MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4)

by Elizabeth Essex

  There was nothing from before the beating that stole his mind from him. Nothing but a penny in his palm. Bright and shining. Like the lass’s hair—

  Nothing else. “Nay.”

  “Just as well I suppose.” Dewar rummaged around the parcels still arrayed on the stone seat. “Coffee and tea, as well. No expense spared. What’d she say?”

  “What you said—her name was Greer.” He was pleased to pull the name so quickly from the jumble of his brain. “That she found me on the road. That she came from Dalshee.” He hooked his hand over his shoulder toward the land on the other side of the burn.

  “Oh, aye. True enough. Reckon ye might no’ have lived had she not got tae ye there. Her skirts were black with yer blood.”

  Dewar’s words painted an ugly picture—but not a picture he could remember. He put a hand to his head, almost as if to reassure himself it was still there, and in—relatively speaking—one piece.

  “How’d she find ye?”

  “Now? She was there.” He pointed to the ridge across the glen. “On Glas Maol.” He was even more relieved to have this place name to hand—it gave him more and more hope that she was right, and that all he needed was some time to recover his senses. “I like her.” It was like manna from heaven, her gifts. And her presence. Mayhap, it was the talking to her that helped loosen the stiff rigor of his mind. “She was bonnie.”

  “Oh, aye?” Dewar didn’t sound convinced. “All young lasses are bonnie. What’d she want?” The moorkeeper sat on the stone bench and tore off a hunk of bread.

  “To give me food. To help me recover to fighting weight.”

  “Ha!” Dewar tossed his head back in amusement. “Said that, did she? She’s got gumption, that lass, I’ll gie her that. Damned if ye don’t look a bit like a prizefighter, so pummeled were ye. But I reckon yer talkin’ better. And yer upright, on yer own two feet.”

  “Aye.” He had fought hard to do so, pushing himself to his limits. “And mended the wall, there.”

  “Oh, aye?” Dewar swiveled to take a look at his handiwork. “Looks solid enough.”

  He took a deep, relieved breath—Dewar’s approval was important to him. As important as the lass’s company.

  “Braw enough tae work, then. That’s a gain, aye?” Dewar reached into the game bag slung over his shoulder. “Weel, I brought ye bannocks and barley pudding, though it’ll be nothing tae what she’s brung ye.”

  “I’ll get back to fourteen stone with all this, the lass said.”

  “The leddy said that, did she?” Dewar asked, though his tone was tart. Disapproving. “Ye’ll want tae be careful with lasses and leddies alike, lad. Careful o’ that one especially. No tellin’ what she might say, or ’oo she might tell up the castle.”

  “What castle?” he asked, but an image of a huge grey stone edifice arose in his mind’s eye.

  “Castle Crieff.” Dewar hooked his thumb toward the west. “D’ye remember?”

  “Some. Maybe. I was remembering more things when she was here.” Something about her—her swift confidence—seemed to loosen his mind, and his tongue as well.

  “What things?”

  “I remembered a compass.” Another image arose beside the glassy yellow and black rays of the compass rose—a large colorful orb spinning. “A globe.” A globe in a comfortable wood-paneled room—a library, full of red and green and blue leather spines. “Books. Reading.”

  He closed his eyes to probe the shifting sands of his memory, to will the scene in his mind to reveal more telling details. But just as quickly as they came, they vanished.

  His head began to throb. “It’s a hell of a thing not to know if or when my cracked brain will heal—not to know myself.” To have his memories come in dodges and feints, teasing him with these glimpses of what once was. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  His heart throttled in his chest at the revelation—here at last was an answer, a way out of the darkness. But Dewar would not strike the match. Instead the silence lengthened between them. “Will you not tell me?”

  “Nay.” Dewar looked away, across the glen, into the vast moorside. Toward Dalshee. “Because it’s no’ safe fae ye.”

  “To know who I am—how could that be? It’s all I think of—my name. All I try to remember.”

  Dewar wouldn’t be rushed. “Ye’ve tae gie it time, lad.”

  “Why? Why can you not help me along?”

  “Because it’s dangerous,” the auld fellow insisted. “Ye’d be in over yer head.”

  “Over my head?” A sudden image—the black void of cold water closing in over him. A new, more terrible thought intruded. “What are you keeping from me? What did I do that was so bad you won’t tell me?”

  What if he had deserved this painful beating, this awful reckoning?

  “Easy now.” Dewar put out his hand. “It’s no like that, lad. It’s the ones that done this tae ye—until ye remember enough tae ken who they are, they’re the ones ye have tae fear. They’re the ones that’re dangerous. They were bloody willing tae murder ye, afore—I don’t reckon they’ll hesitate tae try again. And if ye tangle with them afore ye’re ready, lad, afore ye’re healed, they’ll be the devil himself tae pay.”

  “So I’m to sit here, and hope whoe’er did this to me won’t find me here?”

  “Aye. I don’t ken anyplace safer. No one—save that bloody persistent lass—has ventured anywhere near here in ages. You need tae sit right and tight, and let it come back natural like. Tis dangerous fae you tae gang out in the world, not knowing.”

  “It’s stranger yet, to think you do know, but you’re not willing to tell me.”

  “Lad, it’s fae yer own good. And what if I did tell ye? Like as not, it’d make no difference.”

  “Then what difference does my not knowing make?”

  “Lad—”

  “I’m no lad.” His frustration boiled over his better sense. “Look at me—I’m a man grown. I must have had responsibilities I’ve left behind. There must be people—friends or family—waiting and counting on me. Looking for me.” They haunted him, these imaginary people, whirling around in his head in the dark of the long lonely nights, like ghosts whose faces he couldn’t see.

  Driving him mad.

  If he was a fighter, he needed to fight. And to fight, he needed knowledge. He needed to know.

  But Dewar saw it differently. “And there are people out there who want tae hurt ye—look what they’ve done tae ye thus far!” The auld codger was adamant. “Why would ye expose yerself tae them afore yer healed through and through?”

  “Because I think I must understand who I am in order to heal through and through. I can’t just sit here wishing and wanting and waiting.” He was like to grow madder still from the long empty days and longer, emptier nights. “What if it never comes unbidden?” He gave voice to his darkest fear. “What if I never remember? Am I to live with this half-life? Hiding in a damp bothy for the rest of my days?”

  Dewar let out a mournful sigh, and touched his shoulder, as if in support. But his words offered no consolation. “I don’t ken yet, lad. I’m sorry, but I just don’t bloody know.”

  Lady Greer Douglas

  Dalshee House

  Perthshire, Scotland

  24 May, 1787

  My dear Greer,

  I hope this letter finds you well, as I have not had a letter of you in some time, which occasions some worry. We have travelled onward, or should I say southward, to the ancient city of Rome. While Florence was a city of the Renaissance, this is a city of the Ancients.

  They say when in Rome, one must do as the Romans do, and therefore we four world travelers are wearing our shoes to scraps of the thinnest leather in walking all about the ruins and touring all the grand churches filled from terrazzo floors to painted ceilings with the most marvelous works of art, sculpture and architecture. You would wonder at it all. Often I think to myself—Greer must see this. So I rush to put pen to paper and tell you all.


  I also put my pen to paper to thank you for the superb book of poetry. Mr. Burns has become a steadfast friend, to whom I turn whenever I need a dose of home. The cadence of the words, and the images they evoke, cure my homesick heart more surely than almost anything—except a letter from you.

  I enclose a rather heated, passionately Italian kiss for you in the hopes that you will write me back for more.

  Your devoted friend, EC

  Lord Ewan Cameron

  Piazza di Spagna 74

  Roma, Italia

  28 July, 1787

  Dear Ewan,

  Rome! Oh, how I long to see it. Both Dear Hally and I are in agreement with you that I must indeed travel ~ if not to Rome, then at the very least to London, if I am to be a fit helpmeet and companionable wife to you. We have thus both applied separately to Papa, who unfortunately, still holds firm in his belief that I am too young. I am resolved to be everything calm and mature until I might convince him. Though I must say your passionate Italian kisses leave me nearly too giddy with delight for anything approaching calm.

  Pray do send more ~ as many as you ever can, so I may remain,

  Your devoted Greer

  Chapter 13

  The morning dawned grey and blustery, with a sharp wind out of the north tugging fitfully at her carefully tailored skirts. The sky was ominous and brooding, to match her mood, for there was no joy in retracing their last journey to Crieff. No pleasure in the exquisite grey silk-velvet redingote trimmed with black velvet and lace she had purchased in Belgium to impress Ewan with her worldly fashions. No expectation of happiness to make the long hours of the journey go faster.

  No steady hope to counter her maddening doubts.

  But what could not be avoided must be faced, and the sooner they were there, the sooner they might leave, and be home again. The sooner she might return to her friend in the glen beneath Glas Maol.

  If their journey on the road across the moor was thankfully nothing as eventful as their last, their arrival was the same—His Grace of Crieff, Malcolm Cameron, was not there to greet them. It fell to MacIntosh, and the housekeeper—a Mrs. Peddie, an amiable woman who had been at Castle Crieff since Ewan was a lad—to see to them.

  “I’ve rooms made up should ye like tae refresh yerselves after yer journey, mileddy,” Mrs. Peddie offered.

  “Please,” Mama concurred.

  Both the steward and the housekeeper conducted the Douglas family to the grand staircase, but at the top of the stair, the steward led Mama and Papa up another story, while the housekeeper directed her to the Cameron family wing. “This way, Mileddy Greer.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am.” Greer stopped the housekeeper. “I should much prefer not to be away from my family.” She needed their quiet, unfailing support now, more than ever.

  “Forgive me, mileddy, but His Grace, Laird Malcolm, ordered it so.” The housekeeper stepped close and lowered her voice to speak confidentially. “But I thought as the room was done up fae ye on His Grace’s—that is, His Late Grace, Laird Ewan’s—particular direction, ye might at least want tae see it.”

  It was such a heart-rending feeling, salving as soon as it cut, to hear such warmth of Ewan.

  “Had it done special fae ye, he did, with plasterers and painters here fae nigh on a two-month. I thought as ye’d a right tae see what was meant tae be yer room as duchess. But if ye’d prefer tae keep elsewhere once ye’ve seen it, I can arrange that verra easily, mileddy.”

  Done special for her. Unexpected heat pooled behind Greer’s eyes, and the ache in her chest grew bittersweet. “Oh, yes, of course.” Greer took a shaky breath to draw herself together. “Thank you, I should like to see the chamber.”

  Mrs. Peddie led the way down a narrow stone corridor to the far end of the wing, whereupon she opened a double door, and stood back to let Greer enter.

  The tall chamber was a complete contrast to the dark, narrow medieval corridors—the room was light and airy, with walls painted in the freshest, softest blue, with exquisite white plasterwork, and beautiful watered silk draperies, which dissolved before her eyes as the tears she had thought she would be able to keep at bay fell unchecked.

  All this, Ewan had done for her. He knew her—knew what she would love and had surrounded her in it.

  “I’m so sorry.” She fumbled for a handkerchief but could not free hers from her pocket before Mrs. Peddie whisked one from her sleeve and pressed it into Greer’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Peddie. I’m not usually such a watering pot. It’s just that it’s so beautiful.”

  “Aye, ’tis bonnie, mileddy. I will make arrangements fae ye tae be moved closer tae the earl and countess, but I thought ye would like tae see this room. Brought that fabric back all the way frae Paris, he said he did, afore the Revolution.”

  So Ewan had kept some secrets—in the midst of so many different gifts over the years, he had kept his particular evidence of his thoughtfulness a surprise.

  “Oh, it is so very lovely.” She ran her hand reverently along the fall of the delicate silk draperies. “It must have cost him a fortune.”

  “Nothing was too good fae ye, he said. He bought it the moment he saw it, he said, thinking of ye.”

  Just as she had been thinking of him, every day, all these years. Their connection had been true. And real. So very real.

  It was too much. And not enough—she wanted the man himself before her to thank and touch and hold in her grateful arms. But it was too late. Too, too painfully late.

  “You’ll excuse me, I’m sure. But I—” The heat in her eyes and throat were abominable. What a difference a fortnight made—a fortnight ago she had set off with every expectation of being married by nightfall, and today she felt like a widow. Except that she wasn’t. She wasn’t even betrothed anymore—she was only bereaved.

  Greer could not stop the hiccup of emotion that escaped her chest.

  “Mistress?” Mrs. Peddie queried.

  “I miss him so.” Greer fumbled with her handkerchief to dash away the dampness in the corner of her eyes.

  “Oh, mistress, so do I.” Mrs. Peddie, too, was dabbling at her eyes with her lace apron, as Greer had her handkerchief. “Without our laird, we’re all tae sixes and sevens. Oh, I am sorry,” the poor woman flustered. “I oughtn’t have said anythin.’ Forgive me, mileddy.”

  “Please.” Greer put her arm around the tiny woman’s shoulders, and guided her to the chaise in front of the window. “I am so sorry for your loss. For all of Crieff’s loss.” She had been thinking of Ewan as hers alone, but he had been theirs—Crieff’s—for far longer.

  “Bless ye. Thank ye, mileddy.”

  “Lord Cameron, the duke”—Greer knew she must reconcile herself to calling him His Grace, if only to his face—“must feel it quite acutely, too, to lose his cousin so suddenly.”

  “Oh, aye. I s’pose,” Mrs. Peddie agreed, but said nothing more of the new duke’s finer feelings. “A’course, we don’t know him weel, His New Grace. Ne’er visited mor’n three or four times in his life, in all the time I’ve been at Crieff. His father, that is His New Grace’s father was the old duke’s second son—that is, our Laird Ewan’s uncle. I do remember them coming when his lordship, the old duke’s heir—that is tae say our Laird Ewan’s father—passed away. His lordship were eight, and Mr. Malcolm no mor’n eight or nine.”

  “So they weren’t close?”

  “Not as I could say, mileddy, but there was no reason I should know.” Mrs. Peddie stood and smoothed down her skirts. “Though they do say His Grace, our late Laird Ewan, saw the man—Lord Malcolm—at Crieff House in Edinburgh, he’d not been a guest here fae many a year.”

  No wonder the poor man was such a fish out of the loch in the highland countryside.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Peddie. I appreciate your candor.” Greer rose and shook out her own skirts. “What time will the service be? I should like to visit the coffin privately, if I may. To say my own private goodbyes.”

  Mrs. Peddie’s face
crumpled into tears. “Oh, ’tis double sad tae think we’ve lost both His Grace, our Laird Ewan, and ye at the same time, mileddy.”

  It was as if the spigot Greer was trying her best to keep shut had suddenly broken—tears, hot and stinging, singed her eyes and made their wet way down her face. The ache in her chest threatened to grow into great gulping sobs. She had to turn away to pull herself under control and wipe her cheeks.

  “I’m that sorry, mileddy.” The housekeeper tried to console her. “I didn’t mean tae upset ye so.”

  “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Peddie. You only said what I was thinking and feeling myself. I, too, had looked forward to making Crieff my home, and being your mistress. Very much.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Very much so.”

  “Sae were we, mileddy. It’s been a long time since Castle Crieff has had a mistress tae see that things are as they ought. I’ve done my best fae us, but—”

  “But there are only so many hours in a day,” Greer finished for her.

  “Aye, mileddy,” the housekeeper sighed. “And now with staff let go—” She shook her head. “The house is that big, I can’t always see everythin’s done as I like. And with retrenching, we’ve not even been able tae order crepe and put up proper mourning.”

  “No?” Greer had been too preoccupied with her own sorrow to note the lack of mourning furnishings upon arrival. “Retrenching?”

  “His Grace, Mr. Malcolm, when he come mor’n a fortnight ago, told us he had gone through the books and was making changes, cutting excesses, he said—let half the staff gang off that day. Went through the house like a chill draft it did, room by room, ’til MacIntosh could gather us all up in the servant’s hall tae gie us the terrible bad news.”

  “I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Peddie.”

  The housekeeper sniffed into her apron. “Some of those girls ha’ been wi’ me since they were wee lassies. And how they’re all tae find work in the village, I don’t ken. I can’t like it, mileddy. Can’t like it a’tall.”