by Wilde, Tanya
The count’s brows pulled together for a moment before jerking his chin down. “Oui, chérie, that might work.”
It had to work.
Isla fluttered away the snow that rested on her lashes. They took the waltz position—the prime dance to bring them close enough to share heat.
“This seems a bit silly, does it not?” She gazed into his somber eyes. “Dancing in the snow so we do not freeze to death.” She glanced up at the sky, squinting when flakes settled on her lashes. “There isn’t even any music.”
The count’s features softened, and a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “There is music, chérie, for those who listen carefully.” He dipped his head into the swirling flakes before looking back to her. “Would you care for me to count the rhythm?”
Isla shook her head and could not dispel a laugh as the count swept her, rather ungracefully, over the glistening snow. She felt slow amusement flutter in her belly and crawl into her breast. Her heart felt light even as the cold stung her bones.
Why could none of her brothers be like Count Château-Thierry?
“Have you been in your guardian’s care for long?” The count asked as they plodded over the snow, sending her a questioning glance.
“Not that long,” Isla murmured, brows puckering at the unexpected question.
“Forgive my spirit of inquiry, chérie,” the count said. “I am merely curious.”
A fiery intelligence burned deep in his sharp eyes, reminding Isla of an eagle, constantly assessing. More than curiosity had sparked this man’s interest. “I suppose it’s only natural,” Isla remarked half-heartedly. “Truth be told, I am still adjusting to the change.”
“He seems overly protective.”
“Mr. Murray? Och, he is an arrogant man-beast.” She laughed. “And overly bossy.”
“Forgive my asking, chérie, but are you certain his attentions are what he claims them to be?”
Isla frowned. “He claims nothing, so what could they possibly be? Do you know something that I do not?” Like Mr. Ross’s name?
“I’m not sure,” the count murmured. A raffish grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. “But a devil always recognizes another devil.”
“I assure you, Count, that while I have no doubt Mr. Murray is indeed a devil of note, I am in no harm from him.”
“Of course.” His eyes turned solemn. He looked almost weary, tired. Strangely vulnerable. “Do you see a devil when your eyes turn on me, chérie?”
“I see devils in all men, Count.” She knit her brow in puzzlement. “The true question is whether you see a devil or not.”
“I see a beautiful goddess dancing in the snow.”
“Och, all you devils have smooth tongues.” Isla narrowed her eyes at him. “What about a Highland mouse? Do you see that when you look at me?”
“A mouse?” His laughter reminded her of her sister, Honoria. Rich, effortless, and true. “You could never be a mouse, chérie.”
“And I do not see a devil, Count—at least not the sort that would keep me up at night.” She scrunched her nose. “But if you must attach a label to your person, attach a suitable one. Survivor, I think, for having survived in this place for two nights. You and I are, at least, that.”
One tawny eyebrow rose as he looked at her, curious and assessing. “Do you find Mr. and Mrs. Drummond’s establishment that frightening?”
“Terrifying.”
Especially without Mr. Ross at her side.
DREW ENTERED THE COMMON room, surprised to find it empty. He had been so certain Isla would be here, had caught a glimpse of her copper hair dash past the dining room in this direction. His gut had told him she was avoiding him, so he had waited a few minutes, and when she had not returned, he had set out after her.
They needed to talk.
Or rather, he needed to talk.
Drew felt like an utter cur. He had spent the entire night tossing and turning—the kiss and her feeling of familiarity toward him at the forefront of his mind. It was clear, at least to him, that her heart and mind were struggling to fit together pieces of a puzzle she did not know existed.
A previous life?
Drew pinched his nose.
If only it were that simple.
His blood, on the other hand, still raged from her kiss. It had taken every last bit of strength he possessed to walk away from her. If he hadn’t kept his distance, if he hadn’t walked away and locked himself in his room all night, she’d have woken up naked in his bed with his scent all over her body.
Now he was the one being avoided. He did not blame her. He had acted like a bastard. And Drew had decided that if there was to be a calamity today, it would be one he could control.
He planned to tell Isla the truth.
Drew had mulled and brooded over it at length during his sleepless night. He could no longer keep the truth to himself. Holding it back seemed no longer an option. It threatened to burst from him like a flash of lightning. Plus, the lass couldn’t rush off with the storm raging outside. Granted, she might rally the rest of the haunted, but that was fine with him too.
The truth wanted out.
He wanted out.
For that, he had to find her. Where the hell could she be? His eyes darted about the room one last time. Dammit, she hadn’t been in the library; he had looked there first. He hadn’t imagined her shooting past the dining room. Turning, he paused when he heard the faint sound of familiar laughter.
His gaze whipped to the window.
Drew had either gone mad—this place was indeed haunted—or Isla’s laughter had come from the other side of the windows. He marched over to the window and peered through the glass before promptly exploding into a string of curses so foul, it was a wonder his mouth didn’t spontaneously combust.
Isla was dancing—nay, waltzing—in the snow with Count Coxcomb. Tiny little daggers of jealousy stabbed his heart, setting fire to his temper. The air he breathed turned to soot as his legs carried him to the front parlor, where he jerked the door open.
“What the hell are the two of you doing?” he growled, sure his voice sounded uncommonly demonic.
They stopped dancing, turning to him, shoulders sagging in—relief?
He marched down the steps.
“Nay!”
“Non!”
They cried out, arms outstretched.
Drew stopped in his tracks. Behind him, the door slammed shut. He frowned. One glance at their faces and he realized things might not be as they had seemed. In fact, he was sure, taking in their horrified expressions and outstretched arms, that they were, in fact, not.
“What?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“The door is broken,” they both groaned in the same breath.
Chapter 16
“What do you mean the door is broken?” Mr. Ross demanded.
Rugged and wild, his dark wavy hair, as untamable as his spirit, became tinged with white in mere seconds. He simply stole Isla’s breath. She could not look away from his focused stare. Caught, lost in the sea of his stormy blue, her mouth dried and her skin tingled all over. Though snow fell all around them, Isla felt hot.
So very hot.
His very presence changed the temperature. Was history repeating itself? First a gardener and now a groom—her brothers were going to launch into the sky and explode. But something told Isla Mr. Ross was not a man to bow down to anyone.
“The door won’t open from the outside,” Isla said once she found her voice.
“So you and the count thought dancing a good way to pass the time?”
The count’s eyebrows soared heavenward. “Non, monsieur, we were only keeping our blood circulating.”
“Aye,” Isla said defensively, shoulders squaring. “Had you not left the door unattended, we might all be warm and toasty right now.”
“How was I supposed to know the door was broken?”
“I am trying to summon sympathy, but I’m afraid I’m failing.”
The count’s gaze flicked between the two of them.
“What are you doing outside, anyway?” Mr. Ross demanded.
“The count wished to check on his horses, but someone locked the stables. I saw him from the common room and . . .” Isla trailed off with a glance to the door.
“Made the same mistake I did, I reckon?” His features were infuriatingly smug.
Isla stiffened. “Nay, you stormed out here in a fit of pique, while I rushed here out of concern for a fellow peer. Yours was the mistake, not mine.”
“Had you not been avoiding me, this would not have happened.”
“Had I not been avoiding you, the count might have frozen to death by now!”
“Had you not acted so brazenly last night, I’d never have stormed off in the first place,” Mr. Ross bit out through gritted teeth.
“Hah! Me?” Isla’s skin went hot and tight with fury. “Had you not thrown a rant because I chose a French variant for my second choice—”
“That is not why I ranted.”
Isla quirked a brow. “But you admit that you frothed at the lips?”
“That’s not—” Mr. Ross cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair and shaking off the snow. He glared down at her. “There are things you do not understand.”
“Och, you mean there are things you don’t care to enlighten me to—such as your name.”
“Had you not run away from home, we would not be having this argument.”
“Do not look so sour about it, Mr. Ross; you are the one who ran away with me.”
“You were behaving impulsively. What else was I supposed to do?”
Her mouth dropped open. “I am taking my life back. You said you understood.”
“And I do. I just don’t understand why you did not stay and stand up to your brothers.”
Isla stared at him in disbelief. “How can you say that to me? You know what my brothers are like.” She marched up to him. “Aye, I wanted to take my life back, and aye, I could have tried to do so at MacCallan Castle, but should I have stayed and watched history repeat itself, leading me to the same fate as Honoria?”
“Because your brothers sent Ruthven away?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes hard as they settled back on her. “Ruthven never left.”
Isla blinked. “He didn’t? But . . .” Her lips parted and closed. “But Adair sent him off.”
“Ruthven never left, lass,” Mr. Ross repeated. “Did you truly, in your heart, believe he could?” He scoffed. “That man would no more let Roxburgh push him around than he would a legion of soldiers.”
“That is good,” Isla said, some of the weight lifting from her chest. “Honoria deserves a man not intimidated by my brothers. However, it was Honoria who urged me to follow my heart in the first place, and I decided to take her advice.”
“And this is following your heart? The Isla I knew would have—”
“The Isla you knew?” She cut him off in astonishment. “You do not know me at all, Mr. Ross. You have only been a groom in our stables for three months, for heaven’s sake!” She raked him with a cold glare. “Do not presume to know me.”
He closed the short distance between them, forcing her to crane her neck back to keep their eyes locked. “Had you paid more attention instead of slinking about the castle, you might know my name by now.”
She gasped. “Had you not been so confusing and inconsistent, I might have had the energy to perceive it!”
“Inconsistent?” Mr. Ross demanded. His eyes searched hers. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
“I mean, Mr. Ross, you are a groom, a servant. One moment you are bossy, the next you are charming, the next you are so arrogant I want to gnash my teeth. Then you turn considerate and attentive, and just when I think—when I truly believe—I have you pinned down, you clout me in the face with insolence.”
“They are called moods, Isla. Everyone has them,” Mr. Ross growled. “And it seems you bring all of mine to the surface at once.”
“You are blaming me for your temperament?”
“Nay, but you do have a way to set them off.” He pointed a finger at her. “I might not be your legal guardian, but I am responsible for keeping you safe. That keeps me on edge.”
Och! The man was infuriating as ever. She had half a mind to throw a punch at the bounder. “I never asked you to be my protector; you volunteered. So do not blame me for whatever edge your moods are perched upon.”
“I don’t blame you.” His eyes darkened. “I blame myself. There is something I must tell you.”
“You finally wish to part with your name?”
“It’s much more complicated than that.”
“Oh? You told me your name was a thorn, that it will draw blood. Is that still the case?”
Something flashed in his gaze. “At the very least, lass, it will sting like the devil.”
“What if I do not wish to know your name anymore?” She lifted a frosted brow. “What if I forbid you to tell me?”
“You already know my name, lass.”
“Nay.” Isla shook her head. “I do not.”
“You do.”
Isla blinked at Mr. Ross, a sudden memory jumping to the surface of her mind. An old memory. One of a young man, barely in his prime, jabbing at her brother Ewan and laughing.
She shook her head again.
Admittedly, he did remind her of Drew Murray. But this wasn’t Drew Murray—their paths had splintered and twisted off in different directions, much to the chagrin of her bruised heart. She’d have known if it were Drew Murray. Drew did not wear an eye patch. His nose was perfectly straight, and no scar slashed his left brow.
But the more she stared into that one stormy eye, the more convinced Isla became that she was staring at a man she had once known better than her own reflection. And yet a stranger stared back at her. Familiarity trickled down her spine. She knew those stormy eyes. And yet she didn’t.
It simply couldn’t be.
“I—”
A throat cleared.
DREW AND ISLA SWIVELED, and he cursed himself ten times the fool. They had forgotten entirely about Count Coxcomb’s presence. Incidentally, the man stood, brows raised, face set in fascination, staring at them as though they had both lost their minds.
Drew sighed.
“While I am loath to interrupt this fascinating conversation,” the man drawled, voice hoarse from the cold. “I have just lost feeling in my fingers.”
“Oh dear,” Isla murmured, sending Drew a stunned look.
Aye, they had just aired all of their dirty secrets in front of the count, who appeared to be in grave danger from the cold. Drew replayed their heated bickering in his mind and sighed. There was no skirting around the fact that their identities had been revealed. Only one disguise left to unveil. But first, the pressing matter of the count needed to be addressed. The Frenchman had been too long outside in the snow.
“I’ll shatter a window.” He motioned to the row of windows in the common room.
“What if cold seeps into the entire establishment?” Isla questioned. “The building is a hazard of misfortune.”
The count nodded.
Drew turned and stalked toward the building. “We can board it up with wood. The count is not freezing if I can help it, and we are out of time.”
Drew didn’t wait to see if they followed him. He was furious at himself for letting the situation get so out of hand. Irked that he had all but told her she should have stayed at MacCallan Castle and stood up to her brothers.
Truth be told, it didn’t matter what she did. The angry Isla, the compassionate Isla, the running Isla—he loved every single part of her. Drew was in no position to call out her actions. And he hoped, nay, prayed to God that she loved every part of him as Drew Murray. Enough to forgive his role in her brother’s death, his deception, everything.
Looking back, he should have held her closer to his heart,
spent less time in fighting matches. But he had been young and had thought he had all the time in the world. Had felt invincible.
“Mr. Ross!” Isla cried, having seemingly given up any pretense before the Frenchman. “Do you think that is a good idea?”
“Would you have me kick in the door?” he asked, not looking back or breaking stride.
“I’d have us try and knock first.”
“Oui, perhaps someone is close by.”
“Then go knock, if you must,” Drew said with a wave toward the door. He shrugged out of his jacket, wrapping it around his fist and flexing his shoulders.
He heard Isla gasp behind him. “Why you insist on wearing the least amount of clothing, I shall never understand. It is as though you are daring nature to turn you into an icicle.”
“I’m a hot-blooded man, lass.” And, like a man, he ignored the shiver that raced down his spine as the cold pierced his shirt.
He glanced over to the count, who rapped on the door as Drew arrived at the row of windows, and arched a brow. Three minutes later, the count gave up with a resigned sigh.
Drew nodded, his fist flying.
Glass shattered.
“Are you okay?” Isla asked, rushing forward.
Her concerned tone seeped into Drew’s brain, despite the slight throb in his knuckles.
“What were you thinking?” she demanded.
“I was thinking of getting us to a warmer place where we can talk and the count can,” he spared a glance at the Frenchman, “thaw.” Drew swiped the glass away from the window’s edges with his jacket.
“There must have been a better way.”
“Aye, we could all three have held hands and danced in a circle.”
“Och, there you go, behaving impossibly again.”
He motioned her over. “Come, I will lift you inside.”
Chapter 17
“Let me see your hand,” Isla said as soon as all three of them were in the common room and shielded from the weather. The image of Mr. Ross’s fist flying, the sound of glass shattering, had crystallized in her mind.
“It is fine, lass.” Mr. Ross waved his hand in front of her eyes. “See?”
