Adventures of a Scottish Heiress

by Cathy Maxwell

  “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?”

  It was Ramsey who answered. “Relax. He’s fine…for now. His fate depends upon your cooperation.”

  Slowly, Lyssa turned on her cousin. She should feel fear, but what vibrated through her being was anger. “Do you know this man attempted to kill me?”

  Ramsey didn’t stall. “Yes. I also know he has been searching for you, desperate to find you. Of course, I have devised a plan that should serve us all very well. Shall we discuss it over dinner?”

  “I’m not eating with him,” Lyssa countered, “so if you have something to say, say it now. What sort of cooperation do you need for me in exchange for Ian’s life?”

  “Ian, is it?” Ramsey questioned and his eyes were alive with amusement. “So tell me, are the Irish as good as lovers as they like to claim they are?”

  Lyssa ignored the barb. “What do you want me to cooperate with, cousin?”

  “Our marriage,” he answered, and toasted the air with his wineglass.

  Chapter Fifteen

  LYSSA’S response was swift. “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am,” Ramsey answered. “Anice thought of the idea. I need a wife and here you are, an heiress, no less. And one who clearly feels a connection with Amleth Hall. After all, it is in your blood and you have put everyone to considerable trouble to arrive here.”

  “But we’re cousins.”

  “Second cousins,” he corrected

  She raised her chin as if considering the matter, her mind working frantically, her worry for Ian. “Well now, Ramsey, if I marry you, does that mean Mr. Fielder is going to kill me afterward?”

  “You are a brave one,” Ramsey said with admiration.

  It was Anice who answered. “He’ll have to. Otherwise, you could have the marriage set aside.”

  “What makes you think I would?” Lyssa said, putting surprise in her voice to hide the trembling. “Your brother is a handsome man and I would have Amleth Hall, which is what I came here for.”

  “She’s right,” Ramsey said to his sister. “Why make matters messier?”

  “Because I’ll be out a hundred pounds if she lives,” Mr. Fielder said, stepping between the cousins. “I’m being paid to see her done in.”

  “Careful, Mr. Fielder,” Lyssa chided softly. “You are outnumbered here.” Birdy and the other man had come to the doorway, apparently to wait further orders. “They’ll be getting rid of you if you become too threatening.”

  “Sod off,” Mr. Fielder said rudely and confronted his hosts, but Lyssa wasn’t done with him.

  “How did you know I was coming here anyway?”

  The henchman smirked. “It wasn’t hard to figure out, once we knew you were headed for Scotland. Finding the place was more difficult. This house is a bit out of the way.”

  “Yes, and few people know about my family’s connection to it.”

  “Her ladyship did,” Mr. Fielder said with satisfaction. “And all I had to do was use my wits. Neither you nor Campion is clever enough to outfox me.”

  There it was. Lyssa had the proof she needed. She’d been right. Her stepmother had hired killers to chase her.

  But instead of feeling triumph, she was disheartened. Her father loved his duchess. Now that Lyssa understood what love meant, she knew the betrayal would cut deep…and she felt culpable. She had not been as pleasant as she should have been to her stepmother. There had been times when she’d childishly, willfully gone out of her way to make her stepmother not only uncomfortable but despised. Nor had her response to their marriage been mature. But would the woman wish to see her dead?

  “Yes, you are very clever, Mr. Fielder,” Lyssa agreed softly, mindful of the callous way he’d shot one of his own men, information she decided not to share with her cousins. Let them find out the hard way the danger of dealing with murderers.

  Instead, she crossed to Ramsey and linked her arm with his. Purring into his ear in a manner she’d learned from the Widow Potter, she wondered, “Would you really have turned me over to Mr. Fielder, Ramsey?”

  He drained his glass and shrugged. “I may do it yet. I have not made up my mind. You are pleasant on the eyes, cousin, but can I trust you?”

  “Can I trust you?” she countered and rubbed her breast along his arm.

  Ramsey’s gaze heated up with interest and he leaned close as if he thought to brush her ear with his lips.

  Anice was not pleased. She pulled Ramsey aside and confronted Lyssa. “How much is your inheritance? What is your father truly worth?”

  “I have it on good authority I’m worth my weight in gold,” Lyssa replied, echoing Ian’s assessment. “Is that enough for you?”

  “More than enough,” Anice answered. “Ramsey, give her to Fielder. Our purpose is to go to London. We can’t take her with us. All she’d have to do is confess all to her father and you know he hates the Davidsons—”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Lyssa interrupted.

  “Oh, but he doe
s,” Anice returned. “There was no love lost between Dunmore Harrell and Grandfather, especially after Grandfather had him horsewhipped.”

  Lyssa had not heard this story—and knew this was a pain her father had kept to himself. With a dignity that would have made him proud, she said, “Horsewhipped for what? Daring to court my mother? To honor her with his love?”

  “For daring to even look at her,” Anice returned disdainfully. “He was a peasant. What your mother saw in him is beyond anyone’s understanding.”

  “Obviously she saw more than everyone else,” Lyssa flashed back, “for he made something of himself. Something fine and noble!”

  “And for that reason, he will not hand money over to you, the Davidson heir,” Anice said with satisfaction to Ramsey. “Marry her, but kill her.”

  Lyssa drew a deep breath. She should be frightened. Instead, she was angry. “And do you think my father would just turn over my fortune to you?” She shook her head. “He’s no fool. You need me. Without me, he can ignore your claim.”

  “And why would you side with us against your father?” Ramsey asked, suspicious.

  “For the money.” Wasn’t money in the excuse of everyone in the room? They would believe their own motives.

  Ramsey hedged. “I don’t know—”

  “I do,” Anice cut in. “Ramsey, you promised we would be off for London. There’s nothing for us here. Nothing! This is Dunmore Harrell’s daughter. Can you trust her?”

  His cousin knew him better than Lyssa did. “You’re right,” he agreed somewhat reluctantly. His gaze shifted to Lyssa. “Too bad, coz. I rather fancied you.”

  Lyssa looked him right in the eye and said, “I wish you to hell.” She’d removed all pretense and let him see exactly how she felt about him.

  Ramsey took a step back, stunned by her revealed anger. Mr. Fielder started laughing, the sound soft at first and then growing louder until he was practically bent over.

  “I told you she was a fire eater,” he said to Ramsey. “You’d best let me do the deed tonight. We’ll get rid of both of them.”

  “You can’t do it tonight,” Ramsey snapped. “Not until we are married. The claim must be legal.”

  “Then I have weeks to live,” Lyssa challenged, “if you are going to post the banns.”

  “No need to, cousin,” he returned. “It’s easier to marry in Scotland than England. Had no one told you that? We don’t even need a special license. But I’ll have a parson. I’ll have no one say I didn’t do this right.”

  “What makes you think I’ll cooperate?”

  “What makes you think the parson will care?” he answered. “Parson Dunn has had several—how shall we call them?—indiscretions for which he relies heavily on my regard. He’ll do whatever I tell him.”

  “My father is a stubborn man,” Lyssa said. “He won’t trust you. You’ll never see any money.”

  “Don’t underestimate me,” Ramsey shot back. “I can weave a good tale. We already have the beginning—Lyssa Harrell promises herself to me but is abducted by her Irish bodyguard, who turns out to have been her lover. It’s a bit lurid but you’ve already run off on one man, so why not another?”

  “You heard I was betrothed?”

  “Of course,” Ramsey said. “Our friend Fielder told us all.”

  Yes, her stepmother had set her up very well.

  “Are you ready to go in to supper?” Ramsey asked.

  “I don’t dine with scum,” Lyssa replied succinctly, her manner as polite and pleasant as a debutante’s but speaking words her father would understand. She wasn’t her father’s daughter without a reason.

  The insult rolled right off of Ramsey. He actually grinned at her. “How unfortunate. I suppose you shall marry hungry in the morning then. Birdy, you and Joseph escort Miss Harrell to her room. Stand guard and keep her safe. She is a very special guest of ours.”

  Birdy nodded and reached for Lyssa’s arm. She pulled it away from him. “Don’t touch me. I don’t consort with murderers.”

  Her words upset Birdy, who took a step back and looked askance at Ramsey.

  Her cousin laughed. “Don’t be dramatic, Lyssa. Much of Scottish history is about one murderer or another. Fates are changed with the help of a knife blade…and you did want to see the real Scotland.”

  Lyssa turned on her heel and walked out of the room, not dignifying him with an answer. She might have tried going straight out the front door, but Birdy’s muscular companion blocked her path. His face was expressionless as he motioned her up the stairs. She noticed what she should have seen from the beginning: he had a cut over a black eye and his nose was swollen. Bully for Ian.

  “Now don’t try anything,” Birdy warned her before locking her in her room. He was nervous, as he should be. “Joseph and I will have an eye on the door.”

  Lyssa smiled her response. If he thought she was going to be a meek captive, he was wrong—especially since she still had the knapsack.

  The bath had been removed and the window closed, but no one had noticed the leather bag by the door. The moment she was alone, she whisked the knapsack up and carried it to the desk by the window. The shadows outside were lengthening and there wasn’t even a stub of a candle to use for later.

  Spreading the contents of the knapsack on the desk, she picked up Ian’s pistol and remembered him reloading it. She sat at the desk and hefted the gun’s weight her hand, wondering if she had the nerve to use it. She’d have one shot, no more, no less.

  Out the window, she caught sight of Birdy walking toward the stable yard. Two beefy men met him and they entered the main barn. The stables then fell quiet. Some ducks nested close to the pond. A dog chased a cat. A horse here and there stuck its head out of the paddock…but all was quiet—and Lyssa would have bet her soul Ian was someplace in the stable.

  She knew her guess was right when Birdy and one of the men left, leaving another to stand guard. The man leaned against the wall and appeared bored beyond reason.

  After putting everything back in Ian’s knapsack, Lyssa continued to sit at her window post, weighing grim options. For the first time, she wished she had never left London. She deserved to pay a price for her foolishness, but what of Ian? What of the family who waited for him?

  In truth, no one needed her. Not even her father anymore…and obviously not her stepmother.

  Lyssa rested her arms on the desk and laid her head upon them. “Please, Mama, help me.”

  There was no answer.

  And so Lyssa did the only thing she could do. She wept.

  Lyssa woke with a start, lifting her head up off the desk.

  She was immediately alert. The hour was late. She listened, uncertain why she was awake. No sound echoed through the heavy walls and yet, something had woken her.

  She looked out the window toward the stable. The contrast of the full moon and black shadows gave the landscape an eerie light—and then she saw movement. The guard, the same one she’d seen earlier, still stood at the door. But then, yawning, he moved inside.

  A current of cool air swirled around her and Lyssa caught the scent of roses. It had been the air that had woken her.

  The window was closed.

  “Mother?” The word came out of her mouth before she’d even realized.

  Lyssa slowly rose to her feet, uncertain of her own runaway emotions. Was she so frightened she was imagining ghosts now?

  And then an idea struck her. A daring, foolhardy notion. Almost as if pushed by unseen hands, she moved around the desk, unlocked the window, opened it, and looked out. Not even a breeze stirred the trees. She leaned over and investigated the wall her parents had once climbed down to escape this very room.

  Of course.

  The drop to the ground was daunting but in the silver moonlight, she saw that uneven stones jutted here and there down the house’s wall…and again there was the fragrance of roses.

  Facing the room, Lyssa announced triumphantly, “You’re here!”

  Ther
e was no answer. But she knew.

  She was not alone…she had never been alone.

  Her mother’s presence filled her with hope. The fresh air of the draft slipped through her but this time, her heart was warm. She had no choice but to trust. She’d asked for a way and one had been presented. All that was left now was screwing up her courage.

  Lyssa changed back into her “Gypsy” clothes, throwing her plaid over her shoulders to hide her white blouse. She didn’t want anything from Anice and it felt good to be in her own clothing. Retrieving the leather tie she’d been using for her hair, she quickly braided the heavy mass as best she could and tied it off. Her curls sprung out this way and that, but she didn’t care.

  She started for the window but stopped. The tarot card lay in a pool of moonlight on the dresser as if beckoning her.

  The Knight of Swords. She couldn’t leave without him. Swooping the card up, she stored it in the knapsack she wore over her shoulders, checked outside to see if anyone was watching and then threw one leg out the window.

  Surprisingly, the going wasn’t that bad. The shoes that had been so stiff at the beginning of her journey were now perfect for this sort of exercise. She was only two stories up. The rocks made for good handholds and she didn’t have any trouble finding a place to put her feet. All it took was courage.

  The toughest part was that right below her window, there was an exterior door and next to the door, another window. She climbed along side-ways, finally losing her foothold and finding herself dangling for a moment before dropping to the earth. She landed in some overgrown boxwoods that smelled like cat urine.

  Stunned, she sat there a moment before clambering out of the bushes and onto her feet. Her stockings were ripped and she had a few scrapes but, thankfully nothing was broken.

  The house was in darkness. Keeping to the shadows, Lyssa moved toward the stable, a plan forming in her mind. Not far from the stable door, hidden in the shadows of overhanging fir branches, she pulled the pistol out of the knapsack and approached the stable door.

  The horses were inside and asleep. No nickered greeting marred her entrance. In the distance, by the pond, she could hear the croak of frogs and the incessant chirp of other night insects, but they were not disturbed by her.