To Wed an Heiress

by Karen Ranney

  She’d never needed Ruthie’s help in undressing and she removed her traveling dress and crinolines with ease. Her corset was never tight and she merely unfastened the busk at the front, placing the garment in one of the bureau’s drawers.

  Lily had hung her wrapper just inside the armoire. Mercy put it on before going into the bathing chamber adjoining the bedroom, grateful for the natural light in the large mirror.

  Her eyes looked dull and the dark circles were more pronounced now. Her skin appeared waxy and as pale as Ruthie’s had been. Even her lips looked odd, nearly bloodless.

  McNaughton had not stinted on the bandaging material. She looked exotic. Or exotic and injured.

  Lennox Caitheart had a great deal to answer for. What a pity she’d never see the man again to tell him that to his face.

  Chapter Ten

  It took only a matter of seconds for Mercy to fall asleep on the comfortable mattress. When she woke it was to find that three hours had passed. She quickly donned a green-striped dress over two crinolines and her kid slippers—a welcome respite from her traveling shoes.

  She used a little rouge on her lips, but it made her complexion look even more pale in contrast. She wiped most of it off and decided against applying any color to her cheeks.

  Like it or not, she looked as if she had been in an accident.

  Elizabeth knocked on the door a quarter hour later.

  “Were you able to get any rest?” her aunt asked.

  “I was,” she said. “But I still feel like I could go to bed and stay there for a week.”

  “I felt the same when we arrived in Scotland, but we didn’t have to suffer through an accident. Are you certain you feel well enough to go down to dinner?”

  “I do, but would it be possible to check on Ruthie first?”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said, leading the way to the back stairs.

  She was glad to see that the rooms occupied by the servants at Macrory House—or at least Ruthie’s room—were large, well lit, and quite attractive. She found Ruthie sitting up in bed, Lily sitting on a chair beside her. The two women were eating their dinners and looked as if they were engaged in an animated conversation.

  Mercy didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but after a second or two it wasn’t difficult to ascertain that they were talking about Connor. There might be a feud between the Macrorys and the Caithearts, but it evidently didn’t extend to the servants.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Much better, Miss Mercy. I’ve been treated like a princess.”

  “Is there anything that you need?”

  “Are there donkeys roundabouts?”

  “I’ll ask,” she said.

  Ruthie nodded, evidently satisfied. “I’ll do for you in the morning, Miss Mercy. I’m sure to be feeling fine.”

  “No, you won’t,” Mercy said. “You’ve been hurt and the most important thing is for you to feel better.”

  Ruthie looked as if she wanted to argue, especially when Lily spoke up and said, “If you ring, Miss Mercy, I’ll be glad to help you.”

  “Thank you, Lily. As for you, Ruthie, I’ll check on you in the morning. But I don’t expect you to be out of this bed.”

  Once they left the room, Elizabeth spoke. “Donkeys?”

  “Donkey hair,” Mercy answered. “Ruthie believes that donkey hair will stave off a cold, an infection, and in this case, probably help her arm to heal.”

  When Elizabeth didn’t say anything, Mercy smiled. “Ruthie has many folk remedies and sayings to go along with them. The fact that she wants donkey hair is a good sign.”

  “It is?”

  Mercy nodded. “That means she really is feeling better. She hardly said a word to me all afternoon.”

  It felt odd going down to dinner when it was still light outside. But, then, it didn’t get dark until nearly midnight in the Highlands in summer, a fact Mercy had discovered on arriving in Scotland.

  As they descended the main stairs, Elizabeth spoke about the people she would soon be meeting.

  “Your great-uncle, Mother’s brother, is a very strong-willed man. Uncle Douglas will question you endlessly, Mercy, but don’t take it to heart. He does the same thing to everyone when he first meets them.”

  Her father had a similar questioning style bordering on interrogation.

  “And then there is Flora,” Elizabeth said. “She’s your cousin and Douglas’s granddaughter.”

  They didn’t have any more time to speak because they’d reached the dining room.

  The Pink Dining Room, so called because of the color of the walls, was surprisingly restrained in decor given the remainder of Macrory House. The small room was furnished with a large square table with wooden chairs and upholstered seat covers.

  True, there were carved cornices representing a variety of fruits and vegetables and sideboards constructed of the same wood as the table. But the lamps weren’t overly large. Nor were there any cavorting imps and goddesses on the ceiling.

  Her grandmother, great-uncle, and cousin were already seated, all of them looking fixedly at her. She didn’t blame them for staring. She hadn’t been able to improve her appearance in the past few hours.

  A male servant helped her to her chair in the middle of the table, opposite her cousin and next to Elizabeth. She thanked him, which was no doubt the wrong thing to do, earning her a frown from her grandmother.

  Ailsa was sitting at the foot of the table while Uncle Douglas was at the head.

  Her great-uncle was tall and portly with a mane of white hair that stuck out in different directions on the top of his large head. Mercy got the impression of a Scottish lion with a roar of a voice, one that boomed out at her as she sat.

  “Welcome to Macrory House, lass. It’s happy I am that you’re here. We’ve more Americans here now than Scots.” He extended a large hand toward the woman opposite Mercy. “This is my granddaughter, Flora.”

  Flora looked to be a few years younger than her with an appearance unlike the rest of the women in the family. Her eyes were blue, her hair a shade of dark red Mercy had rarely seen. She was exceedingly pretty, one of those females who looked lovely despite the circumstances. She would appear as presentable first thing in the morning as she would drenched in a downpour, crying or laughing, and sick or well.

  No doubt she would wear a turban of bandages with aplomb and look gorgeous while doing so.

  Mercy instantly felt ugly and clumsy.

  “That Caitheart fool caused the accident, I hear,” Uncle Douglas said. “Him and that infernal machine of his. Damn idiot. Hasn’t got a bairn’s sense. Always said that he would come to no good.”

  She had the curious compulsion to refute her great-uncle’s words, although she was certain that Lennox would not welcome her defense. Still, he wasn’t quite an idiot. Nor was he insane as she’d called him. If anything, he was brave. She wouldn’t have the courage to jump from a mountain like he had in an airship.

  “I think what he’s doing is quite exciting, myself,” Flora said.

  Mercy witnessed the most amazing transformation, something she’d only seen in one other person. Her great-uncle’s face changed when he looked at his granddaughter. It was like everything inside of him softened, smoothed the lines of his face, and prompted his smile.

  Her father looked the same way when he was with Jimmy. In his case, however, she thought it was more sadness than love that prompted the change.

  “You be sure to mind yourself, lassie,” Douglas said to Flora. “You’ll not go near that place and you’ll stay off the road. I’ll not let another Caitheart harm a Macrory woman again.”

  At least she’d learned about the reason for the feud at Duddingston Castle. She doubted if her relatives would have told her otherwise.

  She decided she would focus on her dinner because she was genuinely hungry. Better that then say something that would be taken wrong. Besides, it would be a good way to avoid her grandmother’s eagle-like stare.

&nb
sp; At least she hadn’t been banished from the table and the house. She had a feeling, however, that she hadn’t found a haven at Macrory House.

  Chapter Eleven

  “If you don’t come and eat your dinner now, I’ll give it to the pigs.”

  “We don’t have pigs,” Lennox said, glancing up at Irene.

  Connor and Irene were the only servants at Duddingston Castle, if that label was entirely fitting. Irene had taken over the position of housekeeper, cook, maid of all work, busybody, and his mother.

  She’d been in the village this morning or she would have inserted herself into the drama as usual.

  He returned to his examination of the tail structure of his airship. It had been damaged in his controlled crash this morning. Before he went up again, he was going to have to repair it as well as the damaged sail.

  “I mean it. I haven’t stood over a hot stove for hours for you to ignore what I cooked.”

  “How could I possibly ignore it?” Lennox said. “I’ve been smelling onions all afternoon.”

  Irene put her fists on her hips and sent him a familiar glare, but she didn’t look like she was going to move anytime soon. Most of the time their confrontations ended in a draw. Evidently, Irene was all for winning tonight.

  “It’s tatie scones and fish skink,” she said. “Your favorites.”

  It was except for the fact that he had eaten it entirely too much in the last month. Beggars, however, couldn’t be choosers. He’d spent a good deal of money on his airship. Too much, actually, and now he had to pay the price by eating fish until he was certain he was growing gills.

  He put down his tools, looked up at her, and surrendered.

  “Just bring it in here,” he said.

  He’d taken over the Laird’s Room, a small chamber off the Clan Hall that allowed him some privacy. Here his work was shielded from prying eyes. Not that he had all that many visitors. He’d gotten a reputation for being a recluse and a grumpy one at that. Or maybe it had been Irene who scared off any visitors. She was as protective of his time as he was.

  “I’ll not do that,” she said. “You’re alone too much as it is.”

  “You do remember that I pay your wages?”

  “That’s something else entirely,” she said. “We’ll be talking about an increase there. Jean earns more than I do and doesn’t do half my work.”

  Her sister worked for the Macrorys. If he hadn’t liked Irene so much, he would have dismissed her the minute he learned that. The familial relationship, however, had proved to be helpful over the years. He had some insight into the family’s actions, thanks to Irene and her sister.

  “I’m not made of money like the Macrorys, Irene.”

  “Then you’d better get busy and invent something else,” she said.

  That admonition was new.

  “I’ll take my dinner in the kitchen, then.”

  He had no intention of eating by himself in the dining room. The place was a gloomy cave and he avoided it as much as possible.

  Besides, this way, Irene would join him for dinner. Duddingston was large but empty, a catacomb of memories and ghosts, whistling winds and strange noises. No doubt she wanted the company as well before she went home to her cozy little cottage.

  “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  She took that for the capitulation that it was and nodded.

  He folded the torn sail and wondered if it could be mended. Irene had known of a seamstress who’d helped him fashion the cloth around the wooden struts. Could tiny stitches make it air worthy again or did he have to start with a new sail? Cost was a factor, but so was safety.

  He’d review his finances and see if he could afford a new sail. Otherwise, he’d have to stay on the ground and make theoretical assumptions rather than actually flying.

  Maybe he was as insane as Mercy said. Normal people, however, didn’t change the world and he was all for doing a little changing. There were ideas that needed to be explored. Inventions that needed to be made.

  Sometimes he felt that the world was filled with cupboards, some of them open but most of them closed. All a man had to do was to choose a field and open the cupboard. It’s why they were laying transatlantic cable. Why it would soon be possible to send a telegraph from London to New York. It was why the roads were paved with a smooth surface that made it possible to travel long distances in relative comfort. Why the steam engine had been invented and why there were almost daily advances in medicine. Science was only one of the cupboards that was being opened.

  He wanted to be among the first to understand the principles of flight. That meant actually being up in his own aircraft and not on the ground.

  Maybe he’d even prove to Mercy that he wasn’t insane but merely a visionary.

  Had she been warmly welcomed by her relatives? No doubt they were filled with indignation about the accident. He could just imagine the conversation.

  He’d enjoyed talking to Mercy, even liked their sparring, at least until he’d found out who she was. After that, he simply wanted her gone from Duddingston.

  Perhaps he was insane, after all. Otherwise, why would he remember the look on her face when he told her to leave? It wasn’t indignation or humiliation. She hadn’t been embarrassed. No, he had the errant thought that he’d hurt her feelings. That was so ridiculous an idea that he pushed it from his mind as he left the Laird’s Room.

  Walking through Duddingston was like visiting the past four hundred years ago. The castle had been built for defense. Comfort hadn’t been a consideration which meant that succeeding generations had tried to make the structure more habitable. For the most part it had been a battle between the castle being a home or a fortress. When the west tower had crumbled, there hadn’t been money to repair it. The same with parts of the curtain wall. He had spared the time and money, however, to replace the roof where it had fallen into the Clan Hall.

  When Duddingston was still intact there had been plenty of clan members, people who needed to be sheltered in times of trouble and protected in times of plenty. The Caithearts had never turned their backs on their clan, but the numbers had dwindled over the years, people choosing to emigrate or move to the south of Scotland where the living was easier. They hadn’t been like the Macrorys who’d made members of their clan little more than serfs and then, when the land couldn’t support them, tossed them from their homes and replaced them with sheep.

  His title of laird was only ceremonial, carrying with it none of the very real responsibilities of his grandfather and those before him.

  As he passed through the Clan Hall, he could almost hear the protests, the raised voices, the clamor from gatherings far into the past. If the laird proposed something unpopular there would’ve been raised fists, red faces, and Caithearts who stood with legs spread apart and hands on hips, ready to do battle.

  But there would have been raucous laughter as well, music played by fiddlers and pipers to celebrate one of life’s milestones.

  Now there was only silence broken by the cawing of birds or the soughing of the wind around the castle. Occasionally, an adventurous squirrel would scramble over the roof he’d repaired, the sound loud enough to wake a dozen ghosts.

  He was like a spirit himself, the sole product of all those Caithearts who stretched back four hundred years. Had they any idea that their bloodline would narrow until only one of them would be left?

  That was a thought he didn’t wish to have and he walked faster, reaching the kitchen with a feeling too much like relief.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I hope you will express your displeasure to him,” Ailsa said. “The man mustn’t be allowed to escape the consequences of his actions.”

  At first Mercy thought her grandmother was talking to her, but then realized that Seanmhair was speaking to Uncle Douglas.

  From the conversation around her, she gathered that the families didn’t communicate. Even if Douglas unbent enough to talk to Lennox, it might well be a wasted effort. She didn
’t think that Lennox would care what the older man had to say.

  Although he hadn’t expressed any regret that the accident had happened, he’d treated Ruthie and her with care and had loaned his carriage to them. He didn’t have to do any of that. In fact, he’d been charming for long stretches of time. However, it didn’t seem wise to mention that to her family.

  “How did the accident happen, lass?” Uncle Douglas asked.

  She gave them all a quick account, eliminating certain details from her explanation such as calling Lennox’s airship a dragon. How foolish that sounded now.

  “He set Ruthie’s arm and tended to my head,” she added. He should get credit for that, at least.

  “As well he should,” Seanmhair said. “The man is a menace.” She directed her attention to Flora. “You’ll be wiser than my granddaughter, my dear. Don’t go anywhere near Duddingston Castle.”

  “I didn’t know where I was when the accident happened,” Mercy said in her own defense. “I didn’t know anything about your feud with the Caithearts, either.”

  “It isn’t a feud, lass,” Douglas said.

  It sounded like a feud. Lennox couldn’t tolerate her presence because she was a Macrory. Douglas acted as if there was something unclean about the Caithearts. What was it, if not a feud?

  She looked to Elizabeth for support, but her aunt was busying herself with her napkin, staring down at her lap as if it held the most interesting view. Mercy had often done the same at home, especially when her mother and father were arguing.

  If her father was firm about a topic and her mother disagreed, it didn’t mean that Fenella remained silent. Occasionally, her father would appear to goad her mother into speaking her mind, almost as if he wanted to be challenged. There were plenty of times when she heard her mother do exactly that.

  According to her grandmother, who had adopted many of the ways of Southern women, a proper female never raised her voice in anger. The frontal assault, as she termed it, was never preferable and made a woman look less than gracious.