The Highlander's Excellent Adventure

by Shana Galen

  “You won’t like the answer,” she said.

  For a moment Stratford thought she knew what he had been contemplating. But then he realized he hadn’t asked if he could kiss her. He’d asked which shop the Ines woman was associated with.

  “Then you’d better tell me quickly,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than he had intended.

  Her eyes closed briefly, then opened again to gift him with another glimpse of tranquil waters and clear skies. “She’s a lacemaker.”

  Stratford’s eyes narrowed. “A lacemaker.” He only knew of one lacemaker. And he only knew of her because all the ladies were wild over Catarina lace. Catarina lace—named for the designer, Catarina Draven, who was married to his former commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Draven. “Which lacemaker?” he asked calmly.

  “The one who makes Catarina lace,” she said.

  “No,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “No, that would mean she is associated with Colonel Draven, and I am not harboring a fugitive from my former commander.”

  “I’m sorry to say that is exactly what you are doing, though I hardly think you can be blamed as you had nothing to do with her running away. You are an innocent bystander.”

  Draven would kill him anyway. “Who exactly is she? Tell me she is not Mrs. Draven’s sister.”

  “She is Mrs. Draven’s sister.”

  “God damn it, Emmeline! I told you not to tell me that!” But he’d known. The moment she had uttered the word lacemaker he’d known exactly who she was. He’d heard Draven complain more than once about his mischievous sister-in-law.

  “Where are you going? The surgeon is this way,” Emmeline said. Stratford had started back the way they’d come. Panic tore through him now, and he couldn’t think clearly.

  “I can’t leave her alone with Duncan. She can’t be left alone with a man not her relative.” It wouldn’t matter if he’d left her alone or not because Draven would kill them all anyway. He was undoubtedly on his way to finish them off at this very minute.

  “She’s been alone with him for at least a day already. Besides, he’s wounded. What can he do to her?”

  Plenty, Stratford thought. Plenty. But he had to stop and think. He had to use his brain, which was something he had not been doing enough of else he would have figured out the truth before now. Emmeline was correct in that turning back was not an option. They had to fetch the surgeon if for no other reason than to save Duncan so Draven could kill him.

  He turned again. “Very well. We continue on.”

  After a moment of silent marching, she finally caught up to him. “What is wrong? We will see to Mr. Murray then return Miss Neves to London. She will be back home tomorrow or the next day. No harm done. She’s a lacemaker. Her reputation is not in jeopardy.”

  This was true. Society really only cared about the spotless character of ladies of the upper classes. The other classes were not held to the same standard.

  “So you think Colonel Draven is sitting home in London hoping someone brings Miss Neves back? Do you think Catarina Draven is unconcerned about her sister running away with Duncan Murray?”

  “For what it’s worth, I do not believe Mr. Murray intended to run away with Miss Neves,” Emmeline said.

  “Perhaps Draven will listen to that explanation after he kills Murray.”

  “How can he listen to him if—”

  Stratford stopped again. “The point is, Emmeline, Draven will be on his way here by now. It’s too late to return her.”

  “How on earth will he find her here?” She extended her arms to indicate the poorly tended road and the green-stalked wheat, its tips just now turning golden, waving in the breeze.

  Stratford shook his head. “He’s Colonel Benedict Draven. He was instrumental in defeating Napoleon. He can find a woman in the English countryside.”

  He began walking again, and Emmeline hurried to follow. “Do you think anyone will come after me?”

  He looked at her, but her face was shielded by the brim of the bonnet she wore. But to him the tone of her voice had sounded hopeful. As though she wanted someone to come after her. As though she wanted someone to care.

  “I came after you,” he said.

  “I meant, will anyone else come?”

  And that about summed up their entire acquaintance. As children, he’d played skittles or croquet with her on the lawn, and later he’d hear her tell one of her sisters that no one had played with her all day. Years later, as her chaperone, he had asked her to dance at balls. Yes, it was obligatory, but she was the only one of her sisters he didn’t mind dancing with. Once home, her mother would inquire if anyone asked her to dance, and Emmeline would say, “No one.”

  She obviously didn’t see him as anything more than...well, he didn’t really know how she saw him. Perhaps she didn’t see him at all. “I’ve written to your mother and kept her informed of events. I’ll send another letter as soon as I can, explaining the reason for our delay.”

  “Your delay, you mean. I told you, I am not returning.”

  “If you think I will leave you alone on the road to Cumbria, you must be dafter than I thought.”

  “Because your father sent you, and you hate to disappoint him?”

  He stopped, but she continued walking. He reached forward and grasped her arm, spinning her around. “No one sent me. I came on my own.”

  She looked up at him, and he could see her blue eyes cloud with confusion. “But I thought—”

  “And furthermore, I’ve already disappointed the baron more times than I can count. I’m not worried about disappointing him again. It’s inevitable.” Stratford only wished he’d known that when he’d been younger as it would have saved him years of grief. “But I do worry about you, Emmeline. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, and in that moment, he thought the mask of indifference she’d worn to protect herself for so many years dropped away. Her expression was one of longing but also disbelief. She couldn’t believe anyone would genuinely care for her.

  “Emmeline—”

  The quiet was broken by the sound of boys yelling and a dog’s high-pitched yelp of pain. Emmeline turned toward the sound, and together they began to run.

  Six

  DUNCAN

  His arm hurt like the devil had sunk a fang into it and gnawed for hours. Duncan had been shot before. It was an occupational hazard of being a lunatic. One didn’t run toward armed soldiers or take on odds like three against one without sustaining some hits. Both times he had been shot before, the pistol ball had only grazed him. One grazed his side and the other his shoulder. A glass of whisky had dulled the pain of those injuries, but Duncan thought it might take a bit more than whisky this time. It didn’t hurt to try, though.

  “Lass,” he said, opening his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed until he’d tried to look for her and only saw blackness.

  “I’m here.” She looked down at him, her deep brown eyes staring into his, her soft hand caressing his brow. Where had this beautiful woman been when he’d had those flesh wounds and could have enjoyed these ministrations? “I think you were sleeping,” she said.

  “I was dreaming of whisky. Do ye see any?”

  She looked around, and he wished he hadn’t asked. He wanted her eyes to stay on his. “I do not see anything to drink in this room. No doubt your friend has consumed every ounce of spirits within a mile. Shall I see if I can find a kitchen or any servants?”

  “No.” He reached with his uninjured arm and took her hand in his. “Stay with me, lass.”

  “I will stay as long as you want, Mr. Murray.” She smiled at him, and he hoped he was not dreaming.

  “Did ye already explain tae me how it is yer speaking English?”

  Her cheeks colored. “I have not, não, but I suppose I should confess now that I lied earlier.”

  “Ye dinnae say.” He closed his eyes and found it difficult to open them again
.

  “I do speak English. And Portuguese and Spanish. I lied because I did not want you to take me back to London. Not right away.”

  “Yer husband beats ye, does he?”

  “No. That is to say, I do not have a husband. I cannot complain of any ill treatment.”

  Duncan opened his eyes, and she was staring at a point on the far wall. Hearing her speak didn’t make the pain go away, but the sweet sound of her made it bearable. She did not have a husband. That pleased him.

  “I did not know the carriage I climbed into was yours. I did not know you were leaving London. But when you woke me, and I realized what had happened, I did not want to go back right away.”

  He closed his eyes again, the lids too heavy to keep open. “Why is that?”

  “I suppose I wanted a taste of freedom. I was almost trapped once, and I was beginning to feel trapped again.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, and he had to concentrate to hear her. “And if I am really honest, once I realized I was in your carriage, I was hoping for PED.

  “I dinnae ken what PED means.”

  “Passion, excitement, and danger. I hoped to combine all three and steal a kiss.”

  His eyes opened wide, and she stared down at him. She moved away, trying to pull her hand out of his, but he wouldn’t let go. “Ye wanted to kiss me?”

  “I thought you had fallen back asleep.” She tried to tug her hand away again.

  “Do ye always go aboot kissing strange men?”

  “We are not strangers,” she said, giving up on trying to free her hand. “We have mutual acquaintances.”

  “Who?” He tried to sit then immediately regretted the action. As soon as Duncan could stand again, he would flatten Pope and then kick him for good measure.

  “Benedict Draven.”

  Duncan did not know what he expected her to say, but it was not to mention his former commander. It made sense, though. He had left the coach outside Draven’s home, and that must have been when the lass climbed in. But what had she been doing at Draven’s? She was not dressed as a servant. She must be a friend of Mrs. Draven’s. That theory fit because they both spoke Portuguese. Except with her shop so busy, he wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Draven would have time for friends. Besides, she was always in the company of her younger sister.

  “Christ and all the saints!” Draven hissed. Now he did sit, the sharp pain in his arm punctuating his alarm. “I ken who ye are.” She winced. Duncan lowered his voice. “Miss Neves, isnae it?

  She nodded.

  He released her hand as though he held a viper. “Why am I asking ye for whisky? Ye might as well bring me a knife.”

  “You cannot possibly cut the ball out of your arm yourself,” she said.

  “I meant so I can slit my neck.”

  She gasped.

  “It’s a far better proposition than waiting for Draven to show up and rip my...” He looked into her face, and her eyes were wide.

  Duncan sank back down.

  “I am so sorry,” she said. “I did not think. I wanted an adventure and a romance—”

  “Romance? With me?”

  “Why not you?”

  “I’m nae poet, lass. The most romantic thing I do is throw a lass over my shoulder before I carry her tae bed.”

  Her brows went up. “Really?”

  Christ, but she actually seemed intrigued by that idea. And he must be delirious from pain because he could imagine tossing her onto his bed and having his way with that mouth of hers.

  “Then what do you do to her?”

  This woman would be the death of him. Literally. “I read her a bedtime story and tuck her in,” he said.

  She let out an annoyed breath, clearly wanting more salacious details. Just then they heard footsteps outside the door, and Duncan jumped to his feet. He swayed slightly before he steadied himself and pushed Draven’s sister-in-law behind his back.

  “Mr. Fortescue said Mr. Pope would not trouble us,” she said from behind him.

  “Just stay behind me, lass.”

  The footsteps stopped at the parlor door. Duncan tensed, while behind him he felt the woman fidgeting. “Stand still,” he said.

  “I am trying to ready the pistol,” she said.

  “The pistol!” He’d forgotten about that. He turned, found her with it pointed right at him, and snatched it out of her hands. The door opened. He spun around and pointed the weapon at the older woman carrying a tray into the room.

  She stopped. “I take it you are not hungry then?”

  Duncan lowered the firearm. “Forgive me, missus. I thought ye were someone else.”

  “Oh, Mr. Pope is quite harmless at the moment. But you, sir, had better sit down. You are injured.”

  “Good idea.” Duncan sank down onto the couch, closing his eyes to make the world stop spinning.

  The women were speaking now, both of them fluttering about him, but he couldn’t hear what they said above the buzzing in his ears. Dinnae pass oot, he told himself. Suddenly, he felt the cool rim of a glass at his lips. He opened his mouth and sipped. It wasn’t whisky, but gin was the next best thing, he supposed. After a few more sips, the buzzing ceased. Unfortunately, his eyes also refused to open, and he couldn’t stop his body from tumbling down and down and down.

  INES

  Ines removed her hand from the back of Murray’s head and studied him with concern. “I believe he is unconscious.”

  The servant peered at him. “Best thing for him, if you ask me, miss. He won’t feel the pain so much.” She gave Ines’s dress a wide-eyed look. “But you are hurt, too, miss!”

  Ines glanced at her blood-stained dress. “It is Mr. Murray’s blood. I am uninjured.”

  The servant sighed in relief. “Oh, good. I will try to find you something clean to wear.” She looked at Murray. “And something for him as well.”

  “His trunks are here,” Ines said. “He has clothing in there. What should I do to help him? It seems like Mr. Fortescue has been gone hours. I am anxious for the surgeon.”

  “It looks like you did a good job of binding the wound and stopping the blood flow. But we could clean the wound.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll fetch more gin. In the meantime, I made you soup. Go ahead and eat.”

  “Are you the cook?”

  The woman bobbed a curtsy. “Mrs. Brown, miss. Do you mind if I ask your name?”

  “Ines Neves. I am from London.

  “And who is this?” She gestured to Murray.

  “Duncan Murray. He served in the war with Mr. Pope. He came to see him because”—she waved a hand—“never mind why now. Can you please fetch the gin?”

  “Right away, miss.”

  Ines looked at the soup. She didn’t think she could eat it. Her belly disagreed and growled. Ines decided she would be of no use to anyone if she was fatigued from hunger. She touched Mr. Murray’s forehead, still no trace of fever, then lifted the spoon and ate a few mouthfuls of soup. It was not particularly good soup—the vegetables were soft, and the broth had little flavor—but it was something.

  This was all her fault. Murray would probably die, and it was all because of her. They’d only come here because he needed someone who spoke Portuguese. If she’d just told the truth from the beginning, she would be on the way back to London and Murray would be unharmed. Mr. Fortescue and Miss Wellesley wouldn’t be running about the countryside looking for a surgeon, either. No wonder Draven said Ines could not live above the shop. He knew that given half a chance, she’d cause more trouble than she was worth.

  Hadn’t she done that and more in just two short days?

  But it was very hard to feel contrite for long. One glance at Mr. Murray’s bare chest, and she quite forgot she was partly to blame for his injury. Of course, she didn’t want him to be injured, but was it wrong to enjoy the benefits of touching his brow, sliding her eyes over his broad chest, and following the trail of hair on that chest to the waist of his trousers?

  It was most certai
nly wrong, and she was probably doomed to an eternity of hellfire for the direction of her thoughts. In which case, what was the harm of one more? She allowed her gaze to shift to Murray’s face again and wondered, for the hundredth time, what it would feel like if he kissed her.

  Mrs. Brown returned, and Ines focused guiltily on her soup again. “I’ll just ready everything on this table, miss,” the cook said as she set the gin down on the table beside the couch.

  Ines forced herself to watch Mrs. Brown and not Murray. As a respectable young woman, she should not be imagining kissing a man like Duncan Murray. Perhaps she wouldn’t think of it so much if she had been kissed before. It was very hard to be nineteen years old and unkissed. If she’d stayed with her father in Portugal, she would have been long married and the mother of children by now. Of course, she would have had to kiss a cruel, old man. As she’d grown older, she had appreciated her narrow escape more and more. She’d also realized she had a chance many, if not all, of the women she knew would never have—to make her own destiny. Why could that destiny not include Duncan Murray tossing her over his shoulder?

  “Are you alright, miss? Is it too cold in here? You’re shivering.”

  “Oh, I am fine.” Desperate to change the subject, Ines stood and went to stand beside the cook. “What should I do?”

  “One of us needs to douse this rag in gin and apply it to the wound. The other needs to hold him down.”

  “Hold him down?” Ines suppressed another shiver. “I will do that.”

  Fortunately, Murray’s injured arm was the one most accessible to them, and it was a simple matter to remove the bandages. He groaned but did not open his eyes.

  “Should we give him more gin?” Ines asked.

  “Best just to do it while he’s unaware. We risk a stronger reaction if we wake him first.” The cook held the clean rag to the mouth of the gin bottle and wet the cloth thoroughly. Then she set the bottle back on the table, moved the table out of the range of flailing arms, and nodded to Ines.

  Ines was not at all certain where she should place her hands. She settled on his shoulders, setting one knee on the couch in case she needed to leverage her full weight to help hold him down.