Page 41 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

Horrified, Elspeth made her way to Mary’s house.

Her mother often said that some of the best news to be found in Inverness was not at the taverns, but at Gordon’s shop.

People had a tendency to congregate there, especially the wealthy and more prosperous citizens.

Often, in the afternoon, there would be at least four or five gentlemen in the front of the store engaged in conversation.

She doubted that their talk always centered on jewelry or the cost of gold.

The front door was closed and locked, and it was evident from the fact that there was no movement inside that Charles had closed the shop for the day. Undaunted, she went around to the back of the house.

“I told you she isn’t here,” he said, opening the door to her knock. “Forgive me, Miss Grant,” he said an instant later. “I thought you were someone else.”

He moved aside so that she could enter.

“Have you heard what they’re saying about Mary?” she asked.

The foyer was decorated with French wallpaper in a narrow brown and beige stripe.

The floors were always highly polished and the sideboards on either wall were dusted each day.

Now, however, there was a general air of disuse.

Dead flowers were standing stiffly in the crystal vase that Mary loved, and no one had thought to replenish them.

The drapes at the window had not been opened, and no sunlight filtered into the foyer.

The room looked as cold and lifeless as Charles’s smile.

Charles stood at the end of the hall as if to bar her from continuing farther into the house. From the look of the entranceway, Elspeth thought that was perhaps a good thing. She didn’t want to see what he’d done to Mary’s lovely home in her absence.

“Have you heard what they’re saying about Mary?” she asked again. “It seems as if the entire city is talking about her and Gordon.”

His expression didn’t change, but she had the feeling that the news she conveyed wasn’t a surprise to him.

Since Betty was nowhere about, and she was without a companion, being there was not a wise thing.

She turned and would have left, but for Charles’s hand clasped tightly on her shoulder.

He spun her around so that she faced him again.

Any comment that she would have made simply faded away at the expression on his face.

She’d never seen him as enraged as he appeared now.

Up until Gordon’s death, Charles had been little more than a shadow in the background of her life.

She rarely had any dealings with him, and when Mary spoke of him, it was in an offhand, detached way.

He’d only become more prominent since Gordon’s death.

Now, as he stood in front of her, in Mary’s house, his lip curled in an expression of disdain, Elspeth realized how much she disliked him.

“She brought any trouble on herself.”

“How can you say that? You know as well as I do that she loved Gordon. She would never have harmed him.”

He didn’t answer her.

Reaching behind her, she opened the door, turning to escape before he could grab her again. Once on the steps outside she rearranged her dress, looking back at the goldsmith’s shop.

Something was terribly wrong, a feeling that only intensified as she stared at Mary’s house. Determined to discover what it was, she made her way to the market.

Hamish consulted his pocket watch before deciding that there was enough left of the day to find where Elspeth Grant lived. An hour later, after having asked another person for directions, he found the place.

He stood in front of the house, a pleasant enough looking whitewashed dwelling. A series of windows faced the street, each equipped with flower boxes now empty for winter. A brisk wind swirled around the corner of the building as if in greeting.

Gripping the brass knocker mounted in the middle of the ebony door, he let it fall heavily.

The woman who answered the door a few minutes later was quite evidently not a maid. Her dress was in the style Mary had worn, the material as expensive. He’d transported silks halfway across the world; he could easily gauge their cost in a glance.

“My name is Hamish MacRae,” he said, introducing himself.

“Brendan’s brother?” she interjected, before he could finish.

He nodded.

She startled him by reaching out and gripping his sleeve and pulling him inside the house.

“I am Nan Grant, and Brendan has told me of you. But I’m surprised to see you here,” she admitted. “Are you well enough to travel, then?” With a quick glance she surveyed him thoroughly, the way his mother or Mary would, seemingly to ascertain his health and his well-being.

“I am,” he said, wondering exactly what Brendan had told her. Something to assuage her suspicions and guarantee Mary’s reputation, no doubt. “I owe my good health to Mrs. Gilly,” he said.

She smiled. “I owe my son Jack’s as well to her. Did you know that she saved his life?”

Hamish nodded. Nan turned and walked through the hall, opening an interior door. She gestured to him. “Come in, Mr. MacRae, and welcome to our home.”

The chamber he entered was a parlor whose walls were lined in a pale pink striped silk.

A black iron mantel dominated a far wall, fronted by two settees, each upholstered in a green floral fabric and arranged so that they faced each other.

Wealth was evident in the room, but comfort made it cozy.

A needlework frame sat in front of one chair, and a pipe table adjacent to another.

It looked to Hamish as if it was a chamber in which a family gathered, and often.

“Won’t you sit?” she asked, taking a seat on the settee and looking at him expectantly.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a place opposite her while she reached behind her to pull a bell rope.

“How is Mary?” she asked, that pleasant smile anchored in place. He didn’t, however, miss the sharp look in her eye. Mrs. Grant was not to be fooled. He felt as if he trod atop the catacombs of Rome. One false step would send him tumbling into the depths below.

“I don’t know,” he said, deciding that honesty was the best approach.

She looked startled, but before she could speak, a young maid appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Grant directed her attention to her. “Bring us some tea, Bridget,” she said. Turning to Hamish, she asked, “Would you like something to eat?”

Hamish shook his head.

“Bring some of Cook’s cake anyway,” she ordered. “Perhaps a few biscuits as well. Cook makes the most delectable shortbread,” she added in an aside to Hamish.

The moment the maid left, she turned to him. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Where is Mary?”

“Haven’t you seen her lately?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Has your daughter seen or talked to her recently?”

Mrs. Grant folded her hands, and leaned forward. “Why are you asking, Mr. MacRae?”

“Mary left a day ago. I thought she might have returned to Inverness.”

“But she isn’t here,” she said. “Have you gone to her home?”

“Yes, but she isn’t there, either,” Hamish said.

Suddenly, she looked as worried as he felt.

“But that’s not right,” she said. “Have you talked to Charles? Has he heard from her?”

“I have, and he says not.”

“Then where can she be?”

The door opened, and he heard Brendan’s voice and that of an older man. Mrs. Grant stood, looking first to ward him and then back at the door. A tall man with stooped shoulders entered, limping, followed by a boy and Brendan.

An instant after Brendan noticed him, his brother came forward, grinning at Hamish.

“What are you doing here, Hamish?” Brendan asked, clasping him on the arm. “Have you decided to leave your hermitage for good, then?”

“I might ask you the same, Brendan,” Hamish said in a low tone. “I thought you were in a fever to get yourself back to Gilmuir and your ship.”

“Go and ready yourself for luncheon,” Mrs. Grant said to a young boy who entered the room. “Wash your hands well, Jack.”

The boy nodded reluctantly, staring at Hamish as if he’d never seen a stranger in their parlor.

“My husband,” she said, introducing Mr. Grant. Hamish stepped forward and greeted the other man. “Hamish MacRae, sir,” he said.

Mr. Grant was a tall man with graying brown hair that ended in muttonchop sideburns. His face was pale, as if he’d spent his life inside a shadowed room, but his blue eyes were lively.

“Horace Grant, and I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” he said, smiling easily at Hamish. He limped to the wing chair and placed his feet up on the ottoman. “You’ll have to pardon my informality, sir, but we’ve just come from the distillery, and I’ve been on my feet for too long.”

“As glad as I am to see you, Hamish,” Brendan said, turning back to him, “I can’t help but wonder why you’re here.”

“He’s looking for Mary,” Mrs. Grant interjected.

“She’s not with you?” Brendan asked. His brother’s voice was carefully devoid of expression, but his eyes were concerned.

Hamish shook his head, repeating the facts he’d told Mrs. Grant.

“Where do you think she is?” Mr. Grant asked.

“I don’t know,” Hamish said. “My only alternative is to retrace her steps. Perhaps she decided to take a different road, or stopped to care for someone.”

“Do you think that likely?” Brendan asked, looking doubtful.

“Anything is possible,” Hamish said shortly. Especially since she’d left him. He hadn’t expected that.

Mrs. Grant turned from the sideboard, where she’d poured three glasses. She passed Brendan and Hamish each a glass, and then frowned at her husband when he held his up to the light. His portion was half that of the others.

“I have a touch of gout,” he explained, “and Mary and my wife think to make me well by refusing me one of life’s pleasures.”

“It’s a very good whiskey,” Hamish said, sipping from his drink.

“I was fortunate to inherit a prosperous distillery,” Mr. Grant said, nodding his thanks.

“Which he has only made better,” Mrs. Grant declared loyally. “There is no finer whiskey in Scotland than Black Wing.”

“For all that I don’t get to partake very often.” Despite his words, Mr. Grant sent a fond smile toward his wife before addressing another remark to Hamish. “Have you talked with Charles?”

“I have. He says that he hasn’t seen her.”

“Do you think he was lying?” Hamish glanced at the older man, who smiled. “Your expression is such that it makes me think you doubt his words.”

“I’m not certain,” Hamish said. He hesitated for a moment, and then spoke the rest of his thought. “I didn’t like the man, and I think he knows more than he’s telling.”

Mr. Grant didn’t appear discomfited by his honesty. He only smiled and continued to sip from his glass. “I must admit that the man disturbs me somewhat as well. He seems almost toadying in his behavior, but if you watch his eyes, you get a different feeling.”

“Nor does her behavior sound like Mary,” Mrs. Grant said. “Not at all. She wouldn’t have people worry about her like this. She’d make certain we knew where she was.”

He nodded, thinking the same. But had she, in an effort to escape him, put herself in jeopardy? Something was wrong, he was certain of it.

All three of them looked as worried as he felt.

“Did you speak with Betty?” Mrs. Grant asked.

“The maid? I did. She professed the same ignorance.”

“Then I’m certain that’s all she knows. Betty would find it very difficult to lie.”

They heard the front door open, and Mrs. Grant stood. “That will be Mr. Marshall. Perhaps he will have some suggestions for our dilemma.”

“Matthew Marshall?” Hamish asked.

She nodded. “Do you know of him?”

“Mary is very much taken with his teachings,” Hamish said, remembering the dogeared book in her medicine chest.

“But of course she is. That’s why we were so disappointed when she could not meet with him.

” Mrs. Grant stood and walked to the parlor door.

“Do you think she returned to Inverness to see Mr. Marshall?” “I don’t know,” Hamish said honestly.

He was running out of places to look for Mary and ideas where next to go.

Mrs. Grant opened the door, greeting her visitor as he entered the room. Taking his hat and cloak, she waved him to the settee.

“Luncheon will be served in less than an hour, sir,” she said, looking as anxious to please as Betty, the young maid, had been.

Mr. Marshall, a tall man dressed in severe black, nodded absently. “I hope that you’ve not gone to any trouble on my behalf, madam. I have simple needs.”

She bustled around him, as Mr. Grant leaned across to Hamish. “He’s been our guest for nearly a month now, and he says the same thing before every meal. It doesn’t stop my wife from feeding him royally, or Mr. Marshall from partaking of our food as if he’s starved himself for a fortnight.”

The minister allowed Mrs. Grant to remove his coat and hang it on the coat rack beside the door. A moment later, he sat on the settee beside Brendan.

“I didn’t know that you’d be staying in Inverness for so long,” Hamish said, remembering the meeting Mary had given up in order to remain with him.

“Indeed, I did not plan to,” Marshall said, smiling in an absentminded way. “But I’ve had the most wonderful luck with a Scottish inventor who’s been working on advancements to my electrical machine.”

Mr. Grant made a face and stood, murmuring some excuse. Mrs. Grant made to leave the room as well, giving Hamish the impression that the subject had been well discussed in the Grant household.

Just then the door opened once more, and a lovely young woman with large blue eyes and silvery blond hair entered.

“My daughter Elspeth,” Mr. Grant said.

Brendan stood, the expectant expression on his face giving Hamish a hint as to why his brother was delaying his return to Gilmuir.

She halted at the sight of him. Hamish stood, bowed slightly.

“I’d like you to meet my brother, Elspeth,” Brendan said. “Hamish is the patient Mary was treating.”

She came forward to stand directly in front of Hamish.

“Have you seen Mary, Elspeth?” Brendan asked. “She seems to be missing.”

“I know exactly where she is,” she said, removing her bonnet. It was only then that Hamish realized Elspeth had been crying. As he watched, her eyes puddled with tears.

“She’s in the jail, Mr. MacRae. She’s been arrested. They say she murdered her husband.”