“We need to get Fergus settled,” he said, pushing his annoyance at Shona to the background for the moment.
“Nothing is ready at the moment,” Shona said.
“What needs to be done?”
“The mattresses aired, the sheets aired, the rooms swept, and the cobwebs and dust swept from the rooms.”
“All that?”
“Yes,” she said, her face set in stern lines. She might look the same after a lifetime of disappointments, her face devoid of humor, no sparkle of amusement in her eyes. He missed, suddenly, the girl she’d been, his companion in exploration and sin.
“Then I’ll take him home to Rathmhor,” he said.
Her hands were fisted in her skirt. The girl he’d known would not have been so restrained. She would have spoken the words trembling on her lips, and expressed the irritation he saw in her eyes.
“Ned, pick a room on the third floor and make that one yours.”
The man straightened enough to look up at her. He’d not shaved in a few days, and it looked as if he’d not changed his clothing for longer than that.
Slowly, he nodded.
Was Shona fool enough to believe Ned would obey her?
Without comment, she walked over to the bed and picked up the bottle of whiskey. The look she gave him promised a discussion about his drinking at another time.
“We’ll go and ready my brother’s room,” she said, glancing at Helen. “You needn’t worry about Fergus.” A nod to Helen and the two women were at the doorway.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Leave,” she said. “Go home. We’ll muddle along quite well without you.”
“Shona,” Helen said, looking at him, then at her employer.
Shona shook her head as if to silence the woman.
“Thank you for bringing Fergus home,” she said, but the look she gave him wasn’t filled with gratitude. She was angry, but holding back her words. When had she learned to master her temper?
Perhaps he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought. But he wanted to, a realization that kept him silent. This woman with her flashing eyes and soft smile was a contradiction, an anomaly, and he wasn’t comfortable being ignorant around Shona Imrie.
“Fergus doesn’t want to sell Gairloch,” he said, well aware that his friend could speak for himself. But he wanted to goad her, test the limits of her temper. “Why do you?”
She calmly folded her hands in front of her, turned in the doorway, and surveyed him. “Once, you might have had a right to question me, Colonel Sir Gordon. That time has passed.”
“Has it?”
There, another spark of emotion, something lighting her eyes just for a second, like a summer storm.
“Have you any provisions, Colonel Sir Gordon? Something we might be able to borrow?” Helen said, taking a step toward him.
He glanced at Helen in surprise, then back at Shona. Her temper was loosed from its cage, evidently, from the look she gave her companion.
“It’s just that we haven’t planned well,” Helen said, taking a precautionary step away. “What with Fergus’s arrival now.” Her words trailed off as she glanced at Shona.
“Of course,” he said, “I’ll have a wagon sent over.”
“That’s not necessary.”
She smiled at him, a gracious and irritating countesslike expression as if he were her subordinate. A beggar at her door who’d offered to share his meager rations with her.
Like hell.
“Don’t be an idiot, Shona,” he said. “Would you starve for the sake of your pride?”
He strode to the door. Shona moved aside quickly, but he stopped in front of her.
“Why?”
“Why what?” She glanced up at him, then away, not meeting his eyes.
“Why are you so set on selling Gairloch?”
His memories were suddenly more uncomfortable than he’d thought they could be, with her betrayal still sour on his tongue after all these years.
“I don’t owe you any explanations.”
“When have you ever explained yourself, Shona?”
She looked up at him.
“Once, I thought your arrogance charming. The sign of a girl who knew her mind. Do you not think of anyone but yourself? The great Countess of Morton.”
Her lips thinned, but she didn’t speak.
“Fergus doesn’t want to sell,” he said softly. “Why are you so set on it?”
“It’s none of your concern,” she said.
Her eyes were a clear gray, the color of rolling clouds before a Highland storm. The smile was gone and a tinge of pink colored her cheeks.
She looked like the girl he’d known, tumultuous, willing to argue a point simply to win. He’d entered into her game eager enough, pitting his reason and his logic against her more emotional arguments. They’d debated and shouted, disputed, and countered each other over a myriad of subjects, none of them important, and all of them memorable.
“It’s none of my concern? Very well,” he said softly, conscious of Helen and Old Ned.
With a smile, he stepped through the doorway and left her before he could say something he’d regret.
Or she could further wound him with her words.
Chapter 5
R
athmhor was only a fraction the size of Gairloch and lacking the splendor of the home of Clan Imrie. The house was stolid and square, a labyrinth of corridors and hallways he’d managed to learn as a toddler. He was never so cold as when he was in Gairloch or so happy. Here, at home, he was warm but almost always miserable.
He’d not been home since the general died, and that, in itself, was cause to hesitate at the gate. His father had been intent upon guarding what was his, and even in this peaceful glen, he’d erected a stone fence and iron gate to announce to all that this was Rathmhor. On one pillar was the house’s name. On the other was the Latin word: Prodeo.
Go forth
, the motto of the MacDermonds. How like them to take a Latin term instead of a Gaelic one, as if to show these stubborn Highlanders that they were somehow better. Go forth they had, into battle, into war, into any type of contest they could find in the civilized world. They’d proven themselves, father then son, and now, he alone was returning.
He’d written his housekeeper and informed her that he was coming home. Mrs. MacKenzie would marshal up the household troops, ready them for inspection and welcome. An unofficial recognition that he was the head of the household now and not the oft absent general.
His earliest memories of Rathmhor had been filled with terror. As an only child, he’d been doomed to carry all the general’s hopes on his skinny little shoulders. A lifetime of work had gradually transformed him into the man the general had wanted for a son.
The general had gone to battle, and so had he. The general had won acclaim, and so had he. The general was a national hero, and so was he. The general had been a lonely man, but Gordon was damned if he was going to continue in his father’s footsteps.
The elder MacDermond had never been awarded a baronetcy. The old man’s pride had struggled with irritation when the son had outstripped the father. He’d known that, and maybe it was for that single fact alone he’d taken delight in being addressed as Colonel Sir Gordon in his father’s company.
Go forth, Gordon, into the lion’s den
. But, of course, the great lion of the MacDermonds was dead.
His father had arranged the macadam coating on the road from the gate to the front of the house, which meant that the approach was smooth, the carriage wheels almost soundless.
Mrs. MacKenzie stood by the steps, the household staff arranged in a semicircle in front of the house.
He exited the carriage, his smile firmly affixed. When he reviewed the troops, he was somber and intent. Here, at home, his demeanor could relax a little, especially since the general wasn’t around to critique his performance.
Would the household staff feel the same sense of relief he did?
Mrs. MacKenzie was short and plump, with a habit of smiling in the middle of any provocation. Even with her crown of white hair piled high on her head, she didn’t come to his shoulder. He’d often wished she’d been around when he was a boy. She might have been a refuge for him, a place to go when he was frightened and trying, desperately, not to show it. He bent down, and surprised her by kissing her on the cheek, a gesture he’d never before performed.
A hint, perhaps, of the changes to come.
“Colonel Sir Gordon,” she said, softly, placing her hand against the spot he’d kissed. She bobbed a curtsy. “Welcome home.”
He stood back and stared up at the stone edifice. After being away, he was always struck by how much Rathmhor looked like an English fortress. A stolid, square building set into the Glen of Invergaire, jealously guarding its terrain as if fearing an advance of Imries.
“Your staff, sir,” Mrs. MacKenzie said, sweeping a hand toward the two dozen or so people standing patiently.
He stood at attention, realized what he was doing, and forced himself to relax.
“You had a lookout from the tower,” he said, smiling.
She bobbed her head, her face flushing a little. “It’s only fitting that we be waiting for you, sir.”
The tower was the only part of Rathmhor that didn’t fit its English appearance. A single conical shape set back from the front like a jester’s hat atop the structure. Or a jealous cousin of the spires and towers of Gairloch.
As a boy, he’d retreated there often enough, to send a signal first to Fergus and then to Shona. When had irritation over her constant presence altered to become interest? When he’d first confided in her and she’d hugged him? Or when he’d first placed his cheek against the softness of her hair and felt a tug of some previously unknown emotion?
He’d first felt lust when thinking of Shona. Would he always couple the two in his mind?
“Everyone looks well,” he said now, pushing thoughts of the Countess of Morton from his mind.
He fell back on his ability to recall names and events with ease.
Cook was a woman of middle years who’d been with them ten years or more, and favored the French way of cooking, something his father had appreciated. His own taste was less continental and more Scots. Granted, he wouldn’t do well with a diet of haggis, but kedgeree would satisfy him fine, as would any type of salmon.
Two of the younger maids he remembered from his visit before he left for Russia. Three other girls, however, were new.
“Hello Maisie,” he said, stopping in front of one of the upstairs maids. “Are you and Robbie still seeing each other?”
She bobbed an awkward curtsy, and flushed. “We’re married now, sir.”
He smiled and moved on, greeting the stable master and three of his helpers. How many people were required to care for one man?
When he was done, he made his way back to Mrs. MacKenzie.
“Have we enough food to spare, Mrs. MacKenzie?” he asked.
She looked surprised at the question, but answered quickly. “Yes, sir, a few haunches of beef and venison. Some mutton as well, if you’ve a taste for that.”
“Send half of that to Gairloch,” he said.
“Gairloch, sir?” Her expression changed from affable to annoyed in the blink of an eye.
“Do you object, Mrs. MacKenzie?”
“That Ned is a wastrel, sir. Never does a bit of work around the place. Mumbles about ghosts the whole time instead of working. A drunk, he is, and you know I don’t hold with that.”
She allowed whiskey into Rathmhor for one reason only: the house wasn’t hers.
“The laird and his sister have returned,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t question him further.
She did even worse. Her eyes widened, her face paled, and she began to weep, the tears falling down her cheeks silently.
“Oh, sir, is it true?”
He reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “Why don’t you dismiss them?” he said, aware of the audience of interested staff.
“Of course, sir,” she said. “And I’ll be about sending over some food for the Imries. Imagine, sir, after all these years, they’re home. Imagine.”
“I didn’t realize you were so fond of the Imries, Mrs. MacKenzie,” he said as she turned and clapped her hands together. Evidently, that was a signal for the staff to disband, which they did quickly enough.
She turned to face him again. “Invergaire Glen isn’t the same without the Imrie Clan in residence.”
“You sound as if you’re from the village,” he said, surprised.
She nodded. “I am, sir. My family’s from here, but I didn’t return home until my Alfred died. In the army he was, sir. One of your men.”
Startled, he began to run through a roster of men in his mind.
“Oh, not yours, sir. He was in the Ninety-third.” She glanced up at him and continued, “He never made it to the Crimea, but he did see service in Halifax.”
She slowly began to walk toward the house, and he accompanied her, feeling a curious reluctance to enter Rathmhor.
“I didn’t know, Mrs. MacKenzie,” he said.
Of course his father would have hired a soldier’s widow.
“And why should you, Colonel Sir Gordon?” she asked, reaching up and patting his arm in a decidedly maternal way. “You’ve barely been at Rathmhor since I was hired. Soldiering, you were, you and your company. It’s proud I am to be serving you, sir, and if my Alfred was alive, he’d feel the same.”
“I’m no longer with the Ninety-third, Mrs. MacKenzie. Or a colonel.”
Surprised, she stopped and faced him. “Have you given up your commission, then, sir?”
He nodded. The War Office could no longer force him to command men who willingly went to their deaths for the honor of the Empire. War was for young, optimistic men. He was still young, but he wasn’t as optimistic as the War Office would wish of him. Instead, he’d become a realist.
You’re a damn coward!
Words from his father. Maybe the old man had died simply to spite him. Or maybe he’d died from rage.
The funeral had been sparsely attended. Only in his adulthood had he fully accepted what his child self had somehow known: no one liked General MacDermond. He may have been respected for his almost foolhardy courage and his skill at devising cunning battle strategies, but when the battle was over, people avoided him.
Unfortunately, Gordon hadn’t been able to do the same.