To Wed an Heiress

by Karen Ranney

  “My ancestors were a good deal more religious than I am,” he said.

  “How lucky you are to be around such history every day. We don’t have anything as old as the castle in America. You can trace your family’s history here and feel it all around you.”

  “We’ve been here longer than the Macrorys, that’s for sure.”

  She glanced at him. “Why do I think that the antipathy between the two families goes back a lot longer than Robert and Mary’s romance?”

  He grinned at her, such a charming expression that she wanted to see it over and over again. It made Lennox look almost carefree.

  “You’re right.” He strode toward the altar, looking up at the ruined roof. “A Macrory man came along one day and stole a Caitheart daughter. She was due to marry another man, but lost her heart to him. It’s been so long now that it shouldn’t be a great conflict between the families, but history has a way of repeating itself.”

  Not only in the case of Robert and Mary, but with her and Lennox. Only his heart was not involved.

  She wished it was. She wished, too, that there was something she could do to make him think of her as more than an American woman he’d once bedded. Wishing, however, never made someone fall in love. Wishes were for little girls dreaming of being a princess. Or a countess in a castle across the sea.

  She turned and walked to the chapel doors, standing and looking over the expanse of Lennox’s kingdom. The loch was turbulent today. The wind was creating whitecaps and bending the boughs of the pines on the opposite shore.

  For some reason, Duddingston Castle had always been a special place for her. Maybe it was the faint call of her Scottish blood.

  Scotland had seemed so alien to her at first, but it had enfolded her in an embrace that felt warm and welcoming. Some people, like Irene and her sister, Jean, would forever remain in her memory. She would always be able to close her eyes and hear the sound of the bagpipes echoing through the glen. She’d recall the piercing beauty of that moment and how it had summoned her tears. She’d never forget how long the days were or how the sunlight looked glittering on Loch Arn.

  She would miss this corner of the world and she hadn’t counted on that.

  Perhaps she could stay in Scotland, make a life here. It would be as easy here as in New York. It might even be easier here because no one would know who she was. She wouldn’t be James Rutherford’s daughter. Or an heiress. Just an American who’d fallen in love with the country.

  “Is something wrong?” Lennox asked, closing the oak-banded door behind him.

  She didn’t know how to explain her abrupt, suffocating sadness, so she forced a smile to her face and shook her head.

  “Do you want me to send a note to your grandmother?” he asked, surprising her.

  The day she’d come to Duddingston, Lennox sent Douglas a letter explaining what had happened and why he’d issued an invitation to Mercy to stay at the castle. He’d advised Douglas that the authorities should be called about Gregory. He’d also asked for Mercy’s belongings as well as requesting that Ruthie be allowed to accompany Irene back to the castle. So far, they hadn’t heard anything from Douglas or any of the Macrorys.

  It was entirely possible that Douglas was holding on to Mercy’s luggage out of spite. She didn’t care, and it surprised her how few items she really needed from day to day. Ruthie, however, was another matter. She and Irene had already discussed ways to spirit the other woman away from Macrory House. It was only a matter of time until Ruthie made it to the castle.

  “A letter to my grandmother? She won’t understand,” Mercy said. “She’s taken on the Macrory feud like it was her own. She didn’t even live here when Mary and Robert eloped.”

  Lennox didn’t respond, but what could he say?

  Unfortunately, her grandmother wasn’t one of those people she would miss and wasn’t that a shame? Aunt Elizabeth was, but she’d been a ghost recently. Understandable, given her grief about her fiancé. Mercy didn’t know how Elizabeth bore the pain of each day.

  Together they descended the steps of the chapel and walked in silence to a door in the curtain wall. Surprisingly, it led to the courtyard where Lennox’s airship was located.

  She smiled at Connor who was sanding a piece of wood. No doubt it was for the tail assembly, since that had been damaged in the landing. Lennox had also taken part of it and used it as a weapon against Gregory.

  “How do you get your airship into the courtyard?” she asked.

  “There’s a larger door,” Lennox said, “but we do have to disassemble the wings in order to move it inside.”

  “Do you have work to do today? If you do, could you use an apprentice?”

  She moved to stand in front of the airship. It hadn’t been stripped of its wires or sails and she could see how complicated it was. Lennox was right; it wasn’t a lumbering beast after all, but a sleek machine.

  “I have accounts to do,” he said, smiling. “Hideous accounts. I hate doing them, but they must be done.”

  “Then I’ll take myself off,” she said, determined not to be a bother. She’d ask Irene if there was anything she needed help with, an errand that she could perform or a task that needed doing. Perhaps she could learn to cook something else. Anything to take her mind off what she was feeling for a while.

  If nothing else, she’d retire to her room. Perhaps she could rehearse her speech to her mother. Or the explanation she would give to her father.

  Or the final words she would say to Lennox.

  Lennox remained where he was, debating whether he should follow Mercy and say to hell with his plans to go over the accounts. He’d rather spend the time with her, especially since their relationship would end as soon as her father got to Scotland.

  Relationship. That was the word, wasn’t it? Was it what they had? No, relationship didn’t define what was between Mercy and himself. He didn’t know what to call it, only that it confused him, threw him into chaos, and made his life miserable.

  Yet he’d never felt more alive since the day she appeared on the road from Inverness.

  He could still remember the moment he’d seen her in the ruined carriage, glaring up at him with her beautiful brown eyes. Eyes that looked as if they were smoldering with rage. What had she called him? Insane, that was it, and his airship had been a dragon. Well, she was right about one thing: he was daft about her.

  He’d been a hermit before she’d arrived. Now? The notion of returning to his solitary life was repugnant. He wanted a brighter future, one to be shared with someone. No, not with anyone. He wanted a future with Mercy.

  She was an heiress. He had nothing to offer her. A title and a castle might seem impressive on paper, but the title didn’t garner him anything and the castle was ruinously expensive to maintain. He wasn’t doing a good enough job of it. Look at the chapel alone. Then there were two other wings that had been allowed—grudgingly, due to the lack of funds—to fall into ruin.

  The responsibility of Duddingston hung over his head every day.

  He was close to perfecting his formula for flight—weight, lift, drag, and thrust—and if he could sell his airship he would be in a position to offer a woman a future with him. But that day was at least a year or so away. He couldn’t ask Mercy to remain here until he became solvent.

  Will you marry me? He could still recall how she looked that night, drenched and stubborn, her eyes begging him not to reject her. His pride demanded that he do no less. A damnable thing, the Caitheart pride. Other men might sell their title for a fortune, but he couldn’t.

  Irene thought he was a fool.

  “It’s evident she feels something for you, Your Lordship,” she’d said a few days ago. “And I’d say you’re the same. She’s heaven sent, the answer to a prayer. A girl with a fortune, and a pretty girl at that.”

  “She’s beautiful,” he said. She wasn’t just pretty. There was something different, unique, special about Mercy.

  Irene smiled at him. “Then tuck y
our pride into the privy and tell the girl how you feel. And no more of this humiliating her in front of her family.”

  “You know about that?” He’d felt himself warm with shame.

  “The world knows of that. Whatever were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t,” he said.

  “Your feelings were hurt, then.” She shook her head. “Men and their feelings. More damage has been done in this world because men didn’t want to talk about their feelings.”

  She finished up their conversation by telling him that he was a stubborn, obstinate fool. She was probably right about her assessment. The problem was he didn’t know how to correct the situation.

  Mercy had forgiven him for what he said, though, even if she had taken a swipe at him by calling him stupid. At least he’d told her the truth. He’d felt used. That damnable pride again.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Mercy was in the kitchen with Irene trying to master the art of making oatcakes when the bell rang. Ruthie was upstairs, having volunteered to help Connor with some task. Although Ruthie’s splint wasn’t due to be removed until next week, she was adamant about being useful. Mercy thought she simply wanted to be around Connor. Since she felt the same about Lennox, she understood completely.

  “It might be someone from the house,” Irene said. “With more of your things.”

  For a week there had been no communication with Macrory House—other than the letter Lennox had sent by way of Irene. When Irene had visited the day before yesterday, Gregory was still there and Flora was waxing eloquent about how brave he was and how mistreated by the Earl of Morton.

  According to Ruthie, who’d been allowed to come to the castle two days ago, Flora had expressed more than a little interest in Mercy’s former fiancé. Gregory was no doubt fanning that flame. After all, Flora was an heiress.

  Flora was more than willing to have him, with Mercy’s blessings.

  The bell rang again.

  “I’ll go,” Mercy said, making her way to the pump and washing the oatmeal from her hands.

  She should have known who it was as she made her way down the corridor and through the Clan Hall. She opened the heavy oak door and stared.

  Her father stood there in the ruined tower of Duddingston Castle, looking as proud and defiant as any Scot.

  “Daughter.”

  James Gramercy Rutherford had never addressed her in such a fashion. Whether it was an absence of minutes or hours, he always gave her a hug. Now his arms remained at his sides. That was one clue to his mood. His expression was another.

  Her father was enraged.

  He was one of the titans of New York with an appearance that was instantly recognizable. Mercy had lost count of the times he’d been called a pirate in the papers.

  His hair was a uniform gray, no mix of black hair with silver threads. His pointed beard was black, however, as was his sweeping mustache. He squinted at her, a habit he had which either indicated that he wasn’t fond of wearing spectacles or he was just naturally suspicious. She’d always thought it was the latter.

  All he needed was a gold earring and an eye patch.

  When he laughed, however, it was a booming laugh that made her think that’s how God must sound.

  He was tall and thin, because he often forgot to eat, being involved in his study of endless accounting ledgers and reports from the managers of all his various enterprises. More than once a maid had brought him a plate from the kitchen only to retrieve it hours later barely touched.

  Her father’s one passion was good whiskey. She had the errant thought that he’d come to the right country.

  His character was such that he was focused forward. He never talked about the past and if he was disappointed about anything in his life, he never admitted it.

  He looked down at the threshold and then up at her. “May I come in?”

  Making a decision, she stepped back and opened the door fully. “Come in, Father.”

  Hopefully, Lennox would understand.

  She led the way down the corridor and into the expanse of the Clan Hall. Her father stopped and looked up at the soaring ceiling, the mass of armaments and pennants on the walls, and the other artifacts nestled in the embrasures.

  “An impressive room.”

  “Duddingston Castle is over four hundred years old. Lennox’s clan settled this part of the Highlands.”

  Her father only nodded. She expected him to ask about Lennox, but he didn’t. No doubt the Macrorys had already briefed him before this visit.

  She led him to the throne-like chairs in front of one of the two massive fireplaces.

  Lennox was in the courtyard, involved in making adjustments to the new airship design. She gave some thought to telling him that her father was here, and then just as quickly dismissed it. She and her father needed to talk privately.

  He stood in front of the chair and she knew he wouldn’t sit until she did. She took the adjoining chair, arranged her skirts, and dusted off a bit of flour from her apron.

  “You are looking well,” he said.

  “As are you.”

  “Have you decided to become a scullery maid, Mercy?” He pointed to her apron.

  “Not a scullery maid, Father. A cook, perhaps. I’ve become quite proficient at scones.”

  He frowned at her, but didn’t say anything.

  For a moment they just watched each other. She hadn’t lied to him. He did look well, almost relaxed. Perhaps the ocean voyage had been the respite he needed. He always looked relaxed when they came back from their country home, but those breaks from work never lasted long.

  “How is Mother?” she asked, knowing that she was opening a Pandora’s box.

  He didn’t disappoint. “Heartbroken.”

  She nodded, half expecting that comment.

  If this had been her home, she would have offered him some refreshments, but because it wasn’t, she simply remained seated.

  Whenever she’d been called to his library as a girl, guilty of some infraction or another, their meetings had been exactly like this. He doled out words like they were gold pieces, at least until he warmed to the subject. Any moment now he would let loose with a volley of accusations. She folded her hands together, waiting.

  She had just as much patience as her father. Perhaps more, in this case, because she’d had some time to anticipate this meeting.

  “Do you know how much we feared for you?” he finally asked.

  She leaned back in the chair, her hands on the carved arms, her fingers curling around the lion’s paws.

  “I have always known how much you feared for me.”

  He frowned at her again. “What does that mean?”

  “No one has ever been as protected, guarded, and wrapped in bunting as I have been, Father. I couldn’t play with the neighbor’s child because there were rumors of a disease sweeping through the city and she might be contagious. I couldn’t go to the park because it might be cold in the afternoon. I could never play in the snow because I might get a chill. No one has ever been visited by so many physicians or examined by so many specialists. I had two nurses instead of one. As I grew I still had a nurse along with a governess. And then I had guards. I was accompanied by two people whenever I went anywhere and even my destinations were limited. I was twenty-eight years old and treated as if I was three. So, yes, I have always known how much you feared for me.”

  She hadn’t meant for her tone to sound bitter but as she spoke, all the emotion that had been trapped for years flowed out of her.

  “And so you ran away.”

  “Yes. I ran away. And I would do it again. I’m not an animal in a zoo, Father. Neither am I a hothouse flower.”

  “You don’t understand, Mercy.”

  She sat up straight, her gaze never veering from his face. “I understand perfectly. Next you will tell me that it’s because of your wealth that I was always so protected. Otherwise, I was in danger. If that doesn’t work, you’ll gently remind me of all those poor de
ad babies whose names I bear. If I’m still not suitably chastised, you’ll bring up Jimmy. I understand perfectly. Which one will it be now, Father?”

  To his credit, he looked taken aback. “All we wanted was for you to be safe.”

  “All I wanted was to live a life that wasn’t constantly constrained.”

  “And you thought you had to come to Scotland for that?”

  She looked away, her attention focused on the elaborate fireplace surround. “I wanted a taste of freedom. I wanted to be unguarded for a little while.”

  When he didn’t speak, she leaned forward, wondering if there was a way to get her father to understand.

  “These weeks in Scotland have been magic for me,” she said. “For the first time in my life I’m not James Rutherford’s daughter or Jimmy’s sister or my mother’s sole normal child. I’m simply Mercy. People don’t care that I’m an heiress. My money is seen as a detriment, not an asset. I’ve been free as I never expected to be. I’m judged as Mercy. Who am I? What can I do? What do I want? I’ve had to answer all those questions for myself.”

  “What about Gregory? What about the wedding?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t care about Gregory. Or the wedding. I’m not going to marry him. I would just be exchanging one set of prison bars for another.”

  Her father sat like a king in his throne-like chair, his eyes flat. If he felt any affection for her at all it wasn’t evident in his expression.

  She’d failed. She’d tried to make him understand, but he didn’t.

  “Your behavior has not reflected well on your mother and me,” he said. “Your Scottish relatives are not happy with you. Being here, for example, is scandalous. The only saving grace is it’s Scotland. Hopefully, not a word of this will reach New York.”

  “And if it does?” she asked, unexpectedly weary. “Will it matter so much?”

  “I will not have your mother hurt.”

  She left her chair, went to her father, and sank to her knees. Reaching up, she grabbed his hand and held it between hers.

  “I don’t want to hurt her, either. But I think I probably will, one way or another, simply by wanting to live my own life, away and apart from my parents. I love you both, but I can’t bear to continue living the way I was.”