by Karen Ranney
Life might not be easy for them at first, but they’d have each other. Together, with Mercy, he would accomplish anything he attempted.
And he’d be happy while doing it.
Slowly he made his way down the mountain, smiling all the while. He was on a course that was probably foolish, but he didn’t care. People had called him crazy for flying his airship. Let them call him crazy for being in love.
At the base of Ben Uaine, he stopped, surprised. Irene sat on a large rock, her eyes closed, her face turned up to the sun.
A surge of gratitude spread through him. She’d been more than a cook or housekeeper to him and Robert. Not quite a mother, but perhaps an older sister. She was loyal and fiercely protective, and genuinely sweet from time to time, although he suspected she’d be annoyed at that comment.
When he approached, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
“It’s funny how people act the same over and over, isn’t it? First Robert, now you.”
He didn’t say anything, knowing that Irene would explain. She never left him in doubt of what she meant.
“Mary Macrory was a bit more stubborn than your Mercy, I’d say.”
When she didn’t continue, he was forced to ask, “What do you mean?”
Irene smiled, almost as if she were a spider and he the fly and this conversation an intricate web.
She glanced toward Duddingston. “Robert used to climb to the top of the tower. Many a day I’d find him standing there looking toward Macrory House as if the answers to all his prayers were there. ‘Irene,’ he said to me once, ‘pride is a damnable thing. It puts you on an island.’ I didn’t know what to say to him. Mary did, though.”
Irene surprised him because she rarely spoke about Robert. For weeks after his brother’s death he’d find her with red eyes, but she was careful never to cry around him. He suspected that Irene was devoted to maintaining the image of a woman with a crusty exterior.
“She came to Duddingston the day before they eloped and shouted at him, ‘I’ve never known a more stubborn man in my life, Robert Caitheart. You would turn your back on love for the sake of your pride. Well, I hope your pride keeps you warm at night, because it won’t be me from now on.’”
Lennox glanced at her sharply.
“Aye,” she said. “The past is the present once more. They were lovers. It was only Robert’s stubbornness that stopped him from making more of it.”
He frowned at her. “He was in love with Mary.”
Irene nodded. “That he was, but did you forget? She was a wealthy widow. He told himself that he couldn’t offer her anything, not compared to what she already had.”
He had forgotten. Or he’d never thought of it.
“He knew she wasn’t going to change her mind. Either he had his pride or he had Mary. So he took himself off to Macrory House and the two of them decided to elope then and there. It’s a tragedy they died, but I’m glad they were together in the end.”
He’d never realized that his brother had felt the same confusion he had.
“I always thought you were more like your brother than you knew. Now I know I was wrong all along.”
He waited, certain the rest of her comment was coming.
“She’s gone, Your Lordship,” she said, standing. “Mercy has left Duddingston. By morning she’ll be on her way to America. That girl is in love with you. Yer aff yer heid about her and yet you let her go without a word.”
He went to stand in front of Irene. Then, when she was still fussing at him, he grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her forehead.
She pulled back and looked at him as if he had lost his mind. He probably had, but he’d never been happier in his insanity.
“Go and change your clothes, Irene. Something fancy, if you please.”
She frowned at him. “And why would that be?”
“Because we’re going to a wedding.”
“Whose wedding?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
Lennox smiled. “Mine.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Mercy wanted to simply walk through Macrory House and make her way to the second floor and her bedroom. Instead, she guessed there would be a receiving line, of sorts, to let her know how far she’d strayed from propriety and what each member of the family thought about her.
She wasn’t wrong.
The first to greet her was McNaughton, of course. The man actually bowed to her father, but spared a curl of his lip for Mercy. She brushed past him, entered the room where she and Ruthie had first been introduced to the surly butler, and headed for the stairs.
Only to be stopped by the imperious voice of her grandmother.
Mercy sighed, resigned to having this confrontation, and turned to greet Ailsa.
“You, Hortense, are a disgrace.”
Mercy didn’t respond. Nothing she could say would mitigate her grandmother’s hostility. If she’d known that Ailsa had nothing but antipathy for her, she would certainly not have made the journey to Scotland. For that alone she should thank Ailsa. If she hadn’t come, she’d never have met Lennox. However, she was not going to spare another scintilla of compassion for her grandmother.
Her aunt was another story.
Elizabeth stood beside her mother, her gaze carefully on the floor. Mercy understood. Elizabeth had no other place to live, or hope of another home. She was forced to endure Ailsa’s tirades and judgments.
“The few hours you’ll spend here are too long. I will celebrate the minute you leave this house and thank the Almighty that I’ll never see you again. I rue the day I allowed your mother to marry that Yankee. She is an abomination as well, teaching you to flaunt authority. From this day forward, I have only one daughter.”
“You’ll not speak about my wife in that fashion.”
Mercy glanced over her shoulder to see her father advancing on her grandmother. Ailsa had erred. Her father would never tolerate any word against Fenella.
“You’ll not tell me how to address my granddaughter. She consorts with the enemy. She has done nothing but disobey me since her arrival.”
Her father didn’t answer, merely came to Mercy’s side, cupped her elbow, and escorted her to the stairs.
“She has shamed this family!”
Mercy pulled free, turned, and addressed her grandmother. “Like you did, Seanmhair? Or did you think that no one would remember that you ran off and married a crofter? I never thought you were a hypocrite, but you’re right in one way. Scandal does have a way of lingering, doesn’t it?”
She really shouldn’t have said anything. Ailsa looked apoplectic.
Turning, she avoided her father and walked up the stairs on her own.
It was a good thing they were leaving in the morning. The atmosphere at Macrory House was poisonous.
Lennox took the steps two at a time and entered his tower bedroom. While he’d been talking to Connor, Irene had carried hot water up to the tower.
The woman was amazing.
He went to the armoire and removed the suit he hadn’t worn since Edinburgh. He’d bulked up in muscle some, but it would still fit. The occasion was important, probably the most important thing he’d done in his life.
He removed his clothes, bathed, and wrapped the towel around his waist while he shaved and thought about the next few hours.
“I’ve a present for you,” Irene said, startling him.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, wondering if he should duck behind the armoire doors or shriek like a maiden.
“I’ve seen it all before,” Irene said with a smile. “Oh, not yours, of course, but they’re all the same, aren’t they?”
Was he supposed to answer that?
She came into the room and placed the bundle she was carrying on the bed. Slowly, she unwrapped the muslin, revealing a foot-high stack of carefully folded tartan.
“It’s the Caitheart tartan,” she said. “If you’re getting married, Lennox, you should do so as a Scot.”
> “Have you kept it all this time?” he asked, going to the bed and fingering the fabric.
Robert had been a stickler for wearing a kilt, choosing to do so on every conceivable occasion. He’d been annoyed that Lennox hadn’t done so as well. He hadn’t bothered telling his older brother that life in Edinburgh wasn’t as true to tradition as at Duddingston. Nor had he taken to wearing it in the past five years.
“He would have wanted you to wear it tonight,” Irene said.
He nodded, agreeing. “Thank you, Irene.”
She didn’t respond, merely turned and walked back to the stairs, leaving him alone with his memories.
He finished shaving, then went to the armoire for a white shirt. At the bottom of the folds of tartan were the knee-high socks that went with the kilt as well as the sporran.
As he arranged the folds, he heard the echo of Robert’s voice instructing him in the art of wearing a kilt. Robert had been more than his older brother; he’d given him most of his life lessons. The only thing Robert hadn’t taught him was how to bury his beloved brother, the last of his family, and endure that loss.
When he finished and donned a dark blue jacket, he felt as if a metamorphosis was complete. Gone was the man who’d once studied in Edinburgh. That young man had been replaced by the Earl of Morton, the last in a line of distinguished Highland Scots.
Leaving his tower bedroom, he headed toward the oldest part of Duddingston, to the library. Here he felt his brother’s spirit the strongest.
He opened the door, then closed it again, taking in the shadowed light, the desk that Robert had kept so neat and which was always messy under his ownership. All he felt was silence and a surprising sense of peace.
“Forgive me,” he said, speaking to Robert’s spirit as if it dwelled in this room. “For a time I hated you for dying and leaving all this to me. I knew it wasn’t your choice, but I resented my life having to change. I ascribed to you demands you never made. Forgive me for that.”
He’d never experienced the joy and honor Robert had felt being the Earl of Morton. He’d never looked on Duddingston as a prize for being a Caitheart.
Instead, his life had been a facade, a faint replica of Robert’s. He’d lived as a hermit in a world that felt alien to him. Only recently, after looking through Mercy’s eyes, had he begun to see what Robert had known: the glory of the history of Duddingston Castle, the privilege of being its steward, the strength of the heritage that was his.
In the past five years he’d crafted his own life here. He’d carried on with his inventions and insisted on flying his airship. Yet neither Duddingston nor the earldom had ever required him to be a hermit. That he’d offered up as some sort of penance for not wanting to be here. A sacrifice for disloyal thoughts.
It had taken Mercy to show him, without words, how wrong he’d been.
Of course Robert had found love with Mary. Even Duddingston Castle and the Caitheart heritage wasn’t worth continuing without the promise of love.
Not even the ability to fly was enough on its own.
“I never felt like I lived up to your example. Until now.” He smiled. “Wish me well, brother.”
He left the room and walked down the corridor to the Clan Hall. Connor and Ruthie were standing there waiting for him. Connor was attired in a kilt as well, the blue-green tartan reminding Lennox of the Black Watch. Ruthie had on a green dress with a clan badge that matched Connor’s tartan on her bodice. It was as distinctive as a sign saying that they were bound together and soon to be married.
Lennox greeted them and a few minutes later they all walked toward the front entrance. Irene was standing there attired in a dark blue dress with a tartan shawl, looking as festive as if she was on her way to a party.
He wanted his friends around him when they entered Macrory House. They would be the witnesses to his marriage.
He smiled and led the way to battle.
Chapter Fifty
A valise was sitting outside the room Mercy had been given. It was all she needed for tonight. The rest of her baggage was still in the carriage.
“We’ll be leaving early,” her father said. “Just after dawn. The ship is waiting for us and I don’t want to hold it up.”
Heaven forbid the captain be inconvenienced. Rutherford ships were occasionally known for setting speed records, but mostly for sticking to their schedules. Cargo was delivered when it was quoted. Passengers could anticipate arriving at their destination on the exact date printed in the timetable. An act of God, such as a storm, had no effect on a Rutherford ship.
Or on James Rutherford.
“I do not want to be gone from home any longer than I must, Mercy,” he said, giving her a stern look.
“It was your decision to come to Scotland, Father. One that you made of your own free will. Something that I do not possess. If you’re seeking an apology from me you won’t get it.”
“What has happened to you, Mercy? You were never rude before.”
“Is it rude to speak the truth?”
“You need to be home,” he said.
Home, where she could be watched and guarded. Home, where her days were strictly regimented.
Her freedom was gone. Her future was laid out before her. The message was clear: she’d better come to like it because it wasn’t going to change.
Unless she changed it herself.
The decision had been long in coming, but it felt right. She’d return to New York with her father and live in the big gray house. Just long enough to set up her own establishment. She’d find a place to live, hire her own staff, and be the one to dictate her life. She didn’t care if she shocked all of New York society. Or if she was held up as an object lesson of how not to behave.
She opened the door, her back to her father.
“You’ll be ready?”
“Yes,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound as if it held unshed tears.
She turned to face him, a determined smile on her face. Her misery was her own and she wouldn’t share it with anyone.
He looked hard at her before finally turning to leave. At least he hadn’t asked her if she was well. She wasn’t. Her heart was breaking. She’d never truly understood what that expression meant until now.
After closing the door, she leaned against it, both palms flat against the wood. The door felt solid, but she didn’t. She felt as if she were in pieces, floating somewhere above her. She’d ceased to be herself the minute she’d left Duddingston.
She missed Lennox. She missed the person she’d become in the past weeks. She missed Ruthie.
The life she was heading back to was a mirage. This was her true life here.
The sad fact was that even if her father hadn’t come, she would have had to leave Scotland. No one wanted her here. Not the Macrorys. And not Lennox.
He may have been her first lover, but he wasn’t willing to be her husband.
She’d even thought about getting rid of all her money and coming to him penniless. Would that have made her more acceptable? How could her fortune make the difference? She was still the same person whether she was able to support herself or not.
One thing her parents had instilled in her was the idea that wealth didn’t build character. It didn’t make you a superior person. It didn’t create goodness where there was none. She was expected to support the arts, to be generous to charities, to see the need in other people and use her money for good.
She didn’t want to go home. Home. The gray mansion in New York with its six-foot stone wall didn’t feel like home now. It was a showplace, an example of the magnificence that wealth could create. Her four-room suite was luxurious, featuring a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathing chamber with a massive bathtub carved from marble, hot and cold running water, and fixtures from England. She had a separate dressing room with three armoires filled with the most recent fashions from England or France. Every want was satisfied almost before she voiced it.
For a prison it was magnificent.<
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However, her father was right. Most people would want the life she had. How strange that she didn’t.
She wanted to climb Ben Uaine and explore the woods around Duddingston Castle. She wanted to learn about each of the artifacts in the Clan Hall and go to the dungeon Lennox said was beneath part of the courtyard. She wanted to see the Merry Dancers, the northern lights in the winter sky.
Foolish wishes. Wanting to remain in Scotland was foolish, too. Yet despite everything she couldn’t regret coming to Scotland. Nor could she ever be sorry about meeting Lennox or loving him.
When someone knocked on the door, Mercy opened it. Lily entered the room bearing a tray and put it on the table beside the chair.
“Mrs. West thought you might be hungry, Miss Mercy.”
“Thank you and tell Mrs. West I appreciate her thinking about me.”
The housekeeper had always been kind to her.
“McNaughton said Ruthie wasn’t with you.”
She was surprised McNaughton had noticed. “No, she’s staying here.” Since the two women were friends, she told Lily that Ruthie and Connor were to be married.
“Oh, I’m so glad, Miss Mercy. She was up to high doh about leaving Connor.”
Mercy interpreted that to mean that Ruthie had been upset.
When Lily left, she returned to the chair, the dinner tray having no interest for her. She wished for darkness, but the Highland sky would still be light a few hours from now.
Tears wouldn’t come; they were as far away as New York.
All she felt was empty.
Somehow, she was supposed to go on with her life. How?
The day in the forest, love had shone in Lennox’s eyes, for all that he would probably deny it. He wouldn’t speak of what he felt because of pride. Or honor. Or whatever emotion he used to cloak it. He wasn’t wealthy and for that one lack he doomed them both to heartache.