A Scottish Love Read Free

dying was the final repudiation. I’ve decided to take over the Works.”
    Fergus’s eyebrows rose.
    “You’ve left the army entirely, then?”
    He nodded.
    “To do what? Make gunpowder?”
    “For now. I’ve an idea, however, something that I’ve been working on for a while now.”
    Helen was suddenly there, a tray in her hands.
    “I’ve brought a wee dram of whiskey for you, Sir Gordon, and tea for you, Fergus.”
    “Why does he get whiskey?” Fergus complained.
    Helen just clucked her tongue, but didn’t answer.
    He took both the cup and glass from her, thanked her, and the minute she went back inside, handed the glass to Fergus.
    Fergus downed the whiskey in one swallow, leaving Gordon to stare at the tea. The brew smelled of flowers—or stinkweed—and was weak enough he could see the bottom of the cup.
    “What is this?” he asked, taking a tentative sip.
    “Something to build up my blood, I think. I never know what god-awful concoction Shona or Helen has dreamed up now. They’re bustling around me all hours of the day and night.” He glanced toward the house. “In fact, I’m surprised one of them hasn’t come out and rescued me and put me down for my nap. I should probably thank you for that.”
    He didn’t want to talk about Shona now.
    “So about the baronetcy—” Fergus began.
    “More my father’s work than mine,” he said, interrupting.
    Fergus shot him a look. “Not what I hear. I repeat, you’re a damn national treasure.”
    He shrugged.
    “You’ve gone and gotten modest. Unlike you, Gordon.”
    He smiled, suddenly glad he’d come. No one else poked at him like Fergus. Perhaps he needed that.
    Fergus placed the glass on the arm of the chair. His hand trembled with the effort, an indication of how weak he really was.
    “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?” He patted Fergus’s arm, hating the thin frailty of it.
    “Come and see me from time to time,” Fergus said. “Rescue me from the care of women.”
    “That I’ll do,” he said.
    “Even if Shona refuses you.”
    “I won’t give up,” he said, standing. “You know that much about me.”
    “You did once,” Fergus said.
    Those words were a damn bullet to the heart.
    H e smiled with ease, charming Fergus into a laugh. Her brother hadn’t laughed in a good long time. Perhaps she should forgive Gordon for that alone.
    Once, she would have forgiven him anything.
    The past swooped in like an arrow’s point, spearing her heart.
    “He’s got a bright future, Shona,” General MacDermond had said, standing in the Acanthus Parlor at Gairloch. A particularly odious room colored olive green, with carvings of acanthus leaves strewn over the ceiling in a montage that had pleased one of her ancestors.
    “You can see, surely, that if he remains here, that future will be blighted.”
    “He has the Works,” she’d said, aware that Gordon had inherited the three armament factories belonging to his maternal grandfather.
    His father had glossed over that with a thin smile.
    “If he marries you, Shona,” he’d said, his voice strangely kind when he’d never been kind to her in the past, “it will be because he pities you. Or because you’re Fergus’s sister. I doubt you’d want to be such a burden.”
    They’d been in such desperate straits, however, that she’d known something had to be done, including marrying the first wealthy man who’d offered for her. Someone who hadn’t wanted to marry her out of pity.
    But marrying Bruce hadn’t turned out at all well.
    Here she was, seven years later, in an even worse situation. Now, not only did Fergus need her help, but Helen depended upon her, too. This time, marriage wasn’t a solution to their problems.
    Nor was thinking about the past.
    She had a plan, however, and unfortunately, Gordon MacDermond was going to have to play a role in it.
    “I promise I’ll be back,” Gordon said. “Even if it means bodily moving Shona to see you.”
    Fergus only chuckled,