A Scotsman in Love Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Glengarrow, Scotland
1852
Every morning and afternoon, Margaret Dalrousie walked
the grounds of Glengarrow, daring the ghosts to accost her.
Over the last few months, it had become a game of sorts.
She was determined to persevere despite her feeling the house disliked her. Or
perhaps anyone disturbing Glengarrow’s eerie serenity would have felt the same.
This morning, dead leaves in shades of persimmon and
ochre clustered in bunches in front of the gates. A gust of wind suddenly tossed
the leaves into the air, and as they tumbled across the brittle grass, they made
a sound like slippered feet on a wooden floor.
No one had danced at Glengarrow for years.
Between the front parlor windows was a space where the
yellow silk curtains didn’t meet, revealing furniture draped in pale linen
shrouds. Janet kept the dust in abeyance and her husband, Tom, armed himself
with the task of ensuring that all was well in the Earl of Linnet’s ancestral
home. To that end, he did as much as he could with no funds. The roof leak was
patched; the rotting windowsill in a third floor maid’s room was removed and
replaced. Six months ago, a squirrel had ventured into the south wing and
created a nest in the fireplace; a generation of birds had raised their young in
the ornate carved cornice above the blue velvet curtains of the ballroom.
At least – as Tom said – the birds and squirrels brought
life and sound to the house, banishing the eternal silence.
The villagers said Glengarrow was haunted, that it had
been for years, ever since the Earl of Linnet left for a trip to the Continent
with his family. But if ghosts lived there, they roused only to guard the
sprawling old house. They showed themselves to mortals with a flick of a
curtain, a glimpse of moonlight reflected in a window, or a soughing sound as
the wind careened through the trees.
If she believed in such things.
The house was deceptively small from the front. Two long
wings stretched to the back from either side, and in the rear of the house was a
large courtyard, its ornamental urns now draped in burlap, the yews and
rosebushes likewise protected against winter.
Margaret slid her gloved hands into the slits of her
cape and stared up at the
front of the house through the rusted iron fence. Window
frames of faded white contrasted vividly against brick the color of dried blood.
Broad gray steps led to a wide front door badly in need of painting. No doubt
the pitted brass fixtures had once gleamed brightly.
Glengarrow seemed to know it wasn’t at its best and
consequently, wasn’t the least welcoming. Four rows of windows reflected a
pewter-colored sky and a long, straight lane framed by gray, skeletal trees. The
old house was perched on the top of a rise, its back to an outcropping of Ben
Mosub. Almost a stubborn house. Or Scot. Glengarrow was definitely Scot.
The wind pushed against her, and she wrapped her cape
tighter. Despite the fact the bare branches of the trees were coated with ice,
and snow was hinted at in the gray sky, the weather was still temperate compared
to what she’d experienced in the last three years.
She shook her head. Now was not the time to think
of Russia. Instead, she began to walk once more, taking the path to the gates of
Glengarrow as she did every morning and every evening. Her walks were meant to
take time away from her thoughts, not allow them to overwhelm her.
“Commune with nature, Miss Dalrousie,” the physician had
said. “Allow God in His mercy to show you what a wondrous world this truly is.
Find a place rife with beauty and let it sink into your soul. You will be
yourself within weeks, I venture.”
She had not exactly chosen Scotland as a refuge.
Instead, it had chosen her. As for beauty, there were plenty of places in this
corner of the Highlands that brought a sigh to her soul. Each time she witnessed
the birth of a dawn bathed in gold and pink or saw the mountain’s craggy peak
swathed in clouds, she wanted to weep.
What good was beauty when she couldn’t replicate it?
No, she wasn’t going to think about that, either.
Someone had cleared the walk, removing the dead branches
and the worst of the leaves. Tom, again.
Tom was the one who’d advised her to begin walking
Glengarrow’s paths. “Oh, the earl be abroad, Miss Dalrousie,” Tom had told her
months ago. “Gone near three years. He’ll not be caring.” Tom had looked sad
then, but she’d not asked the cause for his sudden expression. As she’d grown
more private, she’d reciprocated by respecting the privacy of others.
She pushed open the iron gate and slid inside. Flanking
the gate on either side was a red brick pillar. Atop each was a stone lion,
carved in a lion rampant pose more often found on a coat of arms, the beast
seated with one paw raised.
As she did every morning, she nodded to the lions but
they ignored her in favor of staring impassively down the lane. Today, instead
of taking the path closest to the house, she took the lower walk, choosing the
approach to the gardens along a tall brick wall.
She began to count the steps, another habit she’d
acquired. Forty steps to the wall. Fifty-three additional steps to the bench in
front of the embrasure. Sometimes, she’d sit on the bench and stare at the urn
carved in relief on the wall, wondering whom it honored and why at that
particular spot.
This morning, however, she passed the bench and
continued on, down the gradual slope to the edge of the forest. From somewhere
deep inside the woods came the sharp cry of a fox. Just as suddenly, a flock of
birds flew swiftly up from the top of the trees, alarmed at her approach.
She veered to the right, still following the path,
returning to counting again. The numbers kept her from thinking. Thinking led to
remembering, and memories were not good company of late.
Yesterday afternoon she’d surprised a deer in this very
spot. The two of them had stared at each other, both nervous creatures. Had the
deer felt Margaret’s sudden fear, or had it simply been alarmed for its own
safety? It had turned and bolted into the forest, leaving her to stare after it,
wondering what type of haven the deer sought.
Was there a haven anywhere?
Resolutely, she continued on the path, her gloved hands
clasped together beneath the folds of her cape. Made of brilliant red wool, it
was the warmest garment she owned, and still it was not warm enough. Once, she
would have passed over the cape in favor of something lined in fur, an
ankle-length cloak with a hood, perhaps. She’d sold that garment before leaving
Russia, to a minor noble who wanted it as a gift for his mistress.
Not again. She halted once more, staring into the
forest, the trunks of the trees now only a mass of sticks with a few die-hard
leaves affixed to them. The winter forest bounding Glengarrow was ugly, without
color, a stark representation of her mood.
Why today? Why was she determined to revisit the past
today?
She began walking again, keeping her mind empty, her
feet on the path and her gaze on the monochromatic landscape. A bird, braver
than his compatriots, flew down and perched on the wall bordering Glengarrow as
if to take a look at her. He, too, was winter-colored with a brownish gray
plumage. He tilted his head as he regarded her, then flew away, leaving her
feeling as if she hadn’t passed his inspection.
The air was colder now, but she was walking into the
wind, heading back uphill. To her left, the base of the mountain was separated
from the house by only a thin strip of forested land. She welcomed the cold, her
thoughts finally diverted from the past and fixed on the effect of the wind on
her exposed skin.
A fox cried again, but that was the only sound other
than the sough of the wind. Margaret wrapped her arms around her waist beneath
the cape. Perhaps she was not as immune to Scottish winters as she’d thought.
This was a damp cold seeping into her bones and making them ache.
She’d have a cup of tea, perhaps, when she reached her
snug little cottage. Later, she’d have one of Janet’s jam tarts. That, and a
book she’d not yet read, part of a shipment from Edinburgh. There, the afternoon
was planned, as her mornings always were.
The sudden sound was oddly discordant. A deep thumping
echoed from the forest and back again, as if Glengarrow had suddenly developed a
heart, and it was now beating furiously. Startled, Margaret remained in place,
her eyes darting from the trees to the wall between her and the house, then to
the lane ahead of her. The sound was louder, but she still didn’t recognize it.
A rider abruptly appeared at the end of the lane, as if
he’d magically sprouted there. Then, suddenly, where there had only been one
rider, now there were four of them. No, six. A carriage rumbled down the road,
followed by a slower wagon piled high with trunks and cases and followed by
still more outriders. The strange drumbeat now sounded like thunder.
She marked the exact moment the leader saw her. His gaze
was straight ahead, directed at Glengarrow. A moment later, he glanced to the
right, in her direction. In less time than it took for Margaret to realize she
was in danger, he spurred his horse and began riding straight for her.
She turned and started to run, leaving the path and
heading into the forest. The peace of the early morning had been shredded and in
its place this terrifying cacophony. Her heart was beating so hard it was
difficult to breathe. She raced through the trees, up a gentle slope, all the
while seeking sanctuary. But winter had stripped the forest of any covering, and
the trees were too young to provide any hiding place behind their trunks.
As she ran, she glimpsed shadows on either side of her,
horses with caped riders, dark specters flying over the frozen ground. Her
breath escaped her lungs in panting gusts, little clouds of terror.
Glancing over her shoulder proved that her fears were
real. She was being pursued by five more horsemen.
This was Hell, revisited.
She emerged from the line of forest to face a small
clearing. On the other side of it were granite boulders the size of a man,
marking the base of the mountain.
One by one, the men emerged from the trees, each horse
and rider ringing her until she was surrounded.
A scream caught in her throat and emerged from between
her lips like a kitten’s tiny cry. Last time, she’d begged for mercy. This time,
she wouldn’t beg. But they would have to kill her before it happened again.
One man garbed in a black greatcoat urged his horse
closer. He held up his hand as if to silence the others. But none of them had
spoken. Nor were there any smiles in evidence.
Her assault was to be no matter for amusement, then.
The leader still didn't speak, merely walked his horse
closer. He had a handsome face, but she’d learned attractiveness was no
guarantee of character. Sometimes evil was exquisitely beautiful.
His hair, thickly black, was too long, curling over his
collar and falling down on his forehead. His nose was narrow, and his lips
thinned by anger. He would tower over her if standing next to her. Even on a
horse, he was commanding.
His face was ruddy with cold, but he wore no hat. That
absence alone marked him as arrogant. Did he think himself impervious to the
weather?
When she awoke this morning, she had no idea her life
would end today. She had no inkling that today, of all her days, she would die
trying to protect not her virtue, but her very soul.
This would not happen to her again.
She pulled her hands back beneath her cape, clenching
them together out of sight. With more daring than she believed possible, she
straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin up so she might face him with her
own show of arrogance.
"Why have you waylaid me?" she demanded.
“Why are you trespassing on Glengarrow land?”
She stared at him a moment. “You’re the Earl of Linnet,
then?”
He nodded. “I am. Who are you?”
Being an earl did not render him less dangerous than he
appeared. Being an earl was merely a title, and she’d already been the victim of
men with titles.
“Will you let me pass? Or have you other plans, you and
your men?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his left hand
again. Just that, and the five men on the opposite side of the clearing
disappeared, fading into the winter forest as if they, too, had become black and
white and gray.
Still, four men were behind him, each of them intently
focused on the confrontation.
“Who are you?” he asked again, and she understood. The
price of her safety was information.
“Margaret Dalrousie,” she said. Would there be a
reaction? Evidently the Earl of Linnet paid no attention to society.
“Why were you trespassing?” he asked.
Did he think she was a threat to Glengarrow? That she
was a vagabond?
“I take my walks here,” she answered. “Because the area
is peaceful and private, and there was no one to bother me. Until today.”
He didn’t speak, only raised his left hand. This time,
however, the men flanking him slowly walked their mounts to the side so he could
turn.
“Find another place to walk, Miss Dalrousie,” he said
over his shoulder. “I have come home.”
Margaret was too busy drawing a deep breath to respond. As her heart slowed its frantic beat, she stared after the Earl of Linnet.