A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals)

by Kimberly Bell

  Ewan knew about cages. She wasn’t right about Dalreoch. It was a sanctuary, and being taken there had likely saved his life, but he wouldn’t argue it now. There was time yet to convince them—her and Rose—to abandon Broch Murdo. He could save them both without forcing anyone.

  He got to his feet and offered Deidre his hand. When he pulled her up, she fell into his chest. Soft curves met taut muscle. The air practically sparked at the contact. She looked up, undisguised awareness in her eyes. Had it been an accident, or deliberate? Her response seemed genuine, but Ewan wished he could be certain.

  “Just business?” he asked.

  “Just business,” she said, stepping away from him. It looked as though she took a steadying breath, but it could have been a trick of the moonlight through the fog.

  But her slight stumble as she set off for the castle, and the agitated way she waved off his assistance? That was unmistakable.

  ***

  Just business. Don’t think about his chest.

  Just business. Don’t think about his eyes.

  Just business. Don’t think about the way he said her name like a growl.

  Definitely don’t think about what he’d offered. He didn’t mean it. If she went, it would be more of the same. More fumbled words anytime someone asked who or what she was to him.

  Deidre repeated the litany to herself in cadence to her footsteps. She was better than this. She had more control than this. Deidre Morgan would not be brought low by something so mundane as attraction. That was her weapon of choice, and not one that could be used on her. One deliciously broad chest was not enough to unlearn a lifetime of hard lesson.

  The feel of him, though. The way he smelled like morning in a forest.

  Just business. Quit acting like a fool.

  Just business. This was how the whole trouble in Glasgow started. If she’d seen Alastair clearly from the beginning, she never would have gotten in so deep.

  Alastair. That was enough to banish thoughts of Ewan stretched out in the grass beneath her. He’d offered help, too. He’d offered her an easier life. Easy always came with a cost. By the time they made it back to the great hall, Deidre was confident she had herself under control.

  “Ewan, yer back!” Rose rushed forward, but stopped abruptly.

  Deidre followed Rose’s eyes, watching them flit to the green stains on Ewan’s kilt, Deidre’s wrinkled skirts, the blade of grass clinging to her hair.

  For the love of—it was hardly the first time Deidre’s reputation had suffered for assumptions. Defending herself would do no good; she’d discovered that long ago. She chose to respond how she always had: brazenly.

  “I found him,” she told the other woman. “Fit as a fiddle. A fine specimen of health.”

  Ewan frowned at Deidre.

  She shrugged.

  Rose gasped, but not at Deidre’s boldness. The other woman’s attention was now riveted to the top of the stairs.

  The dowager countess stood there, rigidly glaring disapproval over the room. No amount of lace—and there were miles of it—could disguise posture that unforgiving.

  “If I’d known ye were out cavorting with yer . . . companion, I wouldnae have had dinner held for yer return.” The clipped tones of Ewan’s grandmother rained down on them.

  “Ye shouldnae have bothered. I can see to myself.” Ewan’s words were at least as chilly as his grandmother’s.

  “Nonsense. We will eat together.”

  Deidre watched the exchange. Blue eyes clashed with each other across the distance in a silent battle of wills.

  “Fine. Deidre, how long do ye need to be ready?”

  Awful man. She’d rather light herself on fire than spend the evening with this lot.

  The dowager beat her to it. “I’m certain Miss Morgan would prefer a tray in her room.”

  She certainly would, but Deidre wasn’t overly fond of the implication in the elderly woman’s tone. Clearly, she was not invited.

  “Nonsense,” Ewan spit back at her. “We’ll eat together. Or we can both take trays. Whichever ye prefer, Grandmother.”

  The dowager’s lips tightened into a firm line. She glared daggers at her grandson for another moment, before turning her inhospitable stare on Deidre. “Miss Morgan, be dressed at the top of the hour.”

  A swish of skirts and the rapid click of heels heralded her exit.

  Ewan nodded to Rose, and put a hand on the small of Deidre’s back. He ushered her up the stairs.

  “I do not appreciate being used to bait your grandmother,” she hissed.

  “And I don’t appreciate ye teasing Rose,” he said in equally low tones. “She’s already got it in her head that yer my mistress. Yer nae helping.”

  “So you’re retaliating by trapping me with your grandmother?”

  He smiled the wicked smile he’d thrown her way in Glasgow. “To be fair, I’d have done that either way.”

  “Misery loves company,” she muttered. Sudden inspiration struck. “Can we invite Angus and Tristan?”

  Ewan’s steps slowed. “She’ll be apoplectic.”

  Deidre smiled sweetly.

  “Angus’s like to shed blood, although I dinnae ken whether it’s more likely to be mine or the dowager’s,” Ewan mused. “Yer certain ye want to drag yer brother into it?”

  “Absolutely. If anything, he’ll be the only one of us having any fun.”

  Ewan leaned over the railing. “Rose, can ye make sure Angus and Tristan ken what time to arrive?”

  The blond woman fidgeted uncomfortably in the room below. “I think Iona may have overlooked them in the meal preparations.”

  “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  Poor Rose. First Iona’s displeasure, now a rendezvous with Angus. If anyone was going to have an apoplexy, Deidre’s money would be on her.

  ***

  Ewan took in Iona’s personal dining room. It had not been subjected to the same gutting and shabby treatment as the rest of the castle. None of her rooms had. They, and the room that had belonged to his father, were the only ones to escape it.

  His grandmother sat at the opposite end of the long table from him. Deidre and Angus sat to his right and left. Rose and Tom Darrow sat to hers. Tristan occupied the uneven space in the middle. It was an unusual gathering, to say the least.

  “I’m surprised to see ye on Broch Murdo lands,” Iona said to Angus. Frost coated every syllable.

  Angus stared straight ahead.

  “I recall my husband banishing ye.” She took a sip from her wine. “Have ye acquired the habit of trespassing in yer travels?”

  Ewan’s fist clenched around his fork.

  Angus beat him to a response. “I take my orders from the current Lord Broch Murdo, nae the one moldering in the dirt, nor the sniveling dandy ye propped up as a placeholder.”

  Rose reached a hand out to comfort the dowager, but she waved the younger woman off. She set her glass down with deliberate precision.

  “Iona,” Darrow said in a low voice.

  The dowager ignored him as well, choosing instead to turn her sights on a new target. “Miss Morgan—”

  Ewan might make Deidre suffer through this hellish dinner, but he’d not let his grandmother take cheap shots at her. “How is it that Mr. Darrow came to borrow my title, Grandmother?”

  Her icy blue eyes focused on him, as he’d intended. If she wanted to inflict wounds, let her try to inflict them on him. He was used to it, especially in this house.

  “Mr. Darrow needed an occupation and I needed a man to represent this family. When you failed to return and fulfill your responsibility, what choice did I have?”

  “Ye bargained me away to save yer son’s worthless life. Why would I ever come back?”

  “It was yer duty as heir.”

  “I have no duty to this place
or this family.”

  Iona sneered. “I see ye grew up without honor—no surprise being raised by that Dalreoch whore.”

  Angus’s chair back hit the floor as he stood, hand on his sword.

  Ewan called his name. The older man froze, every muscle radiating readiness.

  “Grandmother, I expect ye’ll have yer things packed within the week.”

  “I’m nae going anywhere,” she scoffed. “This is my home. Ye’ve no right—”

  “I have every right. I’m the Earl of Broch Murdo.” He pulled Deidre’s chair out for her, guiding her with a hand on the small of her back, and motioned to Tristan. “Even if ye hadnae conspired with Mr. Darrow to impersonate me, which is most certainly a crime.”

  “Ewan,” Rose pleaded.

  “That’s the way at Broch Murdo, is it nae? It’s all coming back to me, Grandmother. The lord and his heirs get to do exactly as they please, no matter how heinous or monstrous, and ye accept it without a word.”

  “Does this mean we’re not eating?” Tristan asked.

  Deidre snapped at him in the traveler tongue.

  Tristan sighed. “No food and no bloodshed. This entire evening is a disappointment.”

  “Gypsies.” Iona’s lips drew back in a sneer. “Ye even brought tinker filth into this house.”

  Deidre stiffened beneath his palm, muscles tensing in preparation.

  “Tomorrow,” Ewan said with quiet menace. “Ye’ll be gone from this house tomorrow or I’ll throw ye out by force.”

  He led Deidre out of the room, Tristan and Angus following behind them. Tristan spoke to his sister in their foreign language and she responded in sharp bursts. The lad must have said something amusing, because after a moment she smiled and Ewan felt the tension drain out of her. If only Ewan’s own ire could be so easily cured.

  The sound of the door opening again behind them stopped their party.

  “Ewan, wait,” Rose called.

  Angus’s hand tightened on his sword.

  “Angus,” Ewan warned. “Take Deidre and Tristan to their rooms.”

  “They ken well enough where their beds are.”

  He sighed. “Rose isn’t a danger to anyone, Angus.”

  “Begging yer pardon, but she’s a stranger to ye. Ye dinnae ken what twenty-five years in this place has made of her.”

  “Angus, I said go.”

  He went, but not before giving Rose a long look that leeched the color from her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry. He’s—”

  “No, no,” Rose stammered. “It’s nae his fault. Yer grandmother was . . .”

  “Exactly as she’s always been?” Ewan parried.

  “Behaving badly,” Rose finished. “She’d planned a small family meal and she doesnae deal well with change.”

  Ewan was not interested in hearing excuses for his grandmother’s behavior. “She’s a spiteful woman who’s grown even more hateful with age.”

  “Ye cannae send her away, Ewan. Where will she go?”

  It was not his problem. He would not take responsibility for that wretched old witch. He would not—damn it. But he would and he knew it. If Deidre succeeded in her smuggling plans, and he failed to convince Deidre to come back to Dalreoch, he couldn’t leave the two of them here together. “Doesnae she have a sister in Edinburgh?”

  “Beatrice?” Rose blinked. “They loathe each other.”

  “She and I loathe each other. Iona cannae stay here. Besides, this place is falling down. The both of ye should have left long ago.”

  “She willnae go, Ewan.”

  “She can go to her sister’s or she can go to the devil. I dinnae care which she chooses.”

  Chapter 12

  She could hear him in the next room. Muffled footfalls passed the connecting door at regular intervals. He was pacing.

  It’s just business. His troubles are none of your concern. Deidre couldn’t help it, though. If his grandmother was any indication of the life he’d lead here, no wonder he’d avoided coming back. It almost made her glad to be an orphan.

  Another round of soft thud thud thuds passed her door.

  Damn it all.

  She got up and opened the door.

  He was in bare feet, his auburn hair a wild tangle. His shirt hung open, pulled out from his belt. She tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend he was one of a hundred random marks she’d played over the years. Tried . . . and failed. Good Lord, he was appealing.

  “It wasn’t my favorite dinner ever,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “But surprisingly, not the worst, either.”

  When he turned to her, she saw the turmoil in his face. His eyes darted, unable to settle on any one target. “Ye shouldnae be here.”

  “Likely not,” Deidre said, moving into the room. “But here I am. You look like you could use some company.”

  She sat down in the armchair. For a while he tried to stand still, keeping himself on the far side of the room, but eventually he drove his hands through his hair and started pacing again.

  “Is it the room?” she asked.

  “No . . . Aye.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s worse here.”

  He went to the open window, closing his eyes in the cold coastal air.

  “Would it help if I distracted you?”

  Ewan’s sideways glance took in her bare legs and thin shift. “I dinnae think I’d survive the kind of distraction yer like to come up with.”

  “I’d make sure you died happy,” she said with a wink.

  “Why aren’t ye abed?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Deidre let him, pulling her legs up into the chair with her. “I lead a nocturnal lifestyle. It’s hard for me to sleep before the sun comes up.”

  “Aye. I havenae slept through a night since . . .” His words died off, drifting away on the wind.

  It was one too many secrets for Deidre. Time to start getting some of the answers she’d promised herself. “Since what?”

  “It’s nae important.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He took up striding again, inscribing imaginary circles in the carpet. On his third rotation he spoke. “Since my mother died.”

  If he had said it any softer, she wouldn’t have heard it. Perhaps she should pretend she hadn’t. Emotions had never been Deidre’s strong suit—she preferred action over introspection—but this was what she’d been after. Answers. “How long ago?”

  “I was six.”

  Four years older than Tris had been. Maybe it was a blessing. No memories haunted her little brother in the dark; he slept like the baby he’d been. “I was eleven.”

  Ewan settled a bit, perching on the edge of the dresser. “How did she die?”

  Deidre shrugged like she always did. Better to pretend it didn’t still hurt. Better to pretend it never had. “The way most people do. It was too cold. There wasn’t enough to eat. She took sick.”

  “I’m sorry.” He ignored her pretense. The words, their gentle tone, went straight past her defenses. He knew and he truly was sorry.

  Feelings that had nothing to do with him welled up within her. The memory of baking bread. The spices she always smelled like. Her low, musical voice that people always remarked on no matter where they traveled to . . . Being held. Not having to worry.

  A tear escaped. Deidre shoved it back out of sight with her finger. “So am I. She deserved better.”

  “Aye.” He didn’t try to touch her—she was glad for it, she wasn’t certain she would know what to do with real comfort anymore—but his eyes spoke volumes. They told her about deep grief and rage. In that moment, Deidre realized Ewan Dalreoch might well be the angriest man she’d ever met.

  What could possibly have happened to him? She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that everyone with money and power was happy, but privileg
e did tend to spare its chosen from the worst life had to offer. “What happened to your mother?”

  “She deserved better.”

  It was a clear evasion, but Deidre wasn’t going to be that easily put off. “How did she die, Ewan?”

  His knuckles whitened on the edge of the wood. It was the only exception to his perfect stillness; he stared at the carpet in the center of the room. “My father killed her.”

  Bloody hell, no wonder he was angry. No wonder everyone acted like they were tiptoeing through a graveyard when they walked into her room. It had been his mother’s. And this one was his father’s. She felt a shiver travel down her spine.

  Deidre was already in deeper than she ought to be. She decided to keep going since she doubted she’d ever willingly bring it up again. “Were you close?”

  “Aye.”

  “Was it . . .” What was she trying to ask? Was it awful? Of course it was. One of his parents murdered the other. Deidre’s father might have been a shiftless vagabond, but he’d loved his wife and his children with everything he’d had.

  He was still staring sightlessly at the floor, oblivious to her inner argument. “I was there. I saw it.”

  And he hadn’t slept through a night since. She could hardly blame him.

  The sound of splintering wood surprised them both. The edge of the dresser had cracked under the force of Ewan’s grip. He stared at his hands as blood slowly formed into droplets and dripped onto the carpet.

  It was time to shake him out of this. Her answers could wait for later. Possibly never, if he was going to shatter things and injure himself in the answering.

  “I hope you weren’t overly fond of that,” she joked as she approached him cautiously. She’d known he was strong— that wasn’t the frightening part. It was that he hadn’t known he was doing it.

  He relaxed his grip, slowly lifting his palms to reveal slivers of wood embedded in his flesh. “Nae really, no. The middle drawer sticks.”

  The dry response went a long way toward dispelling her unease.

  “Typical lord,” she said, grabbing the cloth sitting next to the washbasin. “One drawer stops working, so you scrap the whole thing.”