A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals) (2 page)

Chapter 2

“Twelve shillings?” Deidre gave up trying to keep her voice down. The forge fire made the air in the shop oppressive, and the sweat beading up on her skin didn’t help her temper.

The farrier’s wife smirked. “S’wot I said.”

“That horse is worth twenty pounds at least.” She hardly expected to get full value—it was stolen after all—but Deidre should have been able to get ten.

“Not here it ain’t. It’s twelve shillings, or ye can leave empty-handed.” Twelve shillings was a slap in the face, and the farrier’s wife knew it.

Deidre needed that ten pounds. Stealing the horse could see her executed, but it was a chance she’d had to take. The haul from the tavern plus her unexpected luck by the river should be enough to clear her brother’s debt, but Alistair wasn’t the sort of man to just let them walk away. He had plans for Deidre. She’d need more than a handful of shillings to get them safely out of his reach.

“If I could just speak to your husband, he usually—”

“Oh, I ken what’s usual. Ye come flouncing in here and bewitch him into giving ye a decent person’s price, when everyone kens yer a two-bit light skirt and a thief!”

“I’ve never—”

“Twelve shillings. Take it or don’t, but the horse stays and I suggest ye clear out of here before I call the constable.”

Helpless fury welled inside Deidre. Being insulted was hardly a rare occurrence—women didn’t take to Deidre, especially women with husbands—but being cheated when she was so close to freedom bypassed all her carefully constructed armor. Her fingers brushed the pistol grip as she considered just taking what was owed her. If Deidre left the woman alive, the law would be after her faster than the farrier’s wife could turn up her nose. Deidre wasn’t prepared to kill anyone if she didn’t have to. The money would have to come another way.

Deidre held out her hand. The smirk deepened as the older woman passed over the shillings. Deidre left the shop before her willpower failed completely and she gave in to the desire to smack the smug expression clear off the other woman’s face.

She’d headed out into the night, passing a rundown pub she was all too familiar with, when real trouble found her.

“Well, look who it is . . .”

“The famous Lady Dee.”

Deidre shoved her way past the two men who moved into her path. “Not now, boys. It’s been a long day.”

“C’mon now, Dee.”

“Come an’ have a pint wi’ us.”

She kept walking, veering toward a well-lit street. “No time, sorry.”

“Seems like ye ought to make a bit of time.” The men trailed after her in a lazy crisscross.

“Alastair’s been asking for ye.”

She suppressed the shiver that tried to run down her spine. Alastair’s thugs were barely contained attack dogs. They would turn vicious in a heartbeat if she showed fear—she’d seen it happen often enough.

“And how would he like it if he heard I was loafing about with the likes of you, instead getting up the scratch Tris owes?” she asked, throwing a bit of flirt behind the words to keep them playful.

“Oh, I don’t imagine he ’spects ye to get it all in one go.”

“’Specially after today.”

Today? What had happened today? She didn’t dare ask and give them the upper hand. “Just the same, I don’t imagine I’ll be taking your word for it.”

They’d somehow gotten much closer. Close enough to touch her. The one they called Wick trailed a hand down her cheek. “Even if he were cross, he’d never lay a hand on Lady Dee now, would ’e?”

“Wot’s that name ’e calls her?”

“’Elen. ’Is ’Elen of Troy.”

“The face that launched a thousand ships,” they said together, before breaking into a shared laugh.

“Dunno about ships.” The second man, Teller, threw an arm over her shoulder. “But I’d wager she’s launched at least a thousand cockstands.”

“An’ those were jus’ yers!”

Laughter overtook them again as they amused themselves. Deidre wasn’t fooled. The hand on her upper arm gripped tight enough to leave a bruise. It was steering her away from the streetlamps.

The bell over a bakery a few doors down chimed and a man stepped out, calling “Pleasant evening, Davey.”

Her captors went stock-still.

“Son of a bitch. The bollocks on this one.”

“We’re wot, a block from the pub?”

“Aye, that won’t do at all.”

“Not a’ all.” The hand dropped from her arm. “Oi, MacCallum!”

The unlucky Mr. MacCallum turned. For a moment he only saw her and smiled. Then he took notice of her companions. His parcel hit the ground as he turned and sprinted in the other direction. They took off after him without giving Deidre a second thought.

Deidre didn’t bother waiting for her heart to stop racing. She didn’t know what the man was guilty of, but she’d seen Wick and Teller in action. He’d be lucky to survive the night. She picked up his parcel—day-old bread—and changed her route home to the complex series of switchbacks she should have chosen in the first place, if she hadn’t been so upset with the farrier’s wife.

***

When Ewan rolled into town on the back of a farmer’s wagon, he was covered in midge bites and wearing a borrowed blanket for decency. His feet were blistered, his favorite horse was in the custody of some trickster wench, and yet . . . and yet. Somehow, Ewan was in a better mood than he’d been in months. Somehow, even with wood slivers from the wagon bed sneaking their way through the blanket to jab him with every bump in the road, he couldn’t stop smiling. Large black eyes, sparkling with challenge, hovered in the front of his mind. With every bump, every bite, every little inconvenience, they twinkled a little bit more and Ewan was powerless to stop the edges of his mouth from tilting up.

The farmer thought he was a lunatic.

“This the place then?” the farmer asked, pulling the wagon up to the inn Angus had intended to stay in for the night.

“That’s the one.” Ewan hopped off the back of the wagon, gathering the blanket about him. “If ye’ll wait just a moment, I’ll return yer blanket and give ye something for yer trouble.”

To say the man was skeptical would be akin to saying Ewan was “a touch underdressed,” but the farmer nodded his agreement.

Ewan used the initial shock at his appearance and his superior size to push his way past objections and into the taproom. He was relieved to find Angus exactly where he expected him to be, enjoying a pint.

Angus took Ewan’s arrival in with the arching of an eyebrow. “I leave ye alone for one bloody afternoon . . .”

“Angus.”

“Left up the stairs. End of the hall.”

It didn’t take long to find Angus’s spare set of clothes—it was fortunate his godfather and he were the same size. Angus hadn’t brought a spare set of boots, so Ewan took the stairs back down barefoot. He caught the purse Angus tossed to him when he was back in the taproom.

“Think ye can manage nae to lose it all before ye get to the door?”

Ewan’s answer came in the form of an impolite gesture. He settled up with the farmer and made his way back to the taproom, tossing the purse back to Angus. “Safe and sound.”

Angus tucked it away and looked him over. “What the devil happened to ye?”

“I was robbed.” He helped himself to his godfather’s pint, finally washing the road dust out of his mouth.

“Having seen more of yer hide than I’m particularly pleased about this evening, I can see yer nae injured,” Angus speculated as he waved for another drink. “Did ye nae put up a fight?”

“I was robbed,” Ewan said, pausing for another swallow of ale. “By a lass.”

“Ahh.” No more explanation was necessary. Angus was well aware of Ewan’s stance on harming women. “Bit unusual, a lady highwayman.”

“That wasnae even the most unusual thing about her. She may well be the bonniest lass in Scotland.”

Angus scoffed. “The pretty ones dinnae go in for thievery. They dinnae have to.”

“This one does.” Ewan wondered at that. Beautiful women rarely found themselves without a willing benefactor. What would drive a woman like that to risk the road alone to make her living?

He and Angus argued into the night, debating whether his mystery woman could be as attractive as he claimed or whether he might have been addled from the heat. They argued about the best way and time to arrive at Broch Murdo, and their differing opinions of the king over the water. Through it all, a pair of twinkling dark eyes hovering on the edge of his mind—along with a growing list of questions.

***

Deidre closed the door to the two tiny rooms she called home and bolted the latch behind her. She leaned against it, leaving the stink of the city behind. She let the tension out of her shoulders, shaking off farriers’ wives and the ever-present threat of the constable. Her head fell back against the wood as she willed away the guilt at what she’d done to survive the day. When she was empty, when every horrid thing about her life was gone and all that remained was Deidre, she moved into the room.

“You look old when you do that.” Tris’s voice surprised her.

Her brother was seated at the wobbly table, with the remnants of the food that was meant to last all week spread before him. She should be angry, but it was hard to chastise him when she could see the three inches of bare wrist skin where his jacket didn’t cover. It fit when she’d given it to him at the beginning of spring. The days when he was done growing couldn’t come soon enough.

“I can’t imagine why,” she muttered as she put the bread away. She resigned herself to making the stale loaf stretch as long as possible. “
Shuk tski khalpe la royasa.
”

Tristan frowned. “What does that one mean again?”

“Beauty cannot be eaten with a spoon,” she translated. She’d been much older than Tris when they lost their mother—and her musical Romani sayings—so she remembered more of them.

“You make things harder than they need to be,” he said, shaking his head. “If you’d just let Alastair—”

“No.”

“Fine then, not Alastair, some cove with deep pockets.” He leaned back in the only chair, doing an accidental impression of their father that sent an ache straight to Deidre’s heart. “Point is, you’re not getting any younger, Dee.”

She pushed the sentiment aside and rolled her eyes. “Perhaps when my looks have gone,
you
can support us.”

Tris’s sour frown outlined exactly how distasteful he found that line of thinking. “I don’t understand why you don’t just spread your legs and snag us a fortune. It’s not like you’re a virgin.”

She certainly wasn’t. First by force and later by choice, Deidre had given up that commodity long ago. She didn’t miss it. There was power in knowing the pleasures of a man’s body, and the pleasures of her own.

Deidre had thought about it: finding a rich man and becoming his mistress. Maybe even making the attempt at being a wife. She thought about it often, if she was being honest, and there had been plenty of offers. Still, she never could go through with it. Many had, and Deidre wouldn’t fault them for it, but each time she considered it, she thought of the women she saw strolling on the high street. They were well fed and well kept, but their eyes . . . there was no life in their eyes. They looked empty, like menagerie animals that had been too long in a cage. The wild part of Deidre abhorred the idea.

The wild part was always conspicuously absent the next day when the question of how they would eat arose.

“I’m not giving my body to a man—”

“That you can’t trust to give it back. I know.” He rolled his eyes at her, but he added that crooked smile he’d inherited from their father that reminded her of better days. ’Spose it doesn’t matter. Heard you snagged a big take tonight.”

“And I heard it won’t be enough.” The shift in his posture told her everything she needed to know. “Damn it, Tristan. What have you done?”

“It was just a little game, just me and some guys. Then this swell showed up talking big—I couldn’t let him strut around, not with Alastair watching. I was doing well, too, up a whole fistful, but then the luck dropped out. I dunno what happened.” His words poured out, pleading and explaining.

Not with Alastair watching
. Damn that man to hell and back a thousand times. Damn her brother for being ten kinds of fool. “You were played, Tris.”

“Naw, it was—”

“You were played. Alastair set you up.”

Tris shoved out of the chair, putting space between himself and her accusations. “He wouldn’t do that.”

He absolutely would. Deidre had seen him run that con countless times. Alistair would do that, and much worse, to keep them under his thumb.

“He’s a vicious bastard, Tris. You can’t trust him.”

“You trusted him.”

She’d done more than trust him—she’d been in love with him. “I shouldn’t have.”

Her brother’s posture remained defensive. He worshipped Alastair. It was a never-ending source of guilt for Deidre, how little effort it had taken on Alastair’s part for that to come to pass.

“You ought to give him another chance, Dee.”

“No.”

“I don’t understand why you—”

“Enough, Tris!”

Even if she told him, Tristan wouldn’t understand. She’d run Alastair’s cons, played his seduction games—played his whore, even—with enthusiasm. Deidre made no apologies for the life she’d led and the things she’d done, but she wanted better for Tris. Alastair knew that, and he’d lured her brother into the life anyway. She would never forgive him for that.

“Whatever you say, Lady Dee.” He lifted his chin and tightened his lips in imitation of the toughs that loitered around the pub, but the hurt showed in his too-expressive eyes as he stormed out the door.

He would never survive in their world, wearing his feelings like that. She had to get him out.

Chapter 3

The first order of business was finding his horse. The rest of Ewan’s belongings would be too difficult to track, but there couldn’t be that many places willing to trade in pilfered livestock. Once he found the beast, he’d be that much closer to finding the woman who had taken them. The questions piling up in Ewan’s mind had become a nagging need to find her.

Angus would have none of it. He claimed Ewan was using his mystery woman as an excuse to avoid the return to Broch Murdo. Ewan just considered that to be a well-timed advantage. Plenty of bold and attractive women had crossed his path but none had her lingering effect, and Ewan intended to find out why. If that meant never making it back to the place he was born, he certainly wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Not that Ewan slept.

Typically, he spent his evenings with a book, waiting for the dawn. He’d catch an hour or two once the sun came up before beginning his day. It had been that way for so long, he’d become accustomed to it. Last night, however, he’d spent his evening plying unsavory tavern goers with alcohol and collecting a list of places to start his search.

The third such place had been in possession of his horse. Unwilling to be implicated in the fencing of stolen horseflesh, the farrier had agreed to return it to the inn he and Angus were staying at with little fuss. The man’s wife had also provided a wealth of information on where Ewan might find his mystery woman, which proved immediately fruitful. Halfway down an alley near an establishment suggested as one of her regular haunts was the selkie herself. She was with two men Ewan wouldn’t have trusted in broad daylight, never mind a shadowed corridor.

“He wants to see ye, Dee.”

She shook her head. “I can’t right now.”

“We ain’t askin’.” They moved in on either side of her.

“Come on now, boys.” His lady robber kept her composure, giving them a sisterly smile. “Can’t you just say you didn’t see me?”

The two strangers shared a look.

“If we dinnae see you . . .”

“Then you dinnae see us.”

The taller of the two got closer still, wrapping a lock of her hair around his finger. “Might be we could come to an agreement. Might be we have a bit of fun.”

“And a bit of rough. As long as it dinnae come back to Alastair.”

“How could it? We was never here.”

Ewan had heard more than enough. Moving to the mouth of the alley, he made his presence known with a clearing of his throat. “Ye’ll want to step away from the lass.”

***

It was not a good day.

Deidre had been searching for Tris all morning. He’d never come back home after storming out and she had run out of places to look for him that weren’t near Alastair’s favorite haunt. Thoughts of her brother had taken a backseat in the face of the mess she presently found herself in. When the stranger intervened, for a moment she thought she was saved. Then she recognized him.

“No, I dinnae think I do,” Wick told the stranger.

Teller leered. “I’d suggest ye turn around and pretend ye never seen us, but—”

“Ye didn’t ask nice, and now we’re cross,” Wick finished.

Deidre shifted herself as close to the wall as she could manage in the small space afforded by the alley. She was more than happy to try her luck with the devil she didn’t know, but she doubted she’d get the chance. The smart money was always on Alastair’s boys. They weren’t known for losing fights—or leaving the kind of victims that could report them to the watch.

The stranger seemed to gather the direction they were headed. He slipped off his coat, setting it over an abandoned crate, and started rolling up his sleeves. “Pardon my manners. Kindly step away from the lady.”

“Ye hear that, Dee, ’e thinks yer a lady!” Wick chuckled. Neither he nor Teller took their eyes off the stranger.

“Only thing ladylike about her is her—”

“Yer going to want to keep yer mouth shut,” the stranger interrupted.

“I am, am I?”

“This one thinks he’s got the stones, does he?” Teller nudged Wick with his elbow. “Well then, if conversation’s nae yer game . . .”

Fool. As long as they were talking, they wouldn’t be beating the ever-loving hell out of him. What did he care what they said about her anyway? She’d robbed him, for Christ’s sake. Perhaps she could slip out while they were distracted. He was very large. Maybe he’d put up enough of a fight for her to get a few streets away before they noticed she was gone.

Teller flipped a wicked-looking blade out of his sleeve. He arced left while Wick arced right, forcing the stranger to choose which side to focus on. Deidre had seen this particular gambit before. Right on schedule, Wick booted a loose cobble, drawing attention as Teller lunged in. She prepared herself for the blood.

Blood did come, but not from the quarter she expected. The stranger sidestepped faster than Deidre would have thought possible. He barely payed the cobblestone any mind. Slapping the blade off target, the stranger delivered his fist directly to the center of the Wick’s face. Crimson poured into the alley.

Teller’s surprise came in the form of a growl. He leapt onto the stranger as his companion crumpled, and they became a flurry of limbs and sickening impacts. Deidre knew an opportunity when she saw one. She shifted along the wall toward the opening, doing her best to avoid an accidental blow. A bloody hand grabbed her just a few feet from freedom.

“Dee . . .” Wick spat out a mouth full of blood, and tipped his head toward the fight.

His partner had the stranger pinned for a moment, but it clearly wasn’t going to last. They wanted her to help. Deidre had been in her fair share of scuffles, but she wasn’t nearly stupid enough to take on someone Alastair’s prize pets couldn’t best. She took another step toward the street.

The grip tightened, and the knife flashed in his other hand. “Dee.”

The hand holding the blade went limp as the wrist it was attached to snapped in an unnatural direction. Wick screamed. Deidre looked past him, into the stranger’s eyes. She hadn’t even seen him move. She did see the pain that registered when Teller took advantage of the stranger’s exposed back, bringing his own weapon down with uninterrupted force.

It should have brought the stranger low. Instead, he propelled himself backward, using the weight of his body to slam his attacker into the wall behind them. Teller’s head hit the brick and his body went slack. The blade still buried in the stranger’s body took the impact. The stranger dropped to a knee, showing the first real sign of weakness.

Wick rounded back on the stranger, still screaming. Deidre wasn’t giving him the same odds she had at the beginning of the fight, but the stranger wasn’t in great shape, either. He would be, if he hadn’t turned to help her—if he hadn’t come into the alley at all. Every survival instinct Deidre possessed called her a fool, an idiot, a soon-to-be-dead woman. None of it stopped her from picking up the loose cobble and smashing it into the back of Wick’s head. He crumpled.

For a few moments she and the stranger just stared at each other, deep green eyes locked with tilted black, as their deep breaths filled the space. Sweat darkened his red hair to auburn in sections. He’d been handsome standing naked in the river, but seeing him like this—something in Deidre reacted to it. She knew better than to trust that wild instinct. It had only ever brought her trouble.

Without a word, she turned and left him in the alley.

***

Ewan had saved the damned woman’s life, taking a blade to the back for his efforts, and she was trying to run off. Again. He’d been lucky to find her once; he wasn’t about to let her escape a second time. Pulling the knife out of his shoulder, he pushed himself up with a groan—he was getting a bit too old for knife fights in alleys—grabbed his coat, and went after her. Fortunately he didn’t have to go far. His mystery woman was just a few feet down the road, being detained by a member of the city watch.

“Surely there’s been some sort of mistake.” Her eyes widened farther, and thick lashes slowly batted at the man who held her captive.

Maybe it was the leftover bloodlust, but Ewan suddenly found the situation highly humorous. Was there anything this woman wouldn’t try to charm her way out of? Since every spectator was focused on her, Ewan took the opportunity to put on his coat and straighten himself out a bit.

“I’m sure there is, miss, but we’ve got a witness that says you sold her a stolen horse. You’ll need to come speak with the captain to sort it out.”

Ewan stepped up, putting a hand on his highwaywoman’s waist. “My wife is no horse thief, Sergeant.”

At his touch, her head swiveled. She hid her surprise under an adoring smile, slipping herself under the protection of his arm.

“Your wife, my lord?”

He almost corrected the man, but not being a lord would not benefit him at the moment, and it wasn’t even true anymore. He’d inherited an earldom along with that God-cursed castle in the north. At least the title would prove useful. “Aye, Sergeant, my wife. Countess Broch Murdo.”

The arm around his back pinched him in the kidney, but she remained calm while the watchman scrutinized her distinctly uncountesslike attire.

“The carriage with our luggage met with some difficulty,” she explained. Her chin tipped with just the right amount of indignation. “I’ve been required to make do for the time being.”

“And now accused of horse thievery!” Ewan laughed, including the watchman in his amusement. “I’ll nae hear the end of it.”

“Apologies, my lord. My lady.” The watchman made a sincere bow to—what had the thug called her? Dee. That was it. He bowed to Dee, and she nodded her acceptance. “I am deeply sorry for the mix-up.”

“I’m sure yer just trying to do yer job, Sergeant. Cannae be easy.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Ewan could feel the blood starting to seep through his coat. He nudged his “Countess” into motion, starting them down the lane.

“One moment, my lord.” The sergeant called out to them. “Where is your lodging? I’m certain the captain will wish to apologize as well.”

“That’s nae necessary.”

“I’m certain he’ll insist. A man doesn’t make captain offending ladies of quality.”

The countess smiled. “We’re at The Crimson Dragonfly, but truly, your captain need not bother.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The sergeant offered another bow for her inspection.

Ewan resumed their exodus. He sent up a small prayer that they would make it out of view before he started bleeding onto the street or they had to invent any new lies.

“The Crimson Dragonfly?” he asked when they were out of range of hearing.

“It has an excellent reputation.”

“I’m sure it does, but it isnae where I’m staying.”

“Were you planning to tell him the truth?” Her opinion of that concept was painfully clear.

Ewan, on the other hand, wasn’t clear on anything. He knew why he’d rescued her in the alley—he couldn’t stand by and let a woman come to harm—but by all rights he should have left her to the watch’s justice. “I hadnae thought about it.”

“What did I tell you about thinking?”

The reminder of yesterday’s events returned some sense to Ewan. He directed them to a shaded doorway, doing a quick search of her pockets before she could protest, coming up with the small firearm she’d used on him at the river. “Thank ye. I almost forgot.”

“Give that back.”

What kind of fool did she think he was?

“Truly, I need it.”

“Aye, for robbing folks. I’m familiar.” He set them back on the path to the inn. “I think yer going to need to find yer entertainment elsewhere.”

“It’s for protection,” she argued.

“Seems to me that’s nae working out very well, either.”

She shot him a sideways glare. “I make do with what I have. If you’d like to volunteer—”

“I think I already have.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Fairly well. I’ve been out of sorts for weeks. A good fight helps clear my head.”

“Fairly well?” She shook her head. “You could have been killed. What were you thinking?”

The corner of his mouth twisted up. “A pretty lass by a river advised me nae to think.”

She rolled her eyes. “Idiot.”

“Thief.” They were almost to the inn. Ewan ought to be glad of it since he was beginning to feel very peculiar, but he was enjoying walking with her. “Who did they want ye to go see?”

“What?”

“The man ye brained with the cobblestone said someone wanted to see ye.”

“How long were you watching?”

Ewan slowed his steps as the inn came into view. “Long enough. Yer in a bit of a tight spot, I gather?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She noticed his change of pace and the natural wariness of her demeanor increased.

Ewan watched her check for likely escape routes. He reached out. “I’ve no intention of letting ye bolt on me a third time, Countess.”

She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm. “What do you intend?”

A good question. Ewan hadn’t really thought it out that far. He wanted his belongings back. He wanted to know why she stole at all. He wanted—the other things he wanted didn’t warrant thought. Either he’d spend the whole time worrying he was taking advantage, or worrying she’d gut him in his sleep. “I mean to see ye safe.”

“Quest accomplished then. I am well, and free from incarceration.”

“But for how long?”

***

For how long? What did he care? What was he even doing here, picking fights in alleys and asking questions about her life? He had to want something. It was probably the same thing they all wanted, but he was certainly going about it in an odd fashion.

For how long. If she was being honest, not even until the end of the day. She might be able to explain the events in the alley in a way that Alastair would accept—he may not love her, but he was willing to forgive anything short of direct defiance—but Wick would never forget what she’d done. Unless she’d hit him hard enough to kill him, there would be nowhere for her to hide in the city. Add the watch looking for her, thanks to that cranky old besom at the farrier’s, and their home now held all the safety of a burning building for Deidre. It was just a matter of time before it collapsed around her.