Page 22 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

“Write them, Mary. Tell them you’ll return in a matter of weeks. Tell them that your patient requires your attention and your care.”

“Do you?”

Instead of answering, he only reiterated that simple sentence. “Stay with me.”

Dear heavens, she was tempted to. More than was wise.

“What do you have waiting for you in Inverness?”

“Mr. Marshall,” she said, remembering the appointment that was so important to her. At least it had been before Hamish MacRae. “He’s agreed to meet with me.”

“Is he more of an inducement to tempt you from here than I am to entice you to stay?”

What a very difficult question to answer. “He can only add to my reputation, while I’m afraid you’ll do nothing but take from it.”

He nodded. “You’re right, of course.”

“He’s an elderly man. He may never return to Inverness.”

“I can only take your word for that.”

“Meeting with him is a great honor.”

“I’m certain that it is.”

He walked to the window and faced outward again.

“If I remain,” she said, the words startling her, “do you promise to do whatever I choose as a treatment?”

“Have I not already?”

He turned. His half smile was back in place as he studied her. His gaze was intent, as if he were trying to read her soul.

“What kind of treatments do you have in mind, Mary?”

“I want you to exercise your arm,” she said. “And get some sun.”

She shouldn’t stay, of course. Patients called on her not only because of her reputation for healing successes but because she was generally well thought of throughout Inverness.

Mothers considered her a suitable chaperone for younger girls, while the poor she treated considered her a kind and generous benefactor.

Above all she was considered a proper matron.

There was never an untoward word spoken about her by the older women of Inverness.

Even in her grief for Gordon, she’d done nothing but gather accolades from those whose sole duty seemed to be to approve or disapprove of her behavior.

Sometimes Mary felt as if she were practicing for a role beside them.

One day, she, too, might walk along the streets of Inverness with an eye on anyone who might be acting improperly.

She would frown on laughter and signs of flirting and only nod her head in approval at a woman’s demure, downcast looks.

She was being groomed for propriety when she didn’t feel the least bit proper.

What would the citizens of Inverness do if they knew that her demure appearance hid a rebellious soul?

Her actions of the night before were shocking, but they were only a shadow of her true self.

She wanted something she’d never had. Adventure, not sameness.

Delight and joy, perhaps. And passion, too.

She wanted to be shocked and startled, delighted and dazed by life.

Not saddened and depressed by the suffering she saw.

“Write them, Mary,” he said. A moment later, he was at the door, his hand on the edge. He looked as if he would like to say something else, but he was gone in the next instant, leaving her alone with her conscience.

Staring at the writing desk, she wished he hadn’t left. If he’d remained in the room, she would have found it easier to write her friends. Yet the decision must be hers alone, and he’d been wise to leave it to her.

How foolish she was. How unwise to jeopardize her standing in the community, to sully her good name. For what? A few days of pleasure. Mindless, delicious pleasure that made her limbs feel as if they were swimming in warmth. Pleasure that dulled her mind, and banished sadness or fear.

Hamish MacRae was a drug, as dangerous as the morphine she occasionally dispensed. Who would have ever thought that the Widow Gilly would be overcome with lust? Yet she didn’t feel the least bit of shame or consternation, only a fevered anticipation of lying with him again.

Stay with me.

She would be a fool to do so, to risk even a chance that news of her behavior would reach Inverness. Still, she knew she was going to stay.

No one need know. Hamish certainly would not divulge the information, and Brendan would not be in Inverness. If she stayed a week or two, no one could accuse her of hedonism or sport.

It’s not love I want from you. From the beginning, he’d been direct. Nor did she know him well enough to give her heart. Her body, however, might be loaned to him for this time, for the sole purpose of pleasure. Just as she would have the use of his.

She stared down at her hands, remembering the touch of his skin. Her palms tingled as if she could feel him now.

Pulling out a piece of vellum from the writing desk, she began to write, wondering if God would look askance at a prayer for guidance in this situation.

However, she needed the proper words to write to Charles, something that would allay his suspicions while reassuring him as to her safety and well-being.

He took too much upon himself, and it was beginning to grate on her nerves.

Because Gordon had felt a fondness for him, however, she’d hidden her irritation all these many months.

Charles,

Circumstances are keeping me longer than I had originally planned. Rest assured that I am well. I will be remaining with my patient to ensure his well-being. If you need any assistance in the meantime, please contact my solicitor.

Mary

To Elspeth, she was a little more forthcoming.

My dear Elspeth,

I am staying at the most interesting place, a lonely looking castle perched at the edge of the loch and overlooking a desolate countryside. At night, I can almost envision shadows in the courtyard and think of them as the ghosts of the people who once lived here.

She hesitated, biting at the end of the quill, wondering how she could describe Hamish while keeping his privacy.

My patient is an unusual man who has selected to live here alone, shunning everyone. I have found myself curiously attuned to him, however. I will stay here, until I am certain he is well.

Her conscience pricked at her, but not enough to set down the quill or rework the letter.

Please be advised that I am well and shall return to Inverness as soon as possible and call upon you then.

Elspeth’s family had agreed to host Mr. Marshall on his most recent trip to Inverness, and she had an inkling that Elspeth’s father had been instrumental in encouraging the minister to meet with her. She should return to Inverness and keep her appointment if for no other reason than politeness.

Standing, Mary went to the window, wondering where Hamish had gone.

As if her wishes sought him out, she saw him standing on the rocky shore outside the curtain wall, only an arm’s length from the loch.

He wore no jacket, and the wind came from the north, ruffling his shirt, and hair.

He stood there motionless, as if he were fighting the forces of nature, a solitary man. A lonely one.

Did he wait for her to rebuff him? She should do so kindly, with well-chosen words that would let him know that she wanted, very much, to accept his invitation, but that she was more concerned with her decency and respectability.

She smiled at herself, thinking that it was a bit late for that.

Returning to the bed, she finished the letter.

I realize that this decision will make it impossible to meet with Mr. Marshall. Please convey my most sincere apologies to him, but I cannot leave.

Your friend,

Mary

She sealed the letters and sat back on the bed, staring at them.

How innocuous they looked. No one seeing them would know that they represented such a shocking decision.

From this moment forward, she’d hold a secret inside, an interlude she’d never discuss with another soul.

Only Hamish would ever know that she wasn’t the proper widow, that she’d turned her back on the life and the person she’d always been.

Only she would hold these memories inside, warmth against a cold future.

Remaining at Castle Gloom would be a bit of hedonism in a well ordered and pleasant life. Or something else that she didn’t quite want to admit, a curiosity about forbidden behavior, or simply a desire to plumb the depths of her own wildness.

One day, perhaps, the rebellious nature that she so adequately hid would be tamped down at last, and she’d truly become one of the proper matrons of Inverness. If, from time to time, she thought of her wayward nature, it would be with a faint longing, like the distant pealing of a faraway bell.

Not now, however. Not yet.