Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (16 page)

“You need a haircut,” she whispered.

He slept on, his conscience free of burden, dreaming of a place for his family where they were free to be who they were. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to be a part of that dream—and Ian had known it.

Now she understood why he’d refused to kiss her, why he’d not taken advantage of her…and she grew all the sadder.

It was a long time before she fell asleep.

Ian lifted his head and studied the woman close to him who had finally fallen asleep. Something was bothering her. He’d been aware of the tension…and he would have given his right arm to know the cause.

Lyssa was headstrong and her silence was not a common occurrence.

Tonight, he’d opened his soul and she’d not said a word. No, instead, her redheaded brain had
been busy working and he sensed it did not bode well for him.

He was glad he’d not been stupid enough to make some sort of romantic declaration.

Or to have kissed her.

Ian rose, uncertainties making him unable to sleep. Perhaps in a different place and a different time, he could have declared himself to Lyssa. But in this place and time, he had nothing to offer.

The fact did not set well. Not well at all.

Lyssa woke the next morning to the smell of cooking meat. Ian had poached a rabbit and was roasting it on a spit for their breakfast.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said jovially, an emotion that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He was so handsome, she couldn’t help but smile—until she remembered the decision she’d made the night before. It took all her courage to keep her smile pasted on her face.

And Ian seemed to react to her inner thoughts as if he knew she was forcing herself.

“We reach Amleth Hall today,” he reminded her.

Lyssa nodded dumbly.

“Is something the matter? I thought you would be happier.”

“I’m still not awake,” she murmured, and excused herself for a few moments alone. When she returned to their small camp, she had herself firmly in hand.

Watching him put out the fire and scatter the ashes, she told herself it was for the best. They were from different worlds. Her father would agree.

She recalled the start she’d had at finding the crucifix amongst his things, and it helped give her distance.

Not that Ian’s demeanor to her was overly friendly. There was a detached air about him, a distance bordering on coldness. She was happy when they started traveling.

They hadn’t walked far when their path crossed that of a Vicar George, from Appin. He was a pleasant companion and relieved some of the tension between her and Ian. Although the vicar did not know the Davidsons nor had he visited Amleth Hall, he knew something of its whereabouts.

“On the coast,” he said. “The north shore about a mile from Port Appin. I’ve seen it by boat. It has a westerly aspect with a magnificent view over Loch Linnhe. I imagine you can see Lismore and Moren, too.”

“Do the Davidsons so rarely come to town?” Lyssa wondered.

“I never see them,” was the reply. Then, as if feeling sorry for her, the vicar added, “I have laid eyes on the Davidson Stallion. He’s a beauty and he bears out his breeding. He’s going to be a fast one.”

Ian spoke up. “The Davidson Stallion?”

“Aye, he’s just turned three. They say Ramsey
Davidson, the young laird, refused to let him run as a two-year-old. Knows his horses, he does. He doesn’t like to push them, and I agree.” The vicar nodded before adding, “When I saw him, he was the most docile I’ve ever seen. A temperament only a king could afford—and perhaps that is what Davidson has in mind. They boast he’s the finest in Scotland. Mayhap in England or anywhere else.”

“I didn’t know the Davidsons bred horses,” Ian said.

“For generations,” Vicar George assured him. “This stallion is out of—”

“
Gealach
.” The word had sprung into Lyssa’s mind unbidden and in her mother’s voice. She stopped, savoring the small memory.

“Yes,
Gaelach
, ‘the Moon,’ ” the vicar said approvingly. “They say she was silver white and could run as if kelpies were chasing her.” He laughed at his own description. “I heard that from John Islay, a local farmer who drinks more than he farms. I always fancied the image of kelpies chasing a horse.” Again, he had a chuckle.

“And is the stallion also white?”

“More a gray with black legs. Good-looking, solid racer,” the vicar answered.

Lyssa was elated. She leaned close to Ian, completely forgetting their earlier reserve. “My mother used to brag about
Gaelach.
She claimed the mare was the beginning of a dynasty—and now to learn she is.”

“Your mother?” the vicar prompted.

“She was Isobel Davidson, the old laird’s daughter.”

The clergyman frowned. “I’d not heard of her.”

“She left long ago, before I was born.”

“Still, you would think her name would have been mentioned.” The vicar shrugged. “Ah, well, the Davidsons are an odd lot. Ramsey Davidson doesn’t mix much with the locals. No offense, please.”

“None taken,” Lyssa answered and then she changed the subject to ask about the vicar’s wife and children. But she did not forget his verdict, especially when she and Ian finally reached the drive to Amleth Hall.

The drive was almost completely overgrown by hawthorn bushes, of all things. The woods were dense here when compared to the rest of the landscape. If they hadn’t been carefully looking for the drive, they would have passed right by it.

Ian glanced at her. “Are you ready?”

She nodded. “I believe so.”

He took her arm. The drive was really no more than wagon ruts with stone paving here and there. Lyssa grew uncertain. Something was in the air here, something she hadn’t anticipated. It was like a humming in her ears. And was it her imagination or did the air smell different?

She realized it must be the mist coming in off Loch Linnhe. Or was it?

Even the colors of the plants and trees seemed darker and more foreboding.

“Are you feeling well?” Ian’s voice startled her and she realized she was giving into some outlandish fancies.

“I’m fine. Just excited. I have waited a long time to meet these people.”

“Well, let us hope they make us welcome,” he said.

The drive was a good mile long. Just as she started to wonder if the house even existed, they came around a bend and there it was, Amleth Hall, its stone walls blackened with age.

Lyssa halted, stunned to be here at last. As if in blessing, the sun came out from behind a cloud and reflected off the glass window panes, giving the house an unworldly glow. The chimneys, almost too numerous to count, were of all shapes and size. Beyond the house stretched Loch Linnhe, the water so deep and cold it shimmered in the light.

Lyssa took in every nuance of this moment.

“Is it how you imagined it?” Ian asked.

“It’s better,” she whispered. “The house is exactly as my mother described it. Do you see the first-floor window on the far right?”

He nodded.

“That was her room. When she told her father she wanted to marry my father, she was confined to her room with a guard placed at the door. My father scaled those walls to reach her and then the
two of them climbed the same way down to run away.”

“He climbed the wall for her?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not overly fond of heights, or crashing down to the ground.”

“She always said she was never more frightened in her life than she was that night climbing down the dark walls of Amleth Hall, but she loved my father and refused to live without him. They both made it down safely and escaped in a boat smaller than a dinghy my father had hidden by the loch.”

“And did they sail all the way to London?”

“Yes,” she told him proudly.

“Well, I hope we make good time, too,” he answered. “I have little more than a week to see you home safe. A boat may be quickest.”

Lyssa kept her own counsel, the romance of the moment destroyed, and she saw the house as it really was. The grounds were completely overgrown and scraggly. The windows were filthy and there was an unkempt air about the place, almost a sense of desertion.

Lyssa took a step forward, anxious. She could not have come all this way only to find no one here. For a horrible moment, she feared she would swoon. To have traveled this distance, to have defied her father and to have held fast to a belief in a place that might not exist—

Ian took her arm by the elbow. “Steady,” he said. “Don’t give up.”

At that moment, the narrow, paneled front door opened.

A
young girl of perhaps sixteen came out the door. She did not wear a bonnet and her hair was unbound down around her shoulders in the Scottish way. The girl’s hair was straight instead of curly and blonde rather than red, but she and Lyssa could otherwise have passed for sisters.

Here was family, the fragile connection Lyssa had longed for since her mother’s death.

Her feet moved of their own will. In two steps, she wasn’t walking but running. Behind her, Ian followed at his own pace.

The girl noticed them and hesitated, watching them approach.

Lyssa was suddenly aware of her appearance and forced herself to slow down. Her clothes were certainly the worse for wear, her curls were absolutely unruly from going for days without a brush to tame them, and she knew her complexion must be a sight from being out in the sun without a bonnet.

She stopped, embarrassed. This was not the way she had pictured meeting her Davidson relatives for the first time.

Ian came up beside her. Sensing her reticence, he took the lead, approaching the young woman.

“I’m Ian Campion and we’re here to pay our respects to Laird Davidson.”

The girl’s gaze honed in on Ian with feminine appraisal, and she liked what she saw. Lyssa realized the girl was actually older than she’d first thought. Indeed she was a woman, and several years older than Lyssa herself.

“The Laird is my cousin,” she said in a voice made all the more musical by its soft lilt.

“Will you tell him Miss Lyssa Harrell of London, a relative of his, wishes to pay her respects?”

“I didn’t know we were expecting company,” the woman countered.

“We were unable to announce our travel plans,” Ian answered.

The woman’s gaze swung back to Lyssa. The color of their eyes were different. Lyssa’s were green like her father’s. Her cousin’s were a guileless blue, and yet, Lyssa felt a hint of uneasiness. She wondered if Ian experienced the same.

“Please come in,” the woman offered and led the way up the steps to the front door.

Ian turned to Lyssa. He raised his eyebrows, questioning what she wished to do.

She had no choice. She’d traveled far to get here and she would not be put off now. Besides, her apprehension
was probably due to being tired and finding herself at journey’s end. Putting on her best smile, she moved forward with a confidence she didn’t feel.

At the doorway, she paused in front of her newly discovered cousin. “I’m Isobel’s daughter.”

“So, one of you has finally come home, have you?” her cousin asked, the hint of a smile on her lips not quite reaching those disconcerting eyes.

“I suppose.”

For the space of a heartbeat, the woman took Lyssa’s measure. At last, her cousin said, “I’m Anice Davidson. Your uncle Alan’s daughter.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Cousin,” Lyssa said politely.

Anice smiled and opened the door. “Please come in.” She entered, expecting them to follow.

Inside, the house was not anything like Lyssa had anticipated. In her imagination, she pictured an old, established mansion with ancient furniture that had survived the generations.

There was no furniture in the front hall or a place to put it, since the room was completely taken over by hunting trophies. The heads of stags, red deer, whitetail, and even what appeared to be a reindeer covered every available inch of wall space. Stuffed grouse, quail, and pheasants lined the floor around the walls. The showpiece was a wildcat posed to be fighting a badger in an alcove by the stairs of what had been designed to be a stately room.

Lyssa was all too conscious of so many lifeless eyes staring down upon them. Attempting to defuse her unease, she commented, “Someone is quite a hunter.”

Anice smiled. “All Davidson men are hunters.”

Nodding her head in acknowledgement, Lyssa caught a glimpse of the next room. The red walls there were covered with swords and dirks. She was aware that Ian stood by the closed front door, his arms crossed. She knew he was no more comfortable than she was.

Footsteps came from a side hall off to the right and a portly manservant entered the room. He had a bald pate with a tuft of hair over each ear and a bulbous nose that commanded his face. “
Och
, Miss Davidson, I dinna hear you return.” His accent was so thick, Lyssa could barely understand him.

“Birdy, please tell Ramsey we have visitors, and perhaps Cook will prepare a tray for our guests? They have traveled quite a distance.”

The servant eyed both Lysse and Ian in a bold manner that Lyssa didn’t find appropriate. She stared right back. Birdy’s gaze dropped. “Aye, ma’am,” he said, bowing and leaving the room by way of the hall.

“Shall we go into the sitting room?” Anice asked and led them into the weapon room without waiting for a response.

Lyssa glanced toward Ian. A muscle worked in his jaw and she could tell he was on guard. She
didn’t feel comfortable herself. The air in the house was as cool as the mossy dampness of a stream bank. She wondered if the windows had ever been opened to let in a fresh breeze. The whole atmosphere gave her goose bumps.

Anice sat on one of two grand leather settees facing each other in the middle of the room. There also were two large, high-backed leather-upholstered chairs positioned in front of the marble fireplace, their backs to the rest of the room. Anice motioned for Lyssa to sit on the settee opposite her, before looking up at Ian expectantly. “You have not introduced your companion, coz.”

The familiarity of the name “coz” struck a jarring note with Lyssa. “This is Mr. Ian Campion of London,” she said quietly. “He is—” She hesitated. How should she introduce him so as to not create the wrong impression with these new relatives?

“Her bodyguard,” Ian interjected smoothly.

“A bodyguard?” Anice gave him a speculating glance. “I am certain you have been in good hands with such a brawny man to protect you,” she purred with a slyness that would have served the Widow Potter well.

“He has seen me safe,” Lyssa confirmed stiffly.

“Would you care to sit, Mr. Campion?” Anice asked, patting the place on the settee beside her.

“I’m content here,” he replied dutifully, having taken a post by the entry between the weapon room and the front hall. Lyssa noted he was using his brogue and she didn’t know why.

Anice’s gaze slid to meet hers. “He’s Irish.”

“Yes. From Dublin.”

Her cousin’s gaze turned lazily knowing. “I’ve always liked the Irish.”

Lyssa released her breath slowly, caught by her cousin’s open sensuality. Ian didn’t move, not even a muscle, and Anice’s smile grew larger.

Fortunately, Lyssa was saved from making any reply by the appearance of her cousin, Ramsey Davidson.

He was of average stature with a lean, hungry face and slashing eyebrows. Whereas she and Anice were fair of skin and hair, he was the opposite. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes…and a dark smile.

“Cousin,” he said holding out his hand in greeting. Lyssa stood and offered her own. He gallantly kissed the back of it. “Welcome to Amleth Hall.”

“I appreciate your welcome, sir,” she murmured.

“Sir?” He laughed. “We are cousins. I’m your second cousin. My father was Osgood Davidson, your mother’s uncle.”

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said dutifully.

Ramsey glanced round at Ian. “He is her bodyguard,” Anice supplied. “Mr. Campion is Irish.”

“Hmmm, Irish.” Ramsey repeated, as if the words held no import. His whole attention was on Lyssa, and she felt a certain warmth rise to her cheeks under his full regard.

Birdy entered the room, carrying a tray of biscuits and, of all blessings, a teapot with steam rising from its stem that he set on a tea table beside Anice. “Would you care for a cup?” Anice offered.

“Gratefully,” Lyssa answered, sitting.

Ramsey dropped to sit beside Anice. He crossed his legs, spreading his arms along the back of the settee. Lyssa was conscious that he watched her every move. Ian came to stand behind her. Anice served them.

“How interesting you travel with a bodyguard,” Ramsey observed. “Did you bring other servants?”

Lyssa was in the act of taking a sip of her tea so Ian spoke for her. “We were waylaid by robbers. We had a maid with us but she was separated from our party.”

Ramsey sat up. “How unfortunate. Did you report the matter to the local magistrate?”

Ian replied smoothly, “Yes. All is taken care of.”

“Ah,” Ramsey said, drawing out the word. “Very good. And we have you here safe and sound, Cousin.”

Lyssa smiled and hid behind another sip of her tea, not displeased at Ian’s story. There followed an awkward moment of silence. Ramsey broke it by saying, “You look very much like your mother, Lyssa.”

“How do you know?” she wondered.

“From the painting. Did you not know about it?”

Immediately, Lyssa set down her teacup. “No. I mean, Father has portraits of Mother, but they were done after I was born.” And after she’d become ill. The color in her mother’s cheeks had all been artificial.

“We have the one our grandfather commissioned,” Ramsey said. “He had the painting done to show potential suitors far and wide what a jewel the Davidsons had to offer. I admit it is a masterpiece. The family lore is Isobel received no fewer than five offers for her hand on the basis of the painting alone.”

“I never knew this story,” Lyssa said.

Ramsey leaned forward. “I’m not surprised your father didn’t tell you. He must have thought it a grand jest, stealing her away from us the way he did.”

There was a proprietary air in his comment. “My grandfather must have been disappointed,” Lyssa said.

“He was outraged,” Ramsey agreed, but without heat. “His temper lasted for weeks. The family coffers needed to be replenished, we needed her to marry for money, and your mother’s choice of husbands did not honor her obligations.”

“My father has done well for himself since,” she said in her defense.

“Yes, he has.” Ramsey smiled. “Welcome home, Cousin.”

Lyssa didn’t know quite how to take his remarks. As with Anice, there seemed to be a hidden
meaning as if he played some game with her. She didn’t know if she was particularly keen on him.

But then he asked, “Would you like to see the painting?”

Without hesitation, she said, “Yes, very much.”

Ramsey stood and offered his hand. “Then come.”

Lyssa placed her hand in his and came to her feet. Anice also rose and as they started from the room, Ian fell into place beside them. He had his knapsack slung over one shoulder and Lyssa sensed he would rather have his pistol out and ready.

Ramsey glanced at him. “Is he always this tiresome?”

“Yes,” she said proudly and could almost feel Ian grin behind her.

Ramsey led her into a long gallery that took up the rear of the house. The walls had more hunting trophies and the paint was plain. These were family quarters. The windows overlooked Loch Linnhe. Through a window off to the left, she could see rooftops.

“Those are the stables,” Ramsey said, noting where she’d been looking. “You’ve heard of the Davidson Stallion?”

“Yes.”

“Wait until you see him. We’ve had nothing but winners out of our mares, but he is a prize.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Have you?” he asked. He took her hand. “I’m
flattered my horse’s fame has spread already to London. Or has your father kept a particularly sharp eye on this part of the family?” He gave her fingers a little squeeze.

Lyssa didn’t know what to make of his words or his actions. She tried to move away, but her cousin kept his firm hold. She could not pull her hand away without insulting him. “My father admires fine bloodstock,” she murmured and then changed the subject, “Is that Loch Linnhe?” She attempted to gesture with the hand he held. The movement was awkward but served to get Ramsey to release his hold.

He smiled good-naturedly. He knew what she’d been about. “Yes, it is. There is a cliff there. Not steep, but one should be cautious all the same.”

“Why?” she asked. “Has someone gone off it?”

Anice answered, “Over the years we’ve lost a person or two.”

Lyssa looked out at the smooth water beyond the cliff and did not feel comfortable.

“Come,” Ramsey said and steered her toward a sitting room off the gallery. It was so small it only held a desk and two chairs. The walls were paneled and Lyssa could imagine the lady of the house using this room to make out her menus and list of chores for the week.

Above the desk hung the portrait.

The moment Lyssa set eyes on it, she could not speak. This was her mother as she’d never known
her. This was the woman her father had fallen in love with, and Lyssa understood why.

Her mother’s skin was the color of rich cream, her eyes a laughing, sparkling blue. Lyssa remembered how, before her mother had become so terribly ill, their house had been full of her laughter.

In the portrait, her mother’s hair was a rich auburn. She sat beneath a spreading oak. Over her shoulder, she wore the Davidson plaid, much like Lyssa’s own, and behind her stood a horse as silvery white as the moon.
Gealach
. Her grandfather had placed in this picture everything of value to his clan—its pride and its beauty.

The wave of homesickness caught Lyssa off guard. She leaned over the desk as if wanting to see beyond the artist’s brushstrokes. In truth, she was moved to tears by how much she missed her mother.

Her trip was worth all the danger and hardship for this one moment. This was what she’d come looking for—a glimpse of her mother. Of her past. Of what might have been and was no more.

When her mother had died, she’d mourned as only a child can…but she hadn’t realized truly all that she’d lost. Her father had moved on. She couldn’t. There was no replacing her mother in her life. She’d lost the wisdom, the concern, the care…the understanding.

And no matter how long she lived, this void in her life would not be filled. Her mother’s love was irreplaceable.

But that didn’t mean she was betraying her mother’s memory by not stepping forward with her own life.