by Karen Ranney
She hadn’t uttered one word about being warm or bored.
He’d threaded his fingers through her hair and she hadn’t objected to that, either. He’d never done such a thing before. Nor held a woman’s face and tilted her head up to study her features.
He’d been around beautiful women before and had flirted with more than a few. Mercy was different. She had a sparkle in her eyes, a kindness in her heart, and endless curiosity. Since he, too, wanted to know the answers to various questions, he appreciated the trait in others.
No, she wasn’t like other women he’d known. At least he’d thought that until her maid had appeared. There had been plenty of time for her to tell him that she had a fiancé. Why hadn’t she?
He told himself that he wasn’t angry. He certainly wasn’t offended. Any other emotion was out of the question.
She was going back to America shortly. He was a fool to feel anything more than a mild interest in the woman, especially one who said things he didn’t understand. The man who thinks he’s my fiancé.
Yet he liked her. He was interested in her. He wanted to know all sorts of things about her. What were her thoughts about the Macrorys? What was her life like in America?
She wasn’t who she appeared to be, a single woman engaging in an adventure, tempting scandal for a bit of freedom. Mercy was engaged. Soon to be married. Spoken for. Her emotions had already been involved, her future planned.
He was damned if a woman was going to hurt him, especially one he barely knew.
Removing his shirt, he threw it beside the drying struts and examined his airship. Yesterday, he’d stripped everything down to the bare bones, removing the damaged main sails and leaving only the rear ones in place. He’d investigated every single strut. He’d affixed an extra wheel to the bottom of the basket so his landings would be a little smoother. He’d done everything in his power, including going over his drawings and notes, to ensure that the craft was airworthy. He didn’t want any more accidents.
In addition to picking up the new sail in Inverness, Connor was going to offer Lennox’s most recent inventions to one of the companies that had purchased his designs in the past. One day last week he’d watched Irene making scones and it had occurred to him that the effort would be much faster if she had something to cut the dough into neat triangles all at one time. The resultant device looked like a metal wheel with eight spokes. The sale probably wouldn’t amount to much, but any money he could bring in was welcome.
Damn it, why hadn’t she told him about the fiancé?
“You’ll be wanting some tea,” Irene said at his elbow.
He turned, surprised that he hadn’t heard her approach.
“I’ll be wanting some whiskey,” he said.
“There’s time enough for that, but for now, drink your tea.”
She held out a cup and he took it, thanking her. She was a godsend, a comment he made often. If he could, he’d pay her more, but she seemed to understand, only fussing at him whenever her sister got a raise in her salary.
“I don’t know who this man is,” she said, “but I would wager he isn’t a good one.”
He should’ve told her that he didn’t have any curiosity about Mercy’s fiancé. Instead, he took a sip of his tea, then asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Ruthie was afraid of him,” she said flatly. “Any man who inspires fear is not one I want to be around.”
Lennox wondered about her long-dead husband, thoughts brought about by a few of Irene’s comments. She’d married when she was barely twenty and the man had drowned two years later. Both twins were widows, but Jean had been married longer.
He took another sip of his tea. “She didn’t tell me about him,” he said and then wondered why he admitted that.
Other than Connor and Irene, he was nearly a hermit. He’d never given much thought to his life until the past few weeks. He should return to Edinburgh and spend some time reacquainting himself with friends. Perhaps he should abandon his research into flight and spend more time inventing things. That way he could at least be solvent enough to marry.
That is, if any woman would be satisfied to live at Duddingston. He had a responsibility to the castle since it embodied the history of his family and his clan. A woman from Inverness or Edinburgh wouldn’t feel the same.
Mercy had seemed fascinated by the castle, however, a thought that he immediately pushed away.
“There was no reason she should have told me, of course,” he added. “She’s a stranger and won’t be here long.”
“But you’re wishing it was different, aren’t you?”
He handed her the empty cup and forced a smile to his face.
“You’re an incurable romantic, Irene. Seeing things that aren’t there.”
“Or I’m seeing what’s before my eyes,” she said. “Even if I’m the only one.”
He didn’t have a response to that.
Chapter Thirty
Mercy stood, taking several steps away from the settee, out of reach of Gregory.
Her face felt stiff with the effort of controlling her expression. Nor did she speak. She didn’t want her voice to quaver.
It wouldn’t do to let Gregory see that he’d scared her. He’d take advantage of that information, using it to further manipulate and perhaps even bully her. If she was forced to marry him, her life wouldn’t be a luxurious prison where she was coddled and feted for simply drawing breath. No, Gregory would threaten, criticize, and belittle her and might even take pleasure in doing so.
She had no doubt that he meant what he said. He would follow her anywhere. Not only was his pride at stake, so was his future. He didn’t love her as much as he coveted her father’s wealth. He’d picked her as the easiest way to advance in life.
Her parents had been overjoyed at his attention. She hadn’t agreed to marry Gregory as much as she had simply submitted to her parents’ pressure. Not for the first time she wished she’d spoken up and refused to participate in the plans everyone was making for her life.
What was she going to do?
Without another word she walked out of the Green Parlor, uncaring that she was leaving Gregory alone, a gesture that would be seen by anyone as rude. She retreated to her room and, because there was no lock on the bedroom door, put a chair beneath the latch. She hoped that would stop him should Gregory want to continue their talk. He’d never been that forward, but everything had changed in the past few minutes.
There was only one way to stay in Scotland. Her grandmother and her aunt needed to support her in refusing to return to New York with Gregory.
Her grandmother believed that a woman should never strive to be independent. Instead, a woman was subservient to a man in all ways. In addition, a fiancé was almost as influential as a husband. Mercy doubted that any of the changes brought about by the Civil War would matter to Ailsa.
Still, she had to try.
Mercy changed her dress and rang for Lily to help redo her hair. She bathed her face, wishing that the sun hadn’t tinted her cheeks pink. She spritzed a small amount of perfume behind her ears and added earrings and a gold brooch her mother had given her on her twenty-first birthday.
Finally, she turned slowly for Lily to inspect her. Everything about her appearance had to be perfect, in order to escape Ailsa’s withering criticism.
“Will I do?”
Lily nodded, then gave her a smile.
Mercy left the bedroom, walking down the corridor with a tight feeling in her chest. At her grandmother’s door, she took a moment to calm herself. One deep breath, then another before she raised her fist and knocked. When she heard her grandmother’s voice, she opened the door slowly.
“Seanmhair, may I speak with you for a moment?”
“I’ll not rescind my disapproval of you, Hortense. If that’s the reason you’ve come, you can just leave again.”
“I know that you consider my behavior to be unladylike, Seanmhair,” she said as she entered the room and closed the
door behind her.
“I’m surprised you don’t.”
This conversation was not getting off to a good start.
“I’m sure you know that Gregory Hamilton has arrived.”
“I have been informed of that fact, yes.”
“He wants me to return to New York with him as quickly as possible.”
She came and stood before her grandmother. Ailsa sat in her throne-like chair beside the window. Her hands, engorged with thick blue veins, rested on the arms of the chair. Her posture was perfect and Mercy wagered that it wasn’t her corset that kept her so upright, but the habit of a lifetime.
“How does he propose to travel, Hortense?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your maid is not up for the journey. Does he think to shame us further by traveling with you without a chaperone?”
“That would be unacceptable, wouldn’t it?” she said, feeling the first stirrings of hope. Her grandmother might save her after all.
Ailsa nodded imperiously. “Granted, the fact that he is your fiancé might provide some latitude, but it is a voyage of some time, Hortense.”
Mercy nodded. “Of course, Seanmhair.”
“I despair of my daughter’s teachings. She was reared to be a proper gentlewoman. Perhaps marrying a Yankee forced her to discard all those lessons she learned from me. And you, Hortense, are the result.”
If she hadn’t needed her grandmother’s help, Mercy would’ve turned and left the room. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard criticism about her mother and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
Fenella was the sweetest, kindest, and loveliest woman she knew. She certainly didn’t deserve Ailsa’s criticism, but Mercy bit back the words she wanted to say. Correcting Ailsa right at the moment wouldn’t be a good idea.
“I don’t want to return to New York with him, Seanmhair. I’ve already informed Gregory that I have no intention of going through with the marriage.”
A white eyebrow arched. “A word given is a promise, Hortense. He might have fought for the Union and therefore be a despicable creature, but what about all the people who know of your engagement? Are you that selfish that you would bring embarrassment to the family?”
The words were said in a calm tone, but Ailsa’s blue eyes were chips of ice.
According to her grandmother, women were simply to endure all that life gave them. They weren’t to protest, speak up, or attempt to alter their fate in any way. Doing so was to invite shame. Shame, to Ailsa, was the worst thing that could happen to anyone, short of death.
Her grandmother had been difficult to please before the war. Now she was inflexible, her opinions set in stone.
“You don’t understand, Seanmhair,” she said.
Ailsa held up her hand. “Yes, I do. I understand all too well. Your parents have given you everything you wanted, and led you to believe that what you think matters. It does not, Hortense, from your name to your opinions. If the only way to get you home properly is to marry the man, that’s exactly what you shall do.”
“What?”
“You heard me, child. The minute Douglas returns, we will make arrangements.”
“I don’t wish to marry Gregory.”
“I do not care,” her grandmother said. “No one else will, either. You will do as you’re told.”
She stared at her grandmother. The situation that had been untenable five minutes ago had just turned worse.
Gregory wouldn’t mind marrying in Scotland. She could almost hear his words now. We’ll simply redo the ceremony in New York, Mercy.
She couldn’t marry Gregory.
She didn’t want to be afraid of her husband.
She didn’t want to dread being in his company.
She didn’t want to be bullied or badgered, endlessly criticized and critiqued.
She wanted to be in love and she didn’t love Gregory.
Ailsa kept her gaze, never once blinking.
Mercy realized that nothing she said would make any difference to her grandmother. Nothing.
She doubted that Uncle Douglas would listen to her pleas and allow her to remain at Macrory House. He’d disapproved of her the minute she’d arrived. First, she’d traveled all the way from America with just her maid. The second, unforgivable thing she’d done was to associate with Lennox.
“I have to go,” Mercy said, not even bothering to come up with an excuse to leave the room, only knowing that she had to before she said something she couldn’t retract. Or uttered a comment Ailsa would hold against her.
Her grandmother only nodded again, not one word of affection passing her lips.
Chapter Thirty-One
When Ruthie came to help her dress for dinner, Mercy didn’t reprimand her for trying to work. Instead, she was grateful for the presence of one of the few people in the house who liked her.
“I’m not feeling well, Ruthie. I’m not going down to dinner.”
“But neither is Miss Elizabeth or your grandmother, Miss Mercy.”
She doubted if either woman was ill. Gregory had served in the Union and, as such, was probably an unacceptable dinner companion for two Southern women. At least according to her grandmother.
He was good enough for Mercy to marry, however.
At any other time she would have gone down to the dining room, representing the family even if she didn’t want to do so. Not now. Not after her grandmother had decreed her future. No doubt Ailsa had already informed Gregory of her plans.
She couldn’t bear sitting alone at the table with a gloating Gregory.
“Perhaps you can put out that we’re all ill with some malady, Ruthie.”
“But you’re never sick, Miss Mercy.”
Mercy nodded. “I am now,” she said and told Ruthie what her grandmother decided.
Ruthie’s face paled. “She has a soul as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.”
She hadn’t heard that saying before. No doubt it was something Scottish. She really should have chastised Ruthie for the comment, but she didn’t do that, especially since she secretly agreed.
“What are you going to do?” Ruthie asked.
“I don’t know.”
Regrettably, that was the truth. Not one avenue of escape occurred to her.
“I’ll tell them, Miss Mercy,” Ruthie said. “But I’d get in bed if I were you. They’re bound to check on you.”
She nodded, but she honestly didn’t care if they entered her room and saw that she was fine.
What more could her relatives do to her?
“Shall I bring you a tray?”
“No, I’m not hungry,” she said. She glanced at Ruthie. “I’m fine, really. Thank you, though.”
“I’d have someone bring it up, Miss Mercy,” Ruthie said with a mulish twist to her lips. “I wouldn’t try to carry it with only one arm.”
“I know that, and it’s not why I turned it down. My stomach is so upset I don’t think I could eat anything right now.”
When Ruthie was finally convinced that she would be fine—at least for tonight—and left, Mercy replaced the chair beneath the door handle. As a deterrent, it wasn’t much, especially if Gregory or one of her relatives was determined to enter.
Her thoughts were turbulent, forcing her up from the chair to pace around the bed and back again. The longer she walked, the more horrible her situation appeared.
There was no way out. There was nothing she could do.
Her mother was wrong. It wasn’t nerves that were making her feel this way. It was revulsion. Marriage to Gregory loomed in front of her like a nightmare. She didn’t want him to touch her. She didn’t even like when he insisted she put her hand on his arm. She didn’t think he was charming and gracious and deferential like everyone else thought. Gregory showed one face to her parents and another to her.
Before today she’d never been afraid of Gregory but maybe her fear had been there all along, lurking under the surface. She’d never felt comfortable with him. Not
like you should be with the man you were supposed to marry. She avoided moments alone with Gregory, claiming a shyness she didn’t feel.
Not once had she ever behaved with him like she had with Lennox. But, then, she trusted Lennox and that was not an emotion she felt around Gregory.
She went to the armoire, knelt, and retrieved the valise she’d kept at her side ever since New York. She opened it, staring at the mounds of greenbacks inside. She’d broached the subject of taking the money once more with her grandmother, but Ailsa had been adamant about not needing a Yankee man’s charity.
Perhaps God had answered her prayers after all.
There were only two people in the entire house who could help her. Mrs. West and Ruthie. She didn’t want to involve either one of them in her plan. Mrs. West was staff and could be dismissed. Ruthie’s punishment would probably be banishment from Macrory House.
No, she would do this on her own.
The night was a blustery one, filled with thunder as if God were lecturing the Highlands. Rain lashed the windows of the tower as if it wanted in.
Lennox normally liked to sleep during this kind of weather. He always felt grateful for the shelter, thinking that there had been plenty of people over the years who’d had to endure the Highland storms in barely habitable conditions.
His ancestors, for one, stalwart men and women who’d claimed this spot of land for their own, building the castle brick by brick with the help of clan members and family.
The fact that he couldn’t sleep was an irritant, but his insomnia was brought about by the ache in his shoulders and the pain in his arm. He’d brought a bottle of whiskey up to his tower room in anticipation of this moment. Now he poured himself a half glass, sat back against the headboard, and contemplated the lightning show through the windows.
The storm sounded like it was chewing up the sky.