by Wilde, Tanya
Isla snatched it and brought it up to her face to inspect, letting out a shallow breath when she saw no wound.
“Satisfied?” he murmured, tipping his head as he watched her.
Isla’s cheeks flushed, remembering once again that they had an audience. She dropped his hand and turned to the count, opening her mouth and then closing it again.
The count, ever sharp-eyed, swiftly reassured her. “Do not fear, chérie. There is nothing I heard today that I wish to repeat.”
“That is a relief, Count, though I do apologize for deceiving all of you.”
“Your reasons are your own. I shall not presume to know your state of affairs.”
“The man is a saint.” Isla heard Mr. Ross mutter under his breath. She hid a smile. Louder, he said, “We have to board this up before the entire inn frosts over.” He pushed a booted foot at the shattered glass.
“Oui, I shall retrieve Mr. Drummond and supplies.” He eyed them askance. “You must have things to discuss.”
The brisk tapping of Mrs. Drummond’s heels rushing down the hall gave them pause. Isla scoffed. “Of course, the proprietor shows up after the fact.”
The creak of the front door opening made them all shake their heads. It wasn’t until heavy boots hit the wooden floor—possibly six or seven men, maybe more, entering the inn before the door slammed shut—that Isla’s heart strained against her breast.
Isla felt Mr. Ross’s fingers tangle with hers. They shared a worried look. They were on the same page. She gripped his hand tightly.
“Goodness, I’ve never seen so many fine gentlemen together in one sitting. And all Highlanders, at that!” Mrs. Drummond’s bright voice announced.
Isla held her breath.
“Madam, we are looking for two travelers . . .” a deep voice with a rough Scottish brogue answered.
Isla shut her eyes.
Beside her, Mr. Ross froze.
“What is wrong?” The count asked, sensing the sudden tension. “Are we being invaded by brigands?”
We’re being invaded, all right, Isla thought numbly. Only not by brigands.
Her brothers.
What were they doing traveling in this weather?
“The harbingers of death have arrived,” Isla said, her eyes riveted on the door.
They listened as Adair, the oldest and the Duke of Roxburgh, describe her appearance in exhausting detail. One mention of Mr. Ross, a man with an eye patch, and they were doomed. More so Mr. Ross, as he was not family. Isla might be locked away in a tower for the rest of her life, but he would lose his livelihood. She shouldn’t care; he had known the consequences from the start. But Isla found that she did care. She cared a great deal.
With any luck, Mrs. Drummond would have the foresight for discretion, and her brothers would be on their way. People rarely saw beyond what others presented to them, anyway, and to Mrs. Drummond they were Mr. Murray and Miss Ross.
“My apologies, sir, your charges are not booked with us.”
Isla let out a shaky breath. Adair seemed confident that a description of her alone would be enough. The duke thanked their host, and the retreating footfalls passing the common room matched the rhythm of Isla’s heartbeat.
“But, of course, there is—”
Lord.
Nay.
“—a Miss Ross lodging here, but she already has a guardian, Mr. Murray, and they are traveling to England, not Edinburgh.”
Adair’s steely voice followed the sound of an abrupt stop in steps. “What did you just say?”
Isla wanted to die inside. She cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Ross, whose features settled into grim lines. They were both doomed.
“Perhaps we should make a run for it?” Isla suggested, nodding to the window. “Just jump back out and run.”
His steely gaze settled over her face. “Is that what you want? To run?”
“Does Miss Ross fit the description of my charge?” Adair demanded.
“Well, I haven’t conversed much with the girl—”
“Her description, madam,” Boyd spoke up irritably. “Her physical appearance. Does that match the description my brother gave you?”
Isla fought to ignore the alarm rising her belly.
“I reckon, I suppose. The lass is copper-haired—”
“Where is she now?” Adair interrupted imperiously.
“This is bad,” Isla whispered.
“Probably with Mr. Murray.” There was a moment of silence. “I believe he was last seen leaving the dining room and heading to the common room.”
“Isla,” Mr. Ross breathed urgently, “whatever happens next, know—”
“Where is the common room?” Adair asked.
“—that I am sorry and that I lo—”
Her eyes locked with his as the door exploded open and eight Highlanders filled the doorway. Pulling away from Mr. Ross with a jerk, Isla turned to face her brothers. She had been thoroughly caught out.
Adair’s hard, glittering eyes stabbed her right in the chest. His hot gaze flicked between her, Mr. Ross, and the count, who she had once again forgotten was in the room. Nevertheless, the count shifted subtly on his feet, placing himself between Isla and Mr. Ross.
Four strides brought Adair to the center and, one by one, her brothers filled the room until the tiny space felt so crowded, it almost hurt to draw breath. Hugh, the last to enter, shut the door in Mrs. Drummond’s astonished face.
Isla did not dare take her gaze off Adair to acknowledge the rest of her kin. All their faces would resemble marble statues, and she’d only get flustered if she lost focus.
“Murray,” Adair sneered, his eyes full of cold outrage. “You are quite the artist, I see.”
Isla cast an uncertain glance at Mr. Ross. His face, just like her brothers’, cast in stone. She looked back at her brother. “Adair,” she whispered. “I can explain.”
Adair’s eyes frosted over. “Explain?” His voice was soft with fury. “Explain how you left your home in the dead of night with him?” He motioned to Mr. Ross. “Explain how we find you in this ramshackle place while your family is worried sick and searching for you in a snowstorm?”
Isla’s temper flared. What about all the things they had done? How they had cocooned her and Honoria, smothering them with overprotectiveness that increased tenfold after their brother’s passing. How they had broken all ties with the Murrays. How they had sent Patrick away. How they’d attempted to send Mr. Ruthven off as well.
And even after all of that, Isla still couldn’t stand the way Adair stared at her, as if she had stabbed him in the gut. But she couldn’t forget she had left MacCallan Castle for a reason, and she had to remind herself that they—or at least, their suffocating natures—were part of that.
So, faced with great adversity, as it certainly seemed, Isla decided on a more abrupt approach. She would not back down today.
“Och, I said I can explain, not that I would.”
Adair’s eyes bulged at that. “Did you think we would not catch up with you?” he demanded.
“I had hoped to be in England by the time you did.”
“Then you didn’t care how worried we were?”
“I was perfectly safe the entire time,” Isla argued. “I left a note with Honoria.”
“Aye, you left word that you were traveling to Falcon with him. Why the hell didn’t you discuss it with us first? We would have taken you, if that was what you wanted.”
“Like you took Honoria to Edinburgh each time she asked?” Isla snorted. “I took charge of my decision to leave.”
Duncan shouldered past Adair. “You should have raised your concerns with us. It’s not like you to be impulsive.”
“Then why do I feel more like myself than I have for the past eighteen months?” Isla countered. “I was thinking, Duncan, that I wanted to follow my own path for once.”
Kieran cursed. “What the hell is wrong with the women in our family? First Honoria takes up with a Gypsy, and now this.”
Isla nodded. “I heard Mr. Ruthven is not the sort to be intimidated by you lot.” She looked each one of them in the eye. “Shame on you for trying to separate those two.”
“This is not about Ruthven, Isla,” Adair said. “This is about you running off and running off with him.”
Mr. Ross, who had been silent up until that point, grit out, “If you have something to say, Roxburgh, say it.”
“Leave him out of it,” Isla snapped. “If you haven’t noticed, there is a storm, and you decided to chase after me in this weather? Putting all of your lives at risk was a grand plan?”
“You are our sister, lass,” Gregor said. “Of course we braved the storm.”
“I’m not afraid of a little snow,” Kieran agreed.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Murray?” Adair said, his fiery eyes settling on Mr. Ross. “Why did you take off with my sister?”
Isla frowned. Were they taunting Mr. Ross by using the name he gave the proprietor? They were truly the worst.
You already know my name, lass.
Her frown deepened.
“I couldn’t let her leave alone, Roxburgh.”
Isla darted a startled glance at Mr. Ross. A steely undertone laced his voice; his face set in granite. Like Adair, he did not spare her even the slightest of glances but kept his gaze fixed solely on her brother.
Isla’s heart pounded in her throat.
What was she missing?
Whatever happens next, know that I am sorry and that I lo . . . Had he tried to tell her he loved her?
Isla’s eyes fluttered over Mr. Ross’s face.
My name is a thorn.
Her heart stalled.
She studied the outline of his jaw, nearly impossible to see through the thick coat of whiskers, as well as his slightly crooked nose, the thin scar dividing his left brow, and the leather patch covering his right eye. And yet . . .
Why does it feel as though I’ve been looking into your eyes all my life?
“You shouldn’t have let her leave to begin with,” Adair bit out.
Isla could not drag her eyes away from Mr. Ross’s face. She studied the arch of his one visible brow, the tiny laugh lines feathered alongside stormy blue eyes, and the creases forming on his temple.
Because you have been looking into his eyes all your life.
Isla lowered her lashes—people rarely saw beyond what others presented—and opened them again, seeing everything. She reached into her memory for the last time she saw him: a face, covered in blood, ravaged by regret. Drawing a finger over the line of that man’s jaw, brushing it across his soft lips, defining the arch of his brow. Her world fractured.
“Drew.”
His head whipped around to look at her.
“Patrick.”
Regret pulled at his features.
“Neill.”
Adair threaded his fingers through his reddish-brown hair. “You did not even know who you were traveling with,” he muttered.
“This is my third guess,” Isla said, paying her brother no mind. Tears formed in her eyes. What a fool she’d been. “Do I have it right?”
“Isla.”
“Aye, lass,” Callum said with a snarl. “The man beside you is the one and only Drew Murray.”
“He has been deceiving us for months,” Boyd growled.
“Damn infuriating,” Gregor agreed.
“How did I not know it was you?” He had lost so much weight. Gained so many scars. Still . . . I should have known it was you.
“How did you lose your eye?” Isla asked.
He yanked off the patch. “A nicety to maintain my disguise.”
Isla stared at him hollowly.
“You weren’t ready, lass,” Drew said softly when she just stared at him, at a loss for words. “You only started to recognize me here.”
“So I’m ready now?” she whispered. “After all this time?”
“I believe you were right when you said it is not the haunted who find this place but those who desire to be healed.”
“This is not happening,” she breathed, clutching her belly. The room spun about her.
“What the hell are you talking about, Murray?” Lachlan growled.
Adair lifted a hand to silence him.
“I was going to explain everything today,” Drew continued, as if speaking to a delicate flower. He spared a fleeting glance at the count and Adair. “Things never seem to work out for me as they should.”
“Murray,” Adair growled. “Honoria told us about a visitor she had the night of the ball—a man pretending to be someone he was not, in search of his brother who hadn’t been home in almost two years. Your brother, Duke of Castleworth.”
“Seems it runs in the family,” Kieran growled. “Pretending to be someone they are not.”
“You were Patrick Moray, too, weren’t you?” Lachlan demanded. “Why did you do it, Murray? Why go through all that effort?”
“Isla,” Drew implored, his eyes not leaving hers. “Allow me to explain.”
She blinked up at him. This was Drew Murray, Patrick Moray, and Neill Ross. Who was she, Isla MacCallan? A hopeless fool with a hopeless heart. She hadn’t even connected the men, and she’d known Drew all her life.
Denial echoed hollowly through her mind. She did not want it to be true. How could it be? Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps she had misunderstood. Maybe this was all a dream. She hadn’t loved Drew Murray as a girl, developed a deep fondness for Patrick Moray, fallen in love with Neill Ross, only to discover they were the same man.
“How could I not have known it was you?” It was the only thought she managed to get out. The only sentiment replaying in her mind.
“Isla . . .”
She stared at Mr. Ross, at Drew, at him, his expression as forthcoming as a rock. His stance remained unreadable, but the man simmering in front of her did not look at all happy. “My third guess is right? I need you to say it.”
Drew’s nostrils flared. And then, with the throaty voice that had come to melt her insides, he broke her heart into a thousand pieces.
“Aye, you are right.”
HOW COULD I NOT HAVE known it was you?
No words had ever broken Drew’s heart more than those.
He should not have waited this long. He’d known the moment they left the stables, or suspected strongly at least, that his ruse would soon end. He should have told her sooner—the moment they arrived here, locked in by snow and wind. Now, with her brothers present, he might not be allowed the chance to explain, to beg her forgiveness and woo her back.
The sound she made, the agonized whimper of a wounded animal, tore his heart to pieces.
Her shuttered eyes turned to him. “Why did you deceive me like this? Me, of everyone?”
Regret burned in his throat. “It’s complicated, lass.”
“It cannot be more complicated than telling me the truth! I have known you all my life, Drew Murray! Or so I thought. You could have told me. I’d have kept your secret.”
Eight growls of protest filled the room.
A muscle worked in Drew’s jaw. “I tried many times.” He dragged a hand over his face. “I feared you hated me after what happened with Ewan. I hated myself.”
“I could never hate you.” Her broken whisper stabbed him in the gut. “I loved you.”
Again, eight growls of protest filled the room.
Drew ignored them. Her confession gutted him. “I hated myself, lass. How could I not believe you hated me too?”
“What changed?” she whispered. “Since the moment you started this deception to now, what changed?”
“You were leaving.”
She blinked up at him.
Drew clenched and unclenched his hands. “Can we please talk alone, lass? Somewhere more private?”
“No way in hell, Murray,” Callum growled. “You killed our brother. I’m not letting you take our little sister too.”
“Stop it, Callum,” Isla snapped, to Drew’s su
rprise. “He didn’t kill anyone. It was an accident.”
For the first time, as the words left Isla’s mouth, Drew believed them. “I never meant to hurt Ewan. He was my closest friend.”
“And yet, our brother still died,” Kieran growled.
“I didn’t want to fight Ewan that day. You know he insisted upon it. You were there, all of you. Why didn’t you stop him?”
The answering silence was deafening.
“I thought as much,” Drew spat. “But I understood you needed someone to blame, so I let you blame me because, Christ knows, I blamed myself.”
“So you disguised yourself as a servant?” Adair accused. “I presume to be close to our sister?”
Drew’s eyes bore into hers. “Aye, I couldn’t bear to lose her too.”
“I can’t listen to this anymore,” Isla suddenly choked out, taking a step back from Drew. The words turned his heart to stone, and he braced himself for the blow.
Chapter 18
“I say we make meat pie out of him.”
Callum’s sinister laugh followed Boyd’s suggestion. “Aye, let’s do that.”
Isla sighed, doing her best to drown out their empty threats. Leave it to them to make light of a matter this wretched. She stared at nothing in particular, Drew’s three faces flashing through her mind over and over again. Her chest tightened with each passing minute, and Isla didn’t know how long she could hold the flood of tears at bay.
In the wake of Mr. Ross’s unveiling, Isla realized she had suspected, perhaps even known, all along that Mr. Ross was somebody important to her: Drew. She had felt it, sensed it, and fought against it. Denial was a powerful appliance. Easy, however, because the mere idea that Drew would disguise himself as Mr. Ross, pretend to be someone he was not, so ludicrous, so ridiculous, that she could not fathom it. The idea had to be rejected for her sanity. And yet . . . how had she managed to convince herself so thoroughly? Looking at him now, she was lost, uncomprehending.
The smell of beef stew floated from the kitchen, lending an air of irony to her brothers’ threats. Isla knew what would arrive at their table, however, and it would give her plenty of satisfaction to watch their faces when they saw it.
