A Scotsman in Love

by Karen Ranney

  She lit a lamp and opened the door, shivering as a wintry blast of cold air greeted her. McDermott slowly walked toward her, his footsteps making a crunching sound on the ice crusted grass. He wore his greatcoat, but no hat.

  “Are you a fool to stand out in the cold without a hat, McDermott?”

  “I’m a fool to be here at all. What does it matter my attire? How did you know I was here?”

  “You’ve been here for the last four nights. Why?”

  “I’ve long since lost the ability to consume the quantity of brandy necessary to sleep through the night. Alcohol and endless hours do not make for a well-matched couple. They mate with acrimony, toss epithets, and quarrel from the first glass to the last dregs of the bottle. In the morning, I’m left with a blinding headache and no sense of having rested.”

  “And you think I’m a tonic for your sleepless nights?”

  “I think you’re the reason for them,” he said.

  “Go away, McDermott.”

  Instead, he came closer, took the steps up to the door, and gently took the lamp from her hands. He stepped across the threshold, bent his head, and brushed his lips over her forehead.

  “I need to get away from you,” he said. “But every time I leave Glengarrow, you accompany me. I go and visit God, and there you are, tempting me.”

  He was too close, too warm, and too masculine. Her body remembered him even as her mind warned her he was becoming addictive.

  “Margaret,” he said, and her name was both an entreaty and a promise.

  “Go away,” she whispered.

  “Only words. Words seduce,” he said softly. “Words have power, don’t you think?”

  She would say anything to banish him. “Perhaps.”

  “Touch me,” he whispered against her temple.

  She flinched.

  “Tempting words, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Go away.”

  “Unkind words, Margaret. Stay. A much better word, I think. Kiss me. Even better words.”

  She held herself still, waiting.

  “I cannot sleep for wanting you.”

  He rubbed his cheek against her temple, moving closer still. They stood in the doorway, but she was conscious only of two things, the heat of McDermott’s body and the fierce booming beat of his heart.

  “I could bring you to satisfaction simply with words, couldn’t I?”

  She took a deep breath, felt her breasts press against the wool of his greatcoat. He was going to take her, on the kitchen floor, on the frozen ground, sitting in the parlor, and it didn’t matter.

  I am falling in love, and I most desperately do not wish it.

  What would he say if she had the courage to address him with those exact words? He might pale. Or he might have a look of pity in his eyes. But most certainly he would understand why she avoided him at every turn. This emotion truly could not be allowed to fester. If it did, she would soon be even more miserable than she was now.

  “Couldn’t I?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” she said softly, surrendering completely.

  His face changed, his features hardening. He placed the lamp on the table in the center of the room and returned to stand in front of her.

  She placed both palms against his chest, slowly unbuttoning his coat. She wanted to feel the contours of his body beneath the linen shirt—the subtle ridge of muscle, the texture of his skin, the light dusting of hair across his chest. Brushing her knuckles against his coat, she brought her hands up, pressing herself against him, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck as she gently pulled his head down for a kiss.

  At this moment she was again defenseless, feeling as if passion were a separate entity in this room, compelling them one to the other. As he deepened the kiss, catching her up in a tight embrace, she realized that surrendering to McDermott was so much easier than shielding herself against him, and so much more pleasurable.

  Until this moment, lying beside McDermott, Margaret had never before considered that she might have been lonely for a very long time.

  What would it be like to have someone who would listen to her secret thoughts? Someone who might want to listen to her confidences? Someone who might want to know her uncertainties, and her questions?

  I have this need inside of me to be the best I can be. Each painting brings me closer, but I’ve not yet done my best work. What if I never can? What if I fail? Revelations she’d never made to anyone else. Questions she’d never asked a single soul. What would it be like actually to share such secrets?

  She sat up quietly so as not to disturb McDermott, pulling the coverlet free from the end of the bed and wrapping herself in it.

  The fire was banked, only a soft orange glow remained, but the room was warm enough.

  She moved to the window, looking out at the landscape. The night was still and soundless. Smoke gently wafted up from Glengarrow’s chimneys. The moon shone brightly, creating bluish gray shadows on the snow. Branches became elongated fingers stretching out from the forest. Hedges were transformed into small, snug, square-shaped cottages for elves and brownies.

  There was magic in this night. She should have heard music, the sound of a violin perhaps. The piercing sweetness of the high notes, the lustful intonation of the lower notes—music that made her heart soar and sing.

  The air, so crisp that her eyes watered and her nose felt assaulted, carried her breath, lifted each exhalation, and hung it suspended in the air as if to prove to her she was alive.

  She brought her hands up, cupped them around her mouth, blowing her hot breath against her skin.

  In the past, when she couldn’t sleep, it was because a painting lured her from her bed. She would sit and sketch to keep herself occupied. If the sitting were in her studio, she’d go and stand in front of the canvas, trying to determine what concerned her, what had captured her attention, what kept her from sleeping. She thought of challenges she’d had in the past, the shadow of candlelight on ivory silk, caramel-colored lace with all its intricacies, tiny rosettes lining a hem.

  A painting had not awakened her. Instead, the misery of her own heart kept her sleepless. The pain of knowing that what she felt would not be easily tamped down or banished.

  Tears peppered her eyes. She was not a woman to whom tears came easily. Other women cried; she remained stoic. Other women wept; she expressed contempt for such weakness.

  All the same, the tears fell freely.

  There was so much she missed right at this moment. A family that might have loved her for all her strangeness. Friends who might have cared enough to brave the social stigma of being supportive to a woman in her situation. A lover who would have defended her, protected her, cared for her, who would have enfolded her within his arms and held her when she wept for the betrayal she felt. Someone who might have loved her as McDermott loved his Amelia.

  At that moment, he stirred. She brushed the tears from her face and turned to face him.

  “You’re awake,” he said, his voice without a hint of sleep to it.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted.

  “While my damnable leg woke me.”

  “At least we made it to a bed this time,” Margaret said, smiling in the darkness.

  “It’s a bloody good thing.” He sat up on the edge of the bed and began to massage his thigh. “My leg can’t take the floor again. In fact, I’m limping more often than not, and I think the responsibility lies with you.”

  He turned his head and looked at her, a shadow with glittering eyes. His shoulder, left arm, and the side of his face were touched by the moonlight, rendering him an otherworldly creature. She wished, at that moment, that she had the skill to paint him just as he appeared. Mysterious, surrounded by darkness, but not part of it. He was alien to the night, but it succored and shielded him.

  And her? She was his companion, if only for an hour or two. If only for this night. Why did that knowledge hurt so much?

  “Are you blaming me?
”

  “While I’m not still convalescing, I’m to treat my leg with the dignity it deserves. Not coupling on the floor or racing up stairs.”

  She bit back a smile.

  “You’re following a pattern, McDermott. You’re insistent and intent until you have me beneath you, and after it’s done, you spend an inordinate amount of time regretting it.”

  “I don’t regret it,” he said softly. “I don’t understand it, but I don’t regret it.”

  “Must everything be understood? Must we comprehend all that goes on around us?”

  “Life is more orderly when you do.”

  She smiled. “Life isn’t orderly, McDermott. It’s occasionally very messy, cluttered, a jumble of people and circumstances.”

  He walked to where she stood beside the window. She didn’t comment that he had, indeed, been limping. He tipped his head back and stared at the starlit sky.

  She followed his gaze. “I used to believe the stars were the eyes of angels. I always used to wonder if they saw everything I did.”

  He smiled. “Instead of angels, they were a chained maiden, a water bearer. Perhaps an eagle or a bear.”

  She glanced at him.

  “Have you never heard of the constellations? Andromeda, Aquarius, Aquila, Ursae Majoris?”

  She shook her head as she reached over and pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. Her fingers strayed across his cheek and down to his unsmiling lips.

  “You never answered me, you know. In the churchyard. You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Kill him?”

  She lowered her hand. How odd that it felt as if her heart was surrounded by ice.

  “Don’t prevaricate, Maggie. You’re too intelligent.”

  “Don’t call me Maggie,” she said. “No one ever has. I’ve only been Margaret all my life.”

  He ignored her comment, returning to his questioning.

  “Why not all of them? Why not all the men who attacked you? Why settle for one? Because he marked you?”

  His questions were not entirely unexpected. McDermott asked what he wanted and when he pleased. In that respect, perhaps they were too much alike.

  She returned to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. Instead of looking at him, still standing by the window, framed by moonlight, she stared at the floor.

  “You already know too much about my past, McDermott. Now you insist on knowing my future?”

  “Will you have a future if you kill another human being?” His words were cutting, but his voice was soft. Did he think to spare her reputation, knowing Tom and Janet slept above them?

  “But you don’t want to be swayed from your task. No doubt vengeance has kept you focused, and without it you’re afraid you’ll have nothing. Is that it, Maggie?”

  He began gathering up his clothes, dressing in silence. They were forever doing this, mad for each other, then summoned to reality when satiated.

  “You’re Margaret Dalrousie,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “Who are you to feel remorse for your actions? To feel guilt?”

  “I’m not as indestructible as you think I am.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me you’re only human,” he said. “If that’s the case, why are you playing at being God?”

  “You ask impossible questions, McDermott. Why do you bother, when it sounds as if you already know the answer or don’t care how I respond?”

  “Because I expected more from you.”

  He stood and regarded her in the moonlight.

  “Even worse, I wanted more from you,” he said, and left her.

  Chapter 25

  “It’s a fine day,” Janet said, bundling herself up in her coat for the walk to Glengarrow. “Nearly spring, I’m thinking.”

  Margaret, too, was dressed and ready for the day. She hadn’t slept well last night. But then, she hadn’t slept well for weeks, ever since McDermott had left for Inverness.

  “It’s off he’s gone again, on that fine horse of his,” Janet had said nearly a month ago.

  “Gone?”

  “The earl, off to Inverness. It’s better than being holed up in Glengarrow like a ghost, I’m thinking.”

  Margaret pretended great interest in the row of buttons down the middle of her dress. She really should sew the third one from the bottom on a little more securely. She didn’t have a matching button and would have to replace them all if she lost one.

  She looked over at Margaret. “He needs to make a life for himself, don’t you think?”

  “I haven’t an opinion on the Earl of Linnet,” Margaret said. She didn’t want to discuss McDermott, not with Janet. Not with anyone. “I hope he enjoys his trip,” she said, and managed to make the words sound almost sincere.

  “Are you going on your walk then?” Janet asked.

  “I think I shall,” Margaret said, grabbing her cape from the peg by the door. She took her time buttoning the cape, donning her gloves, and wrapping the scarf around her throat.

  All the while, she resolutely refused to think of the Earl of Linnet, as she did every day. And every day, thoughts of him flew unbidden into her mind, along with another image, the countess he would eventually bring back to Glengarrow. The woman would be petite and blond, and pretty, of course. She would be proper and wise and nurturing. She wouldn’t be irritable or easily annoyed.

  An angel, brought to earth. Not unlike Amelia.

  Would McDermott be happy? Would he ever think of her? Would he ever stand at his window and gaze toward Blackthorne Cottage, wondering at her whereabouts or her fate?

  Because she wouldn’t be here. She couldn’t bear it. That was the worst of it, wasn’t it? Somehow, she’d become ensnared with the stern earl, the grieving man. She’d lost whatever independence she had. Even now, she could feel the skeins of emotion tying her to him.

  Was it wrong, therefore, to wish him happiness but also wish he found it somewhere other than in her view? Please, God, let her find a life somewhere else.

  Could she leave Glengarrow? She didn’t want to leave her snug little cottage with its blue-slate roof and its ivy-covered walls, and that was another revelation.

  Here, she’d found a home for herself, a place where she was accepted. She was Margaret Dalrousie of Blackthorne Cottage. Her idiosyncrasies did not seem to matter to anyone. She was simply accepted for who she was.

  Could she take herself off to Edinburgh again and pit herself against the greedy men and women who so fervently wanted her talent but never remembered to pay her? She didn’t know if she had the heart for it anymore. Or the stomach. Perhaps she should demand payment in advance. But there were other artists, those less talented, or too new to understand the financial pitfall of following a dream, who would gladly accept any promise to pay as long as it resulted in some type of recognition, some type of work. Once, she’d felt the same, before she became wiser and more practical.

  What good was recognition when she was starving?

  She opened the door and stood on the step, feeling the change in the air instantly. The air felt a little less damp, not as if snow were coming but as if it wasn’t as cold, as if spring had waved in passing. The air struck her cheeks in a gentle pat. She could almost smell the scent of growing things and newly turned earth, so close did spring appear.

  She began to walk, knowing her destination only too well. She nodded to the lions flanking the gates of Glengarrow, then stepped onto the path winding around the estate. Glengarrow seemed oddly lonely today, as if all the preceding months and years of desertion showed upon her façade like wrinkles appearing overnight on a beauty’s face. Or it could have only been her mood, somber and nearly sad.

  She felt a kinship with the house, one she’d never before felt, as if they mourned the same loss, as if they felt the same desertion. Over the last year, she’d grown to love Glengarrow, to know it, and appreciate its beauty. There were memories in Glengarrow’s rooms, especially in the Winter Parlor.

  The wind was not as fierce or
as wintry as it had been weeks earlier. Now it felt like the touch of a ghost’s breath, stirring her hair loose from its braid, swirling her skirt.

  She sat on the bench in front of the urn, settling her skirts, and clasping her gloved hands together. For a long time she sat there, the sun beginning to warm the top of her head. She looked down at her clasped hands, removed her gloves, and gripped her hands together tightly. A supplicant’s pose, perhaps. How did one entreat a merciful God, especially the God she’d ignored so very long?

  She couldn’t even frame the words—she didn’t know what words to say. She was adrift in misery, and it was such a strange sensation she marveled at it even as she suffered through it.

  “Help me,” she finally said.

  No celestial voice came to her aid. The clouds did not part for a gigantic finger to spear her to the spot. The world went on as it had been moments earlier, the day brightening. She heard the sounds of birds, another harbinger of spring. From deep in the woods came the cry of a fox, but it, too, quickly faded.

  McDermott had left again, and Glengarrow seemed to know it. McDermott had left, and she knew he would never come to her again.

  I wanted more from you.

  As she sat on the bench in front of the wall and looked up at Glengarrow, she began to cry. If anyone chanced to look out a window, they would have seen a sight. A lone woman brightly dressed in a red cape, tears bathing her face.

  How strange she didn’t care.

  She buried her face in her hands and began to sob deeply. Perhaps she cried for Russia, or for those horrible months in Edinburgh, or for the loss she felt right at this moment. Perhaps she cried because of the realization she was capable of love and it was not an emotion like others would have her think. Love was violent and catastrophic, torturous and invasive. This love had the capacity to wound her to the death, and even now she felt as if she bled from a hundred tiny pinpricks of doubt and sorrow and inadequacy.