Page 6 of To Wed an Heiress
Love made a man lose his mind. Even instant attraction dulled his wits somewhat.
As he opened the cupboard, the bell rang again. He had to answer the door. No doubt the American woman would call him insane again. Or call him names because he’d almost killed Miss Gallagher. He hadn’t, but he did bear a sizable measure of guilt. He should have asked Connor to stand watch and ensure that no one was traveling on the road from Inverness.
A carriage accident had killed his brother. Lennox had nearly caused the same catastrophe, albeit because of an oversight.
He doubted if it would be wise to apologize, however. The American woman—and she was only the third American he’d met, not counting Miss Gallagher—didn’t look the type to appreciate an apology. Instead, she would probably consider it an admission of his insanity.
She was attractive, but a fair face didn’t necessarily accompany good character. Beautiful women were difficult, mainly because they knew they were beautiful. Instead of viewing their looks as an accident of birth, they seemed to think that it was a boon bestowed by God. As if it made them somehow different, better, and special among other women.
He would much rather prefer a plain woman with a kind heart than someone like the American who was evidently well versed in sounding arrogant and behaving the same.
This was Scotland and he was a Scot. She evidently didn’t realize what that meant. He didn’t obey orders well. Nor did he appreciate someone calling him names.
The bell rang again, and this time he closed the cupboard with a bang and left the kitchen.
Mercy rang the bell four times and wondered, despite the fact that she could hear it, if it was audible to anyone in the castle. She could always walk around and head for the curtain wall and see if there was a door there.
The door finally opened and he stood there. She hadn’t truly noted his appearance earlier. No doubt that was due to the accident and her shock at what had happened.
Mr. Caitheart was extraordinarily attractive. His face was square, his chin well defined, and more than a little stubborn. His nose reminded her of a Roman general’s bust she’d once seen in a museum. His cheekbones were prominent, but again the impression she got was of obstinacy, even in his features. His black hair was still mussed as if he hadn’t taken the opportunity to put himself to rights after the accident.
He had the most direct and intense blue eyes she’d ever seen, and as he wordlessly stared at her, she had the absurd desire to explain herself and apologize for disturbing him.
Instead, she asked, “How is Ruthie?”
“She’s fine,” he said stepping back as if he expected her to enter his home without an invitation.
She remained where she was.
“And her arm?”
“I’ve set it,” he said. “I’ve used a splint and bandages. When you get to where you’re going you should have it examined again.”
His voice was interesting, deep and compelling, especially with his accent. She almost wanted to ask him to keep speaking, if he could do so without being boorish.
“You’re still bleeding,” he said, frowning at her.
“It’s only an annoyance,” she said. “The cut isn’t that large.”
“Head wounds bleed.” He reached out and grabbed her arm, surprising her.
“You sound as if you are a physician yourself, Mr. Caitheart.”
“We live in the Highlands, miss. You need to be a master of many trades here. There aren’t doctors around every corner. You need to be treated.”
With that, he pulled her into his castle. Hardly a gracious invitation, but she had no choice but to go with him.
Chapter Four
The anteroom—she hesitated calling it a foyer—had been dark. The room she entered was lit by the sun and much larger than she expected.
She pulled her arm free of Mr. Caitheart’s grip, allowing her gaze to travel up the various arches and to the stained-glass windows high up on one wall. For a moment she thought this space might have once been a chapel, but then she realized that the windows didn’t depict any kind of religious images. Instead, they showed scenes of battle and all the red in the windows must represent blood.
On the walls were various pendants and flags along with cudgels, swords, and instruments of war that looked as if they could deliver a painful death.
She doubted if either of the fireplaces on opposite sides of the room would warm the area much. Summer in the Highlands was like autumn in New York. Even now, in the middle of July, the space was chilly. She could only imagine what it would be like in the depths of winter.
The sun streaming in through various spots in the roof created patches of bright white light on the stone floor. Other than a few benches along the wall and two throne-like chairs in front of one fireplace, the cavernous space was unfurnished.
