A SCOTTISH LOVE

CHAPTER 1

Autumn, 1859

Inverness, Scotland

Gordon MacDermond was standing at the door of her parlor. Standing there staring at her, as if she’d invited him into her home. As if she should smile and welcome him.

She’d sooner greet the Devil.

For a moment, Shona just sat there and watched him. Sounds faded away, even the air stilled, leaving Gordon standing there alone, illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the open door.

He took a few steps into the room, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her heart beat so fiercely she could feel the tremors in her throat. And why were her palms so damp?

It was only Gordon.

A stranger would look at him and see a tall man with symmetrical features, a straight nose, and a square jaw. A woman might note that his chin looked stubborn, a correct assumption about his character. His mouth turned up on one corner. As a boy, it had given him an amused air. As a man, it made him appear cynical. His brows were gently curved, his blue eyes intent, almost piercing. His hair was cut shorter than was fashionable, but Gordon had never cared for fashion. A man as handsome as he could do anything he wished, including refuse to grow a beard.

The expression in his eyes was decidedly different, however, from the young man she’d known. The youthful enthusiasm, the smile, the eagerness in his gaze had been replaced by caution.

He’d seen too much. But then, hadn't they all?

Seven years ago, they’d been so foolish, so naive, and unaware of the world. Now, all of them were a little too knowledgeable about what could happen when they ventured far from home.

Her brother said that Gordon had emerged unscathed from the wars in the Crimea and India, and seeing him here was proof that he’d been luckier than Fergus.

She slowly stood, but didn’t speak. What could she say?

Get the blazes out of my house, Gordon MacDermond.

For however long it was her house.

“Countess,” he said, inclining his head. His attention, however, was drawn to the four stalwart lads at the other end of the room. A frown replaced the look of caution on his face.

Suddenly amused and intensely grateful for it, she sat once again, watching him take in the scene.

The drawing room was shrouded since the only window was heavily curtained. The lumpy horsehair sofa on which she sat was at right angles to the small fireplace. A straight back chair sat nearby, atop a faded Brussels carpet. Over the mantel was an engraving of the Morton coat of arms, a bit of conceit that her husband had commissioned a year before his death.

How often had she wished for the money that garish bit of nonsense had cost? She couldn't even sell it.

At the far end of the drawing room stood four men, each of them standing silent and respectful.

“Those men are naked,” he said.

Her gaze, insultingly slow, took in Gordon’s well polished shoes, up past the trousers of blue serge to the matching coat and vest. When she met his eyes, she smiled again, immeasurably pleased at his frown.

“Not quite naked,” she said. “They’ve merely removed their shirts.”

“Why?”

Was it any of his concern? Still she answered him, not because he deserved a response, but because the answer would annoy him.

“They’ve applied for the position of footman,” she said.

“Should you be interviewing them without their shirts?” he asked.

If it disturbed him that she did so, he didn’t allow it to show in his voice. Now a small smile curved his lips, but she knew him better than that. He was not amused. His eyes were flat and expressionless.

“Undoubtedly not,” she conceded.

Helen came to stand beside her. Helen’s cheeks had been scarlet for more than an hour. Her companion was filled with all sorts of maidenly virtues, whereas she hadn’t been a maiden for almost a decade now.

“You’re measuring their attributes, is that it?"

She smiled again. Very well, she could match him in sangfroid.

“Perhaps I’m ensuring that the candidate doesn’t have a wasting disease,” she said. “Or merely establishing that he has the strength to assume his duties.”

All four of the men were absolutely perfect. The man second to the end was thinner than the rest, but his stomach muscles were more well developed. The man closer to her had the most impressive shoulders, and as she watched, flexed them in greeting. The candidate to his right could roll his chest, as if he were purring. The last man had a habit of standing with his legs farther apart, evidently needing the distance to accommodate his, well, attributes.

For five years she’d been married to a man forty years her senior. Gazing at four half-naked young men didn’t seem that much a crime. She would hire each one if she had the funds. Unfortunately, she didn’t even have enough money to hire a parlor maid, the reason Helen had answered the door and escorted Gordon into her home.

She almost turned and asked Helen to see Gordon to the door again. Give him back his hat and his gloves and send him on his way.

We don’t need Gordon MacDermond here.

But because she knew why he’d come, she didn’t give voice to his banishment.

“You may dress, now,” she said, sending the four candidates a smile. “Please leave your name with Miss McPherson,” she added, nodding toward Helen.

The cheeky one winked at her as he dressed. For a moment, she was tempted to wink back.

Gordon didn’t look pleased.

What a pity.

They didn’t speak as the men dressed, the strained silence punctuated only as each man gave his name to Helen. One by one, they filed out of the parlor, following Helen to the front door.

When they were gone, she glanced over at Gordon, who returned her look steadily.

Go away, Gordon.

“Congratulations, Sir Gordon, on your baronetcy,” Helen said, returning from the door.

“Oh, yes, you won something, didn’t you?” she said.

“No,” he said, tight-lipped. “It was awarded me.”

“Pity they didn’t award Fergus,” she said, forcing a smile back into place.

“You think receiving a Victoria Cross is nothing, Countess?”

“A baronetcy can be inherited, Sir Gordon,” she said. “You can do absolutely nothing with a Victoria Cross except brag of it. A baronetcy would have made up for a lot."

He looked at her as if she were a stranger. Never a stranger, Gordon. Never a friend, either.

“Fergus is a fine man. Any woman would recognize that.”

“Oh, I’m certain you’re right,” she said, sending him a look sharp enough to sever his ears from his head. “If she can overlook his limp and the fact he’s in constant pain."

He didn’t respond, ratcheting up her anger even higher. She took a deep breath and composed herself before continuing.

“You were his commanding officer. You should have kept him free from harm.”

“It was war, countess."

“He went to war because of you,” she said with enough equanimity that she impressed herself. “He didn’t attend Military College. You did. He wasn’t versed in artillery. You were. He didn’t know anything about war. I daresay you studied it.”

She smiled, tamping down the anger once more. “He went to war because you were going, and as his best friend, you should have protected him.”

“Your husband bought Fergus's commission. If you were so against him going, you could have prevented it.”

"If you wish to see Fergus, he's in the garden," she said, waving her hand toward the other woman. "Helen will show you the way."

Helen leaned close.

"Are you all right, Shona?" Helen asked.

No, dear God, she was far from all right. She bled from so many internal wounds she was surprised there wasn't a pool of blood at her feet.

"Yes," she answered calmly, forcing a smile to her face. "I'm fine, Helen, thank you."

She waited until they were out of the room before closing her eye and leaning her head back against the chair.

Was Gordon's arrival the answer to a prayer? She couldn't leave Fergus here to be tossed out into the street. She had to make arrangements for him. The letter, delivered by messenger yesterday, had stepped up her timetable and also made her situation even more dire.

If she asked him for help, would he agree? Or would he refuse just to punish her?

####

She was just as beautiful as she’d always been. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been in the first flush of youth, testing her newly discovered feminine power and at the same time, relishing it.

He'd fallen at her feet and nearly begged her to walk on him. He would have done anything for Shona Imrie. He’d extended his heart, his fortune, and his future. Instead, she’d married the Earl of Morton, a man who could give her a title and a large estate. At the time, Gordon hadn't had a title and his home was modest. The only thing he possessed that the Earl of Morton didn’t have was youth.

Evidently, that hadn’t counted for much.

The years had polished the beauty of the young woman, made her even more alluring. The black of her mourning emphasized her ivory complexion, made her pink mouth look lush and inviting.

Her eyes were a startling gray, the thick black ring around the iris accentuating their smoky color. He’d once told her that she had eyes that beckoned a lover to become lost in them. She’d only laughed and held out her arms.

He’d entwined that long brunette hair around his wrists, pulled her closer for another kiss. Her lips were cloud soft, and he could still taste her on his mouth. Her nose had a slight upturn at the end. A very patrician nose, he’d laughingly announced one rainy afternoon.

“To match the rest of you.”

“And what part of me is patrician?” she’d asked.

He’d spread the blanket wide, stared down at her plump breasts, still rosy from their lovemaking. “You’ve very noble breasts,” he said. “Very aristocratic. Look how your nipples harden even now, as if demanding the attentions of my tongue.”

Did she remember?

How could she forget?

Helen said something to him, glancing over her shoulder. Instead of admitting that he hadn’t been paying attention, had been years and miles away, he smiled, and asked, "Have you been with the countess long?”

"The Earl was my second cousin," she said. "After my father died, he took me in and I became the countess’s companion."

He couldn’t imagine the girl he’d known needing a companion, but then he couldn’t envision Shona being married to the Earl of Morton. He’d practiced pushing that image away for years. Improvidently, he wanted to ask her what Shona had become. A shocking woman, one who routinely engaged in behavior he’d just witnessed? He restrained himself and asked, instead, about Fergus.

"Is he not well?"

He nodded. "He's still quite thin," Helen said. "He’s not yet recuperated from his injuries.”

The fact Fergus’s left leg hadn’t been amputated after Lucknow was a miracle. Guilt spiked through him. He’d not seen Fergus for six months, ever since they’d returned from India.

He followed Helen down a small set of steps and into the garden, feeling the grass sag beneath his feet. Shadows stretched from the tall hedges on either side of the narrow rectangular yard, creating a cool and lush sanctuary. In the middle of the lawn was a bright patch of sunlight. A chair had been placed there and a man sat with his head tilted back, eyes closed, allowing the sun to bathe his face.

Gordon wasn't a coward. Yet in that moment, he almost turned and walked in the other direction. The man who sat in the chair, bathing in the sun, was too thin to be his boyhood friend, his best friend.

They’d grown up together, sharing secrets and dreams, playing among the crags and boulders of Ben Lymond. As men, they’d suffered the privations of soldiers in battle. They’d depended upon each other and supported each other even as they’d stared death in the face.

"There you are, lazing in the sun, just like a cat,” he said, before Helen could speak.

Fergus turned his head, and Gordon almost winced. The narrow face was gaunt; the mischievous grin present during most of their adventures was gone. Instead, his friend’s face was sallow and marked with lines of pain and suffering.

"Is this what happens once you get the Victoria Cross? You think you never have to work another day of your life?"

Fergus made as if to stand, but Gordon had already seen the cane propped on the other side the chair. He reached Fergus’s side and placed his hand on his friend’s arm.

"It's not necessary to get up," he said.

“Good God, you’re still trying to be my commanding officer,” Fergus said, smiling with what looked to be some effort.

He squatted beside the chair. "You've had a bad time of it," he said.

Fergus smiled with more enthusiasm. "You've been listening to Shona."

He shook his head.

Fergus chuckled. "Is she not talking to you, then? Or is she still interviewing her footmen?"

"Do you realize she had them take off their shirts?"

"I'm the one who put the notice in the paper," Fergus said, the grin reminiscent of their boyhood. "She deserves a bit of fun.” His grin faded. “She’s the one who's had a bad time of it, Gordon.”

He tucked that information away to think about later. Right at the moment, he was more concerned with Fergus than his sister.

Liar.

"I came to see how you were doing. I've just gotten back."

"You left the London lassies expiring in grief, then.”

“Only a few.”

“You’ve become a damned national treasure.”

He felt himself warm. “Hardly that."

“A baronetcy,” Fergus said, his smile broader.

"The others?" he asked, changing the subject and named names, men who had been under his command at Sebastopol and then at Lucknow and for whom he still felt responsible. Men of the 93^rd Sutherland Highlanders, no better group of men.

"Macpherson died of his wounds. So did Dubonner. Marshall isn’t doing well, I hear. But the others are all hale and hearty."

"I should have come back earlier," he said.

"When the War Office summons you, Gordon, even you can’t refuse them. Especially when the general adds his persuasion. The months in London couldn’t have been enjoyable. Unless,” Fergus added, "there really were lassies vying for your attention.”

“Only a few,” he repeated.

From somewhere, Helen had found a chair, and began to drag it across the lawn. He stood, went to her side, and took it from her, thanking her with a smile.

"He's dead," he said, placing the chair opposite Fergus and sitting.

The two words were remarkably free of emotion. No anger, grief, or even relief tinged them.

"Dead? I thought the old man would live forever,” Fergus said, staring off into the distance.

“I’m sure he planned it,” he said dryly.

“How did it happen?"

“In his sleep. He would have hated it. He wasn’t commanding anyone, and wasn’t in the middle of one of his towering rages. He simply didn’t wake up.”

They exchanged a look, one that both commiserated and remembered. How many times had he come to Gairloch to escape his father? How many times had he and Fergus engaged in boyhood pursuits, neither talking about the man who would punish him when he returned home? Lieutenant General Ian MacDermond made his displeasure known in whatever way was most convenient – shouting, switch, or cane.

“Should I bother to express my condolences?” Fergus asked.

“To the devil, perhaps,” he said, smiling. “Can you imagine the general ordering Beelzebub around? Hell wouldn’t stand a chance."

They sat in silence for several moments.

“Is that why you’ve come home?” Fergus asked after a moment.

“Because the general can’t command my life anymore? No, I’d already begun the process to leave before he died. Who knows? Maybe his dying was the final repudiation. I’ve decided to take over the Works."

Fergus’s eyebrows rose.

“You’ve left the army entirely, then?"

He nodded.

“To do what? Make gunpowder?”

“For now. I’ve an idea, however, something that I’ve been working on for a while now."

Helen was suddenly there, a tray in her hands.

“I’ve brought a wee dram of whiskey for you, Sir Gordon, and tea for you, Fergus.”

“Why does he get whiskey?” Fergus complained.

Helen just clucked her tongue, but didn’t answer.

He took both the cup and glass from her, thanked her, and the minute she went back inside, handed the glass to Fergus.

Fergus downed the whiskey in one swallow, leaving Gordon to stare at the tea. The brew smelled of flowers – or stinkweed – and was weak enough he could see the bottom of the cup.

“What is this?” he asked, taking a tentative sip.

“Something to build up my blood, I think. I never know what godawful concoction Shona or Helen has dreamed up now. They're bustling around me all hours of the day and night.” He glanced toward the house. “In fact, I’m surprised one of them hasn’t come out and rescued me and put me down for my nap. I should probably thank you for that."

He didn’t want to talk about Shona now.

“So about the baronetcy– " Fergus began.

“More my father’s work than mine," he said, interrupting.

Fergus shot him a look. “Not what I hear. I repeat, you’re a damned national treasure."

He shrugged.

“You’ve gone and gotten modest. Unlike you, Gordon."

He smiled, suddenly glad he’d come. No one else poked at him like Fergus. Perhaps he needed that.

Fergus placed the glass on the arm of the chair. His hand trembled with the effort, an indication of how weak he really was.

“Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?” He patted Fergus’s arm, hating the thin frailty of it.

“Come and see me from time to time,” Fergus said. “Rescue me from the care of women."

“That I’ll do,” he said.

"Even if Shona refuses you."

“I won’t give up,” he said, standing. “You know that much about me."

“You did once,” Fergus said.

Those words were a damn bullet to the heart.

####

He smiled with ease, charming Fergus into a laugh. Her brother hadn't laughed in a good long time. Perhaps she should forgive Gordon for that alone.

Once, she would have forgiven him anything.

The past swooped in like an arrow's point, spearing her heart.

“He’s got a bright future, Shona,” General MacDermond had said, standing in the Acanthus Parlor at Gairloch. A particularly odious room colored olive green, with carvings of acanthus leaves strewn over the ceiling in a montage that had pleased one of her ancestors.

“You can see, surely, that if he remains here, that future will be blighted.”

“He has the Works,” she’d said, aware that Gordon had inherited the three armament factories belonging to his maternal grandfather.

His father had glossed over that with a thin smile.

“If he marries you, Shona,” he’d said, his voice strangely kind when he’d never been kind to her in the past. “It will be because he pities you. Or because you’re Fergus’s sister. I doubt you’d want to be such a burden.”

They'd been in such desperate straits, however, that she'd known something had to be done, including marrying the first wealthy man who'd offered for her. Someone who hadn't wanted to marry her out of pity.

But marrying Bruce hadn't turned out at all well.

Here she was, seven years later, in an even worse situation. Now, not only did Fergus need her help, but Helen depended upon her, too. This time, marriage wasn't a solution to their problems.

Nor was thinking about the past.

She had a plan, however, and unfortunately, Gordon MacDermond was going to have to play a role in it.

####

"I promise I'll be back," Gordon said. "Even if it means bodily moving Shona to see you."

Fergus only chuckled, as if the thought of that confrontation was amusing.

Gordon said goodbye, crossing the lawn to the steps. He didn’t expect Shona to be standing at the back door, watching him. Nor did he expect her words as he entered the house.

“Did you disturb him?” she asked, waving the piece of paper in her hand toward the garden.

“Disturb him?” he asked.

“Bother him, confound him, annoy him. Ask him questions that make him remember or think. That sort of thing."

He studied her for a moment. Tiny lines radiated outward from the corners of her eyes. The years had made a mark, but a subtle one.

“He’s not dead, Shona. Or a bairn. He’s a man. He’s going to remember things without my prompting him. He’s going to feel things despite your wrapping him in a blanket of concern."

She glanced away, the line of her jaw firm, her lips whitened as if she held back words.

If he were another man, he’d have said or done something to comfort her. If it were another time, she might have allowed him to do so. Neither was the case, so he remained silent.

“How did you find him?” she finally asked, still staring out the back window.

“Weak,” he said, startling himself by uttering the truth. “Despondent. Why the hell didn’t you let me know?"

“Would you have come, Gordon?” she asked, still not looking at him.

“You know I would."

She nodded, the point too easily conceded.

“Will you let me know if he needs anything?"

She looked down at the paper she held in her hand.

“He needs a home,” she said, surprising him. "My husband’s nephew is taking possession of the house in a short while. Fergus needs a place to live.” She folded the paper, still not looking at him. "My new house is being readied," she added. "But, for a few weeks, conditions will be difficult for Fergus."

“He can stay with me if he wishes."

“You’re back, then. In Inverness."

“Yes,” he said, not giving her the whole truth. To compensate, he offered her a bit more information, something he wouldn't have ordinarily told her. A peace offering? “I’ve left the War Office.”

“No more soldiering?”

He smiled. “No more soldiering."

Now she looked at him, her thin smile not matching the expression in her eyes. He'd had years of studying Shona Imrie. Shona Imrie Donegal.

He disturbed her.

"The Empire may crumble," she said, "without you to fight for it."

She hadn’t lost the ability to infuse her words with derision.

"Indeed," he said, still smiling amiably.

She turned, leaving him no choice but to follow. As they headed toward the front door, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

"Why didn’t you ever write to Fergus? If you were so concerned for him?"

He was wrong to think she’d conceded the point.

“And have my letters returned?”

She stopped, squared her shoulders but didn’t answer, merely opened the door, standing aside for him to leave. He picked up his hat and gloves from the side table.

"How soon will your husband's nephew be taking possession?"

She skirted that question, asking one of her own. "How soon can Fergus come and live with you?"

Evidently, she was desperate enough to allow some of her anxiety to show.

"Give me two days to make arrangements," he said.

She nodded. "That will be acceptable."

As he left the house, she stood queen-like at the door, her hand on the frame, her smile firmly fixed and false.

####

Had she just made the worst mistake of her life?

Shona watched as Gordon strode toward his carriage, never turning and looking back. He wouldn’t. Once on a set course, Gordon MacDermond was as immovable as Ben Nevis.

He walked with confidence, as if the world should give way before him. He was Colonel Sir Gordon MacDermond, son of Lieutenant General Ian MacDermond, both father and son national heroes, renowned for their prowess in battle and their courage in the face of desperate odds.

Each man had proved himself to be a modern Highlander.

The air was humid, the breeze from the river pausing to caress her cheek. With the back of her hand, she brushed back a tendril of hair that had come loose, but otherwise didn't move, watching him enter his carriage.

Gordon had brought the past with him, and the past was not her friend.

Identify every part of a problem and handle each part separately. That’s how she’d survived Bruce’s illness. First, she had to address the issue of money.

Slowly, she closed the door, unfolding the letter again. Good news, of a sort. The worst news, if she chose to be sentimental. But sentimentality was for fools and those who'd no need of wealthy Americans.

Dear God, anyone with a fortune would do.

Once, she’d had armoires filled with dresses and delicate lace undergarments. She'd worn jewels that sparkled in the gaslight. Her home had been a mansion set into a landscape so perfect it looked like a John Constable painting.

Circumstances changed, however, a fact she’d learned only too well in the last two years.

What a shock it had been to learn she was penniless.

She'd known that Bruce’s estate was entailed, but she’d stupidly assumed that, upon her husband's death, she’d have some income of her own. Both she and his great-nephew, Ranald Donegal, had been informed that neither was the recipient of any funds.

Bruce had died insolvent.

Her husband had never hinted at his penurious state. Nor had he told her that his great-nephew was an incredibly dislikable man. Ranald was twenty years her senior, but neither his status as a relative by marriage nor the fact that he, himself, was married with seven children had stopped him from groping her at every opportunity. She’d vacated the house she'd shared with Bruce as soon as she could, retreating here to Inverness to live out the duration of her mourning. Two weeks ago, her official mourning was over.

Two weeks ago, she’d also learned that Ranald was coming to Inverness for the express purpose of occupying the house she'd made her home for the last two years.

Her choices were narrowing by the minute.

Did she stay here and attempt some sort of agreement with Ranald? Would he allow Fergus to stay as well? She was neither naïve nor unschooled. Sooner or later, the arrangement would lead to her becoming an unpaid servant or sharing his bed while his wife and her brother slept under the same roof. She doubted Fergus would agree to such a thing even if she allowed it.

Or, did she attempt to find other lodgings, with no funds, no likelihood of funds, and no foreseeable funds in the future?

The jewels Bruce had given her had been sold to keep food in the house and coal in the grate for the first year. In the last several months, she'd sold anything, everything, of value.

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.

####

Gordon 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.