To Wed an Heiress

by Karen Ranney

  “Father is coming?”

  “He left a week after me,” Gregory said, stepping around the corner.

  She’d never considered him the type who would eavesdrop, but evidently Gregory was not above all kinds of behavior.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I didn’t know that you would slink out in the middle of the night, Mercy.”

  She wasn’t going to mention Lennox’s name. Nor was it any of Gregory’s concern where she’d been. She’d formally renounced their engagement. Just because he didn’t agree wasn’t a consideration.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Mercy. I will, of course, forgive you.”

  “I don’t want your forgiveness, Gregory. I don’t need it. I don’t want anything from you.”

  He only smiled, an expression that sent chills down her back.

  Mrs. West suddenly entered the foyer and sent a wild look toward Mercy. Before she could ask what was wrong, Lennox appeared.

  If her grandmother was angry, it was nothing to what Lennox was feeling at the moment. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw clenched. His grip on Mercy’s valise was so tight that his knuckles were white.

  She didn’t get a chance to ask him why he was here before Lennox threw the valise at her feet.

  “Did you think to pay me? I told you I wasn’t going to take your damn money.”

  He didn’t get another word out. Gregory was suddenly there, his fist planted beneath Lennox’s chin. In the next instant, Lennox was flying through the air to land on the runner a few feet away.

  He raised up on his elbows, shook his head, and in the next second was on Gregory.

  Mercy couldn’t tell where one body ended and the other began. The two men were a tangle of arms and legs, flying fists, and spraying blood.

  Mrs. West attempted to get between Gregory and Lennox but was thrown back. McNaughton was the second one to try and he, too, couldn’t stop them.

  The fight was oddly silent except for the blows, wet, slapping sounds that made Mercy wince.

  She’d never seen a fight before, especially one in which the combatants looked to be determined to kill each other. The spectacle was attracting a number of maids and male servants who crowded into the corridor behind Mrs. West.

  The two men looked equally matched in size. She had to move out of the way, because they were rolling toward her.

  “What in the bloody hell is going on here?”

  Douglas stood there, his granddaughter beside him. Flora was wide-eyed and open mouthed.

  The servants immediately dispersed, Mrs. West with them. Only McNaughton stood there, stiff backed with his nose in the air.

  Lennox got to his hands and knees. Gregory stood and, in a move that was deliberately unfair, raised his boot and kicked Lennox in the side. Lennox reached out, grabbed Gregory’s foot, and jerked him off his feet. In the next second he was sitting astride Gregory, pummeling his face.

  “That’s enough!” Douglas shouted. “Get off him, man!” he said to Lennox.

  For a moment, she didn’t think he was going to obey, but Lennox finally got to his feet. Lennox was holding his left side. In addition to a cut on his mouth and a bloody nose, Gregory was going to have a black eye. Lennox’s shirt had been torn, but Gregory’s was spotted with blood.

  “Who the hell are you?” Douglas said to Gregory.

  “The gentleman on the floor is a Mr. Gregory Hamilton,” McNaughton said with his usual supercilious air. “Late from America, sir. I believe you know his Lordship, the Earl of Morton.”

  Douglas ignored Gregory in favor of Lennox. “What the hell are you doing in my home, Caitheart?”

  “I returned some of Miss Rutherford’s property,” Lennox said. “A payment, if you will, for taking her virginity.”

  He turned to Mercy. “That’s why you came to me last night, wasn’t it? It wasn’t to ask me to help you get to Inverness or even to buy a husband. You wanted to escape this marriage and you have.”

  She’d only heard his voice sound like that once, the morning of the accident. He’d been furious then, too.

  He looked at Gregory, holding the back of his hand against the cut on his mouth. “She’s used, isn’t that what they say? She’s known another man’s touch.” His gaze swung back to Mercy. “Isn’t that what you wanted? To be freed from marrying him?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “That’s what I know,” Lennox said.

  “Then you’re wrong.”

  She could feel her lips curve into a smile, but it wasn’t one filled with amusement.

  “You don’t understand, Lennox. Gregory has already forgiven me. You see, he doesn’t care. I’m a commodity, a means to an end. Tell him, Gregory. It doesn’t matter to you that I went to another man’s bed as long as you can get your hands on all that lovely money of mine.”

  Gregory didn’t say a word, but the look he gave her promised that he would exact payment for her comment in the future.

  Her grandmother stretched out her arm and pointed at Lennox. “Get out of this house.”

  Lennox turned on his heel and went out the way he came without glancing once in Mercy’s direction.

  Gregory combed his fingers through his hair, nodded to Douglas, and said, “I’m Mercy’s fiancé.”

  “No,” she said in a firm voice, “he isn’t. The man is exceedingly stupid. He doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not marrying him. Ever.”

  Douglas looked from Gregory to Mercy and then to his sister. Mercy stole a glance at her grandmother. From Ailsa’s expression, she wasn’t going to remain mute for long. Any moment now and she would begin to lecture her again.

  Mercy grabbed the valise, picked it up, and pushed past her grandmother to ascend the stairs. Only then did she see her aunt standing at the head of the stairs, her hand pressed to her mouth.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Hortense?” Ailsa asked.

  “To my room.”

  “You’ll stay there. I don’t know how I shall be able to show my face in public after your antics. Have you no concept of decency? Do you not have a lick of sense?”

  She didn’t bother responding. Nor did she ask her great-uncle for the loan of his carriage. Her father was coming. The last thing she wanted to do was exacerbate the situation by escaping Scotland just as he arrived.

  Her grandmother didn’t need to tell her to stay in her room. Right now she didn’t want to ever leave it.

  Chapter Forty

  Tears wouldn’t help. In fact, they’d make everything worse. Her eyes would swell and she’d have a headache later. Plus, she always got a little nauseated when she was too emotional.

  Emotional? Hah! She’d been emotional from the day she’d set foot in Scotland and it was all because of Lennox.

  He wouldn’t be happy if he knew that, would he? No, he’d blame her for that, too. For being insulted by him at first and then fascinated and finally—oh, what did she call what she’d done? Thrown her skirts over her head like some doxy and given in to every base impulse she had. The worst part was that she’d do it again willingly. Happily.

  She’d hurt him. In turn, his words had been like acid, each separate word burning through her skin. She was more miserable than she could ever remember being.

  Leaving him should be easier now, especially in light of his anger at her. She suspected, however, that it would still be difficult.

  He’d always think that she’d used him and perhaps she had, only not in the way he thought. She’d wanted him to be the one who ended her innocence, who kissed her to madness and introduced her to loving. The memory of last night would stay with her forever, regardless of what he thought of her.

  She should have gone after him. She should have raced after Lennox and explained. Leaving the valise at the castle had been an accident. Until Lennox appeared, she’d forgotten all about it.

  Why hadn’t she followed him? She’d stood there like a statue, watching as he walked away. The answer was diff
icult to accept: because the habit of remaining silent was still more comfortable for her than speaking out. Her fragile courage, nascent and barely used, had evaporated.

  Those hours with him had been special. She’d never forget him or them. They would be tucked inside her heart in a secret place.

  She’d awakened during the night and in the dying firelight watched as he slept. She’d felt gratitude and joy cascading through her and wanted, in some way, to thank him. No one could take those memories from her, not even Lennox.

  What she felt for him confused her. It might be love, but then it was admiration, and perhaps a little awe. He was brave, undaunted by failure, resilient, amusing, kind, and thoughtful. He possessed character traits that set him apart from most men she’d met. She wanted to sit and talk with him about the subjects that interested her, including his castle and his family history.

  She’d never understood, until last night, why her heart always beat faster when she was around him or why she was often breathless in his company. She knew why now. It was desire, something she’d never felt until Lennox. Oh, she’d known handsome men, and had been courted by more than a few charming and personable heiress hunters. Occasionally, she’d laughed too much or even giggled, charmed despite herself. She’d been flattered at their attention or felt her face warm at their compliments. But her body had never heated from the inside and she’d never felt as though she was melting when a man smiled at her.

  Not until Lennox.

  When had her fascination with him started? From that first moment when he’d peeled off the roof of the carriage? Or when he stitched her wound, assuming she wouldn’t indulge in histrionics? Perhaps it had begun as early as that. Or when he’d written that letter that had so irritated her. Or when he’d plunged into the loch and her heart felt as if it had stopped at that exact moment. So many memories in just a few weeks.

  She remembered an afternoon when her mother had reminisced about how she’d met Mercy’s father. She’d been fourteen at the time, fascinated with the idea of romance, but not boys as much.

  “I saw him,” her mother said. “And knew right away. It took me a few days to convince him, however.”

  Her parents had exchanged a look, one that reassured Mercy that their relationship was one of mutual love and respect. What would they think to know that love had struck their daughter the same way?

  How could she leave Scotland? How could she leave Lennox?

  Somehow she must.

  Lennox didn’t remember walking back to Duddingston. He was filled with too many volatile emotions, like how he wanted to pay that bastard back for the sneaky kick to his ribs. While he was at it, he’d pummel the man a few minutes more, just to ensure Gregory remembered his visit to Scotland.

  The Macrorys had proven themselves to be idiots as they always did. The old woman had ordered him out of the house and Douglas had demanded that the fight end. Not one person, from Flora to the woman at the top of the stairs, had said a damn thing in defense of Mercy. If she’d been cosseted in New York, she certainly hadn’t had that experience in Scotland.

  It was a sorry state of affairs when his conscience was more protective of Mercy than her relatives.

  Once back at the castle he went to his bedroom, bathed his face, and inspected his wounds. He hadn’t fought anyone since he was a boy and his opponent had been Robert. This experience, however, had been a great deal more painful. His cheek was bruised and would be discolored in a day or two. He had a cut near his eye that was minor enough not to need attention. The pain in his ribs, however, made him want to return to Macrory House and deliver the same blow to Hamilton. He tended to himself then descended the steps, purposefully avoiding Irene, and headed for the Laird’s Room.

  Once there he retrieved his drawings for his bubble shower. It was a new design, something that had occurred to him one night when he couldn’t sleep. The bathing system mimicked a storm, where the water poured down from the top of the apparatus and was disposed of in a drain on the floor.

  He’d heard of similar inventions, but he’d never seen one. Building it would keep his mind off other issues, things he didn’t want to think about right at the moment.

  Like how he was sure his ribs were, if not broken, then badly bruised. Or how Mercy had looked when he’d accused her of sleeping with him only to get out of marrying Gregory.

  Had she been right? Was the bastard only after her money?

  He closed his eyes and willed himself to stop thinking about her. Whatever she’d said or done no longer mattered. She’d be gone from Scotland shortly and he should wipe his mind clean of her memory starting now.

  As soon as Connor got back to Duddingston, he’d outfit the airship with the new sails. He hoped the weather wouldn’t slow Connor down because the wind was always higher around Ben Uaine after a rollicking storm. There, something else to anticipate and take his mind off Mercy.

  He adjusted his stool, lit the lamp beside his sloping desk, and applied himself to his sketch. He thought that if he brought up the water to about seven or eight feet by the simple expedient of a pump, whoever was using the shower could simply turn a handle to release it or stop the flow.

  It might even be possible, depending on where the shower was installed, to incorporate some kind of cistern with it. That would mean that there would be less pumping and more gravity at work.

  He put the pencil down and scowled at the page. The design should work, but he wasn’t interested in it as he always was when making something new. He couldn’t see the shower for Mercy’s face. Even now, alone in the Laird’s Room, the scent of her delicate perfume seemed to linger in the air.

  He shouldn’t have said what he had. He shouldn’t have humiliated her in front of her family. He’d been cruel and that wasn’t like him.

  How had she done it? How had she stripped him of his character to the extent he didn’t recognize himself?

  He tossed his pencil down onto the drawing board and decided that, ribs or not, he needed a visit to Ben Uaine.

  Chapter Forty-One

  For three days Mercy remained in her room with Ruthie. The maid was in fine superstition form. Ruthie saw omens in everything, the latest a dropped fork which she swore meant that an unexpected visitor was about to appear.

  Mercy told her about the news Gregory had delivered—that her father was on his way to Scotland.

  “Oh, Miss Mercy,” Ruthie said, sitting heavily on the side of the bed.

  They exchanged a look.

  James Rutherford didn’t leave his empire lightly. Mercy was only too aware of the ramifications of her father’s decision. She would be required to apologize for her behavior until the day he died.

  “And the tea leaves, Miss Mercy. They told me that someone would be getting a letter.”

  On numerous occasions she’d tried to coax Ruthie out of believing that everything was a superstition. Now she didn’t even try.

  No doubt the letter would be from her mother, tear stained and filled with words that hurt to read.

  Her grandmother had tried to gain admittance into Mercy’s room more than once in the past three days. On each occasion, Mercy had barred the door and claimed illness, which wasn’t far from the truth. She was sick at heart.

  She tried to act calm around Ruthie and most of the time was successful. At night, however, she stood at her window, wishing that it faced toward Duddingston Castle, and remembered every moment of that enchanted stormy night with Lennox.

  Would she bear a child? The question should have paralyzed her with fear. Instead, she only felt a sense of waiting, knowing that the answer would reveal itself in due time.

  Time slowed, each separate minute seeming to last ten times that. The days were interminable and not because she remained cloistered in her self-imposed prison. She was in pain, but it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. It wasn’t physical as much as emotional and seemed to grow worse with each passing hour.

  She’d allowed Lennox to walk away.
She couldn’t forgive herself for that. Would his pride allow him to hear her out? Perhaps he would read a letter she wrote if Irene carried it back to him.

  The knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it, thinking it was Ruthie returning from an errand. Instead, it was Mrs. West with the noon tray.

  Since Lily was the one who normally brought her meals to her, Mercy was surprised. The housekeeper didn’t normally perform such tasks. Unless, of course, she had some information to impart.

  She opened the door for Mrs. West to enter and thanked the older woman when she put the tray on the table.

  “Have you heard anything from Irene?” she asked. “How are things at the castle?” In other words, was Lennox all right?

  Mrs. West sent her a look that she understood what Mercy was asking.

  “He’s a bit bruised and battered,” Mrs. West said. “Irene had to wrap his ribs after the fight. You would think that would have slowed the man down, but no, he’s all set to drag that airship of his up Ben Uaine.”

  “He’s going flying again?”

  Mrs. West nodded. “Irene’s as mad as I’ve ever seen her. He’s in no shape to do something like that, even with Connor’s help. She’s worried about him. He’s a stubborn fool when he wants to be.”

  “Can’t someone stop him?”

  “I don’t know who could, Miss Mercy. The man has a head of rock on him when he wants.”

  She studied Mercy for a moment, almost as if she wanted to say something else.

  “I heard what your grandmother said to you the other day, Miss Mercy.”

  She had grown so familiar with feeling embarrassed that she didn’t turn away from Mrs. West’s look.

  “Do you remember your grandfather, miss?”

  “Only a little,” she said. “He died at the beginning of the war, but he was sick for a good while before that.”

  “I understand that he made something of himself in America.”

  Mercy nodded. “Their farm was very prosperous, at least before the war. And the house they built was beautiful.”