A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals) (6 page)

Chapter 7

The sun was high overhead when Deidre reopened her eyes. She did not immediately remember why she was in the middle of a forest instead of sleeping on her saggy straw mattress. As the events of the past few days came back to her, calm came with them. They were out of danger and away from Alastair. She owed that largely to Ewan. Ewan. More recent memories came back. She turned her head, searching for him. He was gone.

He’d said his help had come without a price. She supposed this would be an excellent test of the truth of that statement. He had been kinder to her than anyone she’d ever known, and she had tempted and tortured him in a fit of wounded pride. Even now when he should by all rights be furious with her, his plaid was tucked neatly around her and there was a primrose resting a few inches from where his chest had been.

She’d left him miserable and wanting and he’d left her a flower.

Mixed in under all the guilt at the way she’d treated him, a tiny part of Deidre was—what was she? Had she ever felt this way? Had anyone ever given her a token without also trying to get under her skirts? She picked it up, gently touching the petals. It had no purpose, except to be pleasing. Was it a message? Was he suggesting she should be more pleasing? No, not with the plaid wrapped around her with such care. Its purpose was to please her. It did.

Pulling on her clothes, she went in search of the man who’d left it for her. He couldn’t be far—wherever he was, he was only wearing his shirt. She hiked up to where they’d made camp and found him packing up the horses to leave. When he saw her, he smiled.

She handed him his plaid. “You might need this.”

“Oh, aye. I’ve scandalized yer brother and my fair share of critters already.” He knelt, setting the pleats that would turn it back into a garment.

She wasn’t sure how to say what she was feeling—wasn’t certain she wanted to—but she couldn’t just leave it at that, either.

“The flower is lovely,” she said, twirling the stem slowly between her fingers.

“May I?” He held out his hand for it.

She couldn’t see what he was doing, but when he held out his hand, the stem was interlocked with itself into a ring.

“So ye can wear it, if ye want.”

“If you want,” said so innocuously. What she wanted was becoming murkier by the second. It sat in the center of his palm, waiting for her to decide.

“Wear it, Dee.” Tristan’s voice next to her ear startled her. “Purple suits you.”

She took the ring from Ewan, trying not to think about the way her heartbeat fluttered, or the way her pulse jumped at the touch of their hands. She hurried to slide it onto her finger. “We should probably be off.”

Once they were mounted and Ewan was out of earshot, it didn’t take long for Tristan to start in on her.

“That’s moving along quickly. He’s giving you rings already?”

Deidre ignored him. If she didn’t encourage him, maybe he’d let it go.

“Jewels would have been better, but admittedly, he’s making do with what he’s got out here.”

She glared daggers into the back of his head.

“Kind of sweet, isn’t it? That’s probably worth a tumble all on its own.” He went on, oblivious. “If he just happens to fancy it enough to make you his mistress, well then—”

She cuffed his ear.

“Ow. Christ, Dee. What the hell is wrong with you lately?”

“What the hell is wrong with me?” She changed to their mother’s language as she jabbed him between the shoulder blades. “What the hell is wrong with you? What business is it of yours whether—”

“You’ve made it my business, haven’t you? You dragged me out here for God knows what reason. I was perfectly happy where I was.”

“Perfectly happy?” Her voice rose a notch. “They were going to kill you, Tris.”

“That’s not true.” He pulled their horse up short, twisting in the saddle.

“It is true.”

“Alastair would never—”

“You think he’s your friend? You think he cares about you? He’s using you to keep me in line, and you’re stupid enough to let him,” she shouted.

She shouldn’t have said it. She knew she shouldn’t the second it left her mouth. All his hurt, all his anger, was right there on his face for her to read.

“Get off.”

“Tris—”

“Everything all right?” Ewan asked as his horse approached theirs.

Tristan said nothing, staring forward with a stone face that couldn’t hide anything.

Perhaps it would be best to give him space. Unlike the city, the road had nowhere for him to go when they couldn’t stand each other anymore.

“Ewan, could I ride with you awhile?”

He looked between the two of them. “Aye.”

As soon as she was clear of the stirrup, Tristan kicked the horse into motion.

“Tris—”

“Let him be. Angus will keep him out of trouble.” He pulled her up, settling her in front of him.

The temptation to lean back against his chest was strong and she gave in to it. His arms came around her, closing out everything else. Her world became the solid wall of his chest, the loose fists resting atop her thighs with reins in hand, and the stubble of his beard against the side of her face. Deidre knew it was a temporary respite. Her troubles would still find her, no matter how strong his arms were, but for a moment she was content to pretend.

“Will he forgive me?” She shouldn’t have asked but she was indulging in the fantasy of his arms.

“Aye, he will,” Ewan said. He sounded certain. “Will ye forgive him?”

For a moment, she thought he’d heard the beginning of their argument but he couldn’t have. “For what?”

“For making ye weak.”

“He doesn’t—”

“Aye, he does. It’s nae a criticism. Family does that. They make ye stay when ye should go, make ye go when ye would stay. Most dinnae even notice, they just accept the burden.”

But she noticed and resented it. That was the implication. Tristan was four when they’d lost their father, younger still when their mother died. Would she have done things differently if she hadn’t needed to look after him? Would she have led a different life?

“I love my brother.”

“I dinnae say otherwise.”

Hadn’t he?

“If ye dinnae love him, they couldnae use him against ye. Ye’d wash yer hands of his sulking and his debts and leave him to fend for himself.”

Would that she could. Would that she could deem Tristan a man, free to make his own choices and suffer his own consequences, and wash her hands of all of it. “If he were your brother, what would you do?”

“Whatever I had to.”

***

When they stopped that night, Ewan took the watch alone. By the light of the campfire he took the letter from his sporran. He ran his thumb against the worn creases. He didn’t need to look at it to know what it said—he’d read it a hundred times since Morag first forced him.

Please help us. I know you do not care for this place or its people, but we desperately need you.

Broch Murdo had fallen into disrepair. The surrounding lands had become lawless. The cave-riddled stretches of beach below the cliffs had been taken over by smugglers. Farmers and tradesmen had all but abandoned the region. The letter begged him, as lord, to claim his title and make Broch Murdo fit for decent people to live in again.

It had never been fit for decent people.

Ewan blamed his father for the events of twenty-five years ago, but he had plenty of blame left to spare for the bystanders. They had looked the other way while Hugh MacMurdo destroyed everything Ewan loved, and now they were begging him for help. There had been no help for his mother. No help for a terrified six-year-old boy.

The crack of a branch pulled him back to the present.

Ewan cursed as he turned, a rough-looking man appearing on the edge of the firelight. He was sizing the stranger up and liking his chances even with his wound still recovering, when two more came from the shadows to his left. One had a gun pointed at Angus, forcing the old Highlander and Tristan to walk in front of him.

The other held a knife to Deidre’s throat. She looked terrified. There were tears streaming down her cheeks and she was trembling.

“Take yer hands off of her.”

The man smirked at Ewan. He let his free hand roam, groping her while she squirmed under the knife. “She an’ I are gonna be real good friends, and ain’t nothin’ ye can do about it, guv.”

Ewan vowed to kill that man very slowly.

“Please, sir,” Tristan begged. “My sister is a kind soul. Gentle and sheltered. Please don’t hurt her.”

Gentle and . . . Ewan realized what Tristan was up to. These men weren’t Alastair’s—they must have come across them by chance. They would assume Deidre was just another terrified female. Ewan wasn’t entirely certain she wasn’t. If her fear was a ruse, it was extremely well crafted.

“Curtis. Round up their horses and anything that looks valuable.” The man with the knife gestured to Ewan. “Ye, over there with the other two.”

“Why do I gotta do all the heavy work?” the first gunman asked.

“’Cuz I said so. Just bleedin’ do it, Curtis.”

Curtis disappeared in the direction of the horses, leaving them three men—well, two and Tristan, whose usefulness was still untested—against one gunman and one man armed with a knife. If that knife weren’t resting against Deidre’s throat, he and Angus could have resolved the situation in short order.

“No trouble from you three.” The leader followed Ewan’s thoughts, dragging the flat of the blade down Deidre’s cheek. “Or this one won’t be quite so pretty anymore.”

Ewan watched the knife’s path, noticing the cheek it traveled down was now dry. He raised his eyes to Deidre’s. She rolled hers impatiently, and promptly let her body go slack.

“What in the—”

The highwayman moved to catch her, changing his hold on the knife to a less menacing one. Deidre twisted in his grip and slammed her forehead into his nose. The stream of cursing from both parties caused the remaining gunman to turn his attention to them. Being the closest, Angus made quick work of disarming him.

“Ye fucking bi—”

A well-placed knee from Deidre silenced the ringleader, sending him to the ground in a heap.

“Novices,” she said with a shake of her head. She picked up the knife. “Tristan?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the lad said as he headed off into the dark after the third man.

The blood from the highwayman’s broken nose was smeared across Deidre’s brow like some savage tribesman. Ewan moved to wipe it away. “Deidre—”

She held up a hand, silencing him. Her head tilted to the side as she listened for something. A surprised shout, followed by a crash, came from the direction Curtis and Tristan had disappeared to. Deidre called into the trees in a language Ewan didn’t recognize.

More words he didn’t understand called back with Tristan’s petulant inflections.

Her posture relaxed. “Yes?”

He once again found himself at a loss for words.

Angus had no such trouble. He dragged his captive over, shoving him down next to his compatriot. “Nae bad, lass.”

She shrugged. “These fools have no idea how to run an operation.”

Tristan reappeared, gun trained on Curtis, who now sported a rising knot on his forehead. “Honestly. What do you reckon, farmers? Fisherman? They’re not proper criminals, that’s for certain.”

Curtis took offense. “We ain’t farmers. We’ve got a proper outfit, and when the boss finds out—”

“Curtis. Shut yer goddamn mouth,” the man on the ground growled.

“When yer boss finds out what?” Ewan demanded. He’d had about enough of being snuck up on and robbed. If there was another fight coming, he’d prefer to take it head on.

“Stuff it, Curtis, or I’ll fu—” The man on the ground gasped from the impact of Angus’s boot.

Deidre advanced on Curtis with a gentle smile and sultry sway of her hips.

Ewan almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Curtis.” She patted him gently on the shoulder. “You seem much nicer than your friend, and smarter. So why don’t you just tell us who you work for?”

Curtis clearly didn’t like pain and he wasn’t overly fond of the man on the ground, either. His decision didn’t take long. “I’m sure he’ll go easy on ye. He’s got a soft spot for pretty lasses.”

Who doesn’t
, Ewan thought.

“I believe you,” she told Curtis. “Who is he?”

“Lord Broch Murdo.”

The air left Ewan’s lungs. His father. Had the letter been a lie? A trick? His father was still alive?

Deidre frowned at her hostage. “Curtis, why would you lie to me?”

Curtis sputtered. “I dinnae lie.”

Tristan leaned in. “Lords don’t run petty thieving gangs, Curtis.”

“He is a lord! Lives up at Castle Broch Murdo and everything!”

Angus joined the group surrounding Curtis. He drew a knife and rested the tip against the man’s chest with quiet menace. “Think hard, lad. Does he look like my big friend over there?”

Curtis turned to Ewan, blinking. “No. His hair’s dark and he’s shorter.”

Breath returned. That was not Ewan’s father. So who in the bloody hell was impersonating the Earl of Broch Murdo—impersonating Ewan apparently. There was really only one way to find out.

“Pack up and bring them. We’re going to the castle.”

Chapter 8

Castle Broch Murdo was a crumbling ruin. Deidre had lived in some rough accommodations in her life, but this place Ewan had brought them to might just be the roughest. As far as she could tell, the only reason it was still standing was that it had been built to withstand sieges and catapult attacks. The squat little fortress clung stubbornly to the land atop the cliffs, leaking stone in places but maintaining its stalwart foundation.

The tree line had encroached on the castle’s walls, allowing them to stop a few feet from the gate without being immediately visible to anyone inside. Their haphazard party was gathered there, arguing in the early morning light.

“It isnae safe,” Ewan said for the fourth time.

Angus was losing patience. “It’s as safe as we’re like to get, lad.”

“I’ll go alone.”

“Ye will nae. The only thing we know for certain is the castle is overrun with thieves. Maybe it’s just a few, and maybe they’re all as stupid as this lot, but ye cannae be certain.”

“I’m nae dragging a woman into danger.”

Deidre wasn’t exceptionally keen on risking her life either, but it was beginning to sound preferable to standing around in the damp morning mist. “You could take Angus.”

“And leave the lot of ye out here with the horses and our kit,” Angus scoffed. “I dinnae think so.”

“We wouldn’t—”

“Mayhaps nae, but if ye did, it would be my own damn fault for trusting ye.”

She couldn’t really argue with him. If their situations were reversed, she wouldn’t trust her, either. The only thing keeping her from grabbing what she could and bolting was the lack of anywhere better to go.

“I could take Tristan.”

Deidre turned on Ewan. “If it’s too dangerous for me, no way in hellfire are you taking my brother.”

“Hey.”

“Absolutely not, Tris.” She wasn’t going to sit out here, thinking the worst, with both of them in there.

“I’ll go alone.”

“Ye willnae. Take the lass.”

“The lass ye dinnae trust with yer horse and bed roll,” Ewan reminded Angus.

“I trust her instincts when it comes to saving her own skin and she’s hardly helpless. Ye’ll take her.”

Ewan looked like he would keep protesting indefinitely. Deidre didn’t have the patience for another round of the same argument, so she did the only sensible thing. She turned and started walking toward the portcullis. It would have been a formidable deterrent, but for the gaping hole rusted through its center.

“Ye’ve lost yer damn mind,” Ewan grumbled, catching up with her.

“Perhaps. But I’m also tired,” she said. She’d barely gotten to sleep before waking up to a knife at her throat, and they’d ridden through the night after that. Deidre was ready to advance on a brace of cannons with nothing but her wits if there was a bed at the end of it.

“Ye dinnae have to do this. Ye should go back.”

“You should go back,” she countered. “I suspect I have more experience dealing with the sort of men we’re like to find inside than you do.”

Ewan’s brow furrowed. “Last night, when ye called to the lad . . . ye come from the traveling folk?”

Damn it.
Sloppy, Deidre. Very sloppy
. She stopped walking.

“And you think the one has something to do with the other?” she challenged.

“No, I—”

“I know about criminals because I grew up poor and alone, not because of who my people are. My mother was an honest woman. If you mean to say otherwise—”

“Deidre. Christ.” Ewan lifted his hands in defense. “It was just a question. I dinnae have anything against yer folk.”

“They’re good people.”

“I’ve no reason to doubt ye.”

Deidre searched his face for signs of a lie, but he seemed genuine. She nodded and started walking again. The sooner she had some rest, the sooner she’d start feeling like herself again.

They made their way through the outer courtyard unchallenged. Broken pieces of furniture and old carts lay haphazardly around the edges. In many places the greenery had grown over them, making it appear as though the plants had gone on the attack and were now devouring them. When they reached the main doors, hanging slightly askew but still functional, they stopped.

“Should we knock?” She asked.

“Might as well,” Ewan answered. He pounded, rattling the doors on their hinges.

Deidre kept an eye on their retreat. When the door eventually lurched open, revealing a disheveled man reeking of liquor and God knows what else, she realized she needn’t have bothered.

Amateurs, indeed.

“Aye? Whaddya want?” the slim man slurred. He might have been attractive if he had a bit more chin and a bit less overbite.

“I am looking for the Earl of Broch Murdo,” Ewan told him in an authoritative tone that sent shivers over her skin.

The slim man burped. “Well, ye’ve found him.”

Ewan looked him over from head to toe, eyebrow raised.

Deidre snickered.

“Wot. Never seen an earl before?” The imposter noticed Deidre for the first time. “Well, hello there, lovely. Have ye come to see how the other half lives?”

He reached for her, but Ewan caught his wrist. The Highlander twisted as he pushed his impersonator backward. Deidre followed them into the entranceway. Her eyes adjusted to the deep shadows as the musty, stale air assaulted her nostrils. There was an underlying rot that crept in beneath the general smell of mold and dust. Definitely worse than any hovel she and Tristan had stayed in.

“Oi. Wot’s yer problem, guv?” the slim man squeaked.

“My problem,” Ewan said through gritted teeth, “is that I am the Earl of Broch Murdo, and you will never—ever—attempt to touch her again.”

He punctuated his words with twists until the man was up on his tiptoes grimacing.

“Ewan, that’s unnecessary.”

“Quite right, mate. Dinnae ken she was yers. Honest mistake.”

Ewan held him against the wall a moment longer before letting him go.

The fake Lord Broch Murdo rubbed his arm, checking to make sure his damage wasn’t permanent. “Yer really the earl?”

“Aye,” Ewan growled.

Deidre’s skin tingled. She would have to do something about that, but now wasn’t the time.

The dark-haired man’s Scots accent fell away. “You do look like that cove in the paintings. Blind me. I figured you were dead or summat.”

“Clearly nae.”

“I’m gathering that.” The fake earl slid a glance at Deidre. “Doing all right for yourself, though, all things considered.”

The rumble that came from Ewan did not bode well.

Deidre intervened. “Who are you, then?”

“Tom Darrow, at your service,” he said with a flourishing bow. He looked up behind his curled forelock, clearly expecting them to be impressed. “The famous outlaw?”

Deidre shook her head.

“Scourge of Liverpool?”

“Sorry.”

His face fell, before perking up. “Well, that’s why I came north. To start fresh. Escape my reputation, and all that. It’s quite formidable in certain circles.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said. This man wouldn’t know formidable if it grabbed him by the stones and hauled him into a dark alley. What kind of a place was this?

Darrow was taking Ewan’s arrival in remarkable stride. He hiked up the slipping waistline of his pants and said, “I ’spose you’ll be wanting to talk to the countess then.”

Ewan went completely still. “The countess?”

“Lady Iona.”

By the set of Ewan’s posture, this was not welcome news. “My grandmother is still alive?”

“Oh yes. Healthy as a horse, she is. Stays up in the solar these days, though.” Darrow waved a hand obliquely around the hall. “Doesn’t like to see wots become of it. The solar is through—”

“I ken where it is.” Ewan rubbed at his temple as he headed into the great hall. Insufficient light and piles of broken furniture and refuse forced him to move slowly.

Deidre followed his carefully chosen path. “Interesting decor, Mr. Darrow.”

“We’re between housekeepers at the moment.” Darrow had the decency to sound chagrined. Whatever else he might have done before impersonating Lord Broch Murdo, it hadn’t involved running a large house.

The stone steps leading up were clear of debris, as was the second floor. There still weren’t any lamps lit, but the rising sun sent shafts of light through the arrow slits spaced along the upper-story walls. Ewan hesitated in front of the door that led to the solar. He looked as if he was preparing to face a hangman rather than an old woman.

Deidre moved nearer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this right now.”

“No? When then?”

Deidre did her best impression of someone not pointing out the obvious. “Perhaps after the sun has finished coming up? I don’t know much about countesses, but from what I’ve heard, they’re not usually early risers.”

“Dowager countess,” Ewan corrected.

As if the distinction made a bit of difference under their present circumstances. She ignored him. “Darrow. We’ll need four beds. Clean ones.”

“Erm, I—”

“Will see to it yourself, if that’s what it takes. Otherwise, the extremely muscular gentleman you’ve been impersonating is going to become quite irate.”

Ewan’s eyebrow rose. She ignored him.

“Of course. I’ll just . . .” Tom Darrow looked around the hallway, as if it would magically produce aired mattresses and clean linens. Instead, it produced a tall woman with graying hair and fierce features. “Iona, love, I was just coming to find you.”

Love? Deidre hadn’t expected that, or the smile that twitched the corners of the older woman’s lips.

“Who was at—” The countess went silent when she saw Ewan. Her mouth tightened back to a frown as she looked him from head to foot.

“Grandmother.” Ewan’s voice was stripped of any emotion.

The dowager’s eyes rose back to his face before the older woman abruptly turned to Darrow. “He is not welcome here. I want him removed.”

“He’s come back to claim the title, Iona. You won’t need me to pretend—”

“Nonsense. We will continue the same as we have been,” the countess announced. Her chin lifted imperiously.

“So he’s yer lapdog then.” Ewan’s voice was low and cold. “I suppose I shouldnae be surprised.”

His grandmother returned frost with frost. “I certainly am. It’s remarkable ye even remembered where to find Broch Murdo. Kindly forget for good this time after Tom shows ye out.”

“I’m nae going anywhere, and if yer precious Tom so much as looks at me sideways, I’ll save the hangman the trouble of stringing him up for fraud.”

Darrow’s dilemma was apparent as the countess’s expectant stare landed on him. Ewan’s raised eyebrow was full of menace.

“Perhaps we should let him stay awhile,” the Scourge of Liverpool suggested. His smile was full of apology.

It was wasted on the dowager countess. She stomped past Ewan and Deidre, letting the door to her rooms slam shut behind her.

***

Tom Darrow had managed to produce two clean bedrooms without trouble, and—with the help of his newly returned highwaymen—piece together two more out of salvaged remnants from other rooms around the castle. Ewan was leaning back in an armchair when Angus entered without knocking.

“Ye sure ye want to stay in here?”

“No,” Ewan answered, but he didn’t get up.

This room had been his father’s when Ewan still lived at Broch Murdo. At some point Ewan’s grandfather must have died and his father would have moved into the lord’s chambers, but at the time it had belonged to Hugh. Ewan wanted to be as far from this room, from this entire place, as possible. But they were here, and it was the only livable room that got a decent breeze.

His godfather prowled the room. Angus had chosen to wear his sword belt—something Ewan hadn’t seen in years. He realized it couldn’t be easy for the older man to be back, either. Angus was a MacMurdo by blood, but he’d left with Ewan the day Maggie Dalreoch had come to take her sister’s son.

“Expecting an attack from any quarter in particular?”

“Just being careful.”

“Ye heard about my grandmother?”

“Aye.”

“Ye dinnae seem surprised.”

Angus shrugged. “Iona MacMurdo was born with ice and venom in her veins. Like as nae, she’ll live forever, because neither God nor the devil wants to take her.”

Ewan smiled at that. It was the truth. He remembered his grandmother as a cold woman with hard eyes. Their brief encounter in the hall hadn’t given him much reason to believe she’d changed in the last twenty-five years.

“So what’s the plan then, lad?”

It probably would have been helpful to have one of those before he’d set out. “I need to find whoever wrote the letter.”

Angus nodded. “Nae many people about. Cannae be that hard. What about the rest of it?”

“The rest of it?”

“Aye. Do ye mean to repair it? The place is in sorry disarray, but it’s yers by rights.”

“I’ve half a mind to set it ablaze and ride away.”

Angus chuckled. “Wouldnae take. Yer great-great-grandfather tried that in ’forty-two. On accident, mind. He was piss drunk and out of his mind . . .”

The story trailed off.
Piss drunk and out of his mind.
It tended to be an accurate descriptor for most of the MacMurdo line. It also tended to end badly; usually with violence.

“A strong earthquake could drop it into the ocean.”

“Possibly. Hard to count on, though. Fickle things, earthquakes.”

They both chuckled and were silent for a while. The weight of the castle settled around them.

“Might be we should stay for a bit,” Angus said, staring out the window. “Maybe it’s time to lay the old demons to rest.”

“Morag talked to you.”

“Morag’s nae the only one with eyes, lad.”

“I’m fine.” He rubbed at his temple.

“Oh, aye? Prove it. Move to the room on the inner corridor.”

Ewan couldn’t do that. The moment the lights went out, the walls would start closing in on him. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he told himself he could get out any time, the stale air would start choking him. With a breeze, he could convince himself he wasn’t far from escape. “I can do that back at Dalreoch. It doesnae need to be here.”