Page 110 of To Wed an Heiress
“It’s the Caitheart tartan,” she said. “If you’re getting married, Lennox, you should do so as a Scot.”
“Have you kept it all this time?” he asked, going to the bed and fingering the fabric.
Robert had been a stickler for wearing a kilt, choosing to do so on every conceivable occasion. He’d been annoyed that Lennox hadn’t done so as well. He hadn’t bothered telling his older brother that life in Edinburgh wasn’t as true to tradition as at Duddingston. Nor had he taken to wearing it in the past five years.
“He would have wanted you to wear it tonight,” Irene said.
He nodded, agreeing. “Thank you, Irene.”
She didn’t respond, merely turned and walked back to the stairs, leaving him alone with his memories.
He finished shaving, then went to the armoire for a white shirt. At the bottom of the folds of tartan were the knee-high socks that went with the kilt as well as the sporran.
As he arranged the folds, he heard the echo of Robert’s voice instructing him in the art of wearing a kilt. Robert had been more than his older brother; he’d given him most of his life lessons. The only thing Robert hadn’t taught him was how to bury his beloved brother, the last of his family, and endure that loss.
When he finished and donned a dark blue jacket, he felt as if a metamorphosis was complete. Gone was the man who’d once studied in Edinburgh. That young man had been replaced by the Earl of Morton, the last in a line of distinguished Highland Scots.
Leaving his tower bedroom, he headed toward the oldest part of Duddingston, to the library. Here he felt his brother’s spirit the strongest.
He opened the door, then closed it again, taking in the shadowed light, the desk that Robert had kept so neat and which was always messy under his ownership. All he felt was silence and a surprising sense of peace.
“Forgive me,” he said, speaking to Robert’s spirit as if it dwelled in this room. “For a time I hated you for dying and leaving all this to me. I knew it wasn’t your choice, but I resented my life having to change. I ascribed to you demands you never made. Forgive me for that.”
He’d never experienced the joy and honor Robert had felt being the Earl of Morton. He’d never looked on Duddingston as a prize for being a Caitheart.
Instead, his life had been a facade, a faint replica of Robert’s. He’d lived as a hermit in a world that felt alien to him. Only recently, after looking through Mercy’s eyes, had he begun to see what Robert had known: the glory of the history of Duddingston Castle, the privilege of being its steward, the strength of the heritage that was his.
In the past five years he’d crafted his own life here. He’d carried on with his inventions and insisted on flying his airship. Yet neither Duddingston nor the earldom had ever required him to be a hermit. That he’d offered up as some sort of penance for not wanting to be here. A sacrifice for disloyal thoughts.
It had taken Mercy to show him, without words, how wrong he’d been.
Of course Robert had found love with Mary. Even Duddingston Castle and the Caitheart heritage wasn’t worth continuing without the promise of love.
Not even the ability to fly was enough on its own.
“I never felt like I lived up to your example. Until now.” He smiled. “Wish me well, brother.”
He left the room and walked down the corridor to the Clan Hall. Connor and Ruthie were standing there waiting for him. Connor was attired in a kilt as well, the blue-green tartan reminding Lennox of the Black Watch. Ruthie had on a green dress with a clan badge that matched Connor’s tartan on her bodice. It was as distinctive as a sign saying that they were bound together and soon to be married.
Lennox greeted them and a few minutes later they all walked toward the front entrance. Irene was standing there attired in a dark blue dress with a tartan shawl, looking as festive as if she was on her way to a party.
He wanted his friends around him when they entered Macrory House. They would be the witnesses to his marriage.
He smiled and led the way to battle.
Chapter Fifty
A valise was sitting outside the room Mercy had been given. It was all she needed for tonight. The rest of her baggage was still in the carriage.
“We’ll be leaving early,” her father said. “Just after dawn. The ship is waiting for us and I don’t want to hold it up.”
Heaven forbid the captain be inconvenienced. Rutherford ships were occasionally known for setting speed records, but mostly for sticking to their schedules. Cargo was delivered when it was quoted. Passengers could anticipate arriving at their destination on the exact date printed in the timetable. An act of God, such as a storm, had no effect on a Rutherford ship.
Or on James Rutherford.
“I do not want to be gone from home any longer than I must, Mercy,” he said, giving her a stern look.
“It was your decision to come to Scotland, Father. One that you made of your own free will. Something that I do not possess. If you’re seeking an apology from me you won’t get it.”
