A Scottish Love by Karen Ranney Page A

were completely revealed.
    “And she was a fine cook,” Gordon said, reentering the room. “I remember her Scottish tablets.”
    Her smile became a little less genuine and a little more fixed.
    How many times had she taken a plateful to Gordon, when they were due to meet one afternoon? How many times had they fed them to each other, the chocolate or orange sweetness a perfect accompaniment to their loving?
    “I can make stew,” she said, turning to stare at the pantry shelves again. “And scones. I make delicious scones.” She’d taken him scones on numerous occasions as well.
    Her stomach had stopped rumbling and in its place was a pain so fierce she thought she might be sick.
    Go away. Go away. Go away .
    “But for now, you’ll have what Mrs. MacKenzie sent over,” Gordon said, holding a large ceramic container aloft. “A rice and fish dish that’s her specialty.”
    She stared at him. Was there no end to his kindness? Damn him.
    Helen reached for the container, smiling. Shona didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because she simply escaped the kitchen. Instead of taking the servants’ stairs, she went around to the front, concentrating on each one of the curving steps, the better to focus on something else—anything else—than Colonel Sir Gordon MacDermond.
    A man she’d loved once. A man she’d adored with her body, her mind, her heart, and her very soul. A man who’d been her companion in spirit and laughter, who’d held her when she wept. A man with whom she’d felt neither shame nor restraint.
    A man who’d died in her memory not once but a thousand times. He could not be resurrected now. She would not allow it.
    “Are you all right, Shona?”
    Helen was at the base of the steps, her face anxious.
    “I’m fine, thank you,” she said carefully. I want to be alone for a while. No, that was too rude, wasn’t it? “I need to wash up a little,” she said. Never mind that she hadn’t a fresh pitcher of water. In Inverness, they’d had a boiler to produce hot water. At Gairloch, everything was done just as it had been done a hundred years ago.
    “Oh, what a good idea,” Helen said, putting ruin to the thought of being blessedly alone. “Shall I bring up some hot water?”
    She smiled. Would Helen see how much her lips trembled from there? She hoped not. If her companion knew how tenuous her composure, she’d have to spend the next hour explaining that she was truly all right. It was just the press of memory.
    “Thank you, that would be nice.”
    Helen disappeared, and she completed her ascent. Instead of entering the room they’d shared last night, she walked down the hall, to the third door. For a moment, she simply leaned against it, the wood cool against her forehead. She shut her eyes, and pretended that it was ten years ago, before her parents’ death, before things changed at Gairloch. She was seventeen, and laughter was her constant companion.
    She entered the room and immediately crossed to the window. Most of Gairloch’s glass was so thick and wavy that it was impossible to see through. In the bedrooms, however, the glass had been replaced fifty years ago and the view was clear and without distortion. There, directly below her, was the edge of the lawn at Gairloch, an area created only after the clan ceased going off and returning from war. A formal garden had been planned for years now, and the beds just recently marked out. Beyond the lawn was the forest, stretching northward toward the loch.
    To her right was a clearing, this one carefully delineated and marked by a rigid boundary of brick and stone. Rathmhor.
    Its silly little tower stood as it had ten years ago. If she was still seventeen, she’d be looking for a signal, a flash of mirror, a wave of cloth. She’d smile, then laugh, then leave Gairloch to be with Gordon.
    Summer or winter, spring or autumn, she’d found a way to be with him. It was Mag who’d told her of the way to prevent a child. Mag, who’d