Page 84 of To Wed an Heiress
Irene shrugged. “To get a carriage to take her to Inverness. To mend fences. To marry that fool man from America. What do I know?”
“Did she say anything?” he asked, knowing that he sounded like an idiot for asking. Did she impart some information that might mitigate this odd and unwelcome feeling of abandonment?
“Did she leave word for you? That she didn’t. She was all for getting to Macrory House as quickly as her feet could carry her.”
He knew. In that instant he knew what she’d done.
Without another word he left the kitchen, walked quickly down the corridor, and took the stairs two at a time. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Irene. He wanted to see for himself.
He pushed open the door so hard that it bounced against the wall and stood staring at the tangled covers of the bed.
Marry me. If you won’t marry me will you take me to your bed?
He should have seen it then, but he’d been shocked by her words, then overcome with desire, passion, lust—any word was acceptable. He should have known, but he hadn’t, only seeing what he’d wanted to see.
He’d been manipulated. She hadn’t wanted to marry Gregory so what was the easiest way to escape that marriage? Bed another man. Ruin herself. Lose her virginity. Gregory wouldn’t want her then. In addition, she’d amused herself by bedding a Scot.
Why the hell hadn’t he seen it?
Perhaps he should give orders that this room be locked, the door barred. An ax should be taken to the bed, regardless of its history. If nothing else, he should drag the mattress down to the courtyard, torch it, and watch it burn until it was nothing more than ash.
She’d used him. For a few hours he’d forgotten everything but her. He’d held her in his arms as she slept and marveled at her beauty. He’d loved her again in the dawn light, knowing he’d never forget those moments. In the morning he wanted to tell her things he’d never told anyone, show her the new plans he’d drawn for a few inventions, and share his thoughts.
He’d spent too many damn hours thinking about the woman and wondering about her. He should have seen who she truly was rather than who she’d portrayed herself to be.
What a fool he’d been.
She’d left him. Easily, simply, without a backward glance or an apology of any sort. She’d used him, then she left him.
Something in the corner caught his attention. He strode to the opposite side of the room and stood staring down at Mercy’s valise. The valise filled with money. Had she thought to pay him for last night’s services? He’d never felt anything like the rage that suddenly consumed him.
Bending, he grabbed the valise and made for the stairs, emotion blinding him to any thought but reaching Mercy.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Things like that happen when people feel a certain way about each other.
Mercy thought about Irene’s words all the way back to Macrory House. A certain way. What did she feel for Lennox? Was it love? If so, it didn’t match any of the poetry or the novels she had read. There was nothing calming or sweet about this emotion. It swept all her thoughts away, made her act in ways she’d never envisioned, rendered her temporarily senseless. If this was love, then it needed another name, something violent and awe-inspiring.
She hesitated at the kitchen door. She didn’t fool herself that she was going to be welcome inside Macrory House. She wouldn’t be staying. Instead, she and Ruthie would leave today. If her relatives wouldn’t agree to loan her a carriage, she’d ask directions to the village and walk there. Somehow, she’d find a way to Inverness.
Finally, she opened the door and walked through the kitchen, trying to ignore the looks from all the maids. Whispers followed her. They weren’t unkind, merely speculative.
She glanced at the clock over the door. Nearly ten. She’d wanted to get an earlier start, but it really didn’t matter what time she returned to Macrory House. Her absence would no doubt have been noted regardless of the time.
She’d barely made it to the corridor when she heard Ailsa’s voice.
“You must put a guard on the doors at night,” she was saying. “Behavior of this sort will not be tolerated.”
No doubt her grandmother was talking to McNaughton, who must have alerted Ailsa to the fact that Mercy hadn’t been in the house last night. Why else would she be out of her room at this hour?
Mercy stopped and steadied herself, her hands at her waist. Her dress was nearly ruined from the rain and from being dried over the screen. Her petticoats were still limp and she hadn’t laced her corset very tight. Her hair was a disaster since she hadn’t had a brush or comb with her.
She was as reputable looking as she possibly could be, but she would certainly fail any inspection. Rather than delay, however, she squared her shoulders, reminded herself about courage, and followed Ailsa’s voice.
Her grandmother was standing on one of the lower steps of the impressive staircase, attired in a scarlet quilted dressing gown. Her white hair was arranged in the usual coronet atop her head. She stood as straight as one of the balusters, her right hand on the banister. When she caught sight of Mercy, she nodded crisply at McNaughton who bowed slightly and turned.
Both of them frowned at Mercy.
