son national heroes, renowned for their prowess in battle and their courage in the face of desperate odds.
Each man had proved himself to be a modern Highlander.
The air was humid, the breeze from the river pausing to caress her cheek. With the back of her hand, she brushed back a tendril of hair that had come loose, but otherwise didn’t move, watching him enter his carriage.
Gordon had brought the past with him, and the past was not her friend.
Identify every part of a problem and handle each part separately. That’s how she’d survived Bruce’s illness. First, she had to address the issue of money.
Slowly, she closed the door, unfolding the letter again. Good news, of a sort. The worst news, if she chose to be sentimental. But sentimentality was for fools and those who’d no need of wealthy Americans.
Dear God, anyone with a fortune would do.
Once, she’d had armoires filled with dresses and delicate lace undergarments. She’d worn jewels that sparkled in the gasli
ght. Her home had been a mansion set into a landscape so perfect it looked like a John Constable painting.
Circumstances changed, however, a fact she’d learned only too well in the last two years.
What a shock it had been to learn she was penniless.
She’d known that Bruce’s estate was entailed, but she’d stupidly assumed that, upon her husband’s death, she’d have some income of her own. Both she and his great-nephew, Ranald Donegal, had been informed that neither was the recipient of any funds.
Bruce had died insolvent.
Her husband had never hinted at his penurious state. Nor had he told her that his great-nephew was an incredibly dislikable man. Ranald was twenty years her senior, but neither his status as a relative by marriage, nor the fact that he himself was married with seven children, had stopped him from groping her at every opportunity. She’d vacated the house she’d shared with Bruce as soon as she could, retreating here to Inverness to live out the duration of her mourning. Two weeks ago, her official mourning was over.
Two weeks ago, she’d also learned that Ranald was coming to Inverness for the express purpose of occupying the house she’d made her home for the last two years.
Her choices were narrowing by the minute.
Did she stay here and attempt some sort of agreement with Ranald? Would he allow Fergus to stay as well? She was neither naïve nor unschooled. Sooner or later, the arrangement would lead to her becoming an unpaid servant or sharing his bed while his wife and her brother slept under the same roof. She doubted Fergus would agree to such a thing even if she allowed it.
Or did she attempt to find other lodgings, with no funds, no likelihood of funds, and no foreseeable funds in the future?
The jewels Bruce had given her had been sold to keep food in the house and coal in the grate for the first year. In the last several months, she’d sold anything, everything, of value.
She took a deep breath before reading the letter once more.
Her solicitor had done what she’d begged him to do a year ago. He’d found a solution for her financial woes, a solution that required selling Gairloch, the castle belonging to the Imrie Clan.
To support the two people who’d come to depend on her, she was going to have to do something quickly.
Helen entered the room and she folded the letter, tucking it into her dress pocket.
“We’re going on an adventure, Helen,” she said with a smile.
The other woman looked at her, head tilted. “What sort of adventure?” Helen asked cautiously.
“We’re going to Gairloch.”
When Fergus was settled, she’d go home, and back to the past for the very last time.
Gordon had a hundred questions, all of them revolving around the Countess of Morton. None was likely to be answered anytime soon.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t dismiss the thought that there was something he should have seen, known, or asked before being escorted from her home.
The surge of nostalgia he was feeling was idiotic. So, too, his rage at seeing her calmly assess the half-naked men in her parlor.
The girl he’d known had been stubborn, prideful, heedless, and exciting. He’d felt alive in her presence. He’d gone from attempting to avoid his father to challenging the old man because of Shona. She was so brave and daring that he could be no less. He’d laughed with her, held her when she wept, discovered the secrets of Invergaire Glen and their own bodies.
She’d been his first love.
Yet for five years, she’d been the circumspect Countess of Morton. Not one rumor followed her; not one inveterate gossip carried tales from Inverness to London. The girl had either matured or become more adept at hiding herself beneath her new, titled, role.
He’d seen her twice in those years, both times from afar. When he’d gone to war, it was almost a relief. He’d have no reason to see her, to watch her with her husband.
He should have told her what he’d planned, but he’d acquired the habit of reticence, at least around Shona.
He might have loved her once, but he didn’t trust her.
Chapter 2
“I don’t understand,” Fergus said. “Why can’t I go with you?”
“Because the journey would be too difficult,” she said, tucking the blanket around his knees, careful not to touch the area on his thigh where he’d been struck by a fusillade of bullets. “And I want to make sure you’re safe.”
Fergus narrowed his eyes, a habit of his when he didn’t believe what she was saying.
He was older than she by three years, and when she’d begun to care for him after he’d returned from India, he’d responded by saying that she didn’t make it easy to be her patient.
“It isn’t easy being your younger sister, either, Fergus,” she said, which always silenced him for a little while.
At the moment, however, she didn’t have time for patient wheedling.
“Fergus, please,” she said. “I must go and you’re in no condition for travel.”
“I don’t want to sell.”
She’d told him what she’d planned all along. Had he simply pretended that it would never come to pass? Or that no one would have pockets deep enough to buy the castle?
She could always tell him the truth—that there was no money at all—but if she did, he’d assume the responsibility for their welfare, just when he was incapable of shouldering the burden.
He’d already suffered. He’d already proven how brave he was. He didn’t need another worry in his life, especially when he’d not completely healed from his wounds.
“If you don’t want to go with Gordon,” she said, keeping any hint of panic out of her voice, “I can make other arrangements. He’ll be here any minute. Tell me what you want.”
He watched her in that careful way of his, eyes the same gray shade as hers noting every movement. He used to tease her, but since he’d come home from the war, he did so less and less.
“I’ll go with Gordon,” he said, “but I don’t want to sell.”
The knock on the door was opportune.
Helen opened the door and Gordon strode in, dressed in an outer coat today, one of black wool that accentuated his height. With him was another man, as tall as Gordon, with arms that bulged beneath his clothing.
“Are you ready, then?” he asked Fergus, never sparing a glance at her.
Fergus nodded.
“Are those your things?” Gordon asked, pointing to a pair of trunks in the corner.
Fergus nodded.
Gordon motioned to the man accompanying him, and he effortlessly scooped up the trunks as if they weighed nothing, and disappeared through the door.
“Need some help?” Gordon asked.
Fergus grinned, the first time he’d done so all day.
“Just a boost to my feet,” he said. “After that, I can manage.”
Gordon reached down and placed his hand under Fergus’s arm and helped him rise. He looked as if he were studying every one of Fergus’s movements.
As they made their way to the door, she stood there, hands gripped in front of her.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said, but Fergus didn’t turn. He only nodded, no doubt still angry with her.
Gordon was the one to glance in her direction, his expression conveying an understanding of her sudden distress. As if he knew how very much she hated depending on his kindness. Or as if he knew how close she was to crying.
She was not about to weep in front of him.
Keeping silent was difficult, but she managed it, nonetheless, while Fergus was helped into Gordon’s carriage. Gordon stood silent beside her on the steps, taller than she’d remembered, broader of shoulder. He smelled of some masculine scent—or was that just him?
She wanted to lean closer. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her waist, waited patiently with a small and placid smile curving her lips.
He pulled out a card from his inside vest pocket and handed it to her. Her hand curled around it, felt the warm
th from his body, and stared down at his distinctive writing.
Meet me today. I’m thinking of you. Missed you. Notes they’d shared over the years.
“My address,” he said.
“Yes.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something further, but censored himself.
“It’s chilly today,” he said.
How many times had she been taught that one could never go wrong with a comment on the weather?
His glance encompassed her attire from her dress to her shoes, an examination of the same ilk she’d given him only days ago. She hoped she’d been a tenth as annoying.
“I’m not cold,” she said.
She didn’t want him to show any concern, or act gentlemanly, or—God forbid—make her remember how kind he could be when he wanted.
Just go away. Take Fergus with you and remember he was once your dearest friend.
Soon enough, they were situated, and as Helen bid Fergus an emotional farewell, Shona stepped back, waving from a vantage point far enough away that no one could see the tears in her eyes.
Gordon entered the carriage. The last time he and Fergus had traveled together had been on the return voyage from India, and the other man had been half out of his mind from fever.
Even now, six months later, Fergus was too thin, too pale, but what was more disturbing than simple physical appearance was the fact that the enthusiasm, the excitement that used to dance in Fergus’s eyes was missing. In Sebastopol, he’d been the first among them to see the amusement in a situation. Even in India, he’d found something about which to comment in a droll fashion, garnering laughter from his men.
Although he’d been an exemplary soldier, Fergus’s mouth had been a detriment to his advancement. How many times had Fergus made a remark about the stupidity of their generals, their orders, or even their mission? How many times had he wished Fergus would just shut up?
Now, he would have preferred the Fergus from Sebastopol or the Siege of Lucknow. Not this quiet, too polite stranger.
“I lied to your sister,” he said abruptly. “And to you.”
Fergus turned his head, regarding him unsmilingly.
“I’ve a house in town, but I’ve my mind set on going home,” he said. “It’s been too damn long since I’ve been there and I’m missing it.”