A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals)

by Kimberly Bell

  Teller flipped a wicked-looking blade out of his sleeve. He arced left while Wick arced right, forcing the stranger to choose which side to focus on. Deidre had seen this particular gambit before. Right on schedule, Wick booted a loose cobble, drawing attention as Teller lunged in. She prepared herself for the blood.

  Blood did come, but not from the quarter she expected. The stranger sidestepped faster than Deidre would have thought possible. He barely payed the cobblestone any mind. Slapping the blade off target, the stranger delivered his fist directly to the center of the Wick’s face. Crimson poured into the alley.

  Teller’s surprise came in the form of a growl. He leapt onto the stranger as his companion crumpled, and they became a flurry of limbs and sickening impacts. Deidre knew an opportunity when she saw one. She shifted along the wall toward the opening, doing her best to avoid an accidental blow. A bloody hand grabbed her just a few feet from freedom.

  “Dee . . .” Wick spat out a mouth full of blood, and tipped his head toward the fight.

  His partner had the stranger pinned for a moment, but it clearly wasn’t going to last. They wanted her to help. Deidre had been in her fair share of scuffles, but she wasn’t nearly stupid enough to take on someone Alastair’s prize pets couldn’t best. She took another step toward the street.

  The grip tightened, and the knife flashed in his other hand. “Dee.”

  The hand holding the blade went limp as the wrist it was attached to snapped in an unnatural direction. Wick screamed. Deidre looked past him, into the stranger’s eyes. She hadn’t even seen him move. She did see the pain that registered when Teller took advantage of the stranger’s exposed back, bringing his own weapon down with uninterrupted force.

  It should have brought the stranger low. Instead, he propelled himself backward, using the weight of his body to slam his attacker into the wall behind them. Teller’s head hit the brick and his body went slack. The blade still buried in the stranger’s body took the impact. The stranger dropped to a knee, showing the first real sign of weakness.

  Wick rounded back on the stranger, still screaming. Deidre wasn’t giving him the same odds she had at the beginning of the fight, but the stranger wasn’t in great shape, either. He would be, if he hadn’t turned to help her—if he hadn’t come into the alley at all. Every survival instinct Deidre possessed called her a fool, an idiot, a soon-to-be-dead woman. None of it stopped her from picking up the loose cobble and smashing it into the back of Wick’s head. He crumpled.

  For a few moments she and the stranger just stared at each other, deep green eyes locked with tilted black, as their deep breaths filled the space. Sweat darkened his red hair to auburn in sections. He’d been handsome standing naked in the river, but seeing him like this—something in Deidre reacted to it. She knew better than to trust that wild instinct. It had only ever brought her trouble.

  Without a word, she turned and left him in the alley.

  ***

  Ewan had saved the damned woman’s life, taking a blade to the back for his efforts, and she was trying to run off. Again. He’d been lucky to find her once; he wasn’t about to let her escape a second time. Pulling the knife out of his shoulder, he pushed himself up with a groan—he was getting a bit too old for knife fights in alleys—grabbed his coat, and went after her. Fortunately he didn’t have to go far. His mystery woman was just a few feet down the road, being detained by a member of the city watch.

  “Surely there’s been some sort of mistake.” Her eyes widened farther, and thick lashes slowly batted at the man who held her captive.

  Maybe it was the leftover bloodlust, but Ewan suddenly found the situation highly humorous. Was there anything this woman wouldn’t try to charm her way out of? Since every spectator was focused on her, Ewan took the opportunity to put on his coat and straighten himself out a bit.

  “I’m sure there is, miss, but we’ve got a witness that says you sold her a stolen horse. You’ll need to come speak with the captain to sort it out.”

  Ewan stepped up, putting a hand on his highwaywoman’s waist. “My wife is no horse thief, Sergeant.”

  At his touch, her head swiveled. She hid her surprise under an adoring smile, slipping herself under the protection of his arm.

  “Your wife, my lord?”

  He almost corrected the man, but not being a lord would not benefit him at the moment, and it wasn’t even true anymore. He’d inherited an earldom along with that God-cursed castle in the north. At least the title would prove useful. “Aye, Sergeant, my wife. Countess Broch Murdo.”

  The arm around his back pinched him in the kidney, but she remained calm while the watchman scrutinized her distinctly uncountesslike attire.

  “The carriage with our luggage met with some difficulty,” she explained. Her chin tipped with just the right amount of indignation. “I’ve been required to make do for the time being.”

  “And now accused of horse thievery!” Ewan laughed, including the watchman in his amusement. “I’ll nae hear the end of it.”

  “Apologies, my lord. My lady.” The watchman made a sincere bow to—what had the thug called her? Dee. That was it. He bowed to Dee, and she nodded her acceptance. “I am deeply sorry for the mix-up.”

  “I’m sure yer just trying to do yer job, Sergeant. Cannae be easy.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Ewan could feel the blood starting to seep through his coat. He nudged his “Countess” into motion, starting them down the lane.

  “One moment, my lord.” The sergeant called out to them. “Where is your lodging? I’m certain the captain will wish to apologize as well.”

  “That’s nae necessary.”

  “I’m certain he’ll insist. A man doesn’t make captain offending ladies of quality.”

  The countess smiled. “We’re at The Crimson Dragonfly, but truly, your captain need not bother.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” The sergeant offered another bow for her inspection.

  Ewan resumed their exodus. He sent up a small prayer that they would make it out of view before he started bleeding onto the street or they had to invent any new lies.

  “The Crimson Dragonfly?” he asked when they were out of range of hearing.

  “It has an excellent reputation.”

  “I’m sure it does, but it isnae where I’m staying.”

  “Were you planning to tell him the truth?” Her opinion of that concept was painfully clear.

  Ewan, on the other hand, wasn’t clear on anything. He knew why he’d rescued her in the alley—he couldn’t stand by and let a woman come to harm—but by all rights he should have left her to the watch’s justice. “I hadnae thought about it.”

  “What did I tell you about thinking?”

  The reminder of yesterday’s events returned some sense to Ewan. He directed them to a shaded doorway, doing a quick search of her pockets before she could protest, coming up with the small firearm she’d used on him at the river. “Thank ye. I almost forgot.”

  “Give that back.”

  What kind of fool did she think he was?

  “Truly, I need it.”

  “Aye, for robbing folks. I’m familiar.” He set them back on the path to the inn. “I think yer going to need to find yer entertainment elsewhere.”

  “It’s for protection,” she argued.

  “Seems to me that’s nae working out very well, either.”

  She shot him a sideways glare. “I make do with what I have. If you’d like to volunteer—”

  “I think I already have.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  “Fairly well. I’ve been out of sorts for weeks. A good fight helps clear my head.”

  “Fairly well?” She shook her head. “You could have been killed. What were you thinking?”

  The corner of his mouth twisted up. “A pre
tty lass by a river advised me nae to think.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Idiot.”

  “Thief.” They were almost to the inn. Ewan ought to be glad of it since he was beginning to feel very peculiar, but he was enjoying walking with her. “Who did they want ye to go see?”

  “What?”

  “The man ye brained with the cobblestone said someone wanted to see ye.”

  “How long were you watching?”

  Ewan slowed his steps as the inn came into view. “Long enough. Yer in a bit of a tight spot, I gather?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” She noticed his change of pace and the natural wariness of her demeanor increased.

  Ewan watched her check for likely escape routes. He reached out. “I’ve no intention of letting ye bolt on me a third time, Countess.”

  She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm. “What do you intend?”

  A good question. Ewan hadn’t really thought it out that far. He wanted his belongings back. He wanted to know why she stole at all. He wanted—the other things he wanted didn’t warrant thought. Either he’d spend the whole time worrying he was taking advantage, or worrying she’d gut him in his sleep. “I mean to see ye safe.”

  “Quest accomplished then. I am well, and free from incarceration.”

  “But for how long?”

  ***

  For how long? What did he care? What was he even doing here, picking fights in alleys and asking questions about her life? He had to want something. It was probably the same thing they all wanted, but he was certainly going about it in an odd fashion.

  For how long. If she was being honest, not even until the end of the day. She might be able to explain the events in the alley in a way that Alastair would accept—he may not love her, but he was willing to forgive anything short of direct defiance—but Wick would never forget what she’d done. Unless she’d hit him hard enough to kill him, there would be nowhere for her to hide in the city. Add the watch looking for her, thanks to that cranky old besom at the farrier’s, and their home now held all the safety of a burning building for Deidre. It was just a matter of time before it collapsed around her.

  “Long enough,” she finally said. It might not be a lie. If she didn’t pay off Tristan’s debt, if they just ran, they might be able to get far enough.

  “That’s nae very . . .” He faltered. His eyes crossed, losing focus as he stumbled.

  “Oh, bloody hell.” Deidre suddenly found herself propping up seventeen stone of Highlander. She should have known. Teller never fought fair.

  “You’ve been poisoned, you big idiot.” She did her best to steer their stumble into the dooryard of the nearby inn.

  He tried to take his weight off her, but stumbled again. “Angus . . .”

  “Who’s that then?” Good Lord, he was heavy.

  “Godf . . . mowing . . . pie.”

  This was futile. Deidre sidestepped and let him drop like a sack of rocks in front of the inn. She called “Help!” to the inn in general, and counted her duty as a Samaritan fulfilled. When she tried to step away, though, a big hand around her ankle held her in place.

  “For the love of—”

  On the ground, his body began to shake. The bastard was laughing.

  Deidre jabbed the toe of her boot into his injured shoulder. “Let go.”

  “No.” He’d gone extremely pale. If he didn’t get help soon, he was going to be in real trouble.

  “Let go, or get up.” Deidre was not about to stand around waiting for him to die and people to come asking questions.

  “A woman after my own heart. Where’d ye find her?”

  Deidre looked up to find a weathered old Highlander in the doorway. “Are you Angus?”

  “I am.” He stepped out and peered down at his friend—relative? It was hard to say. They didn’t share a resemblance, but they had the same unusual height. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He makes unwise decisions.”

  “. . . stabbed. Poison.”

  Angus nodded. “Ye’d be the one that robbed him then?”

  Deidre did a quick check for an exit, but her ankle was still firmly trapped. “What makes you say that?”

  “Nae many lasses are bonny enough to turn a smart man this daft.” The older man sighed. “Help me get him up then.”

  “Actually, I—”

  “Have the look of a rabbit in a bolt. I ken what yer about. Ye’ll stay, least ways until I sort out what’s what.”

  With an excess of groaning and cursing from all parties involved, they managed to haul him back to a standing position. She had her arms around his torso, steadying him, while Angus tied a makeshift tourniquet for his shoulder, when his forehead thunked against hers. For a moment, his eyes focused on her face. The corners of his lips turned up.

  “Selkie.”

  “Idiot.”

  They made their way into the inn with the stranger propped between them, grinning dreamily. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, it was clear Angus’s intention was to climb them.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  His eyebrow rose.

  “I’ll drop him,” she explained.

  The old Scot considered their situation for a moment. “Ye go first. We’ll drape his arms over yer shoulders, and I’ll make sure the pair of ye dinnae topple back down.”

  “Do I look like a pack mule?”

  “Nae a bit, but I dinnae trust ye at my back, begging yer pardon, and I cannae haul him and watch ye at the same time.”

  Deidre grumbled every curse word she knew as they prepared for the ascent. The stranger was an affliction being visited upon her by a mordant deity. He was an ox poured into human form. He was a pustule on the bottom of a—

  “. . . smell good,” he said after taking a deep breath near her ear.

  “I loathe you.”

  She trudged up the steps. How had she gotten into herself into this mess? She should be back at her flat, packing up the little she and Tris owned, and getting out of town as fast as money and horseflesh could carry her. Two-thirds of the way to the top, she almost gave up. They stopped dead, her legs refusing to go farther.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  The trouble? The trouble was that she’d met lighter livestock than the man she was being forced to shuck up this flight of stairs. “I can’t do it.”

  “It’s just a bit further.”

  Deidre turned her head toward her cargo. “I don’t suppose you’ve found your second wind?”

  The weight on her shoulders lessened and they made it up the last of the stairs in a burst.

  “Thank God,” she gasped.

  Angus took the bulk of his weight the rest of the way to their room. They got him inside and on the bed without further incident.

  “Any idea what he’s been poisoned with?”

  “It might be belladonna.”

  The older man raised an eyebrow. “Might be, or is?”

  “Unless Teller’s changed his methods, it’s belladonna.” Deidre slumped down in the room’s only chair, rubbing the muscles in her neck.

  “The shoulder wound is naught to worry about. He’ll live if we keep an eye on him,” the older man said as he checked the vital signs of his companion. He looked over at her. “Nae one for physical work, are ye?”

  She spent a moment considering her chances of successfully strangling him. “Some people are cut out for that sort of life. Some are not.”

  “Ye might surprise yerself.”

  “You might feed him less.”

  Angus laughed. “Ye hear that, Ewan? The lass thinks yer fat.”

  So his name was Ewan. Fat wasn’t what came to mind when she thought of him. She couldn’t even look at him without being aware of his form, never mind trying to tote him up a flight of stairs. That
wall of densely muscled torso had pressed against every inch of her. Thinking like that would only lead to trouble, though, and the kind of wicked impulses she’d run from back in the alley. What she needed to be thinking about was getting herself and Tris safely out of town. She needed a plan.

  Chapter 4

  Ewan woke up with a splitting headache. His mouth was dry and there was a devil of a pain in his shoulder. Dark eyes with an exotic tilt glared at him from the chair next to the bed.

  “Ye stayed.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Your watchdog trapped me in here.”

  Angus, bless his soul. Ewan was tempted to kiss the old codger the next time he saw him. “Havenae been able to give him the slip, eh?”

  Her hands flew up as she left the chair and started pacing the room. “What is that? He’s nigh on a hundred years old—”

  “Nae quite that many—”

  “With the hearing of a damned owl. I swear he heard me opening the window casement from down in the taproom.”

  “Aye. I’ve no idea how he does that.” Ewan’s thoughts weren’t really on Angus’s preternatural hearing. It was on the way her fingers slid through her hair, leaving tousled furrows and loose strands. It was very diverting, until she turned around. Her eyes were haunted. The pacing and fidgeting combined with the expression in her eyes; she looked trapped. “It’s all right, lass.”

  She rounded on him. “No, it’s not all right! I’ve been stuck in here all day like a goddamn canary in a cage, while Tris—” She cut herself off, pressing a fist against her mouth and blinking rapidly.

  “Go on, lass,” he said gently. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he asked anyway. “Who’s Tris?”

  “My brother! He could be dead. He could be worse than dead. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen or heard from him since last night.” The tears started to fall in earnest, and she threw herself against him on the bed with a sob.