Page 7 of To Wed an Heiress
“What is this place?” she asked.
“It’s the Clan Hall,” he said, striding away from her.
She had no recourse but to follow him. He led her down a covered corridor with windows open to a pleasant summer breeze before entering a large kitchen smelling faintly of fish.
The room was dominated by an enormous fireplace on one wall. A wrought-iron frame held cauldrons, a tea kettle, and various pots, all waiting for the fire to be lit. The logs were at least six feet long and looked as if they would burn for a week. This was probably the warmest spot in the castle during the winter months.
Two windows lit the space, each on opposite walls. The east-facing window held a dozen or more clay pots bearing a selection of plants. The west-facing window was bare and faced the loch. The sight of the sunset over the water must be magnificent.
A rectangular table sat in front of the fire along with an assortment of chairs and stools. Ruthie was sitting at the table, her right arm bandaged and held close to her body in a sling made from a piece of leather.
As they entered, the man who’d been sitting beside Ruthie stood and smiled at Mercy. He was very tall, with dark brown hair, and warm brown eyes.
She couldn’t help but smile back.
“Connor Ross,” Mr. Caitheart said in a begrudging tone.
Did he never cease being rude?
“Welcome to Duddingston Castle,” Connor said.
At least now she had a name for the place. She smiled in response and walked toward Ruthie.
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better, Miss Mercy,” Ruthie said. “Connor has given me the most bracing cup of tea.”
“And a tincture,” Connor added. “Something to dull the pain.”
“Oh, Ruthie, I am sorry,” she said.
Glancing over at Mr. Caitheart, she willed him to add his apologies to hers. After all, they were here because of him and his outlandish dragon of a machine.
He remained silent, but not immobile. Before she could ask what he was doing, he grabbed her arm again and forced her onto a chair at the end of the table.
She was about to tell him that he didn’t have the right to manhandle her, thank you very much, when he bent low and peered at her head. She had no choice but to put both her valise and reticule on the floor beside her.
“It’s only a small cut,” she said.
“It’s larger than you think.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re not.”
He went to a cupboard, gathered up a few items, then returned to her side where he laid a bag and a bottle of whiskey on top of the table.
“It’s not necessary, really,” she began, only for him to cut her off.
“You have a gash on your head, Miss Mercy,” he said.
She really should have told him that her name wasn’t Miss Mercy, at least not to him. The proper way to address her was Miss Rutherford. Yet the sound of her first name uttered in a Scottish accent was so intriguing that she kept silent.
“Lennox, I’ll take Ruthie out to the garden for a little while. The sun will be good for her.”
Lennox only nodded, being involved in pulling Mercy’s hair out by the roots.
“Could you be a little more gentle?” she said.
