Adventures of a Scottish Heiress

by Cathy Maxwell

  Her eyes flashed golden in the firelight like two jewels. “You wouldn’t lay a finger on me.”

  “I said ‘by any means I deem necessary.’ If I must hog-tie and carry you out of here, I shall.”

  Obviously, no one had ever spoken this plainly to Miss Harrell before in her life. Her expression was the same one he imagined she’d use if he’d stomped on her toes. The color rose to her cheeks with her temper. “You will not. Abrams and my other Gypsy friends will come to my rescue. Won’t you, Abrams?” she asked, lifting her voice so that it would carry in the night.

  But there was no reply save for the crackling of green wood in the fire and the rustle of the wind in the trees.

  “Abrams won’t,” Ian corrected kindly, “because, first, he knows he’s not a match for me. I have a bit of a reputation for being handy with my fists, Miss Harrell, and that allows me to do as I please. And secondly, because he’s no more a Gypsy than I am. Are you, Charley?” he called to “Abrams.”

  “Who is Charley?” Miss Harrell demanded.

  “Charley Poet, a swindler if ever there was one. You probably think Duci is his wife?”

  “She is.”

  Ian shook his head. “She’s his sister. And your fortune-teller is his aunt, ‘Mother’ Betty, once the owner of a London bawdy house until gambling did her in.”

  “That’s a lie!” a female voice called out to him. “The house was stolen from me!”

  “Is that the truth, Betty?” Ian challenged. “Come out of hiding and we’ll discuss the matter.”

  There was no answer.

  The color had drained from Miss Harrell’s face, but still she held on to her convictions. “I don’t believe you. I’ve been traveling with these people and they are exactly what they say they are—Gypsies. They even speak Romany.”

  “Charley,” Ian said. “Get out here.”

  A beat of silence and then sheepishly, Charley appeared at the edge of the woods. He was slight of frame, and with a scarf around his head Ian supposed he could pass for a Gypsy. “Tell Miss Harrell the truth,” Ian said with exaggerated patience.

  “We didn’t mean no harm,” Charley said, his “Gypsy” accent gone. “And we got her to Scotland. We were going to take her where she wanted to go. She paid us—you can’t be angry at us, Campion.”

  “It’s her father you need to fear, not me,” Ian answered. “And I’ll warn you right now, Pirate Harrell wanted me to bring back your head on a pike. Head west, Charley, don’t show your face around London for a year, and we’ll call ourselves even.”

  Miss Harrell took a step forward. “You lied to me?” she accused Charley in round tones, as if she couldn’t believe the truth.

  Charley shrugged. “Not really. Mother Betty has a drop of Gypsy blood in her. Her talent with the cards is real.”

  But Miss Harrell was not placated. Her anger was swift and sharp. “I should have known. Gypsies don’t drink gin.”

  “Some do,” Charley hedged and started backing away.

  “Don’t you dare leave!” Miss Harrell ordered. “I’ve paid you to take me to Amleth Hall and so you shall—this, this”—she sputtered for words before deciding on one—“ox of an Irishman notwithstanding.”

  Ian had been called worse. “Well, it was money wasted, Miss Harrell,” he replied philosophically, “because you are returning to London with me. And, by the by, my name is Campion, Ian Campion…but you may call me Mr. Ox if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

  The look she shot him could have fried bacon.

  He couldn’t give a care. “Go on, Charley. She’s in my hands now.”

  “Well, I’d like the wagon, Campion,” Charley answered, taking another timid step forward.

  “You can have it—” Ian started but Miss Harrell contradicted him, moving to confront Charley.

  “This is my wagon. I paid for it and it is full of my belongings. What did you think you were going to do? Steal everything I brought with me?”

  “Ah, now, Miss Harrell, Duci, Betty and I were good to you,” Charley reminded her.

  “The three of you lied to me! I trusted you.”

  “We were only being what you wanted us to be,” Charley said sympathetically. “And you had a good time. But now, Campion’s right. You should go home and marry that viscount your papa wants you to marry. If you’d been in the hands of less honest folk, you could have been in real danger.”

  Her answer was to turn to Ian and, cool as you please, say, “I will pay you twice what my father offered to take me to Amleth Hall on the Firth of Lorne. In fact, we are not very far from there now.”

  “Twice?” Ian questioned with amusement. “You don’t have the blunt.”

  “I assure you, sir, I do.”

  “And what of proprieties? What will your relatives say when you appear on their doorstep with an Irishman by your side?”

  She made an impatient sound. “We can go to the inn and pick up the maid you brought along if you wish…although I would prefer not wasting the time.”

  Ian was taken aback by her boldness. She was no milk toast debutante, nor was she as smart as she thought she was. He was both intrigued and put off. If she’d been one of his sisters, he’d be tempted to lock her up.

  “I’m taking you home,” he said. “You’ve already been more than foolish, Miss Harrell, and you’ve been fortunate not to have had your throat slit, or worse.”

  Her chin came up. “There’s something worse than having your throat slit?”

  Ian suspected her of being impertinent and his temper flared, but Charley came to her rescue. “Here now, take it easy, Campion. She’s more than a bit naïve. You know how the Quality are. You have to treat her with kid gloves a bit and talk to her like she’s ten.”

  Miss Harrell whirled on him as if set on fire. “You don’t need to coddle me!”

  “Beg pardon, miss, but we did.”

  Here was the last bit of treachery and it hit Miss Harrell hard. “You didn’t,” she insisted.

  “We did,” Charley confessed. “And you’d best go with Campion. You really shouldn’t be hanging with the likes of us.” Duci and Betty had ventured to the edge of the woods and they sadly nodded agreement.

  “It’s been good fun,” Duci added, “but you must return home.”

  Miss Harrell looked to Betty. “What of my tarot reading?”

  “Ah, now, Viveka, that was real…and was I not right? Here is Campion and your course has changed.”

  “This man is no Knight,” Miss Harrell pronounced. “And I am not going with him, even if I must walk the distance to Amleth Hall.”

  With that grand pronouncement, she turned and would have marched off into the woods—save for Ian’s hooking his hand in her arm.

  He swung her around. “It looks like I must carry you then.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, I’d dare, Miss Harrell. I’d dare.” He slid his other arm through a strap of his knapsack, ready to pick her up. She stepped back, clenching her fists as if preparing to give him a punch if he came nearer.

  “Come now, Campion,” Charley pleaded. “Give her a moment to calm down.” He came forward to mediate when a pistol crack sounded in the air. The heat of the shot whizzed past Ian and missed Miss Harrell’s head by inches, burying itself in the side of the wagon.

  The only thing that had saved her was her step back at his approach.

  Ian pushed Miss Harrell behind him and turned on Charley, who immediately declared, “Wasn’t me, Campion. I don’t do guns.”

  “It must be Harrell. He wants your hide, Charley.” And it would be completely in character for him to have had Ian followed to exact his revenge.

  “Yes, but the shot was aimed at me,” Miss Harrell argued.

  “No, it was aimed at Charley,” Ian replied, irritated beyond words with her countermanding everything he said. “Your father wants him dead.”

  The next shot almost struck Charley. “Run!” Ian ordered impatiently.


  The Londoner didn’t have to be told twice. His feet moved so fast they churned up dirt, while the women melted into the woods.

  Ian held a hand up in the air and turned to confront the unknown assailants. “Wait! I have Harrell’s daughter. She’s safe.”

  The answer was another pistol shot, this one most definitely marked for Miss Harrell.

  “See? He’s shooting at me!” she insisted.

  “Yes,” he agreed, pushing her around the wagon.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” A third shot splintered wood at the corner close to his head.

  “Damn,” Ian swore. “There’s a party of them.” He shielded her with his body while pulling his pistol from his belt. “Climb in the wagon. Take cover.”

  “Perhaps we should run for the trees?”

  “Climb—in—the—wagon.” He bit each word out, in no mood to argue any longer. Turning, he fired his pistol toward the shots, not expecting to hit anything, but he wanted their assailants to know he was no easy mark.

  In answer two shots were fired back. And Miss Harrell had yet to move.

  His temper short, Ian put his hand on Miss Harrell’s rump and boosted her up into the wagon in a most ungentlemanly manner. He then dove in after her, feeling the shot as it breezed by his feet.

  It was very dark in the wagon and he landed right on top of Miss Harrell who was attempting to roll over in a flurry of petticoats and skirt. He found himself between her legs, his hand on her breast.

  “Pardon,” he murmured quickly. With difficulty he moved off of her. There was little floor space, and the walls were covered with well-stocked shelves, so that every square inch was used to advantage. Ian banged his head on an iron kettle. Ducking, he reached for his knapsack, fumbling in the dark for his shot and powder flask to reload his gun.

  “You honestly don’t know who is shooting at us?” she questioned.

  Ian spit out the cap to his gunpowder. “I thought perhaps your father had sent someone after Charley. I’m wrong.”

  She snorted her agreement…and Ian began to like her even less. He reloaded his pistol, his movements economical and efficient in the dark from years of practice.

  “And you say they must have followed you to me?”

  “Apparently,” Ian said. He tucked his gunpowder back in his knapsack.

  “I was safer with Charley,” was her tart reply.

  At that moment, the shadow of a head poked around the front opening of the wagon, directly behind Miss Harrell. Ian didn’t hesitate. He fired the pistol and hit his mark. Miss Harrell screamed and scrambled to Ian’s other side. The victim gave a soft grunt and fell to the ground.

  “One down,” Ian said with satisfaction.

  Outside there were shouts of alarm. Whoever thought he was easy pickings was wrong. However, now that he and Miss Harrell were in the wagon, their attackers had the upper hand. Ian didn’t like feeling trapped, but he was certain he could stave them off until morning. In daylight, the game would be different. He reloaded the pistol.

  Scrunched beside him, her arms around her knees, Miss Harrell read his mind. “Do you believe we can escape them?”

  “I’m hoping Charley has gone for help.”

  “Do you really think he will?”

  “No.”

  There was a space of silence. Ian listened, straining to hear any and all sounds. The night was deadly quiet. He sensed that their attackers were regrouping—but to what purpose?

  His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. He felt the walls with his hand, hoping there was another weapon of some sort he could use hidden there. Instead, all he found were books. Stacks and stacks of books. Miss Harrell’s precious books. He couldn’t stop a chuckle. Here they were, fighting for their lives, and if push came to shove, he supposed they could throw books at their assailants.

  He’d start with the romantic novels, then all books of poetry.

  “Who are you?” she said softly. “You aren’t like any of the other men in my father’s employ.”

  “He hired me special.” He slung his knapsack on one arm.

  “But he doesn’t like the Irish.”

  “No one does.”

  His answer was not what she had expected. Even in the dark, he could feel her staring at him, as if taking new measure.

  But she was nothing if not her father’s daughter. “How do I know you’ve come from him?”

  Ian wanted to ask who else would be willing to serve as her human shield, but bit his tongue. “You took these books from the house. They are the only possessions you left with, save for the clothes you were wearing when you left.”

  “You are correct.” There was a beat of silence. Then she asked, “Who do you think is shooting at us?”

  “I don’t know. For all I know, they could be with your father.”

  “He doesn’t want me dead,” she said with certainty.

  Ian wasn’t so certain. A man with a beautiful young wife didn’t need an obstinate daughter who runs away before her betrothal could be announced. “Then who does?”

  “No one.”

  “You’re obviously wrong.”

  She released a shuddering breath—a response more telling than words—and scooted a fraction of an inch closer to him. “I’m afraid.”

  He knew how much fear it took for her to make such an admission. “We’re not done for yet,” he promised.

  She nodded and they sat still for a moment, listening and waiting. She started to speak again, but he silenced her by raising his hand to her lips.

  Something was afoot outside. He was experiencing the tingling between his shoulder blades that usually warned him of trouble. Why his war-heightened senses hadn’t picked up on the fact he was being followed, he didn’t know…and it concerned him. Deeply concerned him. Too often his life had been saved by his gut instincts. He hated the idea he might be getting too old for these games.

  Minutes passed like hours.

  What the devil were the bastards up to out there?

  He thought he heard a rustling. He stared at the black wall of the wagon in front of him, wishing he could see through it. He raised his pistol. With his other arm, he protectively pushed Miss Harrell back against her books, keeping her close to his side.

  Let the bastards come. His temper was up now, and he knew he could have the strength of ten men when he was this angry. He’d make them think twice before they took on Ian Campion.

  But when the attack came, it wasn’t what he expected.

  They set the wagon on fire.

  There were three thumps on the roof and then quiet. Ian frowned, uncertain. It was Miss Harrell who understood. “The roof. They’ve taken wood from the fire and have thrown it on the roof.”

  As if to confirm her words, smoke suddenly billowed in through every unseen crack in the ceiling.

  Ian pushed Miss Harrell down to the ground and threw his body over her, preparing for the possibility of the roof caving in. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “They’ll be waiting for us.”

  He nodded grimly. “That’s their plan.” And how would he combat it?

  “There’s a door beneath me,” she said.

  “A what?” He wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly.

  “A trapdoor,” she explained, a touch of impatience in her voice. “There is a trapdoor in the floor.”

  Ian ran his hand along the floor. He could feel the door’s outlines. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? Let’s get out of here.”

  “I would if you weren’t lying on top of me. You are a heavy man. I can’t move.”

  Ian frowned down at her. “Has anyone told you there are moments when absolute truthfulness is not appreciated?”

  “Often.”

  “You should listen to them.” He rolled off of her, pulling her close so he had room to reach for the handle. The wagon was going up like a tinderbox. Already, flames lapped the roof.

  She reached beyond him for a book.


  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I can’t let my books burn. Especially this one.”

  “Yes, you can,” he answered, and holding her close, clasped his fingers around the iron ring handle of the trapdoor and pulled up. Without a heartbeat’s waste of time, he shifted his weight and sent them both tumbling to the ground.

  Chapter Four

  LYSSA would have screamed, save she didn’t have time.

  They plunged through the trapdoor where, at the last moment, the Irishman flipped himself so he hit the ground first, cushioning her fall with his body.

  His breath left him with a soft grunt. He lost no time in rolling them both from under the wagon, away from their attackers. When they came to a stop, Lyssa threw a dizzy glance backward. The wagon was engulfed in flames and she could see the silhouette of someone peering inside to see if they were burning to death.

  The Irishman didn’t give her time to think. He was on his feet in a blink. His pistol in one hand, he grabbed her with his other and half lifted, half dragged her to the protective darkness of the forest. Nor did he stop there. He ran her through the trees with enough speed to make her think he had a direction in mind.

  In seconds, they burst into a small clearing. The Irishman skidded to a halt with a succinct, “Damn!” He released her arm and whirled with his fist clenched as if searching for something to hit in frustration.

  Lyssa struggled to catch her breath. The pins had fallen from her hair and she clutched her plaid to her bosom. “What is the matter?” she managed to get out.

  “The horses. They’ve taken the horses—”

  A man’s shouts interrupted him, “They’re here! I’ve got the girl here!” From seemingly out of nowhere, a man attacked on foot, running straight for Lyssa, the moonlight gleaming off the wicked blade of a sword.

  Without missing a beat, the Irishman stepped in front of her and punched out with his fist, hitting the man squarely in the nose. There was the sound of cracking bone and the man dropped.

  Stunned, Lyssa asked, “Is he dead?”