Page 88 of To Wed an Heiress
The Macrorys had proven themselves to be idiots as they always did. The old woman had ordered him out of the house and Douglas had demanded that the fight end. Not one person, from Flora to the woman at the top of the stairs, had said a damn thing in defense of Mercy. If she’d been cosseted in New York, she certainly hadn’t had that experience in Scotland.
It was a sorry state of affairs when his conscience was more protective of Mercy than her relatives.
Once back at the castle he went to his bedroom, bathed his face, and inspected his wounds. He hadn’t fought anyone since he was a boy and his opponent had been Robert. This experience, however, had been a great deal more painful. His cheek was bruised and would be discolored in a day or two. He had a cut near his eye that was minor enough not to need attention. The pain in his ribs, however, made him want to return to Macrory House and deliver the same blow to Hamilton. He tended to himself then descended the steps, purposefully avoiding Irene, and headed for the Laird’s Room.
Once there he retrieved his drawings for his bubble shower. It was a new design, something that had occurred to him one night when he couldn’t sleep. The bathing system mimicked a storm, where the water poured down from the top of the apparatus and was disposed of in a drain on the floor.
He’d heard of similar inventions, but he’d never seen one. Building it would keep his mind off other issues, things he didn’t want to think about right at the moment.
Like how he was sure his ribs were, if not broken, then badly bruised. Or how Mercy had looked when he’d accused her of sleeping with him only to get out of marrying Gregory.
Had she been right? Was the bastard only after her money?
He closed his eyes and willed himself to stop thinking about her. Whatever she’d said or done no longer mattered. She’d be gone from Scotland shortly and he should wipe his mind clean of her memory starting now.
As soon as Connor got back to Duddingston, he’d outfit the airship with the new sails. He hoped the weather wouldn’t slow Connor down because the wind was always higher around Ben Uaine after a rollicking storm. There, something else to anticipate and take his mind off Mercy.
He adjusted his stool, lit the lamp beside his sloping desk, and applied himself to his sketch. He thought that if he brought up the water to about seven or eight feet by the simple expedient of a pump, whoever was using the shower could simply turn a handle to release it or stop the flow.
It might even be possible, depending on where the shower was installed, to incorporate some kind of cistern with it. That would mean that there would be less pumping and more gravity at work.
He put the pencil down and scowled at the page. The design should work, but he wasn’t interested in it as he always was when making something new. He couldn’t see the shower for Mercy’s face. Even now, alone in the Laird’s Room, the scent of her delicate perfume seemed to linger in the air.
He shouldn’t have said what he had. He shouldn’t have humiliated her in front of her family. He’d been cruel and that wasn’t like him.
How had she done it? How had she stripped him of his character to the extent he didn’t recognize himself?
He tossed his pencil down onto the drawing board and decided that, ribs or not, he needed a visit to Ben Uaine.
Chapter Forty-One
For three days Mercy remained in her room with Ruthie. The maid was in fine superstition form. Ruthie saw omens in everything, the latest a dropped fork which she swore meant that an unexpected visitor was about to appear.
Mercy told her about the news Gregory had delivered—that her father was on his way to Scotland.
“Oh, Miss Mercy,” Ruthie said, sitting heavily on the side of the bed.
They exchanged a look.
James Rutherford didn’t leave his empire lightly. Mercy was only too aware of the ramifications of her father’s decision. She would be required to apologize for her behavior until the day he died.
“And the tea leaves, Miss Mercy. They told me that someone would be getting a letter.”
On numerous occasions she’d tried to coax Ruthie out of believing that everything was a superstition. Now she didn’t even try.
No doubt the letter would be from her mother, tear stained and filled with words that hurt to read.
Her grandmother had tried to gain admittance into Mercy’s room more than once in the past three days. On each occasion, Mercy had barred the door and claimed illness, which wasn’t far from the truth. She was sick at heart.
She tried to act calm around Ruthie and most of the time was successful. At night, however, she stood at her window, wishing that it faced toward Duddingston Castle, and remembered every moment of that enchanted stormy night with Lennox.
Would she bear a child? The question should have paralyzed her with fear. Instead, she only felt a sense of waiting, knowing that the answer would reveal itself in due time.
Time slowed, each separate minute seeming to last ten times that. The days were interminable and not because she remained cloistered in her self-imposed prison. She was in pain, but it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. It wasn’t physical as much as emotional and seemed to grow worse with each passing hour.
She’d allowed Lennox to walk away. She couldn’t forgive herself for that. Would his pride allow him to hear her out? Perhaps he would read a letter she wrote if Irene carried it back to him.
The knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it, thinking it was Ruthie returning from an errand. Instead, it was Mrs. West with the noon tray.
