To Love a Scottish Lord

Prologue

September 1782

Scotland welcomed Hamish MacRae back to her shores with fists of black clouds looming on the horizon. Weak sunlight left the day overcast and gray, and the wind whistled out of the north, chilling him to the bone.

He anticipated the coming storm, the pulsing, pounding fury of it. He wanted to experience a Highland tempest in all its rage. He’d stand in the middle of it, arms outstretched to the heavens, and command the thunder, invite the lightning. Perhaps God would finally strike him dead for all his sins.

There, he said, pointing to where the land sat humped like a dragon’s back. Atop the last mound was a castle, a place he’d remembered from a previous visit to Scotland. A desolate-looking sentinel on a rocky islet, it was connected by a small stone causeway to the mainland.

It’s a ruin, his brother Brendan said at his side.

I’ve lived in worse.

From the Orient to India, they’d each spent time in palaces and hovels. Even their own ancestral home, Gilmuir, might be considered a ruin. His older brother had it in his mind to rebuild the castle. Hamish had no doubt that Alisdair would have accomplished miracles since he’d seen the place three years ago.

Set me down here, Hamish said, wishing that his throat didn’t feel scraped raw. He’d have to learn to deal with the new sound of his voice as well as other reminders of his time in India.

Brendan moved to stand a little ahead of Hamish on the bow, as if that foot or so distance would gain him a better vantage point over what he studied now.

No man could survive there.

Which is not exactly a deterrent, Hamish said, allowing a small smile to curve his lips.

Don’t joke about such things.

Brendan had lost his humor in the past three months while Hamish had, oddly enough, gained a sense of the ridiculous.

Very well. Let’s discuss my life. I have to live it somewhere.

You could remain at sea.

Hamish smiled again and tipped his head in acknowledgment of Brendan’s words. Of course I could. I’m a captain who’s not only lost his crew and his ship but also the use of his arm. Who wouldn’t wish to sail with me?

Brendan’s silence didn’t surprise him. Even his brother couldn’t conjure up a remedy for the wreck he’d become.

His smile was too difficult to hold, so Hamish let it slip away. You’ll get what I need, then?

You know I will, Brendan answered. What will I tell the others?

By the others, Brendan meant his two older brothers, Alisdair and James. Hamish loved his brothers, but he didn’t want their companionship or their understanding. Nor did he need their pity.

Tell them whatever you wish, Brendan. Something, hopefully, that will keep them far from here. Tell them the truth, if you must.

What is the truth, Hamish? You’ve been sparing with it ever since India.

Hamish turned and looked at his younger brother. What did Brendan want from him, a litany of his capture? If so, he was doomed to be disappointed. Some things Hamish would never tell anyone.

He directed his attention to the castle.

The shoreline was rocky, and farther in, the black boulders gave way to multicolored stones in hues of gray, black, and brown. Beyond the bridge was a strip of pines curving around to the road like a green ruff adorning a crone’s neck.

In his mind he’d named it Aonaranach, the Gaelic for lonely. The place was obviously deserted, as were so many other dwellings in the Highlands. Once Hamish might have been curious about why it had been abandoned. Now, however, he couldn’t summon up a thought or a degree of empathy for the long-vanished inhabitants. All he cared about was that it was empty and a refuge of sorts for him.

If you’re going to ground, Hamish, at least choose a half-decent burrow.

Hamish glanced over at his brother, frowning. It will do for my use. It’s deserted and far away from any settlement.

I don’t like this.

I know your sentiments, Brendan. You’ve been very clear about them.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re set on this, Hamish?

He nodded, staring at the castle. I’ll not return to Gilmuir. He’d been too ill to countermand Brendan’s instructions when they’d left India. Now, however, he was grateful his brother hadn’t decided to go home to Nova Scotia. He could well imagine what the sight of him would do to his parents. Yet he wasn’t prepared to sail farther north for Gilmuir, either.

Dying won’t make them come back, Brendan said.

Hamish didn’t bother explaining that he had more guilt to bear than the loss of his crew. He only smiled, touched despite himself by his brother’s fierce devotion. Brendan had always been loyal. Why had he expected this situation to be any different?

Ever since they were young, he and Brendan had been the closest of the MacRae brothers. They’d goaded and pushed each other, each always achieving more with that extra bit of competition. They’d planned their voyages to meet in far-off cities, and sometimes the two MacRae ships would take the same trade route.

Now, however, he wished that Brendan would simply let him be.

I won’t die, Brendan, he said. I have an unquenchable, irrational, desperate desire to live. The fact that he was standing there proved that.

Brendan didn’t say anything else, only moved away, no doubt to give orders to his men.

Hamish stood at the bow and listened to the sounds behind him, playing a game in his mind about what the crew would be doing. The scrape of metal against metal was the sound of the anchor being lowered. Its drag would slow the forward momentum of the ship. Iron against wood signaled that the heavy sails were being drawn in, the huff of canvas as wind clung and then reluctantly surrendered its hold.

Slowing a ship was noisy business, but speech was needed only to relate orders. There was no good-natured ribbing or laughter, or supposition about the shore leave soon to come. A pall had fallen over the ship ever since India.

The first mate came and stood beside him. Hamish knew the man well from previous voyages. Sandy, they called him, not because of the color of his hair but because of his first adventure at sea. He’d stranded a longboat on a sand bar and had been ridiculed by his crewmates, the teasing resulting in the name he had carried for twenty years.

I’ll have my trunk, Hamish said, and gave the order for the other possessions he wanted. He’d have enough provisions to last him until Brendan came back. His brother had reluctantly agreed to bring supplies to the castle, at least until Hamish decided what to do with his life…or until death itself claimed him.

The first mate nodded, but unlike his brother, he didn’t try to talk Hamish out of his decision. Perhaps Sandy, and the others, couldn’t wait for him to leave the ship. Sailors were a notoriously superstitious group, and his presence aboard was no doubt seen as a bad omen.

Less than an hour later, he was being rowed to shore. Brendan sat opposite him in the boat, frowning at him.

You’ve done all that you can and more, Hamish told his brother, trying to assuage any misplaced guilt Brendan might be feeling.

Why do you talk as if you’re dying, Hamish? Brendan said sharply. Is that what you’re going to do, will yourself to die?

The process of attrition? Hamish asked, genuinely amused. He would simply forget to eat or drink, not make the effort to tap a cask or remove a piece of hardtack or jerky from its crate. He would simply not hunt or prepare a fire. Without his lifting a hand, death might come to him. It was a frighteningly seductive thought.

To die, and not to feel. To die and no longer hear the tortured screams of his crew. To die and not awake sweating and racked with guilt. But he didn’t die easily. Hadn’t he already proven that?

The boat hit the shore, and Hamish stood, grabbing one end of his trunk with his good hand.

You only need time, Brendan said, reaching for the other handle. You still haven’t completely healed from your wounds.

Hamish only smiled. He was completely healed, but he’d never again be whole.

Chapter 1

"Tell me about my patient," Mary Gilly said.

When we were boys, I called him Hammer, Brendan said, glancing over at her and then away as if afraid to witness her response to his words.

Hammer? Mary asked. A rather fearsome name.

Brendan smiled, an appealing expression she’d thought when she’d first viewed it. Now, however, she was well aware that the man was actively attempting to charm her.

As a boy he had a head as hard as iron. He used to butt me in the stomach whenever he didn’t like what I had to say, which was most of the time. I started calling him Hammer then.

I’m more interested in him as a man, she said.

I no longer call him Hammer, of course. It would be foolish to call a man over thirty by his boyhood name. Yet I’ve been known to do something daft now and then. He glanced at her again, and Mary couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking that bringing her here was one of those foolish acts.

She was having the same doubts.

He was the brother of Alisdair MacRae of Gilmuir, a long-time customer of her husband’s. Had it not been for the fact that she’d known Alisdair and his wife, Iseabal, a number of years, she wouldn’t have considered leaving Inverness with Brendan. Now, however, she doubted the wisdom of that decision.

Mary stared straight ahead, deliberately concentrating on the mane between her horse’s ears. She and her long-suffering mare were both feeling the effects of this journey. They’d been pelted by rains all day. At first, the roads were not only passable, but very good. In the afternoon, however, they’d turned off the main thoroughfare and were now following a meandering course beside the loch. This path was rutted and muddy, their pace slow to allow the full wagon behind them to catch up from time to time.

Don’t be surprised by his appearance, Angel.

She glanced at him, irritated. Please, do not call me by that name.

It’s what everyone in Inverness calls you. There was that charming smile again.

Not everyone, she countered.

Enough.

Just because people repeat something doesn’t mean it’s right or proper. She looked at him, willing him to understand. I do not want you to think that I’m capable of miracles. I can’t guarantee to help your brother, she said, compelled to offer him the truth. His injuries may be too far advanced for my limited skills.

He may be too far for anyone’s, Brendan said glumly.

It’s been nearly a month since you’ve last seen him? Another question trembled on her lips. Finally, she forced herself to speak it. Are you certain he’s still alive?

Of course he is. But his lips thinned, and his expression made her wonder if he were as optimistic as he sounded.

The farther west they traveled, the more barren and desolate the landscape became. To their left was the loch and beyond, the sea. On the right were stark mountains even now dusted with snow. The lowering skies tinted everything somber and gray, the color of sadness.

She smoothed her hand over the medicine case on the saddle in front of her. The case was a talisman of sorts, and her stroking a habit. The leather was worn smooth where her fingers had caressed it beneath the handle so many times before when she was nervous or simply waiting.

Patience was a requirement in healing, she’d discovered. She must wait for a patient to improve, for a medicine to work, for a fever to break. Sometimes, the outlook was good. At other times, it was not, and Death swooped in, black garbed and cackling, to steal the ill from her grasp.

You mustn’t be surprised at his appearance, Brendan said. It was the second time he’d made the comment, as if he were afraid she’d exclaim aloud or recoil in aversion upon meeting her new patient.

Otherwise, he’d been remarkably reticent about his brother’s injuries. She, in her pride and foolishness, had been in a rush to be of assistance, not asking all the questions she should have prior to leaving Inverness.

I’ve seen many grievous things, Brendan, she assured him quietly.

India changed him. He’s not as he was.

People who’ve always been healthy often react with anger to sudden illness. They don’t expect their bodies to betray them.

He’s not angry, he said and then looked away, as if uncertain whether to continue. Perhaps resigned, he added after a moment. He seems to simply accept whatever happens to him, almost as if he’s ready for the worst. It’s not like Hamish.

It could be a symptom of his illness, she told him, familiar with such behavior in her patients. Even the healthiest man will have the doldrums if he’s been laid low.

He nodded but said nothing further.

Her hands were chilled beneath her leather gloves, and Mary felt as though she had never been warm or dry. The wind whistled out of the north, flattening the horse’s mane. A gust traveled beneath her voluminous red cloak, lingering at her ankles. She held herself tight, elbows pressed against her sides, chin erect.

We’ll be there shortly, Mary said. It was not a question, rather a hope voiced in a statement. Brendan, however, did not dispute it, remaining silent.

He reminded her, oddly, of her late husband’s apprentice, Charles. Brendan was a more attractive man, with an open countenance and a face that encouraged an answering smile. His hazel eyes were earnest; his brown hair had a habit of falling over his brow boyishly.

Charles had a narrow face and an even narrower mind. Over the past few months, he’d been irritatingly possessive of her, so much so that she’d seen this new patient as an escape, of sorts.

The two men were alike, however, in their single-mindedness. At dawn they’d left Inverness and had begun their trek west, never halting despite the weather. She had the feeling that no obstacle would stop Brendan until they reached his brother.

She’d never been this far from home, and during this interminable day told herself that the adventure of this journey would be worth the minor discomforts of it. When other people mentioned their travels from now on, she would be able to say that she, too, had traveled beyond Inverness. Even if the only sights she saw were snowcapped peaks and a gray, finger-shaped lake that pointed to the sea.

Brendan slowed his horse, pointing ahead. There it is, Castle Gloom.

Castle Gloom?

That’s what I thought when I first saw the place, he said, staring ahead.

Peering through the trees that lined the road, she saw her destination. She’d never expected an isolated castle dominated by a tall tower. Of dark red brick and stone, it seemed a blot on the landscape. Almost a wound. The thought was as disconcerting as the flock of seabirds suddenly circling overhead. With a rush of wings, they flew swiftly away in the other direction, almost as if in warning.

They heard the explosion first. Brendan’s face paled, but before she could understand what he was about to do, let alone prevent it, he lunged at her, launching himself off his saddle and into her with such force that she was catapulted to the ground. A moment later, she was on her back in the grass beside the road with him atop her. Before she could push him away or demand to know what insanity had overcome him, a projectile crashed into the tree to their left.

He’s firing at us! The damn fool is firing at us!

Who is?

Hamish! he said angrily.

She pushed at Brendan’s shoulder. He moved off her, but neither of them made an effort to rise.

What sort of man shoots at his own brother?

Brendan didn’t have an answer to her question, and she didn’t press the matter. In a moment, she sat up. He stood and helped her stand.

Her knee hurt and her left shoulder ached from where she’d hit the ground too hard. However, she didn’t mention those minor inconveniences. They paled in significance to being blown away by a cannonball.

Behind them, the trees sparkled. In the grayness of the day, the sight was eerie, as if she’d chanced upon a magical forest. Mary bent and picked up a piece of the shot and held the warm, glittery metal in her gloved palm.

Before she could comment on it, Brendan reached out and plucked it from her hand.

What is it? she asked.

A piece of bronze.

He met her eyes. In his gaze was the same confusion she felt.

Why is he shooting at us?

I don’t know, Angel, he said.

This time, however, she didn’t correct him.

If he’d only lowered the sight two inches, he might have been able to hit the top of the tall pine. Hamish jotted down the coordinates, using a piece of charcoal wrapped in a rag. He was nearly out of paper. He hoped Brendan arrived before the rest of his supplies were as depleted.

The tower room in which he sat was drafty. He’d stuffed straw in some of the archer’s slits to cut down on the wind, but he’d left the lone window open, folding back the shutters. Now the barrel of the cannon rested on the stone sill.

On one of his early explorations of the ruins of his borrowed home, he’d discovered the cannon sitting there in the tower. It hadn’t been difficult to figure out why such armament had been laboriously carried up the four flights of curving stairs. Resting just within the curtain wall that followed the irregular shape of the island, the tower commanded a view of the countryside and was in the perfect defensible position. If he stood at the window and looked left he’d have a view of the loch and beyond, the sea. To his right was a narrow strip of woods and the road that led to civilization.

The bridge, however, was flooded at every high tide, protecting him from any possible intrusion.

He pulled the cannon back on squeaking wheels and loaded it again, using bits of metal and stone as shot. As for powder, there was plenty of that. The defenders of Aonaranach had left a small magazine behind, buried beneath a pile of straw.

Reaching for his tinder box, he lit it and then the fuse, stepping back a few feet while the cannon belched its contents in a deep-throated roar.

There, he’d hit the pine tree exactly.

A shout made him straighten and approach the window. With one hand braced against the sill, he leaned out to his right. A scrap of red material tied to a long branch was emerging from the grove of trees. At the end of it was a very angry Brendan.

Hamish understood immediately. He’d been firing at a tree only a short distance from where his brother stood. He waved his arm to signal that he’d seen the makeshift flag. Brendan, in turn, frowned up at him, and then staked the branch in the ground, standing there with feet planted apart and arms folded in front of him.

A woman stepped out from behind a tree to join him. She wore a bright red wool skirt and cloak, but her kerchief was missing. Brendan’s flag, he thought.

Hamish pulled back but she didn’t move, her face tilted up to the window. He wondered if she’d seen him and then thought not. If she had, she wouldn’t have continued to watch with such a calm expression on her face. Nor would her smile, small though it was, have remained so firmly moored on those full lips.

Her hair was brown, with hints of gold glinting in it even on this gray and somber day. Her eyes were dark, but she was too far away for him to discern the color. Her waist was narrow and her bosom ample. Only her slender neck and delicate wrists showed, and glimpses of her ankles as she walked. The vision he instantly had of her naked reminded him how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

A wife? Three weeks was too little time for even his fast-acting brother to secure a bride.

I’ll be married come the spring, he’d said in India. I have a yen to settle with one woman.

Where would you put this bride of yours? Hamish had asked.

Brendan’s ship was large, one of the first vessels built at Gilmuir. Even so, his accommodations and captain’s quarters were too small for a family.

I’m thinking in Scotland, Brendan said. Or maybe Nova Scotia. Either is as close to a man of the sea.

Do you think that’s fair? You’d be away for years at a time, and she might actually be lonely for you. If, that is, you manage to find the one woman in the world who would miss that ugly face of yours.

Brendan had only smirked at him, secure in his ability to attract females.

No, she couldn’t be a wife. Even Brendan couldn’t be that fortunate.

Brendan turned toward her, saying something that made her smile fade. She tilted her head back and regarded the tower once more.

Hamish left the window and stood in the middle of the circular room. If it had been only Brendan, he wouldn’t have felt any hesitation in descending the stairs and opening the oak-banded door he’d repaired. But he was curiously reluctant to show himself now. He’d not been in close quarters with a woman since he’d been captured.

He wished, for the first time since he’d left Brendan’s ship, that he’d thought to bring a mirror. After he stared into it, he’d be able to gauge the depth of her revulsion. How would she act? Would she gasp or shudder, or give in to tears?

There was nothing to do but let them in. Bending beneath the lintel, he descended the stairs. Once on the ground floor, he removed the bar and opened the door, taking the precaution of retreating to the steps again to stand in the shadows.

Brendan came first, looking around the tower. He marched to the bottom of the steps, and catching sight of Hamish, placed his fists on his hips and glared.

It’s taken you long enough, brother, Hamish said.

Is that how you repay me for my tardiness, Hamish? By trying to kill me? Why the hell were you shooting at us? Brendan’s shouts echoed through the tower. Where once there’d been no sound at all in the castle, now there was abruptly too much.

I was not, Hamish said stiffly, all too conscious of the arrival of the woman behind his brother. I was simply amusing myself. If I’d known you were there, I would have pointed the cannon in the opposite direction.

Where did you get a cannon, Hamish? I would have thought this godawful place would only boast spiders and bats.

There had been enough of those, but he felt a curious protectiveness for his hermitage and only said, A legacy from a former owner, no doubt. Someone once wished to defend it.

I can’t see why.

Brendan stepped aside, leaving Hamish an unobstructed view of the woman in crimson.

Her eyes were brown; an unremarkable color that nonetheless now seemed deep, dark, and almost mysterious.

Who are you? he asked in a voice sharper than he’d intended.

Brendan frowned up at him, almost protectively.

Angel, this surly creature is my brother. Hamish, allow me to introduce Mrs. Mary Gilly. A healer of some repute.

He told himself that he was enraged because Brendan had overstepped his authority, not because of the way his brother’s hand rested on the woman’s shoulder. Nor did his sudden foul mood have anything to do with the soft and winsome smile she gave him in return.

A healer? All I wanted was for you to bring the provisions I asked for, Brendan, he said curtly.

She took a few steps forward, and Hamish took another step back, wishing that he had the power to banish her with the blink of an eye or a commanding gesture of one finger pointed toward the door. He held up his hand, palm toward her as if to ward her off.

I am sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing, he said. A perfectly rational sentence uttered in a remarkably civil tone. Considering that he’d not talked to another human being in three weeks, he should be congratulated not only for the restraint of his utterance, but also for the clarity of it.

Abruptly, he turned on his heel and left them.

Chapter 2

Brendan entered Hamish’s room without knocking, but then, Hamish expected it. Brendan could be exceptionally charming when he wished, but now was not one of those occasions.

His brother halted at the threshold, staring at the cannon still sitting by the window. You’d have more room in here if you moved that thing outside.

Ah, but then I wouldn’t have been able to amuse myself by lopping off the tops of trees.

Is that what you were doing? Brendan frowned. A waste of your talents, Hamish.

Who is she? Hamish asked, changing the topic of this conversation.

A woman of Inverness, Brendan answered. As I told you, a healer with a great reputation.

Why do you call her Angel?

She evidently saved a little boy on his deathbed. At least that’s the story Iseabal related. She knows of Mary’s talents because of her husband, a goldsmith. Evidently, she and Alisdair commissioned him to make several objects for Gilmuir.

She’s married?

No longer. Her husband died some time ago, I believe.

So you fetched her from Inverness because of Iseabal’s recommendation?

Can you think of a better reason?

In all honesty, he could not. Hamish had the greatest admiration for his sister-in-law. The problem was that he didn’t want a healer there.

Mrs. Gilly sounds like she will be sorely missed in Inverness. Perhaps you should take her back there with all possible speed.

Don’t you want to get better?

Hamish couldn’t help but laugh at that question. I am as good as I will get. He turned, finally, and faced Brendan, standing unflinching before his brother’s inspection. He spread one hand out while the other remained at his side, useless. This is all that I am. This is what I look like healed. If she can give me back the whole of my body, I would take it. Gratefully. But she cannot.

Perhaps she can, especially if she’s as gifted as they say.

I need no miracle worker, Brendan. God Himself would have to erase these scars.

They’ll heal in time, Hamish, and not be as noticeable as now.

But they’ll always be there. Take her back to Inverness, Brendan.

I don’t think Mary will go, he said.

Hamish turned and faced the window again. Then you must convince her.

Brendan had been there less than ten minutes and had already made his presence felt in the old castle. Through the window, Hamish could see a wagon piled high with boxes and crates on the bridge, being unloaded by two more strangers.

Mary Gilly was striding across the courtyard toward the castle. The least Brendan could have done was to bring him a healer who was advanced in years, someone with age and wisdom, and missing a few teeth, perhaps. Or a physician, if no old wise woman was available.

A beautiful woman had power of her own. Was that how she healed her male patients? Did she simply will them to health? He wasn’t immune to such blandishments. As the Atavasi had learned, he was all too human.

Had she charmed Brendan? Was that why he’d brought her there?

The twilight graced her with loveliness, the shadows falling over her like an ethereal blanket. She seemed a part of this place, a ghost returning to its home.

Who are the others?

A cook and a carpenter.

All I wanted was a few supplies, Brendan. I don’t need a cook, a carpenter, and most especially a healer.

I’ve never seen a man who needed one more.

Hamish sent a swift look to his brother, and Brendan only smiled in response.

Hamish MacRae might be her patient, but it was only too obvious that she wasn’t wanted. After Brendan followed his brother up the sloping stairs, Mary remained where she was, feeling like a parcel Brendan had forgotten.

The ground floor was sparsely furnished. A settle made of planked pine sat to the side of an arched fireplace. Two chairs and a table on the other side of the room comprised the remainder of the furniture.

Long moments passed, but Brendan didn’t return. She could hear the sound of voices, and it disturbed her to be an accidental eavesdropper on their conversation. Turning, she left the tower.

She stood in the middle of the courtyard on a grassy patch of ground with the wind pressing her