Page 10 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

She stayed where she was, extending the tray toward him.

Instead of taking it, he motioned to a table beside the door.

While she waited, he picked up a square board with several small, oddly shaped figurines resting on it.

Once the table was cleared, she placed the tray atop it, and then turned to leave.

Without a word, she walked back to the head of the steps, wishing that he would go back into his room and close the door behind him. Instead, he stood and watched her.

“Forgive me. I was rude,” he said slowly.

She glanced over at him. A moment passed before she spoke. “Yes, you were. But you’ve not accomplished what you intended, you know. I may not have convinced you now, but I’ll keep trying.”

He stepped out of the sunlight and over the threshold of his room. Now there was no doubt of his expression. He was decidedly irritated.

“Why?”

His hair was askew, as if he had threaded his fingers through it, but his clothing was immaculate.

His white shirt was loose, and topped with a carefully tied stock.

His dark breeches were tucked into boots that were, even here in this deserted castle, highly polished.

He might have retreated from civilization, but he had not yet become uncivilized.

“Because I must,” she said simply, not expecting him to understand.

“You’ll not be done with me until I’m your patient, will you?” he asked, a decided asperity to his tone.

“I’m afraid not.” She smiled at him, but he didn’t look mollified. Instead, he looked as if he might say something intentionally rude.

She decided to deflect his attention, instead.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to the board he still held in his hand.

He glanced at it as if he’d forgotten its presence. “Something Brendan brought me, a game they play in India. My brother seems to think I need the diversion.”

“Are you good at it?”

“I haven’t played in more than a year. Why do you ask?”

“Would you care for a wager? I’ve never been especially good at games, but I’m willing to learn. If I play against you and win, would you allow me to treat you?”

“And if you lose?”

“I’ll go away without a backward glance. Without another word to you.”

“That alone is almost worth the wager,” he said. But she couldn’t feel insulted, because one corner of his mouth turned up in an almost smile. “Have Brendan teach you,” he said, holding out the game to her. “That way it would be fair.”

“When shall we play?”

“Tonight. If you think that’s enough time for you to learn to play.”

It wasn’t, of course, but she nodded regardless. “In the meantime, perhaps you might give some thought to emerging from your cave,” she suggested. “Sunshine and fresh air would do you more good than remaining in your hermitage.”

“I didn’t stay in this room until you came.”

“Then why do you do so now?”

He only frowned at her in response. He was quite good at frowns, she decided.

Taking a deep breath, she placed her left hand on the wall for support. The descent was certain to be less nerve-racking than coming up the stairs with the heavy tray.

She glanced back once to discover him still standing there in the shadows, watching her.

She wished he wouldn’t do that. Yet asking him to cease studying her so avidly would reveal that his look discomfited her.

It did, but not because he was scarred. Nor was she intimidated by his anger. Instead, something about him drew her.

He was less a patient than he was simply a man. For that alone, she should surrender in this battle of wills and ask Brendan to take her back to Inverness. Or find a way alone, if he refused.

Her curiosity about Hamish MacRae overpowered her concern, and what compassion she might have felt as a healer was no match for the interest she felt as a woman.

Matthew Marshall pulled his chair closer and opened the sloping top of his secretary.

He flexed his fingers, straightened his shoulders, and took a few deep breaths, all preparatory to beginning his morning work.

As a minister, he always began his day with a prayer service but then returned home to his study.

Selecting a quill, he trimmed the nib to the exact point he liked. He smiled as he removed the pewter top of his inkwell. It had been a gift from a congregation in America, something to commemorate his twentieth visit there and engraved with a verse that he especially liked.

Pulling out his manuscript, he worked on the forward of the book soon to be delivered to his publishers. The work was the compilation of his newest studies of medical advances. Only then did he begin to answer his correspondence.

Withdrawing the stack of letters he’d received in the afternoon post the day before, he began to thumb through them in order to decide which to answer first. There were the usual requests for donations.

Then, there were the pleas for intercession, as if he, a mortal man, had more influence with God than any other creature.

Lastly, there were his two favorite types of letters, those either having to do with new advances in medicine or imploring him to visit.

He began with the requests for donations. He knew only too well how difficult it sometimes was to solicit funds, therefore his answer was as gentle and kind as he could frame them.

I regret, dear sir, that most of my funds go to clinics for the poor throughout England. I will, however, take your situation under consideration. Perhaps there is a congregation who could assist you in some manner?

He wrote the same message for each solicitation.

The implorations to God were answered with prayer, and a two-line message.

Please note that I have no greater power than you in seeking assistance from the Almighty. However, I have added my prayers to yours in the hope that He will visit his kindness and benevolence upon you in your troubles.

Finally, he wrote answers to the requests for his time. His traveling plans were normally arranged a year in advance. He reached into his right desk drawer for his itinerary, disturbed when it wasn’t exactly in the place he’d left it.

Order was a necessity. Since this desk traveled with him, he knew its contents well.

He frowned down into the drawer, wondering why the information about his electrical machine was located to the left of his replies to his American congregations.

None of his correspondence was in order.

He often made copies of his letters, especially when it involved his travel arrangements.

Had Maddie looked for something? He sighed at the idea of leaving his wife yet again.

His time was equally divided between England, Scotland, and America.

Rarely did he go to the continent, unless it was Amsterdam.

He liked the tidiness of the Dutch, but chafed at the stubbornness of the Germans, and deplored French politics.

The excesses of royalty had destroyed the country, making it a nation of poor, malnourished creatures.

Nor were the French disposed to hearing any criticism of their methods.

They would let their own citizens starve rather than take advice from a foreigner.

He sighed, wishing that his dear wife would come with him on his next trip to Scotland. Madeline would not, citing a wish to remain here with her lingering cough. She’d grown weaker in the past months, and had it been any other visit, he would have stayed behind as well.

In addition to meeting with a female healer with the unlikely soubriquet of the Angel of Inverness, there had been some promising correspondence from a young Scottish inventor.

They’d been communicating for well over a year, and just last month, the man had sent him the plans on what promised to be some very interesting advancements to his favorite healing machine.

He finally unearthed his itinerary. He would begin his trip tomorrow, traveling to a series of smaller Scottish towns that he’d not visited in more than a decade, and finishing up in Inverness.

Along the way perhaps he’d polish up a few oratories not yet given to large crowds.

The Scots were a difficult audience; he knew that from his earlier trips.

Despite the lingering worry about leaving his wife behind, he was eager for the journey to begin.