The Highlander's Excellent Adventure

by Shana Galen

  “I do not know if he is in love with you, but there is no doubt he finds you attractive. The entire time we were talking, he could not keep his eyes off you.”

  “He was undoubtedly trying to figure out what we were saying. Either that or plotting how to take me home in the most efficient manner.”

  “I do not think so. His expression was not that of a man scheming.”

  Emmeline looked at Ines. She was barely a woman and quite obviously in love with love. Nothing she said should be given any weight. But Emmeline couldn’t stop from asking, “What was his expression, then?”

  “A man who likes what he sees and is trying to puzzle out exactly what to do about that.”

  Emmeline was spared from making any sort of comment when the men exited the inn a moment later. Stratford declared he would be accompanying her to the Pope estate, and Emmeline tried not to feel a burst of happiness. But just because Ines had been right that she wanted him to accompany her today did not mean she was right that he had feelings for her.

  And even if he did, so what? It was not as though Emmeline had feelings for Stratford. Did she? Was that why her belly fluttered when he was near?

  No. They were friends, nothing more. Why, she could remember when he had been but a boy of eleven or twelve, all gangly arms and long legs. He would come home from playing with his older brothers, his shoes and trousers covered with mud. Emmeline remembered looking at him and feeling jealous that he had such freedom, while she’d had to sit in the drawing room and sew tiny, straight stitches in an old piece of cloth. It hadn’t been Stratford’s fault he was a male and she a female, but that accident of fate didn’t stop her from sticking her tongue out at him when no one was looking. And it didn’t stop him from pulling her hair when she walked past him on the way to dinner.

  Of course, she’d noticed when he’d grown up. It seemed he went away to school one autumn and when she saw him the next summer, he was all but a man. She’d actually been shy around him at first because he’d become a handsome man, with that thick blond hair and those intelligent blue eyes half-hidden under his thick honey-colored lashes. But then he’d pulled her hair when she walked into dinner, and she’d known he hadn’t changed a bit.

  If Ines noticed him looking at her, it was probably because he was trying to find some fault with her or plan when he could pull her hair again. She’d caught him watching her at times when he escorted her to an event during the Season. Once she’d asked him what he found so interesting, as she mostly stood against the wall and waited to go home, and he’d said he was ensuring no scoundrels tried to lure her onto the dance floor.

  She’d laughed and told him that most rakes were the sort of men who reached for the low-hanging fruit of widows and courtesans. He’d looked shocked at her response, but he hadn’t argued. The next time she’d caught him watching her, she’d stuck out her tongue at him. They were friends. That was all.

  Mr. Murray’s coachman finally brought the vehicle to the front of the inn, and Murray offered his hand to Ines, who took it and climbed inside. Stratford then offered his hand to Emmeline. But she lifted her skirts, climbed in on her own, then stuck out her tongue at him. Smiling, she sat next to Ines. When Stratford entered and sat opposite her, she expected him to give her an annoyed look. Instead, something in his eyes made her collar feel too tight and her belly flutter. She quickly looked away, out the windows of the coach, as the conveyance made its way through picturesque town and then sped away.

  INES

  About a quarter hour into the journey, Ines realized it was more difficult than she’d anticipated to pretend she did not understand English. Miss Wellesley or one of the gentlemen often said something she was tempted to comment about. More than once, Miss Wellesley gave her a pointed look when Ines was paying too much attention to the conversation. She knew how one behaved when one did not know the language. She hadn’t known Spanish when her sister had first taken her to Barcelona. When one didn’t understand what was being said all around, it was easy to ignore the conversation and focus on one’s surroundings. But now she was having difficulty ignoring what was said. One method that seemed to work was to watch Mr. Murray speak and notice how his lips moved or his amber-colored eyes crinkled when he laughed.

  But she’d obviously stared at him too long because he gave her a questioning look, and she was forced to go back to staring out the window again. Though Ines had been disappointed the Scotsman hadn’t tried to take advantage of her the night before, she realized it was probably for the best. Benedict would kill Murray if he ever found out, and Ines didn’t want that blood on her hands. But Draven would probably only lecture Murray if he kissed Ines. Surely, she was worth a lecture.

  The Scotsman caught her looking at him again, but this time he nodded out the window. “If ye look before we start down this rise, ye can see Wentmore below.”

  Ines waited until Mr. Fortescue and Miss Wellesley looked out the window, then followed their example. She winced a bit at what she saw. Wentmore had probably once been a lovely manor house. It was still lovely, though the stone of the front face was three-fourths obscured by the overgrown ivy that seemed to have wrapped itself around the house in a choking embrace. The front lawns were also poorly maintained. The grass was yellow, and the hedges and topiary were overgrown. Along one side, she caught a dark stain on the stone. She almost forgot herself and asked about it, but Miss Wellesley asked first. “What is that mark on the side of the stone? It looks like a burn.”

  “I think you’re right,” Fortescue said. “There might have been a fire.” He looked at Murray. “I hope we can go inside to see how bad the damage is and if Nash needs assistance.”

  Murray snorted. “He wouldnae take it even if we offered.”

  “Then maybe we don’t give him the chance to refuse. I have a plan.”

  Murray sighed. “Of course, ye do.”

  He spoke low so only Murray could hear. Ines exchanged a look with Miss Wellesley, who seemed annoyed to be left out of the conversation. A few moments later, the coach slowed, and Mr. Fortescue opened the door and jumped out. No one emerged from the house to greet them and after Murray exited the coach, the coachman called down, “Are you sure this is where you wanted to go?”

  “This is Wentmore,” Murray said. Then he looked back at the women. “Stay here while we go inside and do a wee bit of reconnaissance.” He started away.

  Emmeline turned to Ines. “This looks worse than I imagined.”

  “It doesn’t appear anyone lives here,” Ines murmured.

  “Or if someone does, he does not welcome visitors.”

  Just then a crash echoed from inside the house, and the women exchanged worried looks. The crash was followed by the sound of raised male voices. Then the door banged open and Murray flew out. When he turned to look at the coach, blood ran down the side of his cheek.

  “Caramba!” Ines said. She jumped out of the coach, but Murray had already gained his feet and was running back into the house. The door closed behind him. Miss Wellesley joined Ines on the weed-filled drive, and they listened to more shouts and then the sound of a rifle or pistol firing.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” the coachman said. He jumped from the box, untied the trunk and various boxes strapped to the back of the coach, and dumped them on the ground.

  “You can’t leave us here,” Emmeline argued.

  “Oh, yes, I can. I agreed to drive the man to Scotland. I didn’t agree to this.” He jumped back on the box, called to the horses, and drove away before the women could say another word.

  Ines watched the coach disappear around a bend in the road. “I don’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled.”

  “I feel a bit of both. Should we go inside and tell them?”

  Another crash made both women jump. “Perhaps not quite yet,” Ines said.

  The door burst open again, and this time Murray fell out. He clutched his arm, blood seeping through his hand. Ines gasped, and he held up the bloody hand.
“Dinnae fash, lass. It’s a scratch.” Then he winced and sank to his knees. Ines ran to him and put her arm around him to steady him.

  “Is it your arm?” she asked, though she already knew. Her head was spinning and panic seeped in.

  “Aye.”

  “What happened?”

  “The bastard shot me.”

  Ines gasped then stared at him in stunned silence. Emmeline was not so passive. She looked at Ines and Murray then seemed to make a decision. She straightened her shoulders and stomped past them. “This has gone on long enough.”

  “Dinnae go in there, lass!” Murray called. But she ignored him and opened the door then closed it after her. Murray looked at Ines, who suddenly realized she had no idea what to do next. She’d never seen a pistol ball wound before. She had no idea how to treat it or help Murray. She just knew she could not allow him to die. He stared down at her for another moment, and she became increasingly aware of the warmth of his body and that her arms were wrapped around it. She should let go, but she needed to steady him. Or perhaps she needed him to steady her.

  “Did that scratch on my heid damage my brain, or did ye speak tae me in English?”

  Ines opened her mouth, but it was too late. As Catarina always said, Ines’s face was an open book, and Murray had read the writing there.

  “So ye do speak English.”

  “I—” But what excuse could she give?

  He held up a finger, cutting off her stuttering reply. “We’ll talk aboot it later. Right now, I need tae fall over.” And he did, taking her with him.

  He landed on top of her, pinning her to the drive. It had once been a gravel drive, but she was thankful for the overgrown weeds to cushion her. Still, she could feel jagged pieces of gravel cutting into her back.

  And yet, Ines didn’t mind the weight of him. He was warm and solid, and he smelled woodsy and clean. There was no trace of the scent of cologne so many men in London wore. Mr. Podmore had favored a strong fragrance with a cloying sweet scent, and it had made Ines want to gag when she was in a closed room with him for too long. Conversely, now she had to resist the urge to bury her nose in Mr. Murray’s chest. Except she really couldn’t breathe with his weight pressing into her. She gave him a push, then a harder one, and she managed to free her torso from beneath him. Then after much tugging of her dress and her body, she freed her legs and finally her feet. She had to pause to catch her breath.

  One look down told her this was a mistake. Her dress was soaked with blood, the material was dusty and dirty, and she could see pieces of her hair fluttering over her forehead. She blew them out of her eyes. The blood was not a good sign. She could see the crimson coloring the drive beneath Murray. She was no nurse, but she knew the bleeding must be stopped.

  Ines pushed the Scot’s good arm, trying to heave him onto his back. But he was heavy and large, and he didn’t move. She adjusted her position, and with a grunt, pushed again. She raised his body just enough that she could wedge her shoulder underneath and push him higher and then onto his back. Panting heavily and wiping perspiration from her brow, Ines decided she would never manage to free him of his coat on her own. Instead, she took a breath then lifted the hem of her dress and ripped a good portion of her petticoat. She quickly bound the Scot’s wound over his sleeve and tied another piece tightly around the arm of his coat to staunch the bleeding. Once inside—if they were ever allowed inside—they could remove his coat and clean the wound and see it clearly. She had no medical experience, but surely a surgeon must live nearby.

  Resisting the urge to fall back and close her eyes for a moment, she instead looked up at the house, listening. All was finally quiet. That was either a good sign or a very ominous one. Ines ripped another section of petticoat and wiped Murray’s face. The wound on his temple looked as though it came from a sharp object. She dabbed at it, determined it was not serious, then tried to clean the blood from his cheek. She had almost removed it all when his hand came up and caught her wrist. She screeched in surprise, and he shushed her.

  “Dinnae fash, lass.”

  “I will fash!” Whatever that meant. “You scared me.” And not just by grasping her when she’d thought him unconscious. All that lost blood terrified her. What if he died? He’d used his good arm to take hold of her wrist, and it comforted her that he was still so strong. No one this strong would die, não? He would live, sim?

  “Help me up, lass,” he said. “I have tae go back in.”

  The man was certifiably mad. What was it the English said? Daft? He was daft. “You need to lie down,” she said. “You are bleeding, senhor.”

  “I told ye, it’s a trifle.”

  “It is more than trifle if you fall over. Now stay here and be still until Mr. Fortescue and Miss Wellesley come out. They will either have tamed your so-called friend or you will need your strength to run.” She could imagine the wild Mr. Pope bursting through the door any moment and firing at her with his rifle.

  Murray let out a surprised laugh. “I willnae run. Nash needs a wee dose of convincing. That’s all.”

  “From the sound of it, he needs a whole barrel of convincing.” She cocked her head again. “Things have gone silent since Miss Wellesley went inside. I cannot decide if they are all dead or listening to reason.”

  He didn’t respond, and she looked down at him to find his amber eyes were on her. “Why did ye pretend ye couldnae speak English?”

  She should have been prepared for the question. She’d known from the beginning she’d have to answer it at some point. It was just that the shock of seeing him with blood streaming down his face had made her forget her ruse. She’d forgotten, too, how nervous he made her. All of a sudden, her belly began to flutter, and she felt her cheeks grow warm.

  His brows came together in concern. “I’m not angry with ye, lass. I’m after an explanation.”

  That was a relief. Not that she would have been afraid if he’d been angry, but it was already difficult enough to speak to him. “I did not want—”

  “Speak up, lass. A moment ago, ye were yelling in my ear.”

  She took a breath and spoke louder. “I did not want you to take me home.”

  “Why nae? Where’s home?”

  But she was saved from answering when the door opened again. Ines and Murray both ducked, but it was only Emmeline.

  “Mr. Fortescue and I have the matter in hand now. I think you had both better come in. In—I mean, Beatriz, let me help you with him.”

  Ines was trying to help Murray to his feet. He swayed once but caught himself. He cut her a glance. “Why do I have the suspicion yer name is nae Beatriz?”

  “We can discuss it inside,” Emmeline said, taking his good arm and lending support. Ines ducked her head carefully under his bad arm and the three of them hobbled toward the house.

  As far as Ines was concerned, she would put that conversation off as long as possible. Except she knew it wouldn’t be possible much longer. She’d been seen at the inn in that little village and surely Draven was out looking for her by now. If he didn’t know she was with Murray, he would know soon, and he’d find her too. Then it would be back to London and Mr. Podmore or some other awful suitor. She’d have to bid her brief taste of freedom goodbye.

  She stepped into the house, turning so Mr. Murray could squeeze in after her, and then stared at the wreck around her in horror. The paper curled off the walls, the rug was torn, and the furniture was smashed into pieces. When Emmeline finally moved in through the door, Ines caught her eye. “Are you certain this is safe?” Ines gave the cracked ceiling a worrying look.

  “Safe?” Emmeline shook her head. “Most certainly not, but I’ll try to keep you alive until dinner.”

  Five

  STRATFORD

  “Then we’re tae eat dinner?” Duncan asked. Stratford, who was in the dining room, pistol pointed at his old friend Nash Pope, rolled his eyes.

  “He hasn’t changed much,” Nash said from the chair where Stratford had finally thro
wn him. “He always could eat more than the rest of us. Except maybe Ewan.”

  “We’re fortunate he can eat at all, after you shot him.”

  “It was an accident.”

  Stratford narrowed his eyes. Nash might be mostly blind, but Stratford was inclined to believe he didn’t need his sight to hit a target. “We are in here,” he called. Slowly he circled Nash, pistol still at the ready, until he was behind the former sharpshooter and facing the door. The ragged trio that entered immediately alarmed him. Duncan looked fine. He had a bandage wrapped around his arm and blood on his cheek, but Stratford had seen him in far worse condition.

  The Portuguese woman, however, was also bloody, her dress was torn—possibly to make the bandages—and she had dirt in her hair and grime streaking her cheek. Emmeline was not much better. She had fewer blood stains, but she was also disheveled.

  “Mr. Pope,” Stratford said. “Meet my cousin Miss Wellesley. She was the one who ordered you to drop your weapon and sit down.”

  Emmeline curtseyed. Nash hadn’t actually obeyed her, but he’d been so surprised at a female ordering him about that he’d lowered his weapon long enough for Stratford to act. He gestured to the rest of the party. “And this is our new friend Miss Beatriz. You know Duncan, of course.”

  “Bastard shot me,” Duncan complained. Stratford saw him sway and the ladies struggle to hold him upright.

  “If you do not mind, Mr. Fortescue, we need somewhere to lie him down.” This was from the Portuguese woman and uttered in perfect, if accented, English. Stratford felt his brows rise, but the woman waved a hand. “Sim, I speak English. Is there a couch nearby?”

  “In the parlor.” Nash waved a hand lazily toward the entryway. When he spoke, Stratford could smell the gin emanating from him like a distillery.

  “Thank you.” Beatriz and Emmeline shuffled back out, Duncan still between them. Stratford looked at Nash, whose head had fallen back, and whose breathing had deepened. If he sat too much longer, he’d probably fall asleep.