In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (6 page)

“How very sad about Mr. Cameron,” she said.

Her mother sighed. “William is the very best person. He hasn’t complained or become querulous. Some men might have, I think.”

“How did the accident happen?”

“An unbalanced load of timber, I think. Still, he’s lucky to be alive. The blow to the head could have easily killed him.”

“And Mary cares for him?”

Eleanor sighed. “To her detriment, I think.” She reached over and hugged Glynis. “I think she’s heartsick. I know the signs.”

Glynis tried to smile but it was a feeble attempt.

“Come, I’ll make us a cup of tea,” her mother said. “We’ll talk of other things.”

“I think I’ll retire,” she said.

“Are you very sure you’re all right?’

“I am. I had to see him and I have.”

“Oh, Glynis.”

Those two words contained a world of patience and kindness.

She blinked back tears and bent to kiss her mother on the cheek.

“I’m going to visit Father’s grave tomorrow,” she said. “Would you like to come with me?”

“No, I’ve been there enough. After he died, I visited the mausoleum every day for weeks and months. I realized, finally, that he wasn’t there.” Her mother tapped her chest over her heart. “He’s here. But you go and say your farewells.”

She nodded, bid her mother good-night, and mounted the steps.

The night of pretense was over.

She hadn’t expected to encounter Baumann, however.

Why had he come to Scotland? The man was cunning, dangerous, and knew entirely too much about her.

She’d thought she could leave the war behind in America. Baumann had brought it back to her doorstep.

T
he strange night, marked by her fitful sleep, finally ended. Glynis rose from her bed at dawn to see the view of Hillshead obscured by fog. At first only a wisp appeared, then a white, smoke-scented cloud settled over the house.

She waited until almost noon and the appearance of a bright, tardy sun to travel to the Necropolis.

The carriage wheels rumbled over the arched Bridge of Sighs, the crossing over the Molendinar Ravine from Cathedral Square, and crept up to the cemetery. The Necropolis, a spectacular city of monuments and crypts, sat on a hill above the Clyde and overlooked the Glasgow Cathedral.

Her father had been buried here five years ago. She’d been en route from Cairo to the United States and hadn’t known of his death until well after the funeral.

She untied her bonnet and left it sitting on the seat. As she opened the carriage door, the soft wind keened, the sun tucking itself behind a suddenly appearing gray cloud. A greeting, then, from the dead to the living.

She shivered.

Following the instructions Duncan had given her, she took the narrow path to the MacIain crypt. The sculpture erected atop the roof stopped her, tears coming to her eyes. The statue of the angel resembled
her father, down to the small smile he always wore, as if a secret amused him.

Five years ago the MacIain coffers had been large enough to afford such a costly mausoleum. Now the mill teetered toward ruin and Duncan’s haunted eyes weren’t the only evidence. Economies were everywhere in the household.

She couldn’t even help her own family.

Richard hadn’t left her an inheritance or any funds other than his salary. At his death she had the contents of her modest jewelry chest, her more extensive wardrobe, and the best wishes of the diplomatic service to which she was now a liability.

A penurious widow embarrassed the legation.

She took a few steps toward the crypt, studying it with awe. The builder had constructed it to resemble their manor house. Hedges grew around the walls and rosebushes were in beds on either side of the door. She smiled. Had her mother arranged to have them planted there?

Even as a little child she’d known her parents loved each other. The knowledge shone in the flash of eyes across a room, in gentle smiles and soft laughter. Love cemented their family, had given her and Duncan a foundation of security and joy.

How strange she’d married as a business proposition and without thoughts of love.

The door opened easily on oiled hinges. Inside, two brass sconces on each wall sat above stone benches, no doubt placed there for solemn contemplation. Leaving the door ajar so the muted sunlight could illuminate the space, she walked to the catafalque in the middle of the room, pressing her hand against the cold stone.

“Hello, Papa.”

How did she apologize for not being here? For not knowing of his death until word had reached her?

He’d been the most wonderful of fathers, gentle and filled with humor, telling stories of his days and the men and women who worked at the mill. He’d been an amateur historian, proud of his heritage as a MacIain, and determined to pass on a love of Scotland to his children.

Duncan had his stubborn chin and a fixed expression in his eyes that spoke of determination. Perhaps she had a bit of obstinacy as well. Or maybe pride had fueled the last seven years.

Bowing her head, she said a prayer, the one he’d taught her as a little girl kneeling beside her bed.

    
O Lord, see our souls as we slumber.

    
Give us rest that we may do thy work.

    
Look over us and guard us with thy love.

    
And forgive us our sins that we may be better people.

Did her father look down on her from heaven? If so, did he judge her? Would he pity her for the decisions she made or would he understand?

“Forgive me, Papa.”

Her entreaty wasn’t entirely for being absent all these years, but incorporated all the other mistakes she’d made. Things she’d done that had caused the deaths of others and for which she couldn’t forgive herself.

After a few moments reality seeped in along with the chill. Her mother was right. Her father wasn’t here. There was nothing here but cold stone and the musty scent of a closed and empty space.

She turned and left the mausoleum softly so as not to disturb death’s slumber.

G
LYNIS STOPPED
when she saw him, her eyes widening. She remained at the door of the mausoleum a few
moments before stepping down and closing the door behind her.

Lennox didn’t apologize for startling her. He wasn’t the one who needed to explain himself. He simply stood beside his carriage and watched her.

Finally, she began to walk toward him, choosing to look at the path rather than in his direction.

Once she neared him, he asked, “What were you doing talking to Baumann last night?”

The sun slid out from behind a cloud, bathing the gray stone of the mausoleum. Glynis, with her lavender dress and auburn hair, was the brightest object in the monochrome Necropolis. She tilted her chin back, firmed her lips and stared at him with flat eyes.

“Who are you to question me, Lennox Cameron?”

“Is he a recent acquaintance?”

“Is that any of your concern?” she asked.

“You had an animated discussion with him.”

“Were you watching me?”

“Yes,” he said, the one word causing her eyes to narrow.

He’d spent most of the night thinking about her meeting with Baumann, and when dawn arrived he’d shot beyond annoyance into full blown anger.

He’d gone to the MacIain home, only to be told she’d come to the cemetery. The Necropolis was a good enough place to have a confrontation with her.

She gathered up her skirt with one hand and would have walked past him if he hadn’t reached out and grabbed her arm.

She swung around, her face inches from his. They hadn’t been so close in years. The last time was when she’d kissed him, a memory suddenly at the forefront of his mind.

She’d asked him to come to the anteroom. Once there, she’d kissed him. By the time he could search
her out she’d disappeared. He’d learned that she and her mother had left the ball. Only later did he realize she’d left Glasgow, too.

“Why did you never come home after going to London?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Why did you marry a stranger?”

“Why didn’t you marry Lidia Bobrova?”

He stared at her. “What?”

“Lidia Bobrova. You were supposed to marry her.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

She didn’t answer him, only jerked away.

Her face, half gamine, half seductress, fascinated him. He wanted to place his hands on either side of her head and keep her still to study her. Perhaps he’d brush his lips across the contours of her cheeks just to learn them, and kiss her throat to measure her pulse. Desires he’d never had before but that felt natural now.

He stepped back, his thoughts tumbling one over the other.

“You thought I was going to marry Lidia?”

“All of Glasgow thought it.”

He tucked that information away to study at another time.

“How do you know Baumann?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because he’s a spy,” he said.

She surprised him by nodding. “Yes, he is. How do you know that?”

“He told me he worked for the War Department.”

“If Baumann gave you any information,” she said, “it was for a reason. He never divulges anything unless it serves a purpose.”

“You met him in Washington,” he said, guessing.

She nodded.

“One of your many admirers?”

His question was rewarded with a smile, her expression lighting something up inside him.

“You’re evidently not aware of Washington society,” she said. “A married woman isn’t allowed admirers, especially if her husband is attached to the British Legation. If so, she’s on the next ship home with a reputation for being scandalous.”

“Why weren’t you?”

She frowned at him. “What, scandalous?”

“On the next ship home. You didn’t come home for over a year and a half after your husband died.”

She huffed out a breath. “There’s a war on, Lennox. Passage wasn’t easy to arrange.” She glanced at the MacIain mausoleum. “I wish I’d come back sooner,” she said. “Before my father died.”

Shame flooded him. He shouldn’t have followed her here. He shouldn’t have intruded on what was a private moment.

“Avoid Baumann.”

“Gladly,” she said. She tilted her head and studied him. “I despise the man. Why did you invite him to Hillshead last night? Especially if you already knew the War Department sent him?”

“I find it easier to keep people I don’t trust close to me.”

“Was that the reason you invited me?”

“No,” he said, amused.

“Then why?”

“I invited Duncan and your mother.”

“So I was just an afterthought.”

“You’ve never been an afterthought, Glynis.”

She looked surprised by his comment. He’d not intended to say that, but the minute he did he realized it was the truth.

Turning, he walked back to her carriage, opened the door for her and stepped aside.

“Avoid Baumann,” he repeated.

She pursed her lips and looked as if she’d like to argue. He almost wished she would. They’d have a good rollicking fight and air out all the emotions pulsing between them.

But this new Glynis only nodded and entered her carriage. Without another word she gave the order to her driver and he returned to his own vehicle.

His concern for his father and sister distracted him, along with the arrival of a Union spy and having a Confederate captain with an annoying wife as a houseguest.

He didn’t have time to worry about Glynis or to be confused by her. He sensed her story wasn’t a simple one of a widow coming home to Scotland. Did she know about the blockade runners he’d been commissioned to build for the Confederacy? Which side did she favor? More importantly, what were she and Baumann discussing?

She’d come home at the worst time, bringing too many questions with her.

H
e’d been close enough to kiss.

A thought she shouldn’t be having. A thought that had intruded a dozen times since seeing Lennox in the Necropolis a week ago.

When she was eleven, she’d kissed the sixteen-year-old Lennox. She’d hidden behind the shed and caught him and her brother smoking his father’s cheroots. She’d threatened to tell if they didn’t let her smoke, too. Duncan laughed so hard at the threat she’d stomped off into the woods.

Lennox found her sitting behind the trunk of an old oak.

“It’s no good being mad,” he said. “He’s your brother and he’ll always tease you.”

“Do you tease Mary?”