Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (17 page)

Sinking into the chair at the desk, Lyssa folded her hands and let the tears flow. They rolled down her cheeks and she didn’t bother to wipe them away.

She sensed Ramsey and Anice withdrawing as if embarrassed by her emotion. Ian moved closer and she welcomed his strength. If they were in private, she might have even reached for his hand.

“If you’d like, I’ll give you the portrait,” Ramsey offered.

“You would?” Lyssa said, looking up at him. “I would be ever so grateful. I would even pay for it.”

Ramsey knelt beside her chair and Ian was forced back. “I could not accept money from you, beautiful cousin.” He spoke in a low voice but she knew his words were heard by everyone…and there was the warmth of male interest in them.

She was too grateful to care. “Thank you. You cannot imagine what this means to me.”

“We’ve all lost someone or something in our lives and this is a fitting gift.” He stood. “Now, come. Dinner will be served in two hours and we still haven’t taken you to your room to freshen up. I’m certain Birdy has seen to your luggage.”

“I have no luggage,” she confessed and then relying Ian’s earlier lie she said, “It was stolen when
we were attacked.” She could have told the truth. She didn’t.

Ramsey shook his head. “How fortunate you are to be alive.”

“Yes,” Lyssa agreed.

Turning to their cousin, he said, “Anice, do you have a dress that would fit Lyssa?”

“I’m certain I do. I shall have one or two sent to your room.”

“Thank you, coz,” Lyssa said and meant the words. Her earlier foreboding had evaporated. In fact, she thought she’d been rather silly. She took her cousins’ hands and, in an effort to make amends, said, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be here…and for this moment with the portrait.” Tears threatened to overwhelm her again. She forced them back. “I’d forgotten so much. If you will excuse me, I would like to go to my room.” She needed a moment alone to compose herself.

“Of course,” Anice said and shepherded Lyssa out into the gallery, directing her toward a back staircase.

Ian started to follow but Ramsey stepped in his path. “I’ll have Birdy take your bodyguard to the servants’ quarters.”

Lyssa stopped. “No.”

“No?” Ramsey turned as if surprised she would countermand him.

“I mean, my father wants him close to me.”

Ramsey’s eyebrows rose speculatively.

Lyssa met his gaze squarely. “He is my bodyguard, cousin. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I didn’t mean to imply an impropriety,” Ramsey answered, and heat rose to Lyssa cheeks.

“I’m certain you didn’t.”

For a second, she thought Ramsey was going to push the issue. Instead, he said, “Anice, have Birdy put the bodyguard in the White Room.”

“Come,” Anice said. “I’ll show you both to your rooms.” She started up the stairs and there was nothing left for Lyssa to do but follow, Ian at her heels.

The first floor where the bedrooms were located was a long stone corridor. The carpet down the center of the hall was practically threadbare. The walls were obviously thick and not a sound seemed to travel through the house. The whole effect was positively medieval.

Halfway down the hall, Anice stopped at a room and opened the door, motioning Lyssa through.

The room was done in shades of blue and bur-gundy in a style that had long since passed. The furniture was heavy and ornate and the bed curtains seemed to have been hanging for a century or more, because the dust was still there. Yet the sheets appeared to have been changed and there was hot water in the pitcher on the washstand and clean towels.

Lyssa nodded her pleasure. “This is very nice.”

“I thought you would like it. This room was your mother’s,” Anice answered. “I hope you will be comfortable. I’ll have my maid bring the dresses for you, and perhaps a pair of slippers? We seem to be of the same size.”

“I would appreciate them,” Lyssa answered. “And a bath, if it would not be too much trouble.”

“Of course not,” Anice answered.

Lyssa noticed that Ian was looking around the room as if expecting danger lurking in the corners. “Where is Mr. Campion’s room from here?”

“The White Room is at the top of the front stairs,” her cousin said. “He should be comfortable and close. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Campion?” She went through the door.

Shouldering his ever present knapsack, he followed Anice out, but before he shut the door behind him, he whispered, “Be watchful.”

Lyssa nodded. He left and she was alone in her mother’s room. Lyssa tossed her plaid on the bedspread, crossed to the window, and opened the drapes. Her room overlooked the back lawn and Loch Linnhe. She didn’t hesitate to try to open the windows; she wanted the fresh air.

They didn’t open easily and she had to put her shoulder to the task, but she accomplished it. For a moment, she enjoyed the breeze while looking at the stables, surprised at how well she could see them from this angle. Stable lads were busy with their chores. There must have been ten horses being
walked or exercised, but she did not see a gray stallion.

Closer to the house, she noticed Birdy talking to three burly tenants. She hoped they were discussing work to be done in the gardens. The yards could be quite charming with a bit of planning. Perhaps she could suggest some ideas to Ramsey over dinner—because she was going to stay for a while. Her earlier doubts had vanished. She
needed
to be here.

Her hand on the windowsill, she turned and surveyed the room, and felt a sense of belonging.

A knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” she called, expecting Anice’s maid.

Instead, Ian entered, his knapsack still over his shoulder. He carefully closed the door behind him. “We must get out. Now.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you feel it?” he said with surprise. “Something is not right. I don’t trust your cousins. I don’t like any of this.”

And he also wanted to get her back to London to collect his money.

Lyssa crossed to the washbasin and poured warm water into the bowl. She picked the soap up and smelled it. It was a homemade variety, one not as good as the sort Ian’s sister made. “I’m not going anywhere,” she confessed, unable to look at him. “We’ve only arrived and I’m happy to be here.”

“And I’ve learned that when the hairs at the
small of my neck are standing on end, danger is nearby.”

She started washing her hands, her back to him. “Could you not be overreacting?”

He came round to face her. “Overreacting? They are the ones who are not reacting at all. No one seems surprised at your arrival—”

“Anice did.”

“They didn’t ask a few questions about your luggage and lack of servants—”

“We explained to them we were robbed and frankly, we look like we’ve been robbed.”

“Nor did they wonder why Dunmore Harrell’s daughter had to walk across Scotland?”

“What are you suggesting, that we run out the back door while everyone waits for us to come down for dinner?”

“Yes,” he answered. “And the sooner, the better. Something is not right.”

She dried her hands and laid down the towel. “I don’t want to leave.”

“You don’t have a choice,” he returned evenly. “We are going down those stairs and out the door. I’ll find another way for us to reach London.”

“I’m not going to London.” There, she’d said it. She braced herself for the worse.

A muscle hardened in his jaw but he didn’t act surprised. “You must go to London. Your father wants you there. Immediately.”

“I’m not going,” she affirmed quietly, well aware of what was at stake for him. But she couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t leave—not yet. “I wish I could, Ian, but I can’t. I
belong
here.”

“The hell you do.” He took her by the arms and appeared ready to shake her he was so angry, but he didn’t. Instead, he stared down into her eyes. “You have a marriage to go to, lass. A man you are promised to and I have a family waiting for the money I’m to earn. You will leave with me if I have to carry you, and you know me well enough, Lyssa, I don’t make empty promises.”

“Don’t worry about money!” she flashed back. “I’m certain Ramsey will reward you handsomely.”

“Ramsey?” Ian laughed. “Have you not looked around? There is no money here, and if they have any, it appears they spend it on the horses.”

“You will get paid your money,” she promised, reaching for her temper to ease her conscience. “I’ll see that you receive every shilling. But I’m not returning to London. If my father wants me, he can come here himself.”

Ian let go of her as if she had turned to fire. His eyes silvery bright, he said, “You planned this from the beginning, didn’t you, Miss Harrell? All right. Very well. Have your evening with your family, but come the morrow, we leave.”

“We will not,” she vowed with equal heat.

He shook his head. “I’m not a man to cross, Miss Harrell, and you’d best remember the fact.” He stormed over to the door, threw it open and almost
ran over the maid who had arrived with Anice’s dresses.

Lyssa collapsed on a chair at the dressing table. Standing up to Ian was not easy…especially when she knew she was doing him wrong.

The mobcapped maid said in a timid voice, “Miss Davidson asked I bring you these.” She held out two dresses, one blue and the other a soft green. She also had a pair of black slippers.

“Yes, thank you,” Lyssa replied. “Please put them on the bed.” She wished the girl had not caught Mr. Campion in her room. The worst part was, she was still so upset by the confrontation that her hands shook—something she did not want the maid to see.

So she put on her best smile and pretended to admire the dresses. And if he thought she would leave here on the morrow, he was wrong.

Ian was so angry he could break something. He charged into his room and threw his knapsack on the bed with such force it skidded across the mattress and fell off on the other side.

Damn Lyssa Harrell for cheating him.

He’d known it was coming. Last night, she’d been unusually quiet. He’d sensed something was at work in that red-haired head of hers. He should have paid attention to his instincts and not brought her here! He kicked shut the door.

Now what the devil as he supposed to do?

He felt damned betrayed. He’d thought of himself as her protector—he’d thought he’d meant something to her. He’d believed—

Ian broke off his thoughts and leaned back against the door. “You poor, stupid Irishman. You’re a lovesick fool.”

The moment he spoke the words aloud, he realized they were true. He had fallen in love with the most stubborn woman in the universe.

And his marching into her room moments ago? Had he truly sensed danger or was he acting out of jealousy?

He hadn’t liked Ramsey Davidson the moment he laid eyes on him. The man was too poised, too glib—and his heels were as round as Ian’s own. The man was done up. Anyone with half of a head’s sense could see that by the state of the house and grounds.

At first, Lyssa had been as uneasy as he—until she’d been presented with the portrait of her mother. Then her whole response to the situation had changed.

Ian pushed away from the door and walked to the center of the room. His was not as finely furnished as Lyssa’s was, but he wasn’t interested in rugs and drapes.

Pacing a path across the room, he focused his thoughts on the portrait and the response it had provoked in Lyssa, one he was certain she could not have anticipated. If so, it would be up to him
to keep her safe, even if he must physically remove her from this place.

As to the rest, his love for her was doomed. Pirate Harrell would never let some Irishman—especially one who didn’t have two guineas to his name—marry his prized daughter. Furthermore, Lyssa had too much sense to saddle herself with a man like Ian.

A soft knock on the door disturbed him and his first thought was it had to be Lyssa. Perhaps she’d thought about what he’d said and had come to her senses, so without hesitation, he crossed to the door and threw it open.

Lyssa Harrell was not standing there.

Instead, there were three ugly Scottish brutes. Two stood no higher than his chest but the third was almost a head taller than himself.

And they weren’t here to welcome him to the estate. Two held cudgels which they slapped in the palm of their hands. The big one carried a sack.

“Mr. Campion?” one of them said.

Ian backed into his room. He wasn’t going anywhere peacefully, and the Scots followed him in, ready for a fight.

Damn
, he hated being right.

O
BSERVING
the trouble the maid had preparing a bath, Lyssa decided that the occupants of Amleth Hall did not bathe often.

The maid had carried up two buckets of tepid water, but there had not been a bathing tub in the room. So she’d gone in search of a tub and returned with something that was little more than a washtub.

Lyssa sent the maid for more water so she could wash her hair. She filled the bath herself, relieved to have a task to keep her busy. Anything to take her mind off the scene with Ian.

She rationalized she was not doing anything other than what she’d intended from the very beginning. She couldn’t return, not after she’d just arrived. This deadline of her father’s was completely arbitrary. She didn’t want a betrothal ball; she didn’t want a betrothal.

And she would see Ian was paid anyway.

Undressing, she took the tarot card from its safe
place in her belt and laid it on the top of the dresser drawers that had not been dusted very well. The poor card was the truly worse for wear, curved and warm from being tucked close to her body. Madame Linka may also be known as Bawdy House Betty, but every warning she’d issued had come to pass.

Lyssa sat in the tub of tepid water and felt the lowest of the low. She faced the truth—she did not like being at odds with Ian. He was the first person beyond her father whose opinion she respected.

The maid knocked on the door. This time the water was warmer, but not much. Lyssa soaped her hair and asked the maid to pour the fresh water over her head. She wished she could clean her conscience as easily.

She had to talk to Ian…and perhaps she
would
leave on the morrow—

Her thoughts broke off. The regard and respect of one rogue Irishman meant more to her than her own wishes, or even those of her family.

The revelation was stunning.

“Is something the matter, miss?” the maid asked.

Lyssa looked up, her dripping wet hair in her face. “No…nothing.”
Dear God, she had fallen in love with him.

She hunched over.
What was she going to do?
Her father would be livid, out of his mind with anger…and yet, she had no choice in the matter.

At some point, perhaps while he was saving her life or battling ruffians or forcing her to mingle with those different from herself or berating her for one thing or the other, she’d lost her heart. Like a naïve child, she’d not realized it at the time.

She should have. The signs were there—her jealousy, the asking for a kiss, the admiration and respect she’d grown to have for him…

And with a woman’s understanding, she knew he’d cared for her, too. Why else attempt to warn her off? He was so good, so honorable—and she was a complete traitor.

Lyssa stood, pushing her wet hair from her eyes. “Please, a towel,” she said to the maid. She was handed a square of linen that was hardly worth the name. “That will be all,” she said, dismissing the girl. “I can dress myself.”

“Yes, miss.” The maid left the room.

The moment the door closed, Lyssa scrambled out of the tub. What was she going to do? Ian had been furious with her. She had to make amends. She had to speak to him. Now.

Love.
The word shimmered in her mind.

Funny, but love wasn’t anything like what she’d thought it would be. She’d assumed when she fell in love, it would be an all-knowing sense of purpose, as it had been for her parents.

Instead, a part of her wondered if she wasn’t going a bit mad. Her father would forgive her running away, but he’d never forgive her for not marrying well, and she’d always meant to marry
well. Never in her wildest romantic imaginings had she placed herself beside a poor man.

Ian had been right. She was a snob.

Still, she couldn’t live without her Irishman. She didn’t want to live without him.

Hurriedly, Lyssa dried herself. The towel was useless, especially when it came to her hair, so she used her green gypsy skirt to finish the job and hung it on a peg to dry. She’d become quite resourceful over the past week. She chose Anice’s sage-colored dress to wear. The silvery green was a good color for her hair and she couldn’t help but note that the material was of the finest quality. Not only that, the stitchery on the seams was most excellent, even if the cut was out of date—and she felt a moment’s relief.

Ian’s suspicions were wrong. Anice and Ramsey spent their money on something other than horses. They obviously had a taste for fashion.

She slipped the dress over her head. The high-waisted bodice and shoulders were edged in a lace of the same sage color. The print-on-print material had a good weight so it flowed around her ankles. She was a bit bustier than Anice, and her waist thinner. Looking in the mirror, she thought she probably looked better in the dress than Anice did—and knew this was what to wear while begging Ian’s forgiveness.

Her hair was still damp. She left it down, slipped her feet into Anice’s black kidskin slippers, and hurried to the door.

Cautiously, she opened it, not wanting to be caught running to Ian’s room. She peered down both directions of the empty hallway, listening. No sound echoed through the house because of the thick walls. Nor did she hear the tread of footsteps on the stairs. She would have to chance running to Ian’s room, and if anyone caught her in the hall, she would say she was going downstairs.

Part of her thought she was being silly; another part couldn’t help but heed Ian’s warnings.

Lyssa quietly dashed to his door and gave a quick knock.

No answer.

She leaned toward the door as if she could hear inside the room and knocked again, more forcibly.

Still, no answer.

Lyssa searched the hall. Could she have chosen the wrong room? She didn’t think so…and something was not right. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.

She opened the door. The spread, drapes, and walls were white. This had to be the right room, but it was empty, the air smelling slightly of vinegar.

Slipping inside, Lyssa shut the door. The only colors in the room were the faded greens and golds of a patterned Indian carpet. A path was worn from the door to the bed. Nothing looked like it had been touched. The emptiness of the room was overwhelming.

Ian was not here. But he had been here. She had become so attuned to him she could feel his presence, even the absence of it.

For a second, she feared he’d left without her, and just as quickly rejected the thought. Other men might, but not Ian. He was true to his word, and if he said he wasn’t leaving without her, he wouldn’t.

Moving to the middle of the room, she searched with her eyes, sensing there was something here she was missing. She wanted a clue or some reassurance that all was as it should be. Then she noticed the room had been dusted. Thoroughly. Even the bed drapes had been dusted.

And beside the dresser, she saw a place where the wall was discolored. Investigating, she realized someone had tried to clean a smear off the wall with vinegar but had been unsuccessful.

On the floor beside the wall, she discovered three drops of blood—still wet.

Lyssa fell to her knees, frightened. She touched the blood with the tip of her finger. Then she saw the edge of his knapsack strap hidden behind the bed curtains.

Ian didn’t go anywhere without his knapsack.

Grabbing the strap, she pulled the leather bag out and came to her feet. Slowly, she walked the perimeter of the room, hunting for other clues as to what may have happened.

The water basin and pitcher were bone dry. She
knew her man. If he had a chance to shave, he would take it.

Against her chest, she could feel the shape of the pistol in the soft leather of the knapsack. She had to believe Ian was all right. He was a big man and a clever one. He could not be taken easily. For a moment, she tested her senses. She did not feel he was dead—certainly she would know if he was!—but he had to be in danger.

Lyssa sat on the edge of the bed. What would Ian do in these circumstances? How would he react?

He’d get out of the room before he was discovered.

She didn’t hesitate but hopped up and ran to the door. Outside, the hall was still empty. Taking care to quietly shut the door to the White Room when she left, she raced for her room and didn’t breathe again until she’d safely closed the door behind her.

Turning, she was startled to see Anice standing by the dresser, studying the tarot card.

Lyssa choked back a gasp of surprise. Finding her voice, she managed to ask, “What are you doing here?” while carefully lowering the heavy knapsack to the floor behind the door with one hand. She prayed her skirts would hide what she was doing.

Anice didn’t offer apology or explanation. Nor did she seem to notice the knapsack. Instead, she looked at Lyssa with bright eyes and said, “What is this?” She held up the Knight of Swords.

“A tarot card.”

“What is that?”

“A fortune-telling scheme.”

Anice restudied the card and then laughed lightly. “So this card holds your future?”

“My fate. There is a difference,” Lyssa corrected, before asking bluntly, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I came to escort you down to dinner…but you weren’t here. The maid should clean up your bath.”

“I dismissed her before she had a chance. She can do it later.”

“Yes.” A cool smile curved her cousin’s lips. “Where were you?”

Lyssa felt her heart beat slow down and replied with equal serenity, “I was looking for you. I thought you’d already gone downstairs.”

Anice raised delicately arched eyebrows, appraising Lyssa’s answer and she knew Ian’s suspicions had been right. She did not trust anyone under this roof.

“Well, now that we’ve found each other,” Anice said, “shall we go down to dinner?”

“After you, cousin,” Lyssa answered, conscious of the knapsack lying close to her feet behind the open door. If Anice
had
noticed, she didn’t say a word. Instead, she swept past Lyssa as if it were her due to go first.

Lyssa shut the door behind her, praying the knapsack would be all right. The maid would be
up to clean the room. She prayed the lazy girl would not find its presence amiss.

Her heart in her throat, she forced a smile. “Thank you for letting me wear your dress.”

Her cousin gave her a critical eye. “It looks well on you. But then,
you
are accustomed to beautiful clothes, aren’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“It must be enjoyable to have all the money you could wish for,” Anice allowed, starting toward the front staircase.

Lyssa didn’t answer. Instead, she paused in front of the door to the White Room. “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Campion?”

“Oh, he’s already downstairs,” Anice said heading down the first set of treads. “Coming?”

Lyssa mouth went dry.
Oh, dear.
“Of course.” On the way down, trailing in Anice’s wake, she picked up the thread of their conversation. “You have a talented seamstress in Appin. This gown is exquisite.”

“Do we?” Anice shook her head. “I must tell her. She will be flattered to have a fine London lady compliment her work.”

There was no warmth in Anice’s voice. She was responding mechanically, as if her mind was preoccupied.

Lyssa’s apprehension grew even stronger as she reached the bottom stair to the entrance hall with its hundred pair or so of glass eyes unblinkingly
watching her. Anice moved into the red room decorated with daggers.

A fire now burned in the hearth. As Lyssa entered, Ramsey rose from one of two deep chairs facing the hearth and turned to welcome Lyssa. He’d changed into a bottle-green jacket, polished boots and buff breeches. He appeared more English than any gentleman she knew in London, and that irony was not lost on her.

Her image about the proud Highland Laird Davidson was apparently a fantasy. She’d prefer the common folk any day.

“You appear somewhat rested, cousin,” Ramsey said congenially. “Would you like a glass of sherry before dinner?” Anice already stood by a side table set up with sherry and the ever present whiskey in glass decanters.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Lyssa said, aware that there was another man seated in the chair next to the one Ramsey had vacated. She took a step forward, hoping it was Ian—and knowing it wasn’t. Ian would have risen. This man did not move. Because of the high back of the chair, she could not see his face.

On guard now, Lyssa moved back toward the door leading to the great hall, pretending interest in the hunting trophies. “Did you bag all of those, Ramsey?” she asked and then stopped at the door, not going farther because the manservant Birdy and a large, ruddy-faced man—one of the three
she’d seen him talking to earlier—had entered the hall from a different direction.

She wondered what her chances were of grabbing a sword off the wall to protect herself, even as Ramsey said cheerily, “You flatter me, coz, but no. Hunting is the family tradition.”

“My mother was never fond of hunting,” Lyssa said, suddenly remembering. In fact, her mother would have nothing to do with it, and looking at the room of lifeless heads, she understood.

She turned, no longer in the mood to play games, especially when she sensed time was running short. “What have you done with Mr. Campion?”

Her directness gave Ramsey a moment’s pause. He recovered. “Very well,” he said as if coming to some conclusion in his mind. “My dear cousin, there is someone I want you to meet.” He turned toward the occupied chair. A lean, balding gentleman unfolded himself from its deep recesses and faced Lyssa. The gentleman had cold, blue eyes and wore black riding gloves.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Harrell,” he said sardonically.

The moment she heard the distinctive voice, her blood ran cold. “Fielder?”

“You have my name and recognize me?” He shook his head. “Amazing. You and Campion were much wilier than I had anticipated.”

Lyssa threw aside all thoughts of her own safety. She took three angry strides into the room.
“What have you done with him? Where is Mr. Campion?”