Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (8 page)

He stopped the door with his hand. “Wait, I sleep here too.”

Her brows flew together. “Oh, no you don’t. You can’t. You must get your own room.”

“Even if there was a room to be had, and there isn’t, I’ve not the money for it. Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t care,” she said crossly. “It wouldn’t be right for us to be in here together. What if the innkeeper found out?”

“The innkeeper doesn’t care—”

“Did you tell him we were man and wife?” she accused, her eyes narrowing.

“No,” he said, his temper breaking. “I told him you were my bloody mistress.

She slammed the door in his face so hard the wall shook.

L
YSSA
received so much satisfaction out of slamming the door in Mr. Campion’s face, she was tempted to open and slam it again.

As if testing her, he knocked on the door, a single, insistent rap.

She wanted to ignore him. She couldn’t.

Opening the door no more than a crack, she demanded, “Yes?”

He shoved the tin of salve for her blisters on her feet. “Don’t open this door again. Not for anyone.” He then shut the door for her.

Steam could have come out of Lyssa’s ears. Dear Lord, there was only so much she could take of that Irishman in one day and she’d had her fill. Leave it to her father to find the one man on earth who had the ability to irritate above and beyond all others.

Over supper, he’d been a bullying, ill-mannered bear and she’d had enough. He could go to the devil for all she cared.

As if in answer to her thoughts, he settled himself on the floor outside her door. He relaxed, releasing his breath with a groan that sounded much like the growl of a tired bear. She could almost picture him, his back against the heavy wood, prepared to spend the night in front of her door like the good bodyguard he was…and for a moment, she did feel a bit of guilt—but she quickly pushed it aside.

He
was being paid very well for his trouble.

She
was going to have a good night’s sleep, something she knew she wouldn’t have if he spent the night in the room with her. There was something about his presence that was too disturbing, too overwhelming. When he was around, she found her thoughts and her senses overpowered by him…and it was making the trip very difficult.

Frustrated, she removed the tarot card from her bodice. Why couldn’t this card have had a picture of someone bland and inoffensive? Someone who didn’t have the power to make her feel both nervous and excited? Or who was more amenable to her needs?

She unlaced and pulled off her shoes and slipped the card into one for safekeeping. Tossing the salve onto the bed, she crossed to the washstand and poured cold water from a heavy ironstone pitcher into the bowl. Undressing down to her ripped petticoat, she hung her clothes on apeg and washed the dirt from the road off her person.
There was no soap, but the meager bath helped. Refreshed, she sat on the bed, removed the bandages from her feet, and used the salve. She had to admit the oily paste was doing its job.

At last, Lyssa climbed into bed, ready to relax—and got right back up again.

The sheets were not clean.

She’d suspected as much. After seeing the clientele in the taproom, she hated to think who might have been sleeping here before her. So she redressed in everything but her belt and shoes and lay on top of the bedclothes, using her plaid as a blanket.

At last, she attempted to sleep. Unfortunately, the noise from the taproom carried right up through the wood floor. Whenever someone climbed the stairs, she could hear every clumsy
clomp
of their feet on the treads. Too many of the guests seemed to bounce back and forth against the walls while walking down the hall, as if they’d had more than their share of drink.

She was now glad Mr. Campion was outside her door.

She wondered if he’d gone to sleep, or was he still awake, still alert? He was a hard man. The floor would suit him fine…still, she could have let him sleep inside the room…

At some point, Lyssa drifted off without realizing she slept, but hers was not a dreamless sleep. Instead, she saw herself running and running, pursued by nameless men wishing to kill her, and
all she wanted was to find someplace safe.

And then the pounding started, shaking her dream world like a battering ram—

Lyssa sat up, startled awake by the realism of her dream. She felt as if she’d barely closed her eyes, and yet the hour must have been quite advanced, because all was quiet.

Unsettled, she started to lie down again, when there was a loud bang and the wall next to her bed shook as if something had been rammed into it.

With a cry, she rolled off the bed and onto the floor.

Mr. Campion didn’t knock but burst into the room. He stepped on the mattress, threw open the shutter to the window over her bed, and looked outside.

Lyssa scrambled to her feet. “What is it?”

“Drunks,” he said with disgust. Lyssa quickly climbed upon the mattress beside him so she could see too. Sure enough, there were six men gathered in the yard. One carried a torch and two carried a good-size log, which they heaved back and rammed into the front door again while the others cheered them on. She was surprised the door held.

She turned to Mr. Campion. “Why are they doing this?”

“Why do drunks do anything?” he returned. He sat on the bed and tested the mattress as if to sleep there.

Lyssa chose to ignore him as she grew caught
up in the drama outside her window. One of the men, a rawboned, greasy-haired fellow with a face that resembled that of a weasel’s, stepped away from his companions and in a slurry, booming brogue yelled, “MacGregor, ye’d best come out ’ere! Do ye ’ear me?”

There was no answer, but there were plenty of people to hear him. To Lyssa’s left and right, windows had been opened and necks craned to see what was going on.

“Veeerry well,” the Weasel said, rolling his
r
’s, “we’ll have to come in for ye.”

His words were met with drunken grunts of agreement from his comrades. They heaved the log into the door again, and Lyssa fell back on the mattress, almost landing on top of Mr. Campion, who had stretched himself out, taking up most of the bed with his long body.

She scooted over. “Why doesn’t this MacGregor come out and speak to them?”

“You can’t be serious,” Mr. Campion said, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“They won’t stop pounding on the door until he answers.”

“Yes, and they’ll start pounding on him instead.”

“How do you know?” she challenged.

“Drunks don’t get together in the middle of the night to exchange recipes for face cream.”

Lyssa frowned. He was right.

Suddenly, the innkeeper’s sharp voice shouted, “Here now! What are you doing trying to break my door down and frighten good men out of their sleep?”

She clambered up on her knees to look out the window. The innkeeper, dressed in his nightshirt, nightcap, apron, and a pair of boots, had come out to confront the drunks. His bare legs looked white and scrawny in the torchlight.

“We want MacGregor!” one drunk said. “He owes us money, and no one will sleep this night until we get paid.”

“Daniel MacGregor is not a guest here,” the innkeeper answered. “I kicked him out. Now go on your way.”

The Weasel took a menacing step forward. “Let us come in and see for ourselves.”

The innkeeper blocked the front door. “Now see here, you’ll do no such thing. I run a clean house and the likes of you will not cross my threshold. Now get on your way or I’ll send for the magistrate.”

His threat was a mistake. “You’ll not be talkin’ to anyone until we see MacGregor,” Weasel returned and before Lyssa could blink, he picked up the innkeeper as if he weighed no more than a sack of grain and handed him off to his comrades, who dropped their log, pulled his nightshirt up over his head, and tossed him into the horse trough.

Lyssa was too shocked to speak.

“They tossed him into the water trough,” Mr. Campion surmised.

She found her voice. “How did you know?” He hadn’t even opened his eyes.

“I heard the splash. Come on, away from the window. Those lads will get tired of the play and drift off.”

But the door to the inn opened again. The innkeeper’s son, the bar lad minding the ale keg earlier, came out. He was young and thin and his voice cracked with his fear. “Leave my father alone!”

“Here now,” the Weasel said. “Do you want us to stop doing this?” And to illustrate, as the innkeeper climbed out of the trough, the Weasel pushed the man back in. His friends cheered.

“Yes,” the boy said, his voice quavering.

“You’ll have to take his place,” the Weasel answered and took a step toward the boy.

Suddenly, Mr. Campion rose from the bed. Nudging Lyssa aside from the window, he leaned out. “Touch that boy and I will break every finger in your hand.”

The Weasel squinted up at their window. “And who are you to talk to us this way?”

“I’m the man who is going to teach you some manners.”

“I’m ready for my first lesson,” the Weasel countered.

“I’ll be down to teach it.” Mr. Campion pushed away from the window. He paused at the door.
“Don’t you admire the Scottish?” he asked derogatorily. “They get a little whiskey in them and they become so charming. My rule still stands—don’t open this door to anyone.” He started down the hall.

Lyssa followed him. “Wait! What are you going to do?”

“Set matters right. It’s the only way I’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

“Alone?” She took a step after him. “You can’t take all of them on alone.”

“Watch me.” He took a step, then stopped. “Get back in your room and keep the door closed.” He disappeared down the stairs.

Lyssa hovered between charging after him to talk sense or running to the window to see the fight.

She ran to the window.

What she saw made her blood boil.

One of the other bullies had taken the boy and thrown him into the trough on top of his father. They all laughed uproariously at their own mean-spirited humor, and Lyssa doubled her fists in anger.

And then Mr. Campion walked out.

The pack didn’t notice him until he spoke. “I told you to leave the boy alone.”

They faced him. Lyssa could see they were impressed by what a big man Mr. Campion was. Still, the Weasel took a cocky step forward. “And who might you—?”

Mr. Campion’s fist shot out so fast, Lyssa could have imagined the movement save for the sound of flesh hitting flesh and the way the Weasel practically flew back into the arms of his comrades.

A cheer went up from the other inn guests and Lyssa’s chest swelled with pride. He’d done it!

But then, at a snarled, “Get him,” from the Weasel, the gang of drunks fell onto Mr. Campion all at once. Fists flew and there were grunts of pain.

Alarmed, Lyssa called out to the other guests, “Please, someone, help him.”

No one moved. Instead, they started making wagers on the winner—and the odds were not on Mr. Campion.

Lyssa could stand by no longer. Turning from the window, she reached for the ironstone pitcher and flew out the door, heading toward the steps.

Ian thought he was holding his own very well. He understood bully boys. They weren’t that hard to beat once you got the first punch in.

One lad was down and out or faking it; it really didn’t matter. Another joined him in short order. Still a third was backing away. Ian’s final trick was to pick up the lightest of the remaining three and toss him like a caber into his fellows, which included their ill-tempered leader. The three of them tumbled down, and before Ian could pick up the little one to do it again, one man held up his hand, a sign that he’d had enough.

Ian stepped back. “I think you’d all best leave now.”

“We’re going, and too sober for our own good,” the Weasel admitted. He turned to help pick one of his friends up off the ground. The others stumbled off toward the road to the jeers and calls of the inn’s guests, who had witnessed their humiliation.

Ian turned to the innkeeper and his son. They’d both climbed out of the horse trough and were shivering wet in the night air. “Come, let us get you both a toddy and return to our beds.”

“Thank ye, sir. They are a rowdy bunch and I tell ye I am glad to see them get a bit of their own back. Ye’ve been in the ring, haven’t ye?”

“A bit,” Ian answered. He was tired. He needed sleep. Unfortunately, the innkeeper was in even worse shape. The poor man lost his balance and fell against Ian, who held his elbow to steady him.

At the same time, a blur of flaming red hair rushed out the door. Both Ian and the innkeeper turned in surprise.

“Leave him alone!” Miss Harrell announced and before Ian realized her intent, she smashed a pottery pitcher over the innkeeper’s head.

The man straightened in surprise, then his eyeballs rolled up and he fell backward, hitting the ground with a thump.

“My father!” the lad shouted, dropping to his side.

“His father?” Miss Harrell repeated.

“His father,” Ian confirmed.

Two hours later, after doing everything in their power to repair the damage, Lyssa and Mr. Campion were unceremoniously thrown out into the night.

Mr. Campion was not happy.

They walked down the moonlit road in silence, his long legs eating up the ground so fast that Lyssa had to skip every fourth step to keep up. She knew he had good reason to be angry…He was tired…and every once in a while he’d flex his fingers, clenching and unclenching them as if they hurt.

Finally, she could take the silence no longer. “I have the tin of salve. Perhaps it would help your hand?”

He didn’t answer.

“How was I to know the fight was over?” she argued. “I was running to your aid, which is more than anyone else back there was doing.”