Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (11 page)

“But I think I’d rather be in the wagon with you,
brother
,” she said pointedly.

“No, you don’t,” Anderson said. His hand snaked around her waist. He hugged her close. “It’s more comfortable up here with me.” Before she could make another protest, he commandeered her up to the narrow wagon seat beside him.

Snapping the reins, he had the horses on the go, and Miss Harrell had no choice but to grab hold of the side of the seat or go tumbling off the wagon.

Ian stretched out, enjoying the scent of freshly milled timber and the hole Miss Harrell had obstinately dug for herself.

L
YSSA
knew she’d made a grave error in judgment.

Mr. Anderson obviously thought he was God’s gift to women. She’d heard of men like him but she’d never met one. In the past, her father and her chaperones had kept her safe from this type of scoundrel.

However, it was very unhandsome of Mr. Campion to not come to her rescue. True, she had been a bit bold in insisting on the brother/sister relationship…but wouldn’t any decent brother come to his sister’s defense around the likes of Mr. Anderson?

As if answering her silent question, a snore came from the back of the wagon.

The bounder! She’d wager all her father’s money he wasn’t asleep but merely pretending, to egg Mr. Anderson on.

It worked. Mr. Anderson’s hand came down on her thigh.

Lyssa went still, hoping he’d made a mistake about where he’d placed it and would remove it momentarily.

He didn’t.

Now what should she do? “I’m sorry, was I crowding you on the seat?” she asked. “Here let me move.” Of course there was no place to move to, but she made a pretense of doing so.

His hand stayed where it was. He didn’t look at her, but kept his eyes on the horses. Lyssa debated whether she should pretend his hand wasn’t on her person. She tried. They rode in silence, her hands in her lap—and then she could take it no longer. Although she was not anxious to make a scene.

“Your
wife
must be a nice person,” she reminded him.

“Oh, she is,” he agreed. “The very best.”

Then what is your hand doing on my knee?
Lyssa edged over, thought about crossing her legs and rejected the idea.

Instead, she picked up his hand and put it on his leg. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“The two of you will like each other.” He put his hand back on her leg.

Lyssa dodged, swinging her knees over to the far side of the wagon. Instead of being rebuffed, Mr. Anderson chuckled. “You are a tasty handful,” he replied, and eyed her breasts so she knew exactly what he meant.

Wrapping herself tighter in her plaid, she answered,
“You’d best watch the road and not me.” A glance over her shoulder told her Mr. Campion blissfully slept on…but there was a hint of a smile around his lips.

Mr. Anderson leaned over to whisper in her ear, “I’d prefer to watch you. The horses can watch the road.”

Lyssa swiped him away as she would a gnat. Instead of being insulted, he laughed.

“Neither you nor your brother sound Scottish.”

“Both of our parents are,” she said coldly. “Davidsons.”

He shrugged. “If you say so. It’s a shame they never taught you the Gaelic.”

“I speak English, French, and Latin,” she answered haughtily, hoping to put him in his place by the disparity in their education.

“I can help you with the Gaelic,” Mr. Anderson said, completely unimpressed, “but it takes a nimble tongue. Tell me, Miss Campion, do you have a nimble tongue?”

It took a moment for the double entendre of his words to sink in, and when it did her temper sizzled. No one spoke to her that way. No one. She swerved in her seat to face him. “You, sir, are a boor!”

Instead of being offended, Mr. Anderson crooned, “When you get your temper up, you make a man believe you’d be worth the ride.” He punctuated his words with a low growl in the back of his throat.

Shocked, Lyssa doubled her fist but before she could punch, Mr. Anderson gave her a kiss—a wet, smoochy one right on the mouth. She wanted to gag. Instead, she struck out. Mr. Anderson laughed as if she played a game, reaching to catch her wrist—

“I had such a good nap,” Mr. Campion said, coming forward. Without an invitation, he started to sit down between them on the wagon seat, putting his arm around Lyssa’s waist so that she didn’t fall off the side.

She’d never been so glad to see anyone in her life—although she did want to bop Mr. Campion for not rescuing her sooner. However, now was not the time to quibble.

“Hey,” Mr. Anderson complained, “there’s not enough space for the three of us on the seat.”

“Of course there is,” Mr. Campion answered, putting his muscular arm around Mr. Anderson’s back in a gesture of bonhomie that had just a hint of threat to it.

Mr. Anderson understood the unspoken message, and Lyssa smugly enjoyed his dissatisfaction. Of course, that meant that she had to ride practically sitting on Mr. Campion’s leg…something that didn’t bother her at all. In fact, she felt very comfortable this close to him, and her shoulder fit beneath his very well.

Unlike Mr. Anderson, who reeked of unwashed male and sawdust, Mr. Campion smelled of the fresh wind and his sister’s homemade soap.

For the next several hours, they made better time than they would have on foot. Mr. Anderson was forced to stop his advances with Mr. Campion between them, although the two seemed to get along well while engaging in “man talk” about crops and horses and what sports were to be had in the area. Mr. Anderson liked cock fighting, and once on the subject he carried on his own conversation.

The one thing she had to grow accustomed to was calling Mr. Campion by his Christian name.
Ian
. There was strength in the name. It suited him. Yet she preferred to refer to him as “brother.” It kept distance between them, a barrier. “Ian” was warm, inviting…intimate.

On the other hand,
he
seemed to delight in calling her “Lyssa.” He slurred the last syllable in a way no one else ever had, and she liked the sound of it.

Mr. Anderson attempted to call her “Lyssa” as well, but her name on his lips irritated her, and Mr. Campion quickly corrected him into a proper and respectful “Miss Campion.” She was learning that when a man of Mr. Campion’s size and presence said something, other men listened.

On the latter side of mid-afternoon, Mr. Anderson turned off the road and headed toward a village nestled against the mountain. “This is Meadhon,” he said proudly. “The mill along the stream there is the one my uncle owned. He’s the one we shall be waking this night.”

“What will become of the mill?” Ian asked.

“He leaves behind a young widow who will not be a widow long,” Mr. Anderson predicted. “Not that she’s ever let marriage stop her from eyeing the lads, if you know what I mean.” He said the last to Mr. Campion in a low confiding tone, one seemingly understood only by gentlemen.

Lyssa did not like him at all.

Several people out and about called a greeting to Mr. Anderson. They were all rushing through their chores so as to ready for the wake. The mood in the air was one of anticipation. They were all good-looking, hardworking people. Many spoke to Mr. Anderson in the Gaelic and they were all curious about Lyssa and Mr. Campion.

Mr. Anderson told everyone they had been invited to the wake, and several echoed his sentiments that visitors were always welcome—especially to a wake like the one the miller was about to have. No one expressed sorrow over the old miller’s death. In fact, his wake seemed to be quite an event.

About a half a mile on the other side of the village, Mr. Anderson pulled into the yard of his own small farm. It was a handsome place with chickens running across the yard, several dogs, a good-size barn, and a solid manor house made out of the local stone.

As he pulled the horses to a halt, the front door opened and four towheaded boys came running
out yelling, “Papa!” The youngest’s fat legs had trouble keeping up with his brothers.

They were followed by a frazzled woman of ample proportions who was all too obviously pregnant with Mr. Anderson’s fifth child. Stray wisps had escaped from her braided and pinned blonde hair and her cheeks were red from exertion. She appeared ready to have her baby at any moment.

He jumped to the ground and gave his wife a husbandly kiss on the cheek, apparently without any pang of conscience for having kissed Lyssa earlier.

“Angus, I’m glad you are home,” the woman said without acknowledging the kiss. “The house is full. All of your relatives and their friends have come from far and wide to stay under our roof this night.”

“It is to be expected,” he answered. “Here now, this is Mr. Campion and his sister Miss Campion. They are bound for Appin. I had a wheel stuck in the mud and Mr. Campion helped me out. I offered them a bed for the night.”

“But we haven’t any,” his wife said, worried. She glanced over her shoulder where several of the relatives had already come out on the step.

“We have the room in the barn.” Mr. Anderson looked at Mr. Campion. “That should be fine enough for you and your sister? There’s a cot there and we’ve plenty of blankets.”

“It will be fine,” Mr. Campion said.

“There, it’s settled,” he said to his wife, who looked to Lyssa.

“I am so sorry we can’t offer you better hospitality,” she said in her lovely lilting speech. “But my husband’s uncle was not a beloved man.”

“Do you mind my asking, why is everyone attending his wake?” Lyssa asked.

“Because we are all glad he is dead,” Mrs. Anderson responded frankly. “There wasn’t a one of us that James Potter didn’t cheat, even his own nephew’s family. There will be much to celebrate this night. But I go on and you look worn through from travel. Let me show you to your room.”

Mr. Campion and some of Mr. Anderson’s other guests offered to help unload the wood. Lyssa followed Mrs. Anderson into the barn, which was a large stone-and-timber structure almost a century old with a draftiness to prove its age. Stalls for livestock lined the aisle. Most were empty.

“We don’t keep the horses in here during the summer, or the cattle or sheep either,” Mrs. Anderson explained. “The room I’m letting you use was for a stable manager, if we were to ever have such a thing. My husband’s family had been quite well off before they fought against the English at Culloden. Of course, then they lost all save for this piece of land.”

There was a trace of bitterness her voice.

She opened the door to a dark room used for
storing tack. The overpowering smell of moldering leather and a variety of liniments made Lyssa take a step back to allow her nose to adjust.

Mrs. Anderson walked inside. The only light was from the door. Lyssa had no choice but to follow.

“This isn’t much,” her hostess said, pointing out a canvas-covered cot on a less-than-sturdy wood frame. “But you should be fine for one night.”

Lyssa nodded, not ready to draw a full breath.

“Your brother can sleep in one of the stalls. There is hay in some of them and he should be comfortable. On the other hand,
you
will appreciate a door.” She placed her palm on the worn wood. “There’s a hook to lock it closed.” Her fingers lightly brushed the metal, before she added thoughtfully, “Angus has a habit of, um, moving around at night. You will want to lock the door.”

“I will,” Lyssa assured her.

“Good,” Mrs. Anderson said, and gave Lyssa a smile that said clearer than words that she was glad they understood each other. Lyssa’s heart went out to her.

“By the by, I’m Maggie.”

“And I’m Lyssa.” How would it be, to have a husband you couldn’t trust? Then again, would she have trusted Robert?

No.

“I’m sorry we can’t offer you better. But we will have a good time this night.”

“I’ve never been to a wake that was fun,” Lyssa said.

Maggie laughed. “Whenever there is whiskey and friends there will be a good time, no matter what the occasion. We’ll be ready to leave in the hour. Meet us outside the barn.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And don’t forget to lock the door,” Maggie whispered before leaving Lyssa alone.

Lyssa stood in the middle of the messy tack room and pulled her plaid close around her shoulders. Even the lowest servant in her father’s employ had a better bed to sleep on than the mildewed canvas cot. Maggie had not even given her a blanket. Perhaps she thought Lyssa’s plaid would be enough…still, Lyssa could feel her spirits dip.

What was she doing here?

The romance of her great adventure was quickly disappearing in the face of being without money and means. What had Mr. Campion said? They must live by their wits?

As if she had conjured him, Mr. Campion appeared at the door and gave a low whistle. “Our friend Anderson doesn’t take care of his tack, does he?”

Relieved to have her dejected thoughts interrupted, Lyssa heartily agreed. “Worse, his wife wants me here because there is a lock on the door.”

Mr. Campion eyed the hook. “It should work well enough.”

There was a beat of silence and then Lyssa confessed, “I don’t want to stay here.”

Her words seemed to hang in the air…but instead of agreeing with her, he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “You don’t like your quarters?”

“I’d rather sleep on the ground.”

“We were lucky to find shelter last night. We may not be so fortunate tonight if we leave.”

Her nose was growing accustomed to the air in the room, but she wrinkled it all the same. “I don’t feel comfortable with these people.”

“Ah, now we are discussing the truth,” Mr. Campion said with great understanding.

“What do you mean?” Lyssa demanded.

He leaned forward to whisper, “My lady does not like the lower classes.”

No words could have been more damning, especially because there was an element of truth. A truth Lyssa would deny. “I don’t even know what you are talking about. And why shouldn’t I feel uncomfortable around Angus Anderson? The man is as crass as they come.”

“You are a snob.”

“Absolutely not!” Frowning, she took a step back from him. “I am anything but. Don’t forget, Mr. Campion, my father made his fortune in Trade. I know what it is like to be looked down upon and I’d
never
do it to anyone else.”

“You do it to me all the time.”

His words brought her up short. He was right.

“Of course, I don’t let my guard down,” he continued, knowing his words had hit their mark. “Your vanity rolls right off me. But these people, they don’t know your father’s name or your past history. They’ve opened their home to you because that is what one does for strangers. Their only sin is they are treating you as if you are one of them. And, yes, Angus Anderson flirts with every female he meets, and I daresay does more if the woman is willing, but even his wife wouldn’t turn you out.”