A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals) (9 page)

Deidre snapped at him in the traveler tongue.

Tristan sighed. “No food and no bloodshed. This entire evening is a disappointment.”

“Gypsies.” Iona’s lips drew back in a sneer. “Ye even brought tinker filth into this house.”

Deidre stiffened beneath his palm, muscles tensing in preparation.

“Tomorrow,” Ewan said with quiet menace. “Ye’ll be gone from this house tomorrow or I’ll throw ye out by force.”

He led Deidre out of the room, Tristan and Angus following behind them. Tristan spoke to his sister in their foreign language and she responded in sharp bursts. The lad must have said something amusing, because after a moment she smiled and Ewan felt the tension drain out of her. If only Ewan’s own ire could be so easily cured.

The sound of the door opening again behind them stopped their party.

“Ewan, wait,” Rose called.

Angus’s hand tightened on his sword.

“Angus,” Ewan warned. “Take Deidre and Tristan to their rooms.”

“They ken well enough where their beds are.”

He sighed. “Rose isn’t a danger to anyone, Angus.”

“Begging yer pardon, but she’s a stranger to ye. Ye dinnae ken what twenty-five years in this place has made of her.”

“Angus, I said go.”

He went, but not before giving Rose a long look that leeched the color from her cheeks.

“I’m sorry. He’s—”

“No, no,” Rose stammered. “It’s nae his fault. Yer grandmother was . . .”

“Exactly as she’s always been?” Ewan parried.

“Behaving badly,” Rose finished. “She’d planned a small family meal and she doesnae deal well with change.”

Ewan was not interested in hearing excuses for his grandmother’s behavior. “She’s a spiteful woman who’s grown even more hateful with age.”

“Ye cannae send her away, Ewan. Where will she go?”

It was not his problem. He would not take responsibility for that wretched old witch. He would not—damn it. But he would and he knew it. If Deidre succeeded in her smuggling plans, and he failed to convince Deidre to come back to Dalreoch, he couldn’t leave the two of them here together. “Doesnae she have a sister in Edinburgh?”

“Beatrice?” Rose blinked. “They loathe each other.”

“She and I loathe each other. Iona cannae stay here. Besides, this place is falling down. The both of ye should have left long ago.”

“She willnae go, Ewan.”

“She can go to her sister’s or she can go to the devil. I dinnae care which she chooses.”

Chapter 12

She could hear him in the next room. Muffled footfalls passed the connecting door at regular intervals. He was pacing.

It’s just business. His troubles are none of your concern.
Deidre couldn’t help it, though. If his grandmother was any indication of the life he’d lead here, no wonder he’d avoided coming back. It almost made her glad to be an orphan.

Another round of soft
thud thud thuds
passed her door.

Damn it all.

She got up and opened the door.

He was in bare feet, his auburn hair a wild tangle. His shirt hung open, pulled out from his belt. She tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend he was one of a hundred random marks she’d played over the years. Tried . . . and failed. Good Lord, he was appealing.

“It wasn’t my favorite dinner ever,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “But surprisingly, not the worst, either.”

When he turned to her, she saw the turmoil in his face. His eyes darted, unable to settle on any one target. “Ye shouldnae be here.”

“Likely not,” Deidre said, moving into the room. “But here I am. You look like you could use some company.”

She sat down in the armchair. For a while he tried to stand still, keeping himself on the far side of the room, but eventually he drove his hands through his hair and started pacing again.

“Is it the room?” she asked.

“No . . . Aye.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s worse here.”

He went to the open window, closing his eyes in the cold coastal air.

“Would it help if I distracted you?”

Ewan’s sideways glance took in her bare legs and thin shift. “I dinnae think I’d survive the kind of distraction yer like to come up with.”

“I’d make sure you died happy,” she said with a wink.

“Why aren’t ye abed?” he asked, changing the subject.

Deidre let him, pulling her legs up into the chair with her. “I lead a nocturnal lifestyle. It’s hard for me to sleep before the sun comes up.”

“Aye. I havenae slept through a night since . . .” His words died off, drifting away on the wind.

It was one too many secrets for Deidre. Time to start getting some of the answers she’d promised herself. “Since what?”

“It’s nae important.”

“I doubt that.”

He took up striding again, inscribing imaginary circles in the carpet. On his third rotation he spoke. “Since my mother died.”

If he had said it any softer, she wouldn’t have heard it. Perhaps she should pretend she hadn’t. Emotions had never been Deidre’s strong suit—she preferred action over introspection—but this was what she’d been after. Answers. “How long ago?”

“I was six.”

Four years older than Tris had been. Maybe it was a blessing. No memories haunted her little brother in the dark; he slept like the baby he’d been. “I was eleven.”

Ewan settled a bit, perching on the edge of the dresser. “How did she die?”

Deidre shrugged like she always did. Better to pretend it didn’t still hurt. Better to pretend it never had. “The way most people do. It was too cold. There wasn’t enough to eat. She took sick.”

“I’m sorry.” He ignored her pretense. The words, their gentle tone, went straight past her defenses. He knew and he truly was sorry.

Feelings that had nothing to do with him welled up within her. The memory of baking bread. The spices she always smelled like. Her low, musical voice that people always remarked on no matter where they traveled to . . . Being held. Not having to worry.

A tear escaped. Deidre shoved it back out of sight with her finger. “So am I. She deserved better.”

“Aye.” He didn’t try to touch her—she was glad for it, she wasn’t certain she would know what to do with real comfort anymore—but his eyes spoke volumes. They told her about deep grief and rage. In that moment, Deidre realized Ewan Dalreoch might well be the angriest man she’d ever met.

What could possibly have happened to him? She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that everyone with money and power was happy, but privilege did tend to spare its chosen from the worst life had to offer. “What happened to your mother?”

“She deserved better.”

It was a clear evasion, but Deidre wasn’t going to be that easily put off. “How did she die, Ewan?”

His knuckles whitened on the edge of the wood. It was the only exception to his perfect stillness; he stared at the carpet in the center of the room. “My father killed her.”

Bloody hell, no wonder he was angry. No wonder everyone acted like they were tiptoeing through a graveyard when they walked into her room. It had been his mother’s. And this one was his father’s. She felt a shiver travel down her spine.

Deidre was already in deeper than she ought to be. She decided to keep going since she doubted she’d ever willingly bring it up again. “Were you close?”

“Aye.”

“Was it . . .” What was she trying to ask? Was it awful? Of course it was. One of his parents murdered the other. Deidre’s father might have been a shiftless vagabond, but he’d loved his wife and his children with everything he’d had.

He was still staring sightlessly at the floor, oblivious to her inner argument. “I was there. I saw it.”

And he hadn’t slept through a night since. She could hardly blame him.

The sound of splintering wood surprised them both. The edge of the dresser had cracked under the force of Ewan’s grip. He stared at his hands as blood slowly formed into droplets and dripped onto the carpet.

It was time to shake him out of this. Her answers could wait for later. Possibly never, if he was going to shatter things and injure himself in the answering.

“I hope you weren’t overly fond of that,” she joked as she approached him cautiously. She’d known he was strong— that wasn’t the frightening part. It was that he hadn’t known he was doing it.

He relaxed his grip, slowly lifting his palms to reveal slivers of wood embedded in his flesh. “Nae really, no. The middle drawer sticks.”

The dry response went a long way toward dispelling her unease.

“Typical lord,” she said, grabbing the cloth sitting next to the washbasin. “One drawer stops working, so you scrap the whole thing.”

His smile turned into a wince when she flattened his hand.

“Knife?” she asked.

“There’s nae need to amputate, woman. It’s just a splinter.”

“It’s wood shards and some of them are in there deep. If you don’t get them out, they’ll fester.”

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“With what, your feet?” She shook her head. “Where’s the blade?”

Ewan sighed. He nodded at his thigh. “Leg strap.”

She didn’t even try to hide her smile. It looked like they would end with her kind of distraction after all. Deidre took her time. She spread her fingers out on Ewan’s knee. With a whisper, she slid them under the edge of his kilt. The taut muscle under her hand twitched.

Ewan made a noise like a low growl. “Deidre—”

“I don’t want to go too far. Something scandalous might happen.”

“Plenty scandalous is going to happen if ye keep that up.”

Deidre grinned wider. “You’d think you’d never had a woman touch your knee before.”

“Ye have a way of making even small things wicked.”

Her fingertips traveled a little farther. “If you want to discourage this sort of behavior, you really ought to try to enjoy it less.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She shifted her search to the inside of his thigh.

“What yer like to find there won’t be of any help with splinters.”

“Pity.” Deidre enjoyed torturing him, but he was still bleeding all over the carpet. She indulged in one more detour that left him muttering at the ceiling in Gaelic before extracting the knife from his leg sheath. “Hands, please.”

He held them up without protest.

It was bloody work. The wounds weren’t as deep as she thought, but digging them out made a mangle of his palms. He maintained his patient stoicism throughout.

“Nursing has never been my talent,” she explained as she wrapped haphazard strips of cloth torn from a clean wash towel.

“I noticed.”

“However,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “It appears you’ll live.”

***

Fire. Ewan drifted up from sleep dreaming of flames, but not the sort that burned. In his dream, they were warm flames and they tickled. They still tickled, even though he was awake. That made no sense. He opened his eyes, straight into a strong beam of midday sun. He cursed and threw an arm over his face.

A muffled curse answered, followed by a jab to his armpit as Deidre snuggled back in against him. Silky strands caught in his beard, tickling his cheek.

Ewan looked down at her head resting on his chest. Her hair was an impossible tangle. There was a sodden spot on his chest underneath where her mouth had been. And even now—now that she was done swearing at the bastard who jostled her resting place—she had already begun to steadily snore again. Laughter shook him. He did his best to contain it so she wouldn’t wake.

Any hope he’d had of denying his feelings for Deidre fled with the steady in and out of that rattling snore. She was a temptress with her clothes on. A goddess without. But right then, in a state he was certain she would shoot him for mentioning to another living soul, she was exquisite. It made about as much sense as anything else in his life. For the inevitably short-lived moment, before some fresh new hell found him, Ewan chose to enjoy it.

Last night they’d talked until the sun came up. Not about anything in particular—just keeping each other company. At some point they’d convinced themselves it was only sensible to lie down. From there, a short leap of logic confirmed that she should use his arm as a pillow. Then, of course, there was a chill, so a blanket was required. He’d fallen asleep to the warm glow of morning through the window and Deidre’s gentle heat stretched out against him. He pressed a kiss to the top of her tangled hair. Still asleep, she snuggled closer against him. This morning was the best rest he’d gotten in a long time.

The peace was interrupted by a loud rumble from his stomach. Right—breakfast. Ewan didn’t typically sleep this late in the day and his stomach was none too pleased about it. A second, louder complaint sounded. Deidre frowned against his chest. Another sleep mumble full of insults drifted through his rib cage. He smiled. Aye, he was in trouble for certain.

He eased his way out from under her, tucking pillows around her where his body used to be. She wrapped her arms around them and seemed content. Ewan picked up his boots and made his way out of the room in bare feet to be sure she stayed that way.

Ewan was outside the door putting on his boots when Tom Darrow came around the bend in the hallway. They stared at each other for a moment.

“Darrow.”

“Your lordship.” Darrow took in his shoes and the closed door. “Bit of the ole sneak-out, eh?”

“Darrow,” Ewan repeated, no longer in greeting.

The other man waved his hands in denial. “No judgment. Executed that maneuver many a morning myself.”

“Darr—”

“’Nuff said. Pleasant mornin’ to you.” The imposter-turned-smuggler turned to hurry toward the stairs.

“Darrow.”

He swiveled on his heel, turning back to Ewan. “Yes, m’lord?”

Ewan finished pulling on his second boot. “Breakfast. Where can I find it?”

Darrow fidgeted uncomfortably. “Erm. Breakfast is a bit of . . . it’s . . .”

“Aye?” Ewan prompted.

“We don’t really eat breakfast anymore.” Darrow added a deferential head bob. “M’lord.”

“And why is that?”

“The larder’s a bit lean, and Iona doesn’t eat much these days, so we just did away with it.”

Ewan looked at Darrow—really looked at him—for the first time. The clothes hung loose on his body, and there was a hollowness to his cheeks. “How old are ye, Darrow?”

“Four and twenty, m’lord.”

He would have sworn the man was half a decade or more older than Ewan’s own thirty years.

The way most people do. It was too cold. There wasn’t enough to eat.

Ewan didn’t want to care about Darrow, or his grandmother, or this house full of criminals and monsters. It was hard not to, though, with Deidre’s words echoing in his head. He’d been lucky in that respect. He’d never had to go hungry at Dalreoch. Not ever.

“Show me the larder.”

***

“Well, look at what we have here.”

Deidre did not want to look. She didn’t want to acknowledge her brother in any way. What she wanted was to keep her face buried in the pillow and go back to the dream she’d been having. Ewan had featured heavily in it, as had a jar of honey. Things like that didn’t happen to a girl every day.

“So you and Ewan—”

Weren’t ever going to finish that honey idea with Tristan yammering at her. “Go away, Tris.”

“She speaks! For a minute I thought maybe you were dead.”

“Very funny.” She felt the mattress dip next to her and growled into her pillow. Privacy was clearly a luxury of the wealthy.

“With the size of him, I mean . . . it wasn’t impossible. Oi, speaking of size, is Ewan’s—”

“Tristan Lasho Morgan!”

“Lasho? Really. You’re tossing around second names? It’s just a question, Deidre
Zujenia
.” Tristan hated his Romani name.

Deidre cherished them, especially the way they had sounded in her mother’s musical accent. “Ewan’s proportions are none of your concern. And none of mine.”

“Hard lie to sell when you’re in his bed, Dee.”

When she was in . . . bollocks. Deidre lifted her head. She was in Ewan’s room, not her own. A few blinks brought the night back to her. “Nothing happened.”

“Sure,” Tristan leered at her. “That’s why you were smiling in your sleep, and your hair looks like you got caught out in a storm.”

“I—” She reached up. Bloody hell. It was a magpie nest. More memories.

She’d talked all night. While she told Ewan about her childhood, he’d threaded his fingers through her hair and listened. She’d told him about her mother leaving the Romani to marry her father and about moving from town to town. The delicious pressure of those soothing circles had lulled her to sleep while he’d told her about his own childhood. Getting into trouble with his cousin. Learning to run a clan from his aunt. Riding the fields with his uncle.