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Love and desire had taken him in so forceful a grip he had actually trembled.
He wanted her.
A moment earlier Rory had intended to be a hero, to play the martyr, but he knew now he wasn’t going to do that. He was going to fight for what he wanted.
His decision had been made in an instant. Just as he’d made the last one, the night he overheard the men talking in the inn about the wealthy Englishwoman. Like that other decision, it was hasty and ill-conceived, and yet it seemed right.
Did that make him a rogue and a scoundrel? Possibly. Probably. He didn’t care. He was going to fight to keep his refined, English wife by his side and in his bed, and if that meant using every trick available to him then so be it.
Olivia would object, he was certain of it. When she saw the castle, she would realise that her husband was even more of a fraud than she had imagined. Maclean of Invermar. It was a cruel joke, and soon she would know it.
Well so be it. He doubted she could ever love Invermar as he did anyway. Had it been resplendent and shining with gold and jewels, she would not love it as Rory did. It was his, it was in his blood, and as they travelled further and further into the north, it was as if he felt its pull drawing him home.
The castle had been in Maclean hands for five hundred years. Until the last Jacobite rebellion which ended in the tragedy of Culloden, the Macleans had survived and even prospered. Since then their story had been a different matter—one of increasing poverty and ill fortune.
After his wife died, when Rory was ten, Archie had for a time sunk into gloom. Even though she had never loved Invermar as her husband and son did, she had loved them both enough to stay. And then Archie had seen that Rory was suffering too, and knew he must pull himself together for the sake of the boy. It was the legend of the Sword of the Macleans that had restored the two of them during those dark days.
The search had turned out to be fruitless, and they had let it slip. But recently, with the castle in even worse state and no beneficial marriage in sight for Rory, they had accepted the challenge again. Now the hunt for the sword had taken such a hold on the older man that it would not let him go. He genuinely believed that the Sword of the Macleans was the answer to all their woes, and it was his sacred duty to find it before he died.
Rory glanced again at the inn.
The horses and the equipage were ready, Rory himself was all set, but Olivia was yet to make an appearance. His wife was slow in rising and preparing herself. He suspected she had rarely been called upon to manage without a servant, and she was struggling with this new and unfamiliar state of affairs.
Margaret had offered to come with them, but to his surprise Olivia had refused her. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps Olivia preferred to suffer any humiliation in private—she must suspect what awaited her at Invermar. Now she was without any of her usual supporters and she was learning what it was like to have no one to help her brush her hair and tie her laces. Although he had been sure to find a girl at every inn to take her maid’s place, he knew it wasn’t the same. Olivia was uncomfortable. She was unsettled. And when they reached Invermar, deep in the wilds of Scotland, Rory hoped she would turn to him for comfort and companionship. Selfish he may be, but he would do all in his power to make her love him again.
Rory smiled. It sounded like madness. Insanity. And yet for the first time in what seemed an endless round of heartbreak and recriminations, it gave him something to hope for.
Because he had to ask himself why she was doing this, despite all the reasons not to? Why she was coming with him, if deep down she didn’t want the same thing as he?
He glanced over his shoulder again.
Olivia had appeared in the door of the inn, her gaze searching for and finding him. She looked away immediately, but he wasn’t deceived. She needed him. He was her anchor in this strange new world she was inhabiting.
His heart lifted.
He was going home and bringing his wife with him.
Chapter Seven
Summer 1816, Invermar Castle
Scotland
Olivia opened her eyes with a start. Something had woken her. Was it a carriage outside the town house, or a gaggle of servants scurrying past? Perhaps the bell from St George’s sounding out from Hanover Square? And then she remembered with a surge of disappoint that Mayfair was not outside her window, and indeed she was as far from civilization as it was possible to be.
She was in Invermar Castle in Scotland, the home of Rory’s ancestors.
Sudden tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back. She had come on this journey in the full knowledge that it would not be easy, and that Rory expected her to turn and bolt at the first hurdle. Her husband believed her to be a delicate hot house flower who would not last more than a couple of days in the north, and she was determined to prove him wrong.
The realisation had come to her gradually during the journey. Rory took care of her. He didn’t think she knew, but she had become increasingly aware of it. The servant girl laughing at the expression on her face when Olivia discovered that the only reason she could have a proper bath was because her husband had given up his bed and slept in the stable, to pay for it. Olivia had been astonished and embarrassed, and then horrified that she was embarrassed, and then touched, and then angry.
That was when she began to see things she hadn’t seen before. How she always had the best bedroom the inn had to offer, with a fire when it was chilly, and a maid to help her undress and dress again. Yes, he took care of her, but there was a price to be paid. The truth was she would have preferred to lie in his arms. Olivia was slowly coming to the realisation that she had fallen in love with a man at first sight, but she didn’t really know him. In very many ways they were still strangers.
Margaret’s father would say ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure’. Olivia didn’t want to repent. She wanted to show Rory that she was strong and courageous, and she could survive without a hot bath every single day. And that she wasn’t going to be frightened off by a bit of dust and disorder. She wanted him to know she could survive hardship despite an upbringing where every luxury had been lavished upon her.
She stared up at the flaking plaster on the ceiling above her bed. Rory had never known luxury and he certainly didn’t seem to crave it. He hadn’t spent a penny of her money, apart from on her. He was saving it up for Invermar.
She doubted it would be enough. She could honestly say she had never stayed in a place quite so ramshackle. As a ruin Invermar was very picturesque, but as a home . . . words failed her, as they had failed her yesterday when they had finally arrived at their destination.
