Free One Night With the Laird by Nicola Cornick Page B

aside. Suddenly his hands were shaking.
    The harsh call of a black grouse made him jump. A shadow had fallen across the path. Looking up, he saw a man in black cassock and white collar, his father’s successor, perhaps, in this remote spot.
    “Can I help you?” the man said, but Jack shook his head. Suddenly he was keen to be gone.
    “No,” he said. “Thank you.”
    He felt the man’s eyes on him all the way down the path, but he did not look back. He unhitched the reins and threw himself up into the saddle without bothering to lead the horse over to the mounting block, and kicked the stallion to a gallop. He knew he could not outrun the memories.
    And he knew that no one could help him.

CHAPTER SIX
    M AIRI STAYED THE second night of her journey with Lord and Lady Gowrie at Lochgowrie Castle near Kinlochleven. It was nice to be in a private house rather than an inn, to eat well, to have good company, hot water and a bed the size of Dunbartonshire. As she took a bath before dinner to wash away the aches and pains of the journey, she reflected that she was in all probability spoiled. Wealth and privilege tended to do that to a person even when that person was as aware as she that the privilege came with a very high price.
    Maria Gowrie was a friend of hers and fellow member of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society. They dined quietly together, just the three of them, for Maria said rather plaintively that their neighbors, the Duke and Duchess of Dent, had refused their invitation since they too had a guest.
    “The cousin of the Marquis of Methven,” Maria said. “Jack Rutherford. I did ask him if he would like to join our party here, but he is so in demand. He already had three invitations.”
    Mairi rolled her eyes. Even here it seemed impossible to escape Jack. If he was not actually present, then people were still talking about him.
    “I asked the Dents if they would all care to join us for dinner, but Anne Dent wishes to keep Mr. Rutherford for herself,” Maria continued.
    “Probably has him in mind as her next lover,” her husband grunted, signaling to the footman to serve more beef. “I hear Dent isn’t up to much these days.”
    “I hear Jack Rutherford is the best lover in all Scotland,” Maria said.
    “I hear he’s a fine fly fisherman and a first-rate shot,” her spouse countered.
    “And I hear far too much about him,” Mairi said. She felt irritated. It seemed that people could not get enough of Jack, whereas she had already had far too much of him.
    “May we speak of something else?” she said. “Do you anticipate good sport on your salmon rivers this summer?”
    The conversation turned from fishing to the series of scientific lectures that were taking place in Edinburgh later in the year and from there to a variety of other topics, but much to Mairi’s annoyance when she retired to the cavernous bedroom, taking a Highland terrier with her for warmth, she found she could not sleep. The dog’s snores rose to the ceiling, but Mairi lay wakeful, thinking of Jack Rutherford. It was not that she wanted to think about him. In fact, it annoyed her immensely that she could not seem to stop thinking about him. And when she finally fell asleep, it was to dream about Jack too and all the vivid, heated detail of the night they had spent together. In her dreams the loneliness she felt was banished and she was loved. It was intense and overwhelming and wonderful, but then she woke and realized that she was alone and the sense of isolation almost crushed her. She hugged the dog tightly. It was hardly the same, but its warmth was comforting.
    She felt tired and heavy-eyed at breakfast, and not even the sparkle of the sun on Loch Leven and the softness of the Highland air could lift her spirits. It seemed as though she felt every jolt and jerk of the carriage that day. She pressed straight on at Fort William and finally stopped for the night at the Cluanie Inn long after the sun had dropped behind the