In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (27 page)

“You were hoping scandal would force us to wed?”

Eleanor smiled. “Nothing is actually forcing you
to wed, Glynis. Scandal is just giving both of you an excuse to lay down your pride.”

She didn’t know what to say. Was her mother right?

Eleanor stood and embraced her, her perfume a cloud of warm spicy scent.

What if Lennox didn’t want her? That was a question she couldn’t ask anyone because the answer might be too difficult to hear. What if he only wanted to marry her to protect her? Either by keeping Baumann or the police at bay, or ensuring the mill was still operating.

They hadn’t discussed emotions. He hadn’t declared his undying love for her. Nor had she confessed she’d always loved him.

She gave Eleanor a kiss on the cheek and smiled at her.

“I wasn’t going to leave, Mother. I won’t, I promise.”

Eleanor held her hand as she stepped down from the crate and walked to the pier glass.

“You are the most beautiful bride, Glynis,” her mother said, smiling at her again.

She wasn’t altogether sure she looked beautiful. Her face was too pale and there was a blemish forming in the middle of her cheek. Powder covered it, and gave her complexion an even more masklike appearance. She used a rose-colored pomade on her lips an hour ago but it had disappeared.

She blinked at herself, wishing she was as pretty as Lennox was handsome. Her face was a strange shape, almost pixielike, and her bottom lip so full she always looked like she’d been chewing on it. Her eyes commanded attention, and she’d grown accustomed to strangers staring at her because of them.

She was of average height and slender except for her breasts, which seemed to belong to a much larger woman. They’d always been a source of consternation to her mother, who had to order the seamstresses in
the past to take in the waist of her garments and let out the bosom.

The cream-colored gown made her look even paler. The style seemed to accentuate her flaws rather than her assets, and those assets were spilling out the top of her dress.

She wanted to be beautiful tonight, and it had never mattered much before. She wanted Lennox to be happy circumstances had forced them together. She wanted him to be glad for their wedding night.

Seven years ago she’d imagined her wedding with the whole of Glasgow attending the ceremony uniting the MacIain daughter to the scion of the Cameron and Company empire.

People would have come from miles around to watch the two of them. Speculation might abound but there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind they adored each other, from the rapturous smiles they shared to the longing glances in each other’s eyes.

She would have worn something from Worth, perhaps, a gown her father declared was perfect for her.
It doesn’t matter what it costs,
he might have said.

Her mother would’ve spent the weeks before the ceremony inviting people to come and celebrate the most glorious of days, the uniting of the MacIain and Cameron families.

Mr. Cameron would have been there, beaming, proud of the new daughter his son had brought into the family. Mary would’ve kissed and hugged her, grateful to be getting a sister.

She envisioned the occasion so many times it had achieved the status of a dream. Nothing could hope to measure up to it, certainly not her civil wedding to Richard attended only by her parents, Duncan, her London cousin, and Richard’s aged mother.

Now she was dressed in a borrowed gown. Her
father was gone and Mr. Cameron and Mary in Bute. Both households were going to be in attendance for the ceremony, to be officiated by a Presbyterian minister, but there would be none of the pomp and circumstance she’d dreamed about as a girl.

The only time her dream and reality blurred together was in the wedding supper. Her mother had decided the event should be grand. Lennox had offered his staff and larder. The house had been a beehive in the last four days. She couldn’t take a breath without smelling the delicious odor of roasting meat and plum pudding, and she could hardly move without encountering a servant from Hillshead.

She knew why she was marrying Lennox—she had always adored him. Her feelings hadn’t changed however much she pretended they had. But why was Lennox willing to marry her? Was it only a way to help them financially? Did he simply feel sorry for her?

How horrible to marry because of pity.

Even worse, that she didn’t care.

L
UCY CLOSED
the door on the chambermaid, walked to the reading chair the hotel had finally provided for her and sat staring out at the view of Trongate Street. The thoroughfare looked nothing like civilized London.

Two weeks, they said. Two more weeks before the inquest, and she could go home.

She stretched out her stocking feet, delighting in the freedom from shoes. All in all, being a widow pleased her more than having a husband. Everyone commiserated with her. Even the Scots had been kind and considerate.

Would she like some more cream in her tea? Another currant scone? What about a better light for reading?

She didn’t know if the consideration was because Lennox paid her bills and left instructions that she was to be given anything she wanted. Or because people she encountered were genuinely sorry for her. It could be a combination of both.

So far she’d only been able to acquire two black dresses, with promises another would be ready before her departure and the other three to be sent to her. If Lennox was paying for a new wardrobe, why should she skimp?

Tonight he was marrying Glynis in a private ceremony, she’d been told. Most of Glasgow had been invited to the reception. She had not, of course, since it would be a glaring breech of decorum.

She wasn’t the least disappointed to miss the event.

Tonight, while Glynis was forced to accept her bridegroom, Lucy would be free to read or eat biscuits in her bed.

Gavin wasn’t there to tiptoe up to her or whisper how fetching she looked in her new peignoir.

No more “Lucy, honey, how about a little kiss?” No more “We’re married, darlin’, it’s expected.”

Her nights were her own. She needn’t pretend to be tired or ask Gavin how many times must he bed her in a week. Her mother had counseled endurance, but how much was a woman supposed to tolerate? Gavin had always been touching her.

She didn’t miss him telling her how she must act. No “Lucy, you can’t say such things. People won’t understand. They like their country, however barbaric it may appear.”

Or: “You’ll love Georgia, honey, I know you will.”

She’d wept for Gavin yesterday at his funeral. Lennox had paid for that, as well, and the vault in the Necropolis. The City of the Dead was a most disturbing place, filled with shadows and swift breezes
whining around the mausoleums. She’d been very distressed by it. A good thing she’d never visit it again.

Gavin had been such a handsome, personable man, and so solicitous when they’d first met. All her friends complimented her on his courtliness, his wonderful manners. She would never tell them that he’d been a rutting beast with his mind too focused on carnal acts.

When she returned home, she would be the recipient of the same pitying glances as when she ventured down to the lobby in one of her new black gowns. The porter nearly tripped over his feet to escort her to a banquette in the tea room.

People were probably whispering about her. Dear Lucy, widowed so young. A terrible thing, to lose her poor husband in such a way. Gavin would forever be enshrined in everyone’s memory. What a tragedy, for the man to go off and get himself murdered.

She would have to practice looking sad.

L
ENNOX ROLLED
up the plans for the newest ship, added a note to one of his designers, and put it in the satchel that would be taken to the yard.

Carving out time from his schedule was difficult but he had a good staff and they could carry on without him for a few days. Finishing up another set of estimates took an hour, during which he found himself staring out his library window, wondering at his emotions.

She’s always been in love with you, you know.

Glynis hadn’t said anything, hadn’t revealed her emotions. Nor had he, for that matter.

He didn’t like this feeling of tricking her into marriage. He’d held out the inducement of helping the mill, and it might have been enough to make her agree. He doubted gossip bothered her. The girl he’d known would have simply ignored the rumors. Or had she?

She’d thought he was going to marry Lidia Bobrova. Perhaps it was fitting that gossip led to their marriage. It had certainly changed their lives seven years ago.

She’s always been in love with you, you know.

But was she still that girl?

The Glynis he’d known said what she felt, had been ferociously loyal to her parents, Duncan, and her friends. She went out of her way to be kind to others, but she was often awkward socially, as if she wanted to do everything at once and didn’t have time to be polite.

Glynis had been impulsive and reckless, filled with life and laughter. There wasn’t anything deceptive about her; each emotion shone through her eyes.

The woman who returned to Scotland made you guess what she was feeling. This Glynis was socially poised and restrained to the point of being expressionless. Yet sometimes there were hints of the younger Glynis in her eyes. A flash of impatience or longing or something fading too quickly for him to decipher it.

It all came down to trust, didn’t it? How much did he trust Glynis? Once, he could have answered the question in the space of a heartbeat.

He trusted his father to be the same person, his sister Mary to be Mary. He trusted dawn would come each day. He trusted, mostly, in himself, in his determination and tenacity. If he didn’t know something, he would learn it. If he needed help, he’d ask for it.

Did he trust Glynis? Could he love someone he didn’t trust?

She hadn’t commented when he mentioned Matthew Baumann.

Perhaps it wasn’t a case of him trusting her but of getting Glynis to trust him. Maybe then, when Baumann’s name was mentioned, she wouldn’t turn to stone with a trapped look in her eyes.

Would she ever tell him the truth? What was the truth?

He had too many questions and not enough answers, but he was going to brush them away for now. Somehow he and Glynis were going to have to craft a marriage between them, one bridging the last seven years.

The answer, then, was yes. He could love a woman he wasn’t certain he could trust. The rest would have to come in time.

T
he wedding of Mrs. Glynis Elizabeth MacIain Smythe to Mr. Lennox Alan Cameron took place on a Thursday evening in the bride’s home.

The bride, as it might be reported, was pale. She trembled just the slightest bit, but when she realized it, she steadied her nerves and pasted a Washington smile on her face. No one would know she was both terrified and elated.

This was Lennox. She’d wanted to be in this exact spot for most of her life, saying these exact words and knowing he would be her husband in minutes.

Yet her imagination had never put her in this situation, holding a secret she hoped he never learned. She’d never thought to keep anything from Lennox. Did he withhold anything from her?

If she stopped the ceremony now and demanded to know a secret from him, it would probably be how he’d managed to construct the
Raven
to have so much speed yet be so large.

Or perhaps why he hadn’t married Rose.

Her secrets did not consist of good things she’d accomplished, but those acts she never wanted exposed.

She should have told him. She should have divulged everything and seen, then, if he’d wanted to marry her. He wouldn’t have, of course, which was why she’d been silent.

Of the two of them, Lennox was the better person. He’d always been kinder, calmer, more understanding. He championed the underdog; he gave to the poor. He was unfailingly loyal, generous, and reasonable.

What had she to recommend her?

In Washington people had gravitated to her because she didn’t tell tales and she listened to their concerns. She introduced people to each other if she thought they had common interests. She shared their triumphs but never their tragedies. Some of her acquaintances considered her witty.

She had long slender fingers. She could sing passably well and her legs were pretty. There, enough assets to offset a few of Lennox’s attributes.

This ceremony was strangely like her first, being held in a private home rather than a church, even though the officiate on this occasion was a Presbyterian minister.

No one had arrived at her home this morning, demanding to steal her away from Lennox. Duncan had not led a group of tipsy revelers to counter their demands. The closest she’d come to an old fashioned Scottish wedding was her breakfast of oats.

She didn’t miss the more traditional wedding. All she cared about was that Lennox was beside her and the union would be official.