A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals)

by Kimberly Bell

  His smile turned into a wince when she flattened his hand.

  “Knife?” she asked.

  “There’s nae need to amputate, woman. It’s just a splinter.”

  “It’s wood shards and some of them are in there deep. If you don’t get them out, they’ll fester.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “With what, your feet?” She shook her head. “Where’s the blade?”

  Ewan sighed. He nodded at his thigh. “Leg strap.”

  She didn’t even try to hide her smile. It looked like they would end with her kind of distraction after all. Deidre took her time. She spread her fingers out on Ewan’s knee. With a whisper, she slid them under the edge of his kilt. The taut muscle under her hand twitched.

  Ewan made a noise like a low growl. “Deidre—”

  “I don’t want to go too far. Something scandalous might happen.”

  “Plenty scandalous is going to happen if ye keep that up.”

  Deidre grinned wider. “You’d think you’d never had a woman touch your knee before.”

  “Ye have a way of making even small things wicked.”

  Her fingertips traveled a little farther. “If you want to discourage this sort of behavior, you really ought to try to enjoy it less.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She shifted her search to the inside of his thigh.

  “What yer like to find there won’t be of any help with splinters.”

  “Pity.” Deidre enjoyed torturing him, but he was still bleeding all over the carpet. She indulged in one more detour that left him muttering at the ceiling in Gaelic before extracting the knife from his leg sheath. “Hands, please.”

  He held them up without protest.

  It was bloody work. The wounds weren’t as deep as she thought, but digging them out made a mangle of his palms. He maintained his patient stoicism throughout.

  “Nursing has never been my talent,” she explained as she wrapped haphazard strips of cloth torn from a clean wash towel.

  “I noticed.”

  “However,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “It appears you’ll live.”

  ***

  Fire. Ewan drifted up from sleep dreaming of flames, but not the sort that burned. In his dream, they were warm flames and they tickled. They still tickled, even though he was awake. That made no sense. He opened his eyes, straight into a strong beam of midday sun. He cursed and threw an arm over his face.

  A muffled curse answered, followed by a jab to his armpit as Deidre snuggled back in against him. Silky strands caught in his beard, tickling his cheek.

  Ewan looked down at her head resting on his chest. Her hair was an impossible tangle. There was a sodden spot on his chest underneath where her mouth had been. And even now—now that she was done swearing at the bastard who jostled her resting place—she had already begun to steadily snore again. Laughter shook him. He did his best to contain it so she wouldn’t wake.

  Any hope he’d had of denying his feelings for Deidre fled with the steady in and out of that rattling snore. She was a temptress with her clothes on. A goddess without. But right then, in a state he was certain she would shoot him for mentioning to another living soul, she was exquisite. It made about as much sense as anything else in his life. For the inevitably short-lived moment, before some fresh new hell found him, Ewan chose to enjoy it.

  Last night they’d talked until the sun came up. Not about anything in particular—just keeping each other company. At some point they’d convinced themselves it was only sensible to lie down. From there, a short leap of logic confirmed that she should use his arm as a pillow. Then, of course, there was a chill, so a blanket was required. He’d fallen asleep to the warm glow of morning through the window and Deidre’s gentle heat stretched out against him. He pressed a kiss to the top of her tangled hair. Still asleep, she snuggled closer against him. This morning was the best rest he’d gotten in a long time.

  The peace was interrupted by a loud rumble from his stomach. Right—breakfast. Ewan didn’t typically sleep this late in the day and his stomach was none too pleased about it. A second, louder complaint sounded. Deidre frowned against his chest. Another sleep mumble full of insults drifted through his rib cage. He smiled. Aye, he was in trouble for certain.

  He eased his way out from under her, tucking pillows around her where his body used to be. She wrapped her arms around them and seemed content. Ewan picked up his boots and made his way out of the room in bare feet to be sure she stayed that way.

  Ewan was outside the door putting on his boots when Tom Darrow came around the bend in the hallway. They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Darrow.”

  “Your lordship.” Darrow took in his shoes and the closed door. “Bit of the ole sneak-out, eh?”

  “Darrow,” Ewan repeated, no longer in greeting.

  The other man waved his hands in denial. “No judgment. Executed that maneuver many a morning myself.”

  “Darr—”

  “’Nuff said. Pleasant mornin’ to you.” The imposter-turned-smuggler turned to hurry toward the stairs.

  “Darrow.”

  He swiveled on his heel, turning back to Ewan. “Yes, m’lord?”

  Ewan finished pulling on his second boot. “Breakfast. Where can I find it?”

  Darrow fidgeted uncomfortably. “Erm. Breakfast is a bit of . . . it’s . . .”

  “Aye?” Ewan prompted.

  “We don’t really eat breakfast anymore.” Darrow added a deferential head bob. “M’lord.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The larder’s a bit lean, and Iona doesn’t eat much these days, so we just did away with it.”

  Ewan looked at Darrow—really looked at him—for the first time. The clothes hung loose on his body, and there was a hollowness to his cheeks. “How old are ye, Darrow?”

  “Four and twenty, m’lord.”

  He would have sworn the man was half a decade or more older than Ewan’s own thirty years.

  The way most people do. It was too cold. There wasn’t enough to eat.

  Ewan didn’t want to care about Darrow, or his grandmother, or this house full of criminals and monsters. It was hard not to, though, with Deidre’s words echoing in his head. He’d been lucky in that respect. He’d never had to go hungry at Dalreoch. Not ever.

  “Show me the larder.”

  ***

  “Well, look at what we have here.”

  Deidre did not want to look. She didn’t want to acknowledge her brother in any way. What she wanted was to keep her face buried in the pillow and go back to the dream she’d been having. Ewan had featured heavily in it, as had a jar of honey. Things like that didn’t happen to a girl every day.

  “So you and Ewan—”

  Weren’t ever going to finish that honey idea with Tristan yammering at her. “Go away, Tris.”

  “She speaks! For a minute I thought maybe you were dead.”

  “Very funny.” She felt the mattress dip next to her and growled into her pillow. Privacy was clearly a luxury of the wealthy.

  “With the size of him, I mean . . . it wasn’t impossible. Oi, speaking of size, is Ewan’s—”

  “Tristan Lasho Morgan!”

  “Lasho? Really. You’re tossing around second names? It’s just a question, Deidre Zujenia.” Tristan hated his Romani name.

  Deidre cherished them, especially the way they had sounded in her mother’s musical accent. “Ewan’s proportions are none of your concern. And none of mine.”

  “Hard lie to sell when you’re in his bed, Dee.”

  When she was in . . . bollocks. Deidre lifted her head. She was in Ewan’s room, not her own. A few blinks brought the night back to her. “Nothing happened.”

  “Sure,” Tristan leered at her. “
That’s why you were smiling in your sleep, and your hair looks like you got caught out in a storm.”

  “I—” She reached up. Bloody hell. It was a magpie nest. More memories.

  She’d talked all night. While she told Ewan about her childhood, he’d threaded his fingers through her hair and listened. She’d told him about her mother leaving the Romani to marry her father and about moving from town to town. The delicious pressure of those soothing circles had lulled her to sleep while he’d told her about his own childhood. Getting into trouble with his cousin. Learning to run a clan from his aunt. Riding the fields with his uncle.

  It had all sounded so nice. So easy. She knew, though, that it hadn’t always been that way for him.

  Tristan watched her, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen you this bad off since the Hogmany when Al’s boys scored that rum shipment. Guess MacMurdo knows his business.”

  The warm glow she’d been holding on to evaporated. “We just talked.”

  “Must have been a hell of a conversation. For our sakes, I hope you were as good with words as he seems to be.”

  “Excuse me?” Since when was her allure in question?

  “You’re not a very graceful sleeper, dear sister.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She was about to gracefully apply her foot to Tristan’s backside.

  He used the edge of his sleeve to wipe a streak of drool off her cheek. “You were snoring like somebody dragging a plow over cobbles.”

  Oh God. She hadn’t, had she? Ewan had been here. He had to have heard her. What if he’d woken up soaked in drool? Was that why he’d left—revulsion? Deidre buried her face back into the pillow—the damp splotch taunting her—and groaned.

  Tristan patted her shoulder. “I doubt it’ll break the deal. He’s pretty taken with you.”

  She did not need this. It didn’t matter if she’d snored in his ear all night. Last night they had taken steps toward becoming friends, but that was all. They were business partners. He didn’t need to find her attractive for that. “What time is it?”

  “Past midday.”

  She sat up, shoving as much hair out of her face as she could. “Where is everyone?”

  “They,” Tristan announced, “are doing an inventory.”

  “Of what? This place is a ruin.”

  Tris shrugged. “Your man’s on a tear. They started with the kitchens. Darrow’s men have been hauling trash and broken wood out all day.”

  “Our men,” she corrected absently. Her eyes had focused on the dresser.

  “Right. Our men.” Tristan followed her gaze. “Which part of your conversation involved busting one of the few pieces of furniture you have left?”

  “None of your business.”

  Tristan chuckled. “Maybe you did hold up your end.”

  Enough. They were going to end up in a fight if they kept talking about her and Ewan.

  “Quit worrying about my end,” Deidre demanded. She scooted off the bed, dragging her brother with her. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter 13

  The work wasn’t finished, but the ground floor was clear. The outer courtyard was separated into three sections—usable, fixable, and firewood. The less intelligent members of Darrow’s gang—so most of them—were smashing and stacking the third section into pieces they could store for the winter.

  “Given up on yer earthquake then?” Angus asked over the top of an escritoire they were moving to the first pile.

  Ewan grunted. His hands burned where the splinters had been, but the light strain on his muscles was familiar and satisfying. “Making sense of this mess doesnae stop it from toppling over the edge.”

  “Waste of time, though, if that’s what ye intend.”

  They set the desk down between a suit of armor and an old globe that had miraculously survived intact. “What else are we going to do while we’re here?”

  “Mmm.” Angus swigged from a water bucket set up by their section. “So yer just keeping busy.”

  “Aye.”

  “And it’s got nothing to do with ye deciding to let the succubus and her brother stay.”

  It had everything to do with that. Deidre told her stories with humor and joy, but all last night Ewan had heard the fear behind them. Her whole life had been one long struggle to find enough to eat and a safe place to stay. Even before her parents had died, they’d lived on the road traveling from town to town.

  “If yer getting too feeble to move a few dressers, just say so.”

  Angus’s eyebrow rose. “I’ll show ye feeble, ye bacon brain.”

  “Yer getting on in years,” Ewan joked, keeping an eye on his godfather’s hands. He’d learned the hard way how quick Angus could move. “There’s no shame in taking an easy retirement at yer age.”

  The older man’s wrist snapped out, barely missing as Ewan dodged back.

  “See that. Ye’ve lost a step.”

  Ewan wasn’t so lucky on the next attempt. He evaded Angus’s second jab, but lost his footing and crashed into the suit of armor. The clatter rang out across the courtyard.

  “At least I can still keep my feet,” Angus said, pulling him up. “Have ye given any thought to yer letter writer?”

  “Aye.” He had. While they’d been trekking back and forth across the courtyard, his mind had cleared considerably. “It was likely Rose.”

  Angus went still. “What makes ye say that?”

  “Well, I dinnae think anyone else is left from before except Iona, and the letter was too nice.”

  Angus snorted. “Aye, that it was.”

  They walked back toward the main doors, Ewan in the lead. “Besides, when we were on the cliff, she was very hopeful that I had come back to restore the estate.”

  “Ye think she lured ye here?” The older man sounded none too happy about it.

  “Ye dinnae have to make it sound sinister, Angus.”

  “Why would she nae sign her name, if nae to be deceitful?”

  Last night and now this morning—Ewan had thought Angus’s suspicions of Rose were due to Iona putting him on edge, but the older man was still behaving strangely. “Is there something I should—”

  “Is everything all right?” Rose hurried out the front doors in a storm of concern.

  Angus shifted subtly, putting himself in a guard position between the two of them. “Aye. We’re all fine here.”

  She stopped short at the sight of Angus. “Oh. I—I heard a crash.”

  “Just lost my footing. I’m all right.”

  “I’d nae let any harm come to the lad,” Angus promised. “Nae from anyone or anything.”

  Ewan frowned. His godfather was definitely behaving unusually. “Except for the time ye convinced me to hunt a bear on my own. Or when ye and Auld Ian dared me to go out on the loch when the ice was still thin. Or what about—”

  “Training exercises,” Angus explained. “Ye were never in any real danger.”

  “I nearly lost my hearing when I fell through the ice!”

  “You forgot about the time he let you get robbed, and later stabbed in a back alley brawl,” Deidre’s voice chimed in. She and Tristan walked up from a side door in the inner bailey.

  “Hearsay,” Ewan said.

  “Mmhmm.” She bumped him in the shoulder as she approached.

  Ewan winced. It was healing well, but yesterday’s pick-axe adventure hadn’t done it any favors.

  “Still in one piece,” Angus declared. “Besides, I’m nae responsible for the pigheaded things he gets up to on his own.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Deidre winked at the older man.

  “I’ve no doubt ye will,” Angus grumbled.

  He might sound gruff, but Ewan noticed the older man didn’t shift when Deidre got close. What could Rose possibly have done to make the Angus cons
ider her more of a threat than a known criminal? Not that he wanted Angus to dislike Deidre. Given his feelings for her, it would go much easier for Ewan if his godfather and Deidre found an accord.

  “What brings ye to the courtyard,” Ewan asked. “Worried we were under attack from armored knights?”

  Deidre raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ve come for my men.”

  Ewan supposed it was too much to hope that she’d been overwhelmed with concern for him. “They’re clearing rubbish.”

  Deidre looked over to the section of the courtyard where Darrow’s thugs were standing. “At the moment, they appear to be drinking and throwing dice.”

  “They were—”

  “Milling about smashing things anytime you came into view. The rest of the time, not so much. I’ve been watching. May I have them back?”

  “Aye.” Bloody bandits. The majority of the mindless work was done anyhow. “What’ll ye do with them?”

  “They’re going to finish clearing the cliff trail. Darrow, Tris, and I are going to see about a job.”

  “Already?” Ewan asked. “Is it nae a bit soon for that?”

  “No time like the present,” Deidre quipped. “Don’t worry. It’s a simple scouting mission. Very little risk.”

  Ewan realized he didn’t want her to go. It was an irrational feeling. This was what he’d agreed to. Still, the idea of her heading into any kind of danger . . .

  “Are ye going far? Should I pack ye anything?” Rose had been watching the entire exchange with a puzzled expression.

  Deirdre smiled. “That’s kind of you, but we’ll be just fine.”

  And she would. She didn’t need Ewan’s help or his protection. That ought to have comforted him. Instead, it just left him feeling oddly unsettled.

  ***

  “. . . we headed?” Darrow asked as they saddled the horses.

  Deidre missed the beginning of the question because she was lost in thoughts of Ewan. He’d seemed happy enough to see her. He hadn’t turned away in disgust or accused her of ruining his shirt with her deluge of saliva. It had even looked for a moment like he was disappointed to see her go.