A Scottish Love (26 page)

She slowed her pace still more.

The fading sunlight flickered through the trees, tracking them. Sunset bathed the sky in orange, yellow, and blue as if reminding the world that night had nothing to recommend it in comparison.

“I’m not selling Gairloch, Shona,” he suddenly announced.

She wasn’t up to this conversation. She’d just bedded Gordon on the floor of the factory. Dear God, had she lost her mind?

“I want you to send the Americans away.”

She stopped in the road and stared at him.

Fergus hadn’t approved of her marriage; she knew that well enough. But in the last six months when she’d cared for him, their childhood bond had seemed repaired. Now, however, everything could come apart again, and all because of Fergus’s love of Gairloch.

“You’ll have to agree,” she said, beginning to walk again. “I haven’t any money.”

“Surely, the bank will honor your credit,” he said.

She glanced over at Fergus. How obtuse was her brother? Or was it her fault?

She stopped in the road again and faced him. “Gordon said that I treated you like a bairn,” she said, wondering now if she had.

He looked startled at the comment.

“We should have had this conversation weeks ago. Months ago, perhaps.” She blew out a breath. “I haven’t any money in the bank, Fergus,” she said. “I haven’t had any money for nearly a year. There is no money anywhere.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “What about your portion from Bruce?”

“There isn’t anything, Fergus. Bruce died penniless. I’ve been selling everything to buy food. I’m down to one bonnet, a lace-trimmed shift, and the clan brooch I can sell.”

The look on his face was almost worth the mortification of admitting their dire straits.

“If you don’t sell, we don’t eat. It’s as simple as that. I, for one, do not champion the idea of starving to death.”

She strode ahead, desperate to be alone. She’d had about as much humiliation as she could tolerate for one day.

Chapter 21

S
hona was tired, but sleep wouldn’t come. Clanks and banging, and a distant hammering disturbed her sleep just as she was drifting off again. She tried to determine the source of the sounds. She’d been away from Gairloch for a number of years. Had these noises always been normal and she was just not accustomed to them?

She rolled over on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Perhaps she wasn’t being kept awake by the noise as much as by her thoughts.

She’d made love with Gordon. In violation of sense, decorum, and decency, she’d bedded Gordon. No, not quite a bed. Not even a cot. A dusty floor. Why was she trying to pretend? She would have accepted a field of heather, prickly as they were.

She could still feel his touch on her skin, but then, she’d never been able to completely forget him. What did that make of her? A mental adulteress? Bruce had deserved better from her. In the end, when death had loomed, Bruce had held her hand, kissing her knuckles, and smiling at her with the last of his strength. “Thank you,” he’d said, and those were the last words he spoke to her.

How could she have shamed herself so completely?

Because it was Gordon, and she’d always been a fool about him.

After another hour of tossing and turning, she finally realized she wasn’t going to sleep. She sat up on the edge of the bed. Tonight, the moon lent a bluish glow to the shadows. She stood, pulled on her wrapper, and grabbed the oil lamp by its handle, hesitating outside her door.

Instead of heading toward Helen’s room, she went in the other direction, taking the servants’ stairs down to the first floor. The duties of companion did not extend to keeping her company when she couldn’t sleep.

Perhaps a snack, something to drink. A little whiskey? Only if Old Ned had left a bottle about.

At the base of the stairs, the darkness was absolute. The lamp seemed almost abnormally bright, the yellow glow casting her shadow on the far wall. She moved it to her other hand so that the shadow fell behind her and was less of a presence.

Eight people slept above her—nine, if Old Ned was sleeping in the castle proper. Yet it felt as if Gairloch was deserted and almost otherworldly. Home to the specters of the past, the ghosts only a few acknowledged.

In this utter silence, it could easily have been three hundred years ago, when the Imrie Clan was at the height of their power. Or two hundred years ago, when their wealth was sufficient to support the entire clan. Or even a hundred years earlier, when their numbers had been decimated by the rising of Prince Charles, but their fortunes were still intact.

She heard a noise down the corridor, and stopped, holding her breath. Unlike the house in Inverness that groaned and moaned at night, each separate wooden strut singing in the darkness, Gairloch was made of stone. If she heard anything, it was either the ghosts or perhaps Old Ned, foraging for another bottle.

“Ned?”

She stood in the doorway of the Clan Hall. Shadows fled before the oil lamp like frightened mice, but there was something wrong about the silence.

She heard the wail of a high note, sounding almost like the beginning of a piper’s dirge. Stiffening her shoulders, she called out again.

“Ned?”

No one answered her, but something moved: a current of air, a drifting shadow.

The flame in the lamp flickered and she stopped, pressing her back against the wall. The feeling of something being wrong was even stronger now.

She wanted to pull her wrapper tighter around her body, scamper down the hallway, and race up the stairs to her bedroom. Instead, she stood there until she was certain nothing was moving in the darkness.

Her calm lasted until she heard another sound directly in front of her.

Someone was in the Family Parlor.

If Fergus’s leg hadn’t been bothering him, she would have summoned him. Or Helen. But Helen would have been too frightened, even with both of them investigating.

Perhaps it was only her imagination, coupled with a few fitful nights. Add Gairloch’s atmosphere, and no doubt she’d conjured up something that wasn’t there.

Be brave, Shona.

Talking to herself was hardly helpful. Did men do the same before going into battle? Had Gordon or Fergus? Had Gordon ever said to himself:
Don’t scream. Don’t make a fool of yourself, man.

Somehow, she couldn’t picture it.

She was Shona Imrie, the last daughter of the Imrie Clan. She had to do something. Racing to her bed would be the act of a coward.

Holding the lamp aloft in her left hand, she grabbed her wrapper with her right and headed for the Family Parlor.

A shadow knocked the lamp from her hand, and as she was suddenly enveloped by it, her last thought was a curious one. Had she finally seen the ghost of Gairloch, or was she about to become one?

S
omeone was screaming. The sound speared through Shona’s head, pinning her in place. She wished the woman would cease.

Was it raining?

She blinked open her eyes to find Helen kneeling over her, weeping.

“Oh, don’t move, Shona,” she said, pressing both hands against her shoulders.

She wanted to tell Helen that there was no need to hold her down; she couldn’t move if she tried.

“Helmut’s gone for Elizabeth,” Helen said, another tear dropping onto her face. “Oh, dear Shona. Did you faint? Helmut said you fainted.”

How ridiculous. She’d never fainted in her life. She would have told Helen so, but the effort to speak was suddenly too much. Instead, she had to make do with a slight wave of her hand.

Helen caught her fingers in a punishing grip as she rocked back and forth on her knees.

She was on the floor, evidently, since she could see the chandeliers of the Family Parlor above her. Turning her head slightly resulted in a lightning bolt of pain in the back of her head, as well as the sight of Fergus entering the room, followed by Elizabeth and Helmut. Another quarter turn in the opposite direction resulted in the vision of Mr. Loftus dressed in a garish plaid robe that had never been loomed in Scotland.

Only Miriam and Old Ned were missing from the tableau.

“What happened, Shona?” Fergus asked.

He lowered himself as far as he could without kneeling. His leg didn’t bend well, and she knew if he got down on the floor next to her, he might very well need help to stand.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said, which was the utter truth. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came downstairs. I was going to get something to eat. I heard something in here and that’s the last I remember.”

Miriam entered the room then, standing in the doorway, and looking around her in bemused fascination. She rubbed at her eyes with one demure little fist, the gesture a child might make when first waking. But her hair was perfect, not netted or braided for bed. And the wrapper she wore was tied in an exact bow that spoke of deliberation and not haste.

Shona slowly looked around her, hoping to see something out of place. The only thing wrong in the Family Parlor was she, stretched out on the floor like a dead deer. She tried to sit up, but a wave a dizziness made her close her eyes and reassess the situation.

She opened her eyes when a cool hand was placed on her brow, to find Elizabeth looking at her intently. Her soft smile had vanished, the warm glance supplanted by a look of worry.

“What happened?” Elizabeth asked.

“She fainted,” Helen said.

“I’ve never fainted a day in my life,” she said.

Fergus had dragged a straight-back chair next to her, sat, and dropped his hand to hold hers. He glanced toward Elizabeth, but away when the nurse looked up. Elizabeth peeked in Fergus’s direction, but he studiously avoided her gaze.

She’d never seen two people try so hard to ignore each other and fail so abysmally.

“Someone struck me,” she said to Elizabeth, and turned her head gently.

Elizabeth carefully examined her, the nurse’s indrawn breath a worry.

“Am I all right?”

“A cold compress, a little rest, and you shall be,” Elizabeth said.

Gently, she pulled her hand free, testing a smile for Helen. It must have looked terrible, because Helen immediately began sobbing again.

“Really, I’m fine,” she said, raising up on her arms. The distance from a supine position to a sitting one seemed too far to manage, especially since her head was aching abominably.

She looked toward Mr. Loftus, who was talking to Miriam too softly to be overheard. Evidently, he was giving her instructions to return to her room, because she abruptly turned and left the library.

So much for any concern Miriam felt.
Oh, did you fall, Countess? Are you feeling ill, Shona? Is there anything I can do?

She shook her head, changed her mind about that decision, and bit back a moan with difficulty.

“Help me up, please,” she said to Elizabeth, who was feeling the knot on the back of her head again.

The nurse grabbed an arm, supporting her back as she rose to a sitting position. Once she was upright, it took a few moments for her to acclimate herself to the sudden dizziness, and a few moments to realize that the oil lamp was sitting on a small table beside the door.

She hadn’t put it there.

“I’m sorry you had an episode of dizziness, Countess,” Mr. Loftus said. “It’s a good thing I was around.”

Slowly, her gaze traveled to Mr. Loftus.

Her stomach knotted.

“I didn’t see you, Mr. Loftus.”

“I came to get something to read, Countess and saw you there on the floor. Naturally, I fetched Helen.”

The man could barely make it up the stairs on his own, and he expected her to believe he’d raced up them to summon her companion?

“It was indeed fortunate, Mr. Loftus,” Fergus said, tapping her shoulder as if to recall her back to good manners.

“Are you absolutely certain someone struck you, Shona? Couldn’t you have just fallen?”

She glanced at Fergus. What was the alternative? To pretend she’d fainted? Perhaps she should scream and wail like Miriam. Would that garner her any sympathy?

“Thank you,” she said, looking over at Mr. Loftus. Her smile felt brittle, but evidently satisfied Mr. Loftus, because he nodded back at her.

She turned to Fergus. “I’m not certain what happened,” she said, hoping that would be enough. She was not going to pretend to faint, even to appear proper and ladylike.

Helen stood, in earnest conversation with the American. Elizabeth and Fergus were still ignoring each other, and Helmut was at the door, staring down at her as if he’d discovered an incapacitated mouse on the floor. She wasn’t entirely certain if he wanted to step on her or haul her up by her wrapper belt and dispose of her.

“Could you help me up?” she asked, and was assisted by Fergus, who grabbed one arm ineffectually, and Elizabeth, who was much stronger than anyone would suppose from her angelic appearance.

The two evidently brushed hands, because both of them jumped apart, causing her to bite her lip in impatience.

Once standing, she leaned against a chair, not feeling the least bit steady.

“I’m going to get Mr. Loftus a tray,” Helen said. “Why don’t you sit and rest here, Shona? I’ll bring you some tea.”

She slowly nodded, nearly falling into the nearest chair. As far as she was concerned, she wasn’t going to move from the spot until she felt better.

“Do you always sleep fully clothed?” Fergus asked Elizabeth.

A sharp, indrawn breath was Elizabeth’s only response.

Really, how much more of this was she to endure? Two obstinate people, each pretending the other didn’t exist.

“You look as if you feel ill,” Elizabeth said. “Shall we help you to bed?”

“No,” she said. “A bit of tea and I’ll be fine.”

Or even some whiskey, if she could find a bottle Old Ned hadn’t purloined, something to deaden this sudden, sharp pain in her head.

Helen disappeared into the labyrinth of the kitchen. Mr. Loftus took himself off to be waited upon, and even Helmut dissolved from his position by the door, leaving her alone with Fergus and Elizabeth.

“Someone struck me,” she said.