Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (6 page)

Lyssa ran a distracted hand through her hair. It hung loose, a hopeless mess, and she didn’t have a pin to use to tidy it—such an odd thing to think about when one had murderers on her trail…

She reached for her precious plaid and held it out for inspection. There was a hole torn in the corner but it was not completely ruined. She wrapped it around her shoulders, needing something to help her combat the terrible coldness stealing through her.

The Irishman spoke. “Who wants you dead, Miss Harrell?”

She didn’t know, didn’t want to think on it. Instead, she said, “Which maid did you bring?”

“Harriet.”

Harriet. The maid was newly arrived in London and had been so willing to please that Lyssa had championed her. The pain of betrayal ran deep. “You were a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“You seem to know what you are doing.” She had to make her mind work, to make sense of the violence, of what was happening. This was all to have been a lark. An adventure.

She forced herself to stop shaking by clasping her hands together. “I don’t think anyone wants me dead.”

“Obviously you’re wrong. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble and a good expense to achieve that objective, including using me.” There was a beat silence and then he added, “That was their first mistake.” She understood what he was saying. This was personal to him now.

“Do you think your father could be behind this?” he hazarded.

His suggestion staggered her. “No. I told you earlier, he’d never want to see me dead. He loves me! If anything it would be my stepmother.”

“Your stepmother?” The Irishman shook his head. “Murder is a bold crime. I’ve met her. She hasn’t it in her.”

“Of course,” Lyssa agreed sarcastically. “Every man thinks my stepmother is fragile. Trust me, she is far more resilient than most give her credit.”

“But what does she stand to gain by seeing you dead?”

“A more substantial inheritance for her child?” Lyssa suggested.

“To what purpose? She has all the money she needs.”

“Does anyone ever have all the money they
need? The moment my stepmother came out of mourning for her first husband, the duke, she threw herself at my father. No one can convince me it was love at first sight. Consider their age difference. She chose him for his money, and it’s a pity my own father isn’t wise enough to see it.”

“But is she jealous enough of you to stoop to murder?” he asked.

Lyssa threw her hands in the air. “What more proof do you need? Who else would want me dead? I’m not a threat to anyone. Or perhaps you are right about my father. It seems I’ve ceased to matter with the advent of a baby. But then again, he is determined I marry for a title. A son can’t give him that.”

The Irishman put his pistol in his knapsack and adjusted it around his shoulders. “What about your betrothed?”

“We’re not betrothed yet, not formally.” She didn’t like to think about Grossett. Conscious that the Irishman watched her closely, she said stiffly, “He only gains if he marries me. If he wants me dead, he’d be wiser to wait until after I am his wife.”

“You don’t like him much?”

She despised him…but she’d not admit that to the Irishman. “He is my father’s choice, not mine.”

Even in the night, she could see him frown. “You could be more forthcoming, Miss Harrell. This isn’t some game, not anymore. These men
want to kill you, and me if I stand in their way.”

Was he criticizing her? “I understand the severity of my position. I’ve told you everything I know. I haven’t any idea why someone would pay men to murder me.”

He crossed his arms. Matching her clipped tone, he said, “Then let us start with what you know. Why did you run away?”

“I told you I want to go to Amleth Hall.”

“Why?”

She hated how with one word he could make her feel she had no choice but to answer…and how vulnerable he made her feel when she did so. As Dunmore Harrell’s daughter she’d rarely explained herself to anyone.

“Amleth Hall is my mother’s family seat. She was the laird’s daughter and a famed beauty. They called her ‘the jewel of the Davidson clan,’ and she was expected to marry well. Instead, when she was younger than I, she eloped with my father who then was nothing more than a shepherd. It was a terrible scandal and her father disinherited her. She never regretted her decision to marry Papa because she loved him with her whole heart. But I know that up until the day of her death, she always missed Amleth Hall and Scotland.”

And Lyssa missed her mother.

“Why didn’t you just ask your father to take you to Scotland? Why this running away nonsense?”

“I
did
ask him, years ago. Right after Mother died.” Lyssa shook her head. “He’s washed his hands of Scotland. He doesn’t even like people to think he is Scottish—especially now that he has his ‘duchess.’ He refused to take me.”

The Irishman paced a step to the right, then stopped. “Wait a moment. There is more here. Pirate Harrell is known to never refuse his daughter anything.”

“How would you know that?” she demanded.

“Rumors on the street. When a chit is worth her weight in gold, people notice everything.”

Lyssa had always been uncomfortable with the speculation her father’s money brought her. Coldly, she said, “My father is no different than any other. He wants his daughter to do exactly as he says, and when she doesn’t behave—”

“Such as marrying the man he has chosen for her?”

“Such as marrying the man he has chosen for her,” she confirmed, “then like any other father, he can resort to harsh measures.”

The Irishman actually laughed. “Measures like what? Bread and water for an hour? Confined to your bedroom with servants to wait on you hand and foot for the day?”

His mockery hit home—especially because his jests were true. And she saw herself through his eyes: a vain, pampered creature who had taken off for Scotland in a snit and was now deeply in trouble.

“You may laugh, Irishman,” she returned tightly. “You know little of my life.”

“Ah, but I can dream,” he said.

Her temper broke. “Dream about what? About being just barely tolerated in Society because your father has wealth? About being forced on people who do not want to have anything to do with you? I smell of Trade, Irishman, and there are those amongst the
ton
who will never let me forget it. My father doesn’t mind forcing his way through, but I do. And I
hate
the idea that I am to be married to a man I have not one thing in common with, just because of his title. I am being treated like little more than a broodmare. Once my husband has an heir from me, he won’t want to talk to me again. He’ll have my fortune and my child and I will be nothing.”

“Such is the lot of most women,” the Irishman observed. “I’m not saying it is right,” he hurried to add, “but it is the way of the law.”

“It was
not
my mother’s lot. She married for love. She defied all convention and
chose
her life and her mate.”

He frowned. “Don’t tell me you are going to be looking for a mate in Scotland?”

“No,” she said firmly, suspecting he was teasing her and almost hating him for it. “I’m going to Amleth Hall because even though I have everything I want—all that money can buy—what I desire most eludes me.”

“And what is that, Miss Harrell?”

“Acceptance, Irishman.
Welcomed
acceptance. I’m tired of being the outsider. The one they poke little jibes at as if I have no intelligence or feelings and am certainly beneath notice. I hope to find a place amongst my mother’s family and at her home. She’s been gone so long and yet, inside me—” She tapped her breast right above her heart. “—I have a need to be there, close to where she was. A need I can’t explain with reason.”

She’d said too much. She knew it by the sudden silence between them and she wished she had been more circumspect. Her temper and her tongue had betrayed her again!

Of course, there was something about the Irishman that provoked her into speaking her mind. That is why she’d foolishly revealed more to him in the last five minutes than she’d ever had to anyone in her whole lifetime.

Now she stood in front of him completely defenseless.

And she hated the sudden silence between them.

Shifting her weight from one foot to the next, she crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “Well?” she challenged. “Don’t you have anything to say? Some comment about how ridiculous I am?”

“Where did you say this Amleth Hall is located?”

Lyssa feared she hadn’t heard him correctly. She pulled her plaid tighter around her shoulders.
“Close to Appin. Abrams—I mean,
Charley
—told me we were perhaps only two days from there.”

“Heading north, right?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” He didn’t wait for her response but turned and started in the opposite direction Fielder and his men had gone.

Lyssa stood rooted to the ground, stunned by his sudden change of mind.

The Irishman paused, looking over his shoulder. “Are you coming? I assure you, Miss Harrell, the walk won’t be easy. We’d best get on with it and put as many miles between ourselves and Fielder as we can.”

“Why?” she asked bluntly. “You were set against it when I offered money. And my father won’t pay you until I’m delivered to him in London.”

“Aye, but north is the direction Fielder and his men don’t expect us to take. You are certain you still have family there?”

“Yes, I should.”

“Then we can hope they will help us get you safely to London. There are many roads to the capital. We’re merely taking one that is unexpected. Now, we’d best start marching.”

Still Lyssa did not move. There was more here—her women’s intuition told her so—and she wanted to know what it was. “Is that your only reason, Irishman, to avoid Fielder?”

The moonlight turned his eyes to quicksilver,
and she sensed he saw everything, knew all. His answer surprised her. “I understand wanting to be accepted, Miss Harrell. I understand all too well—and my name is
Campion
, not ‘Irishman.’ I’ll thank you to use it. Now come.”

He didn’t wait for her response, but turned off the wagon path and started walking through the woods.

D
UMBFOUNDED
, Lyssa stared after the Irishm—

Her mind stumbled over the appellation as she broke off the thought.
Campion
. He wanted her to call him
Campion.

She frowned. The pride in his voice nagged at her conscience. The man had saved her life, but he was too high-handed by half. And at this moment, he was walking away as if he didn’t care if she followed or not.

No. He
expected
her to obey.

Which she did, because she had no other choice.

She picked up her skirts and followed, but rebellion brewed in her mind. Think what he may, she was
not
returning to London.

She would
not
marry Robert or go through another humiliating Season of idle, patronizing chitchat from those who only pretended to like
her to please her stepmother or even her father. She was too old for such nonsense.

She wanted purpose in her life, and she knew she would find it here, in Scotland, the birthplace of her parents.

In the meantime, she would contrive to be everything a proper, biddable young woman should be. After all, when they reached Amleth Hall and she refused to return to London with him, the Irishman would be cheated out of a great deal of money, and he wasn’t going to take it very well.

So, Lyssa did her best to “march,” but keeping up with him was a challenge. He had a long stride and moved as if he planned to cram the two days of travel inside this one night. She wasn’t about to complain. Living with her father had taught her it was best not to pull on the watchdog’s whiskers, and this man was definitely a watchdog.

Of course, it didn’t help that her stockings were wet from their dash through the stream, and that water had seeped into her tight shoes, causing blisters to form on her feet.

She ignored the increasing pain each step caused her, and focused on placing one foot in front of the other.

She stumbled over a root growing over the path.

For a second, she was in midair, heading for the ground. But Campion turned, with that uncanny ability of his to know everything that was happening,
and in the next instant, her cheek was against the solid wall of his chest. He set her on her feet. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She took a step away from him. He wasn’t the only one with pride. “I’ll be better when we arrive someplace where we can hire horses.”

“We won’t be hiring horses.”

Lyssa almost stumbled over her feet again in surprise. “You don’t mean to
walk
all the way to Appin?”

“How else did you think we would travel?”

“With Charley and Duci, I had the wagon.”

“There is no money for a wagon either, unless you have some.”

She didn’t. Her money had been hidden in the wagon that was burned to the ground. “You came after me without a shilling?” She’d never imagined herself without money.

“What little I have can be better spent than hiring horses.”

“I doubt that.”

Her flat reply startled a laugh out of him. “Oh, come now, people walk the distance across Scotland and back all the time, Miss Harrell. We shall manage.”

“But not with my—” She stopped just in time. She’d been about to complain of her blisters, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She’d heard the touch of satisfaction in his voice over having the power to make the rich man’s daughter
walk. Oh, no, like the noble Joan of Arc, she vowed to keep her personal sufferings private.

“Not with your what?” he prompted.

“Not with the present company,” she improvised. “I’m certain walking is more pleasant with better company.” He didn’t like that response one wit, and she liked getting a bit of her own back—even though each step was agony.

And yet, she kept on, refusing to complain. She was her father’s daughter for a reason.

The Irishman led the way, holding back low-hanging branches that would have swiped her in the face or helping her scramble up the often steep climbs in the forest path. She hid her suffering. Behind his back, she would hobble like a troll, but once he turned, she forced herself to walk upright.

In truth, the longer they traveled, the friendlier he became. As the first rays of the sun signaled the approaching dawn, he appeared ready to smile—until he caught sight of her limping.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“I’ve a blister. Nothing more, nothing less.” They had come to a smooth road which she hoped would make the walking easier. She attempted to pass him, her head high…but parts of her feet felt like hot coals.

He held out his arm, blocking her path. “Sit down on that rock and take off your shoes.”

“I have no intention of doing any such thing.” And she would have ducked under his arm and
continued on her way, except he hooked his hand in her elbow and swung her around to face him.

Lording his height over her, he asked, “What? You’d rather walk until you have nubs instead of feet?”

“That won’t happen,” she said.

“It will and it has,” he shot back. “I’ve seen grown men lose
all
their toes because they didn’t take care of a blister.”

Lyssa frowned, slightly unnerved by his accurate diagnosis of her problem and yet not believing such a preposterous statement. “You’re hoaxing me.”

He shook his head. “Sit on that rock. We’ve been walking most of the night and the time’s come to take a breather.”

Her pride tempted her to nobly wobble on in spite of the pain. She wondered if he would be more contrite if she
did
end up with nubs instead of feet.

However, what won her over was the idea of sitting. He was right. They had been moving all night. Letting down her guard, she gratefully sank onto the round, flat stone half buried in the hillside beside the road.

Who would have thought “sitting” could be such heaven?

He dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her shoe. She pulled her foot back. “What are you doing?”

“Easing your laces a bit,” he said. “As I am your father’s agent, your health and well-being are my responsibility.”

“I can look after my own feet,” she informed him primly. This didn’t seem proper, his playing with her feet. It was too, too…intimate.

His gray gaze measured her a moment. His voice took on the coaxing gentleness one used with a skittish horse. “Aye, I’m certain you can. However, I’ve a bit of experience from my days in the army. So, if you’ll allow me…” He didn’t wait for permission but pulled her right foot to him, and she let him. Maybe because she was tired. Maybe because she was a bit susceptible to that fabled Irish charm.

Either way, she didn’t argue. Instead, she watched as he deftly untied the laces of her shoes. The morning breeze ruffled his hair. It wasn’t as dark as she’d first thought it was. It was sleekly straight and as feathered as a bird’s wing with brushes of red on the tips as if he’d spent hours in the out-of-doors.

He needed a haircut. By a good barber. She wondered if there would be some curl…

He pulled off her right shoe and shook his head. “What kind of socks are these to wear for walking?”

“They’re French,” she protested as he drew off her other shoe. “Nor was I planning to walk.”

“They should be wool or good cotton.”

“I always wear silk—”

Before she realized what he was about, he reached up her skirt and untied her garter, his fingers tickling the tender skin behind her knee.

Lyssa slapped her skirt down before he could go for the other leg. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded. No one had ever taken such liberties before.

“Don’t worry, Miss Harrell,” he cooed. “ ’Tis only a garter.”

“Located in a place where a gentleman shouldn’t be placing his hands,” she responded crisply. Even now her skin still tingled from the brush of his fingers.

He grinned, completely unrepentant, the slightly lopsided expression giving him a younger, more carefree appearance. “And what are you going to do now? Slap my face at the indignity?” He laughed. “Relax, Miss Harrell, I have sisters. Garters are no mystery to me, nor shall I go rabid and ‘attack’ you over the sight of one.” He rolled the stocking down over her ankle with a journey-man’s attitude.

Lyssa didn’t know if she should be relieved by his words or insulted that he obviously didn’t find her attractive. Of course, she was three and twenty and the duchess had been warning her she almost in her dotage…but surprisingly, this minute was the first time she’d ever cared about her age.

“I don’t imagine most women,
including
your sisters, let you untie their garters?”

“Some have,” he disagreed without looking up but his mind obviously wasn’t on the conversation. Instead, he frowned at the angry blisters on her toe and heel.

His attitude changed, and he looked up at her. “These must be treated immediately,” he said. “I can’t believe you were walking on them. Take off your other stocking.” He took his knapsack off his shoulders, dropped it to the ground, and began rummaging inside until he found a tin and a small sewing kit.

Holding the stocking she’d just pulled off her other foot, Lyssa frowned as he pulled a sharp needle from the kit. “What are you going to do?”

“The salve in this tin will cure anything.” He unscrewed the lid and set it aside.

“And the needle?”

“If you are squeamish, close your eyes.”

“Why—?” she started to ask and then gasped as without a moment’s hesitation he lifted her foot and slid the needle into the base of one of her blisters.

Lyssa struggled to be brave but the truth was, she’d never been a good patient, especially after years of watching the doctors treat her mother. However, the Irishman moved quickly, doctoring one foot, then the other. It was all done before she realized it.

He covered the last blister he worked on with the warmth of his hand. “Didn’t hurt, did it?”

She shook her head, mortified into silence, her
hands gripping the edge of her stone seat for courage.

If he noticed her distress, he gave no indication but went about his business applying salve.

Slowly, she began to relax—

“Do you mind?” was the only warning he gave before he reached for the edge of her petticoat and began tearing the hem.

Lyssa grabbed his hand. “Now what are you doing? Ripping my petticoats off my person?”

He didn’t even look up. “We need to wrap your feet with bandages, or you’ll have even worse problems. Silk stockings provide no protection, and we must make do with what we have.”

“You’re leaving me nothing to wear.” Her words sounded as if she were being petulantly ungrateful or suggesting something not quite proper, neither exactly what she’d meant to say.

Her awkwardness was not helped by his curt, “Miss Harrell, your virtue is safe.”

She grabbed his wrists. “It’s not my virtue I’m worried about, but my clothing.”

“Your father will buy you new clothes.”

“But I like
these
,” she returned through practically clenched teeth.

“Pardon me then, for it must be done,” he replied and ruthlessly finished tearing her favorite petticoat hem into one long strip. Splitting it into two narrow ones, he bound her wounds, giving her no choice but to accept his ministrations.

Lyssa crossed her arms lest she give in to the temptation to pound him around the ears. Where had her father found such a man? He was high-handed, arrogant…and rather attractive, shaggy hair or not.

There had to be Nordic blood in his ancestry. It appeared in the lean line of his jaw and the planes of his cheeks. His nose was long and straight save for a bump on its bridge, as if it had been broken. The bump ruined the symmetry of his face and gave him a masculine, defiant air.

A glance at the size of his knuckles confirmed her suspicions that he was no stranger to fisticuffs. However his long, tapered fingers moved with grace and would seem to have been more those of a swordsman than a pugilist.

“I thought the Irish were more often blond or redheaded,” she said. Her words were a peace offering of sorts. Did she really want to quarrel with him when they were being forced to spend so much time together?

He seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “Some are,” he said not looking up from his task. He slipped her stocking on over her bandaged foot. “But not all.”

She was struck by his contradictions. He spoke with barely a trace of an accent, and yet he could be rude in his bluntness. She had no doubt he was used to rough living…but she also sensed he could be a gentleman if he so desired…

He raised his gaze, and for a moment, they seemed to take each other’s measure without rancor. In the early morning light, she could see his eyes were not completely gray but had flecks of blue around the pupils. He still held her left foot, her arch against the warm palm of his hand.

“What is it?” he asked. “What are you thinking?”

Lyssa couldn’t answer him. She had the strangest sensation that through those extraordinary eyes of his, she was truly seeing him for the first time. Honest, razor sharp…and yet there was passion in their depths, too, as well as a bright, burning flame of life.
Intelligent. Clever. Subtle.
She could even recall Madame’s exact inflection as she’d described the Knight of Swords.

Breathing had become unexpectedly difficult. The tarot card was still tucked safe in her bodice and she was never more aware of it than at this moment. “Nothing.” The word was little more than a whisper.

A heartbeat of silence passed between them, a silence she didn’t quite understand. A frown formed between his brows.

Suddenly uncertain, she broke the silence. Wetting dry lips, she said, “Are you done with my foot or do you plan to hold it all day?” Her words came out sharper than she’d intended.

He abruptly released her, and she quickly tucked both her feet under her skirts and reached for one of her shoes.

The Irishman began putting the needle and salve back into his knapsack with great care, deliberately avoiding her gaze.

“You must have everything in there,” she murmured, wanting to amend her brusque words.