She took a deep breath before reading the letter once more.
Her solicitor had done what she’d begged him to do a year ago. He’d found a solution for her financial woes, a solution that required selling Gairloch, the castle belonging to the Imrie Clan.
To support the two people who’d come to depend on her, she was going to have to do something quickly.
Helen entered the room and she folded the letter, tucking it into her dress pocket.
“We’re going on an adventure, Helen,” she said with a smile.
The other woman looked at her, head tilted. “What sort of adventure?” Helen asked cautiously.
“We’re going to Gairloch.”
When Fergus was settled, she’d go home, and back to the past for the very last time.
G
ordon had a hundred questions, all of them revolving around the Countess of Morton. None was likely to be answered anytime soon.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t dismiss the thought that there was something he should have seen, known, or asked before being escorted from her home.
The surge of nostalgia he was feeling was idiotic. So, too, his rage at seeing her calmly assess the half-naked men in her parlor.
The girl he’d known had been stubborn, prideful, heedless, and exciting. He’d felt alive in her presence. He’d gone from attempting to avoid his father to challenging the old man because of Shona. She was so brave and daring that he could be no less. He’d laughed with her, held her when she wept, discovered the secrets of Invergaire Glen and their own bodies.
She’d been his first love.
Yet for five years, she’d been the circumspect Countess of Morton. Not one rumor followed her; not one inveterate gossip carried tales from Inverness to London. The girl had either matured or become more adept at hiding herself beneath her new, titled, role.
He’d seen her twice in those years, both times from afar. When he’d gone to war, it was almost a relief. He’d have no reason to see her, to watch her with her husband.
He should have told her what he’d planned, but he’d acquired the habit of reticence, at least around Shona.
He might have loved her once, but he didn’t trust her.
Chapter 2
“I
don’t understand,” Fergus said. “Why can’t I go with you?”
“Because the journey would be too difficult,” she said, tucking the blanket around his knees, careful not to touch the area on his thigh where he’d been struck by a fusillade of bullets. “And I want to make sure you’re safe.”
Fergus narrowed his eyes, a habit of his when he didn’t believe what she was saying.
He was older than she by three years, and when she’d begun to care for him after he’d returned from India, he’d responded by saying that she didn’t make it easy to be her patient.
“It isn’t easy being your younger sister, either, Fergus,” she said, which always silenced him for a little while.
At the moment, however, she didn’t have time for patient wheedling.
“Fergus, please,” she said. “I must go and you’re in no condition for travel.”
“I don’t want to sell.”
She’d told him what she’d planned all along. Had he simply pretended that it would never come to pass? Or that no one would have pockets deep enough to buy the castle?
She could always tell him the truth—that there was no money at all—but if she did, he’d assume the responsibility for their welfare, just when he was incapable of shouldering the burden.
He’d already suffered. He’d already proven how brave he was. He didn’t need another worry in his life, especially when he’d not completely healed from his wounds.
“If you don’t want to go with Gordon,” she said, keeping any hint of panic out of her voice, “I can make other arrangements. He’ll be here any minute. Tell me what you want.”
He watched her in that careful way of his, eyes the same gray shade as hers noting every movement. He used to tease her, but since he’d come home from the war, he did so less and less.
“I’ll go with Gordon,” he said, “but I don’t want to sell.”
The knock on the door was opportune.
Helen opened the door and Gordon strode in, dressed in an outer coat today, one of black wool that accentuated his height. With him was another man, as tall as Gordon, with arms that bulged beneath his clothing.
“Are you ready, then?” he asked Fergus, never sparing a glance at her.
Fergus nodded.
“Are those your things?” Gordon asked, pointing to a pair of trunks in the corner.
Fergus nodded.
Gordon motioned to the man accompanying him, and he effortlessly scooped up the trunks as if they weighed nothing, and disappeared through the door.
“Need some help?” Gordon asked.
Fergus grinned, the first time he’d done so all day.
“Just a boost to my feet,” he said. “After that, I can manage.”
Gordon reached down and placed his hand under Fergus’s arm and helped him rise. He looked as if he were studying every one of Fergus’s movements.
As they made their way to the door, she stood there, hands gripped in front of her.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said, but Fergus didn’t turn. He only nodded, no doubt still angry with her.
Gordon was the one to glance in her direction, his expression conveying an understanding of her sudden distress. As if he knew how very much she hated depending on his kindness. Or as if he knew how close she was to crying.
She was not about to weep in front of him.
Keeping silent was difficult, but she managed it, nonetheless, while Fergus was helped into Gordon’s carriage. Gordon stood silent beside her on the steps, taller than she’d remembered, broader of shoulder. He smelled of some masculine scent—or was that just him?
She wanted to lean closer. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her waist, waited patiently with a small and placid smile curving her lips.
He pulled out a card from his inside vest pocket and handed it to her. Her hand curled around it, felt the warmth from his body, and stared down at his distinctive writing.
Meet me today. I’m thinking of you. Missed you.
Notes they’d shared over the years.
“My address,” he said.
“Yes.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something further, but censored himself.
“It’s chilly today,” he said.
How many times had she been taught that one could never go wrong with a comment on the weather?
His glance encompassed her attire from her dress to her shoes, an examination of the same ilk she’d given him only days ago. She hoped she’d been a tenth as annoying.
“I’m not cold,” she said.
She didn’t want him to show any concern, or act gentlemanly, or—God forbid—make her remember how kind he could be when he wanted.
Just go away. Take Fergus with you and remember he was once your dearest friend.
Soon enough, they were situated, and as Helen bid Fergus an emotional farewell, Shona stepped back, waving from a vantage point far enough away that no one could see the tears in her eyes.
G
ordon entered the carriage. The last time he and Fergus had traveled together had been on the return voyage from India, and the other man had been half out of his mind from fever.
Even now, six months later, Fergus was too thin, too pale, but what was more disturbing than simple physical appearance was the fact that the enthusiasm, the excitement that used to dance in Fergus’s eyes was missing. In Sebastopol, he’d been the first among them to see the amusement in a situation. Even in India, he’d found something about which to comment in a droll fashion, garnering laughter from his men.
Although he’d been an exemplary soldier, Fergus’s mouth had been a detriment to his advancement. How many times had Fergus made a remark about the stupidity of their generals, their orders, or even their mission? How many times had he wished Fergus would just shut up?
Now, he would have preferred the Fergus from Sebastopol or the Siege of Lucknow. Not this quiet, too polite stranger.
“I lied to your sister,” he said abruptly. “And to you.”
Fergus turned his head, regarding him unsmilingly.
“I’ve a house in town, but I’ve my mind set on going home,” he said. “It’s been too damn long since I’ve been there and I’m missing it.”
He turned to face Fergus, surprised at the other man’s smile.
“You’ve a choice,” he continued. “You can either go to the house, where my staff has been advised to welcome you, or you can come with me.”
“To Invergaire Glen?”
He nodded.
“I choose home,” Fergus said. “It’s glad I am to be going there myself,” he added, his smile growing in scope, leaving Gordon with the distinct impression that his old friend was amused at a secret jest.
T
he carriage was hired; Shona hadn’t the money to maintain her own carriage and horses. Now she and Helen sat inside the vehicle, a small basket of provisions at their feet. The leather of the seats was cracked, the interior of the carriage musty-smelling, and the upholstery stained in places as if the roof had leaked.
She hoped it was only water damage.
After the driver deposited them at Gairloch, he would return to Inverness, then come back for them in two weeks’ time. To pay for his services, she used the money she’d made selling two bonnets and several of her better dresses.
Dear God, soon she’d be down to bartering her unmentionables.
She wondered if Helen was worried about this journey. Helen rarely complained, however, a trait that made her an excellent companion. Yet she also rarely asked any questions, a meekness of character that occasionally grated.
This day reminded Shona, oddly enough, of when she’d arrived in Inverness, but for its contrasts, not its similarities.
Back then, she’d been genuinely mourning Bruce, a very nice man, a kind and thoughtful husband. If no excitement ever entered her marriage, if one day blended into another seamlessly, if she was endlessly bored, it was to be expected. After all, Bruce was much older and had his life arranged to suit him. He was old enough to be her grandfather, she’d heard one old biddy say once, a thought she tried not to have on those rare occasions when Bruce came to her bed.
Back then, she’d been draped in black, swathed in it until she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
Even though she was no longer officially in mourning, she had little money to purchase new clothing. The dress she wore was black, with white collar and cuffs. If they were of a more similar figure, she might have borrowed a dress or two from Helen. But the older woman was shorter and less fulsomely endowed in the bosom. Wearing one of Helen’s dresses would have made her look like a plump ptarmigan.
“Are we not going to call on Fergus first?” Helen asked.
She shook her head. “He’s barely had time to settle in,” she said.
“Two days.”
She looked away, wishing Helen wouldn’t pursue the subject.
“You don’t wish him to know.”
“He knows,” she said quickly. “He just doesn’t want to sell Gairloch.”
“Then why not see him before we leave?”
Her gloves needed mending again. She hated darning her gloves, but if she didn’t, the seams became worn and split, making her look impoverished. Once, she would have thrown away a pair in such a condition, then made her displeasure known to the shopkeeper.
When had she bought these? More than three years ago, but that’s all she could remember.
“Or is it Colonel Sir Gordon you don’t wish to see?”
Why had Helen suddenly become so curious?
“I’ve never known him as Colonel Sir Gordon,” she said tartly. “He’s only Gordon to me. I’ve known him since we were children.”
“Do you find him very changed?”
Such an innocuous question from someone who normally didn’t question anything. Had Helen suddenly become perceptive? If so, that might prove uncomfortable.
She didn’t particularly want to think of Gordon. Not as a hero, not as Colonel Sir Gordon, not as the first Baronet of Invergaire, or the heir to the Invergaire Armament Works. Not even as Gordon, who’d been her first love, as well as her first lover.
“Yes,” she said, her voice steady. “I found him greatly changed. I hardly knew him.”
She laid her head back and closed her eyes, lying with such ease that she should have been ashamed.
The time had come to begin to live her life, whatever shape or form it was to have. Bruce belonged in a time labeled
then.
Just as Gordon belonged in
long ago.
Chapter 3
M
ore than three hundred years ago, England withdrew its broken and exhausted troops from Scotland, drained from years of Henry VIII’s rough wooing of Scotland.
Mary, Queen of Scots, was fifteen years old, and about to be wed to the Dauphin of France in Paris. The powers in Edinburgh were concerned about the bargain. If she bore a child, the crowns of Scotland and France would be united. If she proved barren, the crown of Scotland would be forfeit to the French.
John Knox began to preach the doctrine that was to reform the church in Scotland.
And in Invergaire Glen, on the shore of Loch Mor, near Moray Firth, the Imrie Clan began building Gairloch.
They carved a foundation at the base of Ben Lymond. Using the topography God gave them, they created a foundation and quarried the yellow-white stone for the building. Three years passed before a roof was erected and the first clan member moved into the fortified structure. In the next twenty years, when they weren’t warring to protect the land and their country, they continued to build.
In 1592, the castle was complete, in the era of the Duke of Lennox and his men who were allowed, by decree of the Scottish Parliament, to root out the inhabitants of the Highlands. If slaughter was necessary, so be it.
The Imrie Clan looked to their fortifications, added two more wings and three more towers to Gairloch. The road was redesigned to be winding and circuitous, giving full warning to the inhabitants that a visitor approached.