MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4)

by Elizabeth Essex

  But could she still not be who she was meant to be, and do the things she wanted to do in her life, without being married? Without Crieff? Could she not find happiness in running Dalshee, which was always intended to be her dower property to pass to one of her children, should she and Ewan have been lucky enough to be blessed with them?

  It seemed, if not impossible, then impossibly dreary, to try to find purpose and pleasure in her life, despite this gaping loss, this devastating change. There would never be another man for her like Ewan—it would be foolish to think to try to find one. Theirs had been too close a friendship, too special a bond. How could she ever come to know another so well?

  The moor made no answer, but the smell of ashes—of all her burnt hopes and dreams—filled her head. But no, it was only a whiff of wood smoke, borne to her on the wind. But from where? She was too far away from the Castle for the acrid smoke to have come from Crieff.

  Greer put a hand to her brow to shade her eyes and looked through the tall plumes of the pines, to find the thin wisp of smoke inking its way heavenward from a snug cottage.

  It looked, from the pony cart still hitched in front of the cottage, to be the moorkeeper’s. A second glance told her the cart was not Dewar’s, but was a doctor’s gig, with all the chests for medicines and the like built in. Dewar must have brought the lad there.

  She was struck again by the ridiculously improbable coincidence of it all—this man from Crieff found barely alive just when Ewan—whose body had not been recovered—had been declared dead.

  Her logical mind rebelled at the idea it could be a coincidence, and her heart wanted to take up nothing less than armed revolt. It could be him. Until she saw Ewan’s body, she would not be satisfied.

  The impulse to turn that way, to involve herself, was nearly impossible to resist. The distance was nearly a mile, she judged, on the other side of the burn that ran down through the trees—and the castle lay in the opposite direction. But still, if she made good time, she might check in with Dewar before they needed to press home.

  “Come, Gent.” Greer picked up her skirts and hastened down the path, determined to have her way. But when she arrived, hot-faced, windblown and grief-stricken, at the crossing of the path that would lead from the Castle to the cottage, the wee dog set up barking at Malcolm Cameron, who stood at the edge of the gravel forecourt as if he were waiting for her.

  He tried to chase the dog away. “Be gone.” But when she neared, he raised his hand in companionable greeting, though he kept his eye on the fractious dog. “I saw you racing down the hillside from the window of the library. That dress is very eye-catching and becoming. It suits your coloring.”

  While it was generally a rather nice thing to be flattered and fed compliments, her head was too full of loss—of the fact that this was to be her wedding dress, and that it was soiled with blood and dirt, which strangely Cameron did not remark upon—to be properly receptive to his pretty blandishments. Her eyes were still too red and itchy with tears. And undoubtedly her nose and eyes matched her hair, so raw were they from weeping.

  In short, she knew she looked a fright.

  “Wheesht, Gent.” She called the dog to heel and addressed Cameron. “You are very kind, but I must press if I am to visit the moorkeeper before we make for home this evening.” She gestured to the clouds beginning to pile up from the west. “I fear it’s coming on to rain rather hard shortly.”

  “Is it?” He frowned up at the sky. “You’ll know better than I, of course—I’m no countryman to be scrying the weather.” He backed up a pace or two, as if the idea of the highland storm were enough to send him running back to the safety of the house.

  “Are you new, then, to the Highlands?” she asked to make some conversation. Such a circumstance might explain why she had not heard of this cousin from Ewan.

  “I am new to it all—Crieff, the castle, the estate, the dukedom. All rather beyond me, I’m afraid.” He smiled awkwardly, trying to ingratiate himself. “Which I will claim for my excuse in acting so badly this morning. I should have broken the news to you more gently. Clearly, I am at a loss in such grave matters.”

  “I am happy to help you,” she said before she could think what she meant. She really didn’t want to help him, particularly, but she had been trained in such matters. She was the heiress of Dalshee in her own right and had been raised to be a duchess. She had been taught to think critically and educated in all the disciplines needed to manage vast estates—agriculture, animal husbandry, forestry, geology, geography She liked to think she had been as well prepared as any Old Etonian or St. Andrew’s Magistrand. And if there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was timidity of purpose.

  “I thank you. There is so much to be done at Crieff, and without a wife to help me through the difficulties…” He let his thought trail off. “Until such happy day, I would welcome your greater experience in matters of estate management.”

  Something about his appeal made her uneasy—why should he appeal to her, when her father could more properly advise him? As could his staff—Ewan had told her how he had relied upon them in the period after his grandfather, the old duke, had died. “I thank you for the compliment you do me, Your Grace, but I should advise you to turn to MacIntosh, or Mrs. Peddie—the housekeeper,” she clarified at his blank look, “—who know better how things are traditionally to be done here.”

  “I daresay,” Cameron agreed evenly, though he was clearly chagrinned at such an obvious answer—two high spots of color heated his cheeks. “Clearly you are far more conversant with the staff here at Crieff, than I. So, I should like to seek your counsel, if I may, on a more private and delicate matter of taste, such as the service and burial for my cousin.”

  “Oh, gracious,” Greer said because she could not think of anything else to say to such a strangely intimate appeal. “You could plant a rose,” she added, and immediately wished she had not.

  She ought to be the one to plant such a rose. Ewan had likely never told anyone else that he himself had planted rose bushes—one for each of his parents, as well as for his grandfather—so that the shoots could grow entwined in the hillside plot where generations of Crieff ancestors had been buried. She should do the same for Ewan.

  But it mattered not who did the deed—only that it was done. A climbing rose, naturally, as Ewan had often remarked upon his towering height.

  “Yes, of course.” Cameron was all graceful concession. “Thank you for that suggestion. I am honored by your insight and shall see that it done.”

  “Well then.” She attempted a smile for politeness’s sake, but knew it was likely more of a grimace. But it was the best she might do, under the present circumstances—talking about a memorial for her lost beloved.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t detain you any longer.” Cameron stepped back with his hand across his chest in apology, to clear the way for her. “Forgive me.”

  “I thank you.” She could not help but feel for him, and his situation which she had to acknowledge was so painfully close to hers—they had both lost someone very dear to them. “I know this must be a difficult time for you as well.”

  He touched his hand to his chest in a heartfelt gesture. “Thank you. It is. There is no good way to bear or receive such bad news.”

  “No,” she agreed. “I fear not. How did you find out”—she forced herself to use the correct address—“Your Grace?”

  He seemed relieved to be able to talk about what must have been a trying circumstance. “In…in Edinburgh. I called for Ewan there, you see, only to find he had gone out and not come back.” He shook his head at the sad wonder of it. “He never did come home.”

  Greer willed the tears to stay hidden behind her eyes, even as she answered. “It is very hard.”

  “Yes. Out with his friends, those disreputable fellows—” He did not finish whatever he had been about to say. But it was no less than she herself had thought about any friends that would not take care of one of their number.


  Malcolm Cameron sighed and looked about him, and back at the Castle. “And now Crieff must be my home. It is all so strange and…difficult.”

  It was difficult for all of them. “Time, they say, heals all wounds,” she ventured, though she disliked such platitudes—if time was to heal her wounds, it would be because she had taken every step to help it along, distracting herself from the loss with good works and better thoughts. “I am sure that you will feel more at home as you become accustomed to your new responsibilities.” Ewan’s responsibilities—the responsibilities he would have shared with her. Responsibilities she would have taken on with her eyes closed and one arm held behind her back.

  But it was not Malcolm Cameron’s fault that he had not been raised and educated to be a duke, though he seemed to feel the lack of training acutely. “Thank you,” he said with a stiff nod. “You are very kind, and under difficult circumstances.”

  She acknowledged the compliment with a simple nod. “I suppose we are under the same difficult circumstances. We neither of us could have planned this.”

  “No,” he concurred. “But we can make the best of it, as he would wish. I admired him, greatly, you know.”

  Such welcome sentiments helped plaster up the cracks in her wounded heart. “As did I.”

  This time, his quiet smile was genuine. “We are united in our grief.”

  Greer could not help but be moved. “Thank you. Your cousin was a great friend to me. I was quite attached to him and will miss him deeply.”

  This surprised him a little—his dark eyebrows lofted like black grouse wings for the barest fraction of a moment before his face regained its pale, solemn visage. “I had not imagined such a friendship possible,” he remarked.

  “Friendship between a man and a woman? Or a friendship with one’s betrothed?”

  “Both, I suppose. Either.”

  “I don’t think either your late cousin or I could have imagined marrying someone who was not a friend. When we became betrothed, we set out to become the best of friends—confidants even. As a result, I trusted him implicitly.”

  He understood her lesson immediately. “You will only marry a man who is your friend.”

  “Aye. Just so.” Greer regarded him evenly, willing him to really understood. “My own parents are an example of just such a match—mutual affection and respect govern their conduct, and as a result, all is harmony and peace.”

  “Harmony and peace.” He said the words with the same touch of disbelief as he had ‘friendship.’ As if they were even more improbable—a grail long sought, but impossible to drink from.

  “It is possible,” she assured him. “It is more than possible—it is necessary.”

  “Then I shall know what I have to do.” He smiled a little, and then bowed. “May I escort you back in?”

  Greer strove for more polite patience—it had been a trying day for them all. “I was first going to visit—” But before she could relate the improbable coincidence of the man in the road, she caught sight of the moorkeeper, Dewar, turning his pony from the path, as if he didn’t want to disturb them.

  But here was a chance for better news, after all. “Good day, Dewar,” she hailed him.

  “Mileddy.” The moorkeeper reined the pony to a halt before he tugged his cap to Malcolm Cameron. “Yer Grace.”

  “I wanted to inquire after the injured man,” Greer said as she walked back toward him. “To see how he gets on.”

  “What man?” Cameron asked from behind.

  “Local lad, Yer Grace,” Dewar explained with an offhand wave. “Accident up the moor.”

  There was something sharp and uncomfortable about Dewar’s tone that sent Greer’s attention prickling under her skin—they had found the injured man on the road to the village, not up on the moorside.

  But perhaps Dewar was a just a prickly, private sort, as Highlanders often were—long hours alone on the moor rarely made a man a brilliant conversationalist.

  She would help him along. “Were you able to fetch a doctor for the lad?” She used Dewar’s word, though it seemed strange to call so large and obviously grown a fellow a lad.

  “Aye, mileddy.” Dewar nodded, and then touched his cap and adjusted the reins to move along, as if their conversation were at an end.

  Greer put a hand to the pony’s bridle to stop him, but the movement brought the wee dog out from behind her skirts and to the attention of the moorkeeper. “Ah! There ’ee is.” The old fellow’s relief and delight were evident in the crinkled corners of his eyes. “Been lookin’ for’ im for days. Did ye find him, mileddy?”

  “Gent was loose up on the moor.” She did not try to censor the chiding tone of her voice.

  “Was that my cousin’s dog?” Cameron asked.

  “Aye,” she answered Cameron. “But I’m the one who named him Gent, so I should like to keep him, if I may, Your Grace.”

  Dewar, who couldn’t know her association with the wee animal, looked none too happy at the suggestion. “I’d rather keep ’im—valuable stud dog, well trained.”

  Cameron ignored Dewar’s comment, and smiled at Greer. “Then I shall make him a gift to you.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She took the dog in her arms and turned her attention back to the moorkeeper. “And the injured fellow, is he doing somewhat better, I hope?”

  “Eh, weel…” The moorkeeper pulled a wry, unhappy face.

  It was like fishing for salmon in the Shee Water, talking to Dewar—one had to keep trying until one found the right bait. “I thought I saw the doctor’s gig at your cottage?”

  Dewar’s craggy face seemed to harden into gray stone. “Ah, weel, mileddy.”

  The answer may no sense. “Is it a matter of the fee? I’ll bear the cost if there is something more that might be done.”

  “Nay. There is naught more can be done, mileddy.” Dewar took his hat off, and then looked her in the eye. “He’s passed.”

  “Passed?” A chill blew across her skin like an ill wind. “Oh, no.” Not again. Not another. The grief she had held at bay was like a hole hidden in the path—one never knew if one was about to step into it and wrench one’s ankle. Pain wrung its twisted way through her. “I had so hoped.”

  “No, mileddy.” Dewar softened his voice, but his tone was emphatic. “He’s passed on, the lad has. Died.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry.” She felt hollowed out by this fresh unhappy news—by this unexpected return to aching loss.

  Malcolm Cameron appeared at her elbow for support. “Did you know this lad?”

  “No. But…” Greer found herself giving much the same answer as she had earlier to his question about Ewan. And with just as much sorrowful confusion. “We just…” She took a deep breath and tried again. “We found him in the roadway, my parents and I, and tried to do our best for him. And then Dewar came along, and recognized him for a local fellow, and took over the care of him.”

  “A local fellow?” Malcolm Cameron shifted his gaze sharply to the moorkeeper. “From Crieff? Ought I to know who he was? And what happened?”

  “A ghillie, Yer Grace.” Dewar addressed his laird with solemn courtesy. “Hunting accident. It’s wilderness up these glens. Dangerous wild lands. One misstep…” Dewar let the ominous warning die away unspoken.

  Wild, yes, but dangerous? Greer supposed it must be so to people who had not lived there all their lives—to strangers like Cameron. Still, a ghillie was a guide who ought to have had significant hill-craft, and a superior understanding of the mountains, moorsides and glens.

  And they hadn’t found him up the moor—he had been on the road near the village.

  It didn’t quite make sense. “But are you quite sure? He seemed—”

  “Dead, mistress.” Dewar was as final as final could be. “Gone.”

  The blow struck far harder than it should for a stranger she had merely chanced upon. “So sad,” she found herself saying to fill the yawning gulf of hollowness inside. “So much death.” A sigh wrung itself out of
her aching lungs. “Life is so very fragile, is it not?

  “Aye.” Malcolm Cameron reached out, to touch her hand in support and understanding. “Aye, that it is.”

  Lady Greer Douglas

  Dalshee House

  Perthshire, Scotland

  18 October, 1785

  Dear Lady G,

  Paris begins to grow on me—like a moss on the back of Scottish granite. The city is fascinating and beautiful in a way that I had not imagined a city could be—it is spacious and grand and civilized in a way that neither London, nor certainly Edinburgh could ever be. And every day, with every sight, I think my Lady Greer would delight in Paris even more than I. I think you should come here.

  Perhaps the earl and countess would delight in the journey as well, although I know your father, the Earl of Shee’s devotion to his lands is well known and may keep him from thinking of so many months away. But perhaps in the spring after the planting is done would be a perfect time for him to bring you all here, for I find myself anxious to see you. Pray tell him I advise it. I will await your response.

  Yours, EC

  Lord Ewan Cameron

  7 Rue Malebranche

  Faubourg St. Michel

  Paris

  14 January, 1786

  Dear Lord E,

  Papa says that sixteen is still too young for a grand tour of my own, and must make do with yours for now, and content myself with reading of such places. It is of course his ‘for now’ which gives me hope that one day in the future I will be allowed see the boulevards of Paris and attend the opera there. And with you, whom I am anxious to see as well!

  How I long to travel and see such spectacles! Such passion and drama! I have only been to Edinburgh at Christmas, where there were only concerts, but I purchased some music of young Herr Mozart that I like very much. Have you been to the opera yet? Pray go as soon as you are able, so you may tell me all about it when you come home.