Page 40 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

H amish told himself that he was a fool, but censure didn’t alter his course. Instead, he continued on toward Inverness, banishing his fatigue, intent on finding Mary.

If she was going to repudiate him, let it be to his face. Let her tell him exactly why she was leaving. Why? So that he might argue with her? Or attempt to change her mind? Perhaps. But at least he would know why she’d returned to Inverness without a word.

He might even kidnap her, take her back to Castle Gloom, and keep her a prisoner, as Brendan had once accused. He’d seduce her with pleasure until she’d never think of leaving him again.

The journey was surprisingly easy, the road one built by General Wade decades earlier. From time to time, he’d catch sight of an odd hamlet or village, but he skirted civilization, choosing instead to keep to the road.

The time reminded him of when he’d escaped from the Atavasi.

The last days, he’d been alone as well. His conscience had nagged at him so completely that it served as his companion.

In the end, he’d pushed on toward the horizon, hoping that he’d find civilization.

This journey was as filled with thoughts of his own culpability.

He wondered what he’d done to cause Mary to leave him so precipitously.

Yesterday morning, he’d kissed her gently on the nose, almost changing his mind and joining her beneath the covers, rather than going hunting. But the larder was getting empty, and they needed fresh game.

He’d stood, realizing that if he’d retrieved the cot from the room below, he could lash it together with this one, thereby making the bed more spacious.

The cannon had long since been moved to the landing, but he glanced around a room to see if there were other pieces of furniture that could be similarly disposed of to make room for a larger bed.

He’d begun to plan. Without being aware of it, the future had slipped into his mind.

He’d given some thought to the woman he’d eventually marry.

She’d be as intelligent as Iseabal and as charming as Riona, thinking of his sisters-in-law.

He’d never considered where she might live, what nationality she might be.

Perhaps he’d thought of returning home to find his bride, selecting her from one of the many women who’d shared his childhood.

He’d never thought that she might have loved before, or been a widow.

That her nature would be one of stubbornness and pride, or that she might prove to be so fiercely independent.

Or that she might choose a life without him.

“My patients will be missing me,” she’d said a few nights ago.

“They can wait,” he’d said curtly.

“Can they? Perhaps I miss my friends as well.”

He knew he was being arrogant, but he didn’t care. He didn’t like the idea of her choosing others over him. “Who?”

She’d only smiled at his churlishness. “There’s Elspeth. I treat her father for his gout, and her mother for headaches. She’s a good friend, and I’ve missed her. And there’s Betty, my maid. She and Cook fuss if I’m not there.”

Who did he expect she might enumerate? A suitor?

A friend, someone she hadn’t spoken of but would mention now?

He’d not felt jealousy over a woman since…

His thoughts ground to a halt. He couldn’t remember ever feeling jealous before.

In fact, he’d teased Alisdair one day, when one of the stonemasons at Gilmuir had regarded Iseabal with more favor than Alisdair thought proper.

“You look as if you’d like to throttle the man, Alisdair. All he’s doing is smiling at your wife.”

“Let him smile at some other woman,” Alisdair had said. Hamish had shaken his head at his brother as Alisdair went to retrieve his wife, walking her away from the construction scene. He’d heard Iseabal laugh merrily, and seen Alisdair’s thunderous look.

He wondered if he looked as foolish. After India, he simply didn’t care what other people thought. With one exception, he thought now, guiding his horse around a fallen tree limb. He cared very much what Mary thought.

The sun was high in the sky by the time he entered Inverness. The city was larger than he remembered. Nor was he used to the noise of the wagons and the people in the street, a cacophony of sound that made him long for the serenity of his life at sea or his hermitage in Castle Gloom.

Hamish found the goldsmith’s shop without much difficulty. The shop looked exceedingly prosperous, with several men milling in the front. He went to the rear, tethering the reins of his horse before knocking on the back door.

A short while later, he was greeted by a diminutive young girl wearing a smock of butternut yellow, her blond hair tucked into a black wool cap.

“Patrons are asked to use the front entrance, sir,” she said, bobbing a little curtsy.

“I’m not a patron,” he said. “I want to see Mrs. Gilly.” He arranged his features in some sort of acceptable fashion. He wasn’t, however, feeling especially amenable toward Mary at the moment.

“She isn’t here,” the young maid said politely. “She’s been away from Inverness going on a month, sir.”

“She’s returned,” he said curtly.

She looked surprised. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir. She’s not at home.”

He studied her closely, trying to determine whether she lied.

In the end, he believed her, not because of her youth or the fact that she looked guileless, but because of Mary.

She wasn’t the type of woman to hide behind her servants.

Instead, she’d be just as apt to stand in the doorway, point a finger at him, and demand to know why he’d followed her to Inverness.

“She’s off treating a patient, sir,” the young maid offered in the silence. “She’s a great healer, is Mrs. Gilly.”

A shadow moved behind her, and then suddenly a man was there. Mary had never described him, but Hamish knew it was Charles. He was a short man with pale blue eyes. Hamish felt an instant and unreasonable antipathy.

“What do you want?”

“He’s come to ask about Mrs. Gilly,” Betty said.

Charles put his hand on the maid’s shoulder and gave her a not too gentle shove. Hamish took a step forward, but before he could do anything, Betty had ducked beneath Charles’s arm and disappeared from the doorway.

“Why would you be looking for her?” Charles said. “You don’t look ill.”

“The reason is none of your concern.”

In his travels as the captain of his own ship, Hamish had had to learn to deal with men in diverse occupations and stations of life.

He’d been surprised at the number of truly disagreeable people he’d encountered, but they’d been offset by genuinely pleasant individuals.

As his experience had grown, he’d learned to restrain his comments, and guard his tongue.

Now however, he realized that he’d evidently lost the patience for diplomacy.

“Where’s Mary?” he asked again.

“She isn’t here.”

“Have you heard from her recently?”

Charles didn’t answer.

Hamish stared at the apprentice, aware that he wasn’t going to get any answers from the other man. The dislike he felt for the apprentice no doubt had its roots in jealousy. This was the man who’d shared so much of Mary’s life, who had been there to offer comfort after Gordon’s death.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

“I doubt she’ll be here,” Charles said.

The thought occurred to him instantly. If Charles hadn’t heard from Mary recently, he at least knew where she was. Hamish was certain of that.

“Tell her I’m here in Inverness.”

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“Hamish MacRae.”

The belligerent grin slipped from his mouth, and Charles’s eyes blazed with a sudden fierce anger.

The two of them stared at each other before Hamish turned, and walked back to his horse.

He felt the other man’s gaze on him, and had the distinct feeling that he’d just made an enemy.

It was just as well; he didn’t care for the apprentice, either.

He sought out an inn, finding the Rose and Crown along a cross street. His mind was fixed not on the accommodations he and the innkeeper arranged, but on one question.

Where was Mary?

He thanked the innkeeper, arranged for his horse to be tended, and went up to his room. Closing the door behind him, he tossed his valise onto the bed and went to the window overlooking the street.

If she’d planned to avoid him, she might not return to the goldsmith’s shop. Then where would she go?

Elspeth heard the rumors first at the shop where she went to pick up a length of lace for her mother. Two women were talking, and she didn’t want to eavesdrop on their conversation, but their voices weren’t as muffled as they should have been.

“He’s very strict, but fair, my husband says.”

“As my Harold does. Because of him and other sheriffs like him, there’s little crime in Inverness.”

“But still, a woman of her reputation. Can it be true?”

“She’s a wealthy widow now, isn’t she?”

As Elspeth moved to one side of the room, they glanced at her, and moved away.

“Who are they talking about?” she asked the shop own er, and despite the fact that she’d known him for years, he looked at her as if she were a stranger.

“I’ve no idea,” he said curtly.

Her errand done, she made her way to the market, but before she ever crossed the bridge, she overheard more troubling talk. “Wasting away, he was, and Gordon always such a vital man.”

“But he was aged when he died, don’t forget that.”

“Who’s to say it wasn’t the effect of the poison?”

Inverness might be a bustling city, but at times it felt much smaller. Now it seemed as if everywhere she went she heard only talk, all of it about how, impossibly, Mary had poisoned her husband.