A rush of heat suffused her skin. Greer took a deep breath to keep her mortification from spreading—she had no desire to look like an overripe strawberry to her bridegroom.
“I cannot say, mileddy.” The grave-faced steward conducted them through a lofty entrance hall bristling with displays of arms of Camerons past. “If you’d like to wait here, mileddy?” He indicated a smallish antechamber off the hall, before he bowed deeply to her father and mother in welcome, as well. “Milord Shee. Mileddy Shee.”
Papa very kindly deferred to Greer for the answer, as Castle Crieff was very shortly to be her home. “Certainly. Thank you, MacIntosh. His Grace has told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you already.”
The man looked so pained that for a moment Greer feared she had said the wrong thing. “His words were everything complimentary,” she assured him.
“I thank ye, mileddy.” But somehow the steward looked even more anguished.
It was most awkward. “You are quite welcome, MacIntosh. I know I shall come to value you just as greatly as His Grace does.” And speaking of her duke. “And His Grace?”
The steward pleated his lips between his teeth. “It pains me, mileddy—”
“I am here.”
Greer turned toward the voice in glad expectation of every happiness, only to feel her warm smile freeze to her face like frost on a wildflower.
The man before her could not be her Ewan.
Nothing about the handsome, but severe man in the black silk suit—which, by the way needed tailoring to make it fit properly—was familiar. His hair was nearly white, not wheaten blond, as Ewan’s was in the miniature. True, hair color might dull with age or change with fashion, but Ewan’s eyes—the bright green of Crieff’s forest—would not have suffered a sea change to this man’s blue. The man before her was tall, to be sure, but not so tall and ungainly that he might frighten wee children, as Ewan’s had once joked he was.
And furthermore, no spark of welcome, no soft flare of recognition lighted his blue eyes. Everything was stiffness and unease. Everything was wrong.
“I’m afraid you have the better of me.” The man before her was as correctly polite and formal as if they were strangers. As if she did not already know the private longings of his heart, and he hers.
Papa drew himself up. “I am Lord Charles Douglas, Earl of Shee. My lady wife, Lady Flora Douglas, Countess of Shee. And this is our daughter, Lady Greer Douglas.”
Greer dropped into a deep curtsey because she had been raised to be everything polished and polite despite her brash nature, and because several other people, Crieff’s—and very soon her own—retainers had come out into the entry hall to gape at her in her clarty, blood-stained skirts. She would not falter. “My lord.”
“Oh, Lord,” was what the dark-suited man said in response. He drew in a sharp breath, as if to steady himself. “I see now. The betrothed.”
“Yes.” Why was he acting so strangely? What was wrong with him? “Were you not expecting us?”
An unwelcome, entirely disloyal thought jumped into her head—what if all his letters, all the words they had written to one another, all the sentiments she had cherished and practically memorized for the past ten years, were a lie? What if they were not two souls in perfect harmony? What if he had made it all up—the dry good humor and understanding and camaraderie?
What if he really didn’t like her?
But at her question, she saw a clenching along his jawline, a twinge at the corner of his red-rimmed eyes. And the patent discomfort in the thinned line of his mouth, which he opened and shut twice before he could find the words to speak. “I was not. Expecting you, that is. I am Malcolm Cameron.”
“Well, then.” For that short moment, Greer felt the sweetest relief—Ewan had not lied to her. His affection for her had been as true as hers for him. “Where is His Grace?”
This Malcolm Cameron spoke again. “It falls to me to tell you that I am now His Grace of Crieff.” He looked away, as if he did not want to meet her eyes, or Mama or Papa’s. As if he were trying to distance himself from whatever possible thing he was continuing to say. “I am very sorry to have to tell you that my cousin, Ewan Cameron, is dead.”
Lady Greer Douglas
Dalshee House
Perthshire, Scotland
8 October, 1784
Dear Lady Greer,
I have come to the appalling conclusion that I am not a man for travel. How I long to make haste far more slowly than the current speed of our travel. While my companions have found delight in every part of our journey, I must admit that every step away from Crieff feels a punishment. My companions—I gang on with three other sons of Scotland—Alasdair Colquhoun of Strathcairn, Archie Carrington of Aiken, and Rory Cathcart of Edinburgh—the Four Cees, we’ve taken to calling ourselves—tease me unmercifully, so I am forced to admit that I am an un-manfully poor sailor—I was wretchedly ill for the Channel crossing, which was prolonged due to contrary winds. The length of the journey only added to my agony, but did not cause it, as I was ill from the moment we were put on board.
You will be disappointed in me, for such poor sentiments I am sure, but thoughts of you, safe and solid in Dalshee, have been my solace. How I long to be walking the solid, unmoving hills with you, and not sailing the unhappy seas with Archie, Alasdair and Rory. But needs must, and I needs must become a gentleman of culture and learning worthy of both Crieff and you, so on I press.
From Calais we traversed narrow, dusty roads to Paris, and are now fairly comfortably ensconced in our new home—the hotel, or private mansion, of a friend of my grandfather (who also stayed here when he took his education) on the Rue Malebranche, which—the Malebranche—we are told laughingly, are demons depicted in Danté’s Inferno. Clearly there is so much we do not know, but must, if we are to survive, learn.
I trust that your days are spent more pleasantly—oh, please tell me they are.
Yr. svt. E. Cameron
Lord Ewan Cameron
7 Rue Malebranche
Faubourg St. Michel
Paris, France
12 November, 1784
Dear Lord Cameron,
Poor Ewan. I am sorry for your distress. I have decided that while you send me all the news of your travels ~ which I long to make ~ I shall send you all the news of your longed-for hills of home.
This morning, I took a very long ride atop my pony Dunnie ~ I hope you like that name, for he is a brown, mischievous imp ~ all the way up the solid, unmoving mass of Glas Maol for you.
The wind was wild and wet, and everything inhospitable, but still I kept on with the Ghillie Jock Keith laying ahead, feeling that I would be disappointing you if I turned back. And so I was rewarded, for as we crested the top, the clouds lifted and the sun seemed to shine straight down upon us. And from there I could see for miles and miles, all the way across the glen and the high moorland loch to Crieff land. I held the sight of the green, green braeside ~ green is quite my favorite color now, you know ~ to my heart, so you might know it is cherished in your absence.
Please know me to be,
Your friend always, Greer Douglas
Chapter 4
He was jolted back to painful reality by a rough hand to his shoulder. “Are ye still wi’ me, lad?”
It was day, though the light was fading, and he was therefore still alive.
And he was damn thirsty. God but he was hot.
He roused himself to speak, but the voice that came from his mouth was nothing but a whispered croak—a parched frog at the edge of a dried-up pond. He let out a curse that was more moan than words.
“Aye, lad. Ye’ve the right o’ it.” The familiar, craggy face of the man he had come to think of as his savior swam into focus above him. “But yer safe here. I’ll see tae ye.”
As he’d no idea where in hell here might be, or how the devil he had come there, he simply made a frustrated sound of assent—this wizened auld man had kept him alive, and therefore must know what
he was about.
“Ye come an’ go a fair bit,” the fellow observed. “How’s the pain?”
“Pure louping,” he tried to say. But the words came out of his mouth garbled and nearly unintelligible to his own ears.
But the man seemed to understand the gist of it. “Get a bit o’ this in tae ye.” The auld fellow dipped a spoon in a steaming cup and dribbled some onto his lips. “Willow bark in broth. For the pain.”
He sucked the liquid in. Hell mend him, but it was braw—warm and salty and damn near life-giving. He wanted to speak, to thank the fellow, but all he could seem to do was make a sound of inarticulate thanks.
“Ne’er ye woory, lad. I’ll see tae ye.” The savior fellow’s large hand came to rest briefly on his shoulder. “Ye’ll do. They may have thought they boxed and buried ye. But we ken better don’t we? It’ll take a vast deal more than that tae kill Crieff, eh?”
The word caught in his brain and ricocheted around like a bullet.
He wet his lips so he might speak. “Crieff?”
“Aye.” His craggy savior stopped and peered at him, hard and probing. “Yer Crieff.” And then the auld fellow’s eyes widened. “Devil set us all on fire. Do ye no ken who ye are?”
It ought to have sprung to his lips, his name. It ought to have been there, obvious and waiting on the tip of his tongue. But here was nothing. Nothing when he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing when he tried to turn his mind inward and search his thoughts.
There was nothing beyond the beginning of the pain.
His skin began to crawl with something colder than the chill—fear, like an icicle dripping onto his chest.
The hard old man tried a softer question. “Lad, do ye ken who I am?
“Brought me here,” he said with difficulty. The words sounded gnashed between his teeth.
“Aye, lad. I did bring ye here. Damn, but I fear yer brain’s been sadly disordered—ye took quite a blow.” The auld fellow gave him a twisted, nearly impish smile. “Though a lad with a thinner skull might not have survived.”
“But I will.” He gritted the words out. He would survive. Damn him if he wouldn’t. “Your name.”
“Dewar. I’m yer man.” Dewar gripped his hand hard. “Never doubt it. I’ll see you healed up if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Aye.” He wanted to joke that he hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing either of them did, but the words whirled across his brain like storm clouds, roiling in the ether above. Only one word was important enough to stick in his brain and come quickly off his gnarled tongue. “Crieff.”
But he would learn the other words. He would learn and remember them all. Damned if he wouldn’t. “More.”
At his request, Dewar spooned some more broth into his mouth. “Aye, best get as much in tae ye as we can afore the doctor gets ’ere. I’ll have tae cut yer ruint claes off so he can have a look at ye. It’ll no’ be a comfortable thing being bound up, I reckon.”
Comfort was a moveable thing. Comfort would be learning to drink without having to have liquid spooned into his mouth like a wee bairn. Comfort would be finding a way through the darkness of his brain. Comfort would be locating his memories in whatever dusty, forgotten corner of his brain they were hidden, and reclaiming them as his own.
As Crieff. Whoever, wherever, or whatever that was.
But that was what he would do. He would find his bloody way back if he had to fight every inch of the way. He would survive.
He lost track of time until a second grim-faced man appeared above him—the doctor Dewar had warned him about. “Ye’ve made a good start.”
In another moment a warm cloth began to bathe his face and neck and arms and hands. Every inch of him was exposed, but the warm wetness turned cool in the air—a blessing against the uncomfortably tight heat burning under his skin.
“Who is he?” The new fellow, younger than Dewar, but just as grimly serious.
“One o’ my lads,” Dewar’s gruff familiar voice answered. “Nobody special.”
Nobody special. The words—and the accompanying sense of loss—hit him deep, carving him out. He was nobody.
And yet—he was somebody enough that someone had tried to kill him.
The thought gave little comfort.
“He’s taken a hell o’ a beating,” the doctor observed. “Who in this village would beat a mon so badly his own brother’d be dashed tae recognize him? Heavy boots, I reckon, from the look o’ these bruises—a kicking vicious enough tae break three, probably four ribs, as well as his nose. Though who knows? From the look of his hands, he might’a given ’em as good as he got.”
“Not much of a fighter, our lad, though he were built fae it. Too kind, ’e is. Wouldn’t think tae use ’is fives ’til it were too late.”
“Our lad? Know ’im that well, do ye?”
“Well enough, I reckon,” the old fellow muttered, even as he patted his shoulder in solace.
He felt another portion of relief sag through him, quieting the shallow desperation shoaling his breath. Whoever he was, special or not, this man Dewar knew him. Even if he no longer knew himself.
“I can’t feel as there’s any bones broken in his skull, tho’ his scalp’s mashed tae a bloody mess.” He felt the doctor’s fingers sifting through his hair, cutting away. “There’s silt and grasses in his hair. Where’d ye say ye found ’im?”
“I didn’t,” was Dewar’s terse reply before he relented. “’E were found on the road by ’er young ladyship Douglas of Dalshee.”
Dalshee. This word, too, echoed around in his head like the shout from a distant moor top, growing fainter with every repetition, until it was blotted out completely by the obliterating agony of being turned over.
“What d’ye think?”
He couldn’t think. He couldn’t fathom anything much but the hard plank of the table beneath his cheek. He couldn’t remember what had happened before. How he had been in the road or came to this place.
“He’ll be some time healing.”
“But he’ll heal.” Dewar’s words were a declaration—a statement of intent.
“Too soon tae tell,” the doctor cautioned.
He mustered every last ounce of his strength and wherewithal. “I will.”
He would will it so. He tried to recall that fragment of an image, that memory as thin and insubstantial as a cobweb—a bridge, and woman, as bright as a penny in his palm.
But there was nothing more. Nothing but the agony in his head. And the single word that kept repeating itself over and over in his brain—Crieff.
Lady Greer Douglas
Dalshee House
Perthshire, Scotland
20 December, 1784
Dear Lady G,
Thanking you for your last. I will own that Paris is not as bad as I had feared, but mostly because my studies keep me too busy to sulk, and my companions are too jolly to admit any low spirits from me. With them, I find it easier and easier to bear the separation from home. To celebrate the Yuletide season, Rory has arranged for us all to sit for portraits, each to be sent home as a gift to our families. He has charmed the favorite of the Queen—a woman artiste of some renown—to be our portraitist. After a few awkward sessions, I begin to enjoy the quiet of the posing for Mme. Vigée-LeBrun, who is both captivating and clever, and whom I think you should like very much. But we will see when the portrait is finished how captivating and clever she has been. But in the meantime, Madame bids me gift you with this—
Wishing you the joy of the season, your servant, E. Cameron
Lord Ewan Cameron
7 Rue Malebranche
Faubourg St. Michel
Paris
28 January, 1785
Dear Lord Cameron,
I hope you passed the Christmas season in the same comfort and joy you have given to me with the gift of the miniature copy of your portrait. It is now my most treasured possession, though now I must worry about all the captivating and clever women you must be meeting.
And so I feel obliged to warn you that in your absence ~ and perhaps in wanting to be more perfectly united with you in clever, scholarly pursuits ~ I have grown bookish. Mama is constantly telling me to put away my book or I shall ruin my eyes, but Papa has thrown open his library in sympathy.
What a world there are inside books! Mama says I must tell you so you may inform me if you object to a bookish wife, but I fear, my lord, that the damage is already done, and my mind is already quite improved, and I do not want going back.
Still, I will await your opinion on the matter (though I have already quite made up my mind!).
Your devoted friend, Lady Greer D.
Chapter 5
It cannot be.”
It couldn’t be true. Ewan couldn’t be dead. She had his letter. It had all been arranged—today was the day she and Ewan would finally wed.
Ewan could not possibly be dead.
She would have known, would have felt the wound, surely, if something had happened to him. She was closer to Ewan that to any other person under creation. She had waited so many years to be ready, to be worthy of him—he could not now be snatched away at the last.
She would demand that this impostor tell her the truth.
But Malcolm Cameron’s silence—his awful growing silence—cut as hollow as a blade. He looked at the ground—anywhere but at her—before he finally steeled himself to meet her eyes. “I’m afraid it’s true.”
The reality hit her like a scythe, cutting her down even as she put out her hand and shook her head to deny it once more. “Nay. Please.” She felt her knees give way.
MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4) Page 3