Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (12 page)

Lyssa reeled from the accusation of
vanity
. “You must have a low opinion of me.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think you know any better.”

“I do.” The air in the room felt warm now with the Irishman so close. And she no longer noticed the odors of leather and liniment. “As a Tradesman’s daughter—”

He interrupted her impatiently. “Being a Tradesman’s daughter is your convenient excuse not to put yourself out for anyone.”

The accusation was outrageous. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” His eyes were silvery sharp as they met hers. “Look at yourself, Miss Harrell. You have the looks to set the Town on fire and your father’s fortune to make you a worthy prize, but you whine that you were snubbed and are therefore unhappy. Poor little rich girl,” he said without sympathy. “She doesn’t like her stepmama—like a
hundred other women don’t—and has no friends. All right now, let’s be honest. The only people who snubbed you were those who were jealous. But you use their small-mindedness to keep a wall between yourself and the rest of the world. You didn’t even choose your own husband—”

“Wait a minute!” Lyssa leaped to her own defense. “Is this the same man who was lecturing me on the advantages of arranged marriages?”

“I did,” he admitted, “but that was before you started turning up your nose at everything—”

“I have not turned up my nose—”

“You can’t even say my Christian name!”

“I can too!”

“But you don’t.”

He was right.

And the reason she didn’t was, as he’d said, to keep a wall between them. But not for the reasons he suggested. No, she needed the wall because he was too vital, too overpowering…too masculine for her comfort.

Nor was he done. “You expect me to jump at your every whim while you tap your little blistered foot with impatience. Meanwhile, you have yet to listen to sound advice and reason.”

That accusation was doing it a bit too brown. She’d been following him around like a lap dog. “When have I not listened?”

He began ticking off the instances on his fingers. “You wouldn’t go to London—”

“There were killers blocking the road. Killers who followed
you
, I might add.”

He ignored her jibe. “I told you to stay in your room in the inn last night.”

“We’ve already discussed this,” she countered, since here was a legitimate case when she should have listened to him.

“And you introduced us as brother and sister.” He poked his index finger in the air at her. “You got exactly what you asked for from Anderson. I’ve been trying to protect you from his kind and worse, and I’m tired of fighting with you—”

“We’re not fighting. We’re merely expressing our opinions.”

“Well, I’m
tired
of your opinions. And I’m tired of being treated as if I were less than a man. Whether you’ll excuse me or not, Miss Harrell, I need a bit of distance from you. I plan on going to the wake this evening and enjoying myself with good, honest people who don’t have the money to buy everything they wish. You can stay here and pout, or you can walk to Appin. At this point, I’m heartily tired of your whole foolish adventure.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out the door.

Lyssa stood stunned.

No one had ever talked to her that way before. In fact, Mr. Campion had not
yet
treated her in the way in which she was accustomed. This nonsense about his being tired of her—?

If anything,
she
was tired of
him
! He was
grumpy, incorrigible, bullish—and she would tell him. She hurried to the door. “Mr. Campion!”

He didn’t stop.

She took three steps out the door. “Mr. Campion!”

He kept walking.

“
Ian!
”

He stopped.

Slowly, he turned. “Yes, Lyssa?”

All the things she wanted to rant at him flew from her head.

Instead, they stood facing each other in the near empty barn with shafts of light and dust motes streaming from the doorway and windows—and she knew he was right. She had put up walls between herself and the world. And she’d clung to her prejudices against him because otherwise she had nothing else to protect her against the fact that she was deeply attracted to him.

His attraction came from more than his being a handsome man. Here was a man she admired. A man she was growing to respect.

A man unafraid to speak plainly to her.

This sudden, new awareness of him and his impact on her senses was both startling and unnerving. She felt as fragile and disoriented as a baby bird coming out of its shell and not quite understanding what it wanted yet.

And she feared what she wanted might be something she shouldn’t have.

Ian seemed to sense not only her change of temper,
but her confusion. But did he understand why?

God help her if he did!

“Lyssa?” He raised an eyebrow in uncertainty.

She blinked, coming to her senses as she realized she’d been staring. It took her a moment to find her voice. “Maggie says we are to be ready in the hour. We’re to meet everyone outside to go to the wake.”

He shifted his weight, his ever-present knapsack over one shoulder. “So you
are
coming?” Her capitulation seemed to surprise him…and he was not a man to trust what he did not understand.

Consequently she took great pleasure in saying, “Of course.”

His brows came together. He appeared baffled. So, she couldn’t resist whispering in her sweetest voice, “I’m sorry for being so headstrong, Ian.”

His puzzlement turned to suspicion. “I actually prefer your obstinacy. It’s something I can count on.” Then, as if he’d said too much, he murmured, “I need to go shave.” He ducked out the barn door and walked away.

Lyssa watched him a moment and couldn’t help but add to his list of admirable qualities the straight set of his shoulders. “It’s too bad you aren’t Robert,” she said quietly and then turned to go into her depressing little room and prepare as best she could.

Ian walked out to the rain barrel, dropped his knapsack, threw off his jacket, neck cloth, and shirt, and stuck his head in the water.

He blew his breath out in bubbles and lifted his head out of the water to let it drip off his hair over the barrel.

What the devil was the matter with him? All she had to do was soften her green eyes and give him a hesitant smile and he had the oddest desire to melt at her feet. Especially when she called him “Ian.” If he wasn’t careful, Lyssa Harrell, the job, could start to become something more.

The thought was so radical, he dunked his head in the rain barrel again until he came to his bloody senses. She couldn’t be more. Not ever. They were of two very different worlds. Not to mention Lyssa’s father would see Ian a eunuch before he let him have his daughter—something Pirate Harrell could easily accomplish.

Straightening at the waist, he came up again, water dripping down his face—only to discover he had an audience. Three of Anderson’s sons and their friends watched him with wide eyes as if they’d never seen anything more funny than a man with his head in a rain barrel.

Ian capped off the show by squirting a mouthful of water out his cheeks at the lot of them, and they ran away with shrieks of laughter.

He leaned over the barrel, bracing himself on the rim with his arms, and watched the boys run.
He was left to prepare hiself to escort his “sister” to a wake. While the truth of the matter was he was beginning to fall for the one woman he couldn’t have.

God must be laughing.

W
HEN
Lyssa came outside at the appointed hour, the Andersons, along with a host of others were waiting for her. Always self-conscious about meeting new people in social circumstances, she found herself feeling a bit shy as she was being offhandedly introduced to the Andersons’ relatives and neighbors, who had joined them for the walk to the village.

There were so many people that Lyssa couldn’t catch everyone’s name, not that anyone seemed to care. The women were busy talking amongst themselves about children and the men groused about farming. And when it became clear to them that she was Ian’s “sister,” their acceptance of her became warmer.

Ian had already made himself at home. He was trying to beat the Anderson boys in a chase after a barrel hoop. The adults laughed, enjoying the sight of such a big man getting his legs run off of him by their children.

And Lyssa was happy to blend in.

In the tack room while she’d been getting ready, she’d worried about the increasing shabbiness of her dress. The wool of the skirt was good, but both her skirt and blouse were showing signs of hard travel. She didn’t have anything else to change into or even a bonnet to wear. However, when she saw how the other women were dressed, she relaxed.

There wasn’t a bonnet to be seen. True, the married women all wore very high white caps, but the unmarried girls, her age and younger, either neatly braided their hair or plaited it in front and let it flow down their backs in the Grecian fashion. Since her curls were impossible to tame into braids, Lyssa had to be satisfied with her simple style of tying it back with Ian’s leather cord, although she wouldn’t have minded a snood or bit of ribbon like some of the girls had.

She was pleased to see that everyone, save for Ian, wore plaid, and her tartan was well received. The matrons wore plaid shawls with white kerchiefs beneath them. Several men wore kilts, including Mr. Anderson, who topped his off with a blue jacket, no doubt a sign of his former position and prosperity. Some wore their tartan as a wrap as Lyssa did, others as a drapery. Even the children had plaid, either tied around their waists or as garters.

What really raised Lyssa’s eyebrows over Highland
fashion was that most of the women were barefoot and seemed completely at ease with the fact. Thank goodness she had shoes, because she did not think she could do without.

Ian jogged up to her. “Put my knapsack in your room if you please,” he said.

“Of course.” Lyssa turned back toward the barn and was surprised when two young women offered to go with her. She found out why, when the first, a pretty blonde who was an Anderson neighbor and had the sort of lush figure any man would admire said in her melodic brogue, “Is your brother married?”

They had reached the door to her room. “No.”

“Any sweethearts?”

“Not that I know,” Lyssa hedged.

That was all the girls wanted to know. They left her like a shot, and by the time Lyssa came out of the barn after hiding the knapsack under her cot, she could see Ian was surrounded by lovely young lasses.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“It’s a nice night for a walk, isn’t it, Lyssa, my dear?” Mr. Anderson said, coming up and attempting to put his hand around her waist.

“Yes, it is,” she answered, skillfully avoiding his arm. “And I must help Maggie carry the basket she is holding.” Staying by his wife should cool his ardor, although he didn’t seem to be the least put off by her snub.

“Save a dance for me,” he called softly, and she wanted to punch him. If Maggie overheard, she gave no indication.

Most of the women were bringing food for the wake. Maggie had a ham and a dozen hard-boiled eggs in her basket. She also had a pudding that David, her youngest son, had helped himself to. “Just like his father, he is.”

Lyssa hoped not.

James Potter had lived in a good-size house built beside the mill, and it was there that the wake was held. The house was made of the same gray stone as the mill and outbuildings and there was a large yard of dirt beaten down into a hard floor from years of carts delivering grain to the miller.

The Anderson party was not the first to arrive. The house was so crowded, people stood outside. An ale keg had been tapped and a row of whiskey bottles set up. Lyssa was surprised to see that everyone had brought their own glass. Maggie had thought to bring one each for her and Ian.

All in all, the air was festive and a far cry from any wake Lyssa had ever attended. She was relieved to learn that no one could have a drink until they’d gone in and paid their respects to the dead, which seemed the least that people could do in sympathy to the family.

Lyssa had assumed she would not be expected to perform such a serious chore, because she’d never even laid eyes on the man. However, one of
Maggie Anderson’s aunts, Jean, cheerfully said she’d hardly known the old miller either and now was as good a time as any to say hello
and
good-bye. She was all of sixty and as tiny as a bird with bright brown eyes to match. She took Lyssa by the arm and led her into the house.

The halls and rooms were packed with neighbors and friends greeting each other. Here, the atmosphere was a touch more somber, but not much. Food was being set out in the kitchen and children darted amongst the grown-ups, anxious to play until someone shooed them out.

“There’s the widow.” Jean nodded to a surprisingly young, sandy-haired woman with the plumpest breasts Lyssa had ever seen. “I do know
her
. She worked at her father’s tavern a few miles south of Meadhon and was always a handful. Little better than a whore and would take anyone to her bed, until that goat James took a liking to her and offered his name. Now, look—she’s wealthy,” Jean confided. Approaching the woman, she immediately changed her tone of voice. “Mary, what sad news.”

“He was my life,” the widow murmured. Black was a good color for her complexion, something Lyssa sensed the woman knew.

“Yes, he was, yes, he was,” Jean agreed. She patted Mary’s hand twice and moved on without taking the time to introduce Lyssa, who hesitated.

“Shouldn’t I let her know I’m here?”

“She doesn’t care about you,” Jean said. “Now,
when she meets your brother it will be a different matter. You’d best watch him close. Just because she’s a widow doesn’t mean Mary will want to sleep by herself tonight. She’s carried on with Angus for years.”

Lyssa was shocked at Jean’s candor. “You’re not serious? Why, he’s her husband’s nephew?”

“Aye, and I and the rest of the family don’t have any use for him. We all worry about poor Maggie, but she seems blind to her husband’s bad habits.”

Lyssa also observed they were receiving more than their share of attention. Coming up to them, Mr. Anderson noticed, too. “Visitors, especially beautiful ones, are always welcome in the kirk.” He laughed as if he’d made some small joke and steered Lyssa and a now frowning Jean into the low-ceilinged bedroom. Lyssa hoped Jean didn’t think she encouraged Mr. Anderson’s nonsense.

Nor was she ready to pay her respects to the dead. The viewing was in the bedroom and Lyssa wanted to hang back, but the movement of the other guests prevented her. People stepped forward and then to the side in what seemed a relentless tide and before she was ready, she found herself standing in front of the body of Mr. Potter, sitting straight up in bed.

The position startled Lyssa into a hiccup of surprise and a step back. Everyone else acted as if he appeared completely natural for a dead man.

He’d been shaved and dressed in a blue jacket with a drape of a red and green plaid over his
shoulder. The few gray hairs on his bald pate had been combed to the side and he appeared to Lyssa simply to be a rather reluctant member of the party. His was not the expression of one “resting in peace.” If anything, he appeared ready to bite someone’s head off.

“That is him,” Mr. Anderson crooned. “That’s my uncle, looking as real as life.”

Lyssa could see why no one liked him. Feeling remarkably awkward, she shifted the empty glass Maggie had given her from one hand to the other.

Mr. Anderson patted his uncle’s leg, covered by the bed clothes. “James, we won’t miss arguing with you at all.”

“Amen,” another gent said, a sentiment echoed by several other mourners.

Jean turned toward Lyssa. “
Och
, you look like you could use a wee dram. Come, let’s go outside.”

Lyssa thankfully followed her, slipping away from Mr. Anderson, who was waylaid by another guest. As she and Jean walked out the front door, a group of local musicians started tuning their instruments.

Because the night promised to be a nice one, they were set up outside by the house. This was no string quartet like the ones Lyssa often listened to at London soirees. There was a drum, a pipe, and a fiddle, and in a matter of minutes they set up a tune that filled the air.

“That is more like it,” Jean said approvingly,
moving toward the bottles of whiskey. She poured a healthy measure into her glass and offered some to Lyssa.

“No, thank you,” Lyssa demurred.

“No whiskey?” Jean acted as if she’d never heard of such a thing. “You have to have whiskey at a wake. It’s the water of life. Why even the babies drink it.” She proved her words by pointing Lyssa toward a group of children sipping on their whiskey.

“I don’t think so,” Lyssa said uncertainly. She’d never had strong spirits before and usually drank no more than a glass of wine at dinner.

“Come on,” Jean pushed, filling Lyssa’s glass whether she wanted it or not. “We are guests. We have to drink to the miller’s health. How else is he to go off to heaven or hell without us?”

To her relief, Ian joined them. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” Jean assured him. “We’re just having a wee dram. Would you like some?”

He held out his glass, placing his arm on Lyssa’s shoulder. “Take just a sip,” he murmured in her ear. “Otherwise it is an insult.”

Lyssa held out her glass and discovered her idea of a “wee dram” and Jean’s were decidedly different. The older woman didn’t hesitate to fill a glass half full.

There was nothing to be done. Jean held her glass in the air. “To James!” she chirped and Lyssa
had no choice but to drink with the others surrounding them, who quickly seconded the toast.

She took a sip—and was caught off guard by the whiskey’s burn. She choked as the fire of the liquor went down her throat and hit her stomach. Tears sprang to her eyes though she’d barely drunk more than a few drops.

“Is something the matter?” Jean asked.

Ian rubbed Lyssa’s back. “My sister’s never had whiskey before.”

“But I thought she was Scottish?” Jean wondered.

“She is now,” Ian said and silently toasted Lyssa before downing his own glass.

Lyssa watched the amber liquid go down his throat and wondered how he did it. Then Jean, laughing, did the same—and although she had close to forty years on Lyssa, she suffered no ill effects. In fact, she poured more for herself and Ian. Lyssa had no choice. She had to take a second timid sip.

This time, there was no burn, just a smooth, mellowy, not-too-sweet taste. She wasn’t certain if she liked it or not, but let Jean pour some more in her glass and the third swallow was even better.

The sun was setting. The evening air was turning velvety, and a full, yellow moon, the kind Lyssa liked best, made its appearance in the sky.

The band finished its first selection and now started the dancing in earnest with a merry reel.
Couples quickly took their places while others flowed into the house for food.

“So you paid your respects to the miller?” Ian asked, his voice close to her ear. Jean had moved on to greet other friends.

Lyssa looked up at him. “I was shocked to discover him sitting straight up in bed. I’ve never seen such a thing. Nor have I seen such a crowded wake for a person no one liked, or at least, I haven’t attended one. Did you pay your respects?”

“I managed to avoid it so far.”

“Oh,” Lyssa said, “so you haven’t met the widow yet?” She made a great pretense of looking around him for the blonde neighbor and other Anderson female relatives. “And where is your entourage? I can’t believe they are leaving you alone.”

He held a finger up to his lips for silence. “I’ve steered them toward lads more their own age.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

“That was smart of me. Did you see the jealous look on the lads’ faces when I arrived? A wise man doesn’t bait the pack. Let’s go get something to eat.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, directing her toward the house. The gesture felt good and—perhaps it was the whiskey—she liked being beside him.

However, before they could get far, Mr. Anderson came charging up with the Widow Mary Potter. “Campion,” he said good-naturedly. “The
widow says she has not had the opportunity to meet you yet.”

Lyssa murmured, “Uh-oh,” under her breath. Apparently, Jean’s prediction was about to come true.

Mary Potter stepped in front of Lyssa as if she didn’t exist and pushed her fantastical breasts at Ian. “I am so glad you could come. It is always a pleasure to welcome strangers.”

Especially handsome ones
, Lyssa wanted to add. She caught Ian’s eye and waggled her eyebrows but then, suddenly, she had her own problem. “Let’s dance,” Mr. Anderson said. He didn’t wait for an answer but pulled her toward the dancing.

Lyssa attempted to beg off. “I don’t know the steps.”

“You don’t need to know the steps, lass,” Mr. Anderson told her. “You just move.” And he was right.

She danced once with Mr. Anderson, conscious that he attempted to swing her close to him every chance he could, but quickly escaped him. However, to her surprise, another young man asked her to dance, and when he finished there was another—although, as always, there were more women than men who wanted to dance. In fact, for the first time, she was having a grand time at a dance.

Some of the reels she recognized, but most of the dances were regional or seemed to be created right there on the spot. There was stomping and
whooping and clapping and all sorts of behavior that would never have been allowed on a London dance floor—and she reveled in it.