Page 44 of To Wed an Heiress
Lennox’s arm was burning like blazes, but the discomfort wasn’t enough to distract from his thoughts.
He had lost his aircraft and nearly his life. But for Mercy, he might have drowned.
He’d never met anyone like Mercy. Most women he knew—which was, he would admit, a small number—would have stood on the shore when he crashed, probably screaming. Mercy had, without any thought to her own safety, helped pull him free of the rope. Not once had she made a comment about her appearance. She hadn’t whined about her dress, the fact that she was barefoot, or soaked to the skin.
Even though she hadn’t wanted to stitch his arm, she’d done it without complaint. He’d known how difficult it had been for her. Her face had turned white and she’d trembled the entire time.
People were easier to figure out when he could put them in categories. He didn’t know where to put Mercy.
He liked her. In addition, there was something intriguing about Mercy and he always had the urge to solve a mystery. She’d come all the way from America for some reason. He didn’t know what it was any more than how long she was going to remain in Scotland.
She was unlike any heiress he’d met and he’d had the occasion to be paraded in front of a few of them in Edinburgh. As the brother of an earl, even an impecunious one, he’d been sought after as a guest. After a while the women he’d met had all seemed the same. Their appearance might differ, but not their character. Mercy didn’t preen. Nor was she coy. He couldn’t imagine her flirting. She was too direct for that. Nor did she talk about her wardrobe, her hats, or what she owned. They hadn’t discussed the weather and she hadn’t batted her eyelashes at him once.
After stripping off his clothes and putting them in front of the cold fireplace—less to dry them than to avoid a lecture from Irene—he finished toweling himself off before dressing again. He slid his hands into the leather grips of his brushes, making short work of his hair.
When had he become so concerned about his appearance that he stopped in front of the mirror to judge himself?
He turned away from his reflection, left his room, and with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, went to rejoin the woman who’d saved his life.
“Miss Mercy! Miss Mercy! What is wrong with her?”
“Nothing. She’s asleep.”
Mercy surfaced from a delightful dream to find Ruthie standing in front of her clutching the petticoats she’d removed on the shore of the loch. She was accompanied by Connor, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Lennox was also standing there, humor lighting his eyes.
How on earth had she forgotten about her unmentionables?
She closed her eyes and wished herself back asleep again. She would never survive the embarrassment of this moment.
“I found your slippers, too, Miss Mercy. And I brought your blue dress, the one with the flowers embroidered on the cuffs.”
She forced herself to open her eyes and look at Ruthie. “Thank you, Ruthie, but I didn’t expect you to come. You really shouldn’t have bothered.”
“Who else would you expect, Miss Mercy? I’ve only broken my arm. I’ve never been as bored as I have this past week. What I can’t manage I’ll ask for help with, but otherwise I’m not going to let anyone else do for you when I can.”
Had Ruthie always been so stubborn? Perhaps it was being in Scotland that brought out that trait in her.
“If you’ll come with me,” Lennox said, “I’ll show you where you can change.”
She half expected him to lead her into the tower, but he turned right outside the kitchen and down a corridor she hadn’t seen before. They came to a wide set of stairs leading to a second floor.
Mercy glanced backward to find Ruthie behind her, still gripping the offending petticoats. Connor was beside her, carrying a valise. The two of them were smiling at each other. If they weren’t careful, both of them would take a tumble down the stairs.
The corridor on the second floor was wide, carpeted with a beige runner heavily embroidered with a red-and-green flowered pattern. The walls looked to be made of the same stone as the floor throughout the castle.
“It’s the oldest part of Duddingston,” Lennox said. “Once, the family used to be large and these were all bedrooms. Now Irene is hard-pressed to keep them dusted.”
He opened one of the doors in the middle of the corridor and stepped back.
She preceded him into the room, stopping and looking around her. It would be possible to believe that she had stepped back into time itself. Perhaps even to when the castle was first constructed and still smelled of newly quarried stone and fresh mortar.
The spread and the hangings on the four-poster bed were emerald, the color of a forest on a bright summer day. The predominantly green tapestry hanging on the far wall was of a serpentine road leading to a knoll where a blonde woman was petting a small white unicorn. The only windows in the room were high up and without curtains, letting in the early afternoon light. An armoire and a small desk and chair completed the room’s furnishings. On the opposite wall from the bed was a fireplace, the mantel surround of black marble.
There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Everything was perfect and pristine as if a guest had been expected at any moment.
Connor put down her valise on the chair in front of the desk, smiled at Ruthie, and left the room.
“If you need anything,” Lennox said, “there’s a bell pull beside the fireplace.”
