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

by Elizabeth Essex

  Oh, when shall you come back to Crieff? It is strange to be so apart from one another. I feel as though I miss you when you are so far away. But I am being nonsensical ~ as Mama often tells me I am. And yet I find myself quite in love with you, all the same, and I long for just one kiss from your lips. Pray don’t tell a single soul I said so, or I shall never be allowed to meet you before we are married. Until then, I remain,

  Your Greer

  Chapter 7

  Devil break down the door, lad.” The auld man’s voice, low and laced with urgency, roused him from a fitful sleep. “As soon as the sun sets, we’ve tae hide ye away.”

  “Aye?” He was too uncomfortable and exhausted to feel alarm. Wrapped in bandages and a thick wool tartan, the movement of trying to push himself up made his head swim, and he had to close his eyes to stave off the pounding in his brain before he could get his breath back.

  Dewar was immediately at his side, propping him up. “We’ve got tae get ye out o’ here, lad, and take ye where no one can find ye. Can ye stand on yer own?”

  A grunt sufficed to tell him not bloody likely.

  “We’ll manage,” Dewar assured him. “But we’ve tae shift ye out o’ here, away frae pryin’ eyes. Come, lad, ye can trust me to see ye don’t fall.”

  He had no choice but to trust the auld fellow—there was simply no one else. “Where?” Words seemed to get easier the more he spoke. Or perhaps he was just getting used to the harsh, wounded way he sounded.

  “Up the moor, I reckon,” Dewar gestured with his gnarled thumb. “There’s an auld bothy up the last glen, on t’far side o’ Crieff land, close by Glas Maol on Dalshee. The glen’s a good twelve miles out, and empty, so ye’ll be safe enough there ’til we can get ye braw enough to sort th’ business out.”

  Glas Maol—another place name that bounded around in his brain, clamoring in the emptiness, along with Crieff and Dalshee.

  Dewar had no time for his scattered remembrances. “Get some o’ this in tae ye.” Dewar shoved a cup with that brilliant bitter mixture of willow bark tea and whisky into his cramped and bruised hands.

  He managed a few good gulps while Dewar scrounged around the bed chamber to find clothing for him. “I warrant my claes’ll be too short for ye, but yer own are naught but rags, and we’ve no time tae get larger kicks.”

  “Aye.” What little dignity remained to him goaded him through the slow, painful process of dressing himself as best he could in a rough linen shirt, a leather jerkin and a pair of thick wool breeches—when he got his long legs into the breeks, his bare legs and feet stuck out like empty winter branches.

  “Weel, they didn’t beat th’ height out o’ ye,” Dewar joked. “I’ll have tae see what might be done tae cage ye some larger claes from the Castle later on. But for now—up ye git.” The wiry auld coot inserted himself under his shoulder and levered him up. “That’s it, lad. Easy now.”

  A wave of pain and weakness swamped him, but Dewar held fast, and together they shuffled in slow progress to the door, where he had to rest against the thick, sturdy doorframe for a long moment before he could make for low-sided wooden cart with the stoic highland pony in harness.

  “Steady, lad, steady. Back yer way in, lad, and then push back so’s yer legs are stretched out.”

  He did as instructed, coming to sit on a pallet of hay lining the narrow well of the cart. And they were off, heading away from the cottage into the falling dusk.

  He sat facing backwards, so he couldn’t mark the way, but there was clear, clean sky above him with the smell of pine forest filling his senses, and the whisper of the wind through the trees filling the emptiness in his head and ears. Heaven.

  Under his back, a wagon creaked and rattled across rutted tracks, tossing him to and fro on the pallet Dewar had made to try and shield him from the roughness of the journey. But there was no softening the ride. And no blunting the pain.

  Despite the laced tea, the ache was omnipresent, burrowing into the hollows of his bones, leaving him alternately scalding hot and mercilessly cold. As the hours wore on, he kept himself tethered to the world by cataloguing the more insistent aches and pangs within him—the back of his head, and those broken ribs the doctor had mentioned.

  Damned if he hadn’t had the complete stuffing kicked out of him with those wicked boots the man with the blade had worn.

  There it was, a picture in his sad, mad brain—a pair of down-at-heel hessian boots flecked with mud. And a dirk. Grating against the pavement like an announcement of intent.

  An intent to kill him. “Murder.”

  Dewar hauled the pony to a hasty stop. “What say ye, lad?”

  He spat the words, like the taste of blood from his mouth. “T’was murder.”

  “Devil spare ye.” Dewar nodded in understanding. “But they failed, aye? Didn’t count on ye bein’ as hard an’ strong an’ stubborn as these hills.”

  “Aye.” It was good to hear he was hard and stubborn—he would need such otherwise dubious qualities to see him through.

  The news helped him breathe easier, despite his broken ribs. The tapestry of sounds from the moor gave him comfort—the wind picking up over the fir trees and heather, brought a waft of something sweet and fragrant on the wind. He inhaled again, breathing in the ease, wrapping it around him like a blanket.

  The cart drew to a halt, the resting jangle of harness tack sharp and over-loud in the sweeping quiet. “We’re here, lad.”

  He gritted his teeth against the pain that came as Dewar helped haul him upright. Waves of nausea battered at him like a storm. But somehow he moved. Or they moved, Dewar propping him up to shuffle a few steps, and then a few more, until they arrived at the darkened doorway by sheer dint of will.

  “I’m pure done in,” he panted.

  “Let’s gie ye down, lad.” Dewar levered him toward the slab of rock that made a bench next to the door of the south-facing stone bothy. “We’ll gie ye the last bit o’ sun afore it sets.”

  It took some superior maneuvering on Dewar’s part, and some superior swearing on his own, but eventually they made their shuffling way to the crude bench, whereupon he let his nerveless legs collapse beneath him.

  “God almightily,” he cursed. “I’m weak as watered whisky.”

  “Ha!” Dewar mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Weel, that’s two things in yer favor—ye know what good whisky is, and ye’ve no’ lost yer sense o’ humor.”

  “Managed to lose all else.”

  Dewar shrugged. “We’ve yet to see how much. But I reckon it’ll just take time tae suss it all out.”

  Dewar left to trundle goods—the thick straw pallet from the cottage, as well as a heavy cast-iron pot full of savory broth—until the last of the warmth from the day gave out.

  “Come, lad, gie up.” Dewar seized hold of his wrist, wrapped his other arm around his waist, and levered him to his feet.

  They worked their way up and over the low threshold, whereupon he collapsed down into a stout oaken chair while Dewar poked up the low burning fire.

  “This’ll give ye light and comfort. But best to bank it durin’ th’ day,” the man instructed, “lest anyone smell the smoke and come pokin’ around. Though no one should be up on this side o’ th’ moor this time o’ year.”

  “Aye, I ken.” He could work to recover himself in privacy and peace.

  “Good, lad.” Dewar rose and patted his sore shoulder. “Ye’ve done the hard part and can rest.”

  Rest—it was all he could do to breathe.

  “I’ll be back every day,” Dewar went on. “Or as near to it as can be managed. I’ve left ye plenty o’ food—soft cheese and bread, and a stout broth in the pot. Just keep it simmering.”

  “I will do,” he answered. He reckoned he could manage that.

  “Stay close. Hide yourself away in here should anyone come. But no one will—there’s nothing round for miles and miles. You’ll be safe enough ’ere.” The fellow moved toward the low door and paused. “Will ye
mind, do ye think, bein’ alone for a spell?”

  He could work to build up his broken body without anyone watching his wretched madness. He could practice the mangled words without anyone hearing. “Nay.”

  “Right then.” The fellow turned back from the door. “D’ye ken where y’are, lad?”

  “Aye.” No matter that he was most of the way up a moorside, he was home. “Crieff”

  “Aye, lad. And ye are Crieff.” Dewar grasped his hand again in one last heartfelt grip. “Remember that if nothin’ else, as we puzzle this out. And when we do, by God, we’re going tae make the bastards that done this tae ye—tae Crieff—pay.”

  Lady Greer Douglas

  Dalshee House

  Perthshire, Scotland

  11 March, 1786

  Dear Lady Greer,

  At your suggestion my companions and I have taken ourselves to the opera house to hear—and see—a performance of Iphigenia in Tauris by the famous Herr Gluck. We felt ourselves passably pleased with the performance, though we are told by ears more discerning that ours that the opera is a wild success, and the French esteem it highly. I do think that you—with your love of drama—would enjoy seeing the Greek mythologies played out in musical spectacle. I liked it better thinking of your enjoyment. Perhaps I shall go to the opera again for yo, and find something by your young Herr Mozart.

  Which means, of course, that you shall have to make another pilgrimage to the top of Glas Maol. For which favor I send you an imaginary kiss. I hope it shall suffice until a real one is available.

  Yours, EC

  Lord Ewan Cameron

  7 Rue Malebranche

  Faubourg St. Michel

  Paris

  26 June, 1786

  Dearest Lord E,

  I will certainly give you your wish to visit Glas Maol. In fact, I do it now ~ I have brought pen and paper in a satchel, and after the long climb, am finally sitting in what I have come to think of as our spot, atop the outcropping of bounders looking from the top of the hill across the loch toward Crieff. The soft breeze is blowing sweet heather dust up from the south, and I can hear the capercaillies nattering at each other from the woodland below. You are quite right to think of this spot as heaven on this earth, and I will keep it ready for your return. Or at least until news of another opera! But I accept with vast pleasure your imaginary kiss and send you back one of my own. More than one, if I’m honest, for you shall have all my kisses, always. Until we meet to kiss in person, I remain,

  Your devoted friend, GD

  Chapter 8

  Greer sprang up from the depths of sleep in an instant, her heart pounding like her mare’s hooves on her chest. Awoken from a vivid dream of him.

  Of Ewan.

  It was not the first time in the fortnight that had passed since his death that she had dreamt of Ewan—her girlish fantasies of her betrothed had taken many different forms over the years—but this was the first in which she had seen his face, and known it was he. She knew him to be tall and braw, and blond—she had had these descriptions of Ewan from others, as well as from her miniature.

  But in the dream, it was the kindness in his eyes by which she had recognized him.

  In her dream, they had been together in Paris, walking in a sunny, light-filled garden, arm in arm. She had turned to him, and known he was her husband because of the feeling of abiding rightness and sweetness that had filled her being. And they had kissed, his lips pressing to hers and opening her mouth, filling her with the feel of his tongue tangling intimately with hers. She had pressed herself to his body, strong and warm, clasping her hands around his wide shoulders. And she had felt wonderful and full to her brim and blissfully happy.

  But now she was awake.

  And he was not to be her husband, and he never would be.

  Ewan was gone.

  Greer reached for the stack of letters she had read late into the night, which were now scattered across the counterpane and onto the floor. There, on the rug next to the bed, was his last letter, crushed and smudged by the clutch of her hand.

  Yes. Let us be wed in two days’ time—nothing could make me happier.

  Nothing could make her happy now.

  Loss was like stepping in a hole she had not marked, twisting her heart instead of her ankle—hobbling her just the same, until she could do nothing. Nothing would change the past, and nothing could fix the future.

  Greer’s eyes felt hot and itchy from the tears she had cried until there were no tears left to wet the pillow. But the letters which recounted his travels and stretched across the years reminded her that there were others who loved Ewan at least as much as she had. Others who had known him just as long. Others who might have been with him that fateful night in Edinburgh.

  She ought to write to them and ask them what had happened. What had gone so very wrong?

  But at that moment, she couldn’t summon the resolve to even get out of bed. Instead, she reached under her pillow for the reassurance of the miniature that was never far from her hand. It was real—as real as her regard and love for Ewan had been. And it was all she had left.

  “Greer, darling.” Mama’s gentle but insistent voice prodded her out from under the covers. “Enough, my love. You must rise. You must…try. The flowers of one’s accomplishments cannot grow unless they are watered.”

  “I know, Mama. Into every life some rain must fall.” Greer knew her Mama’s lectures by heart—she would just have to see this particularly stormy season out.

  “Perhaps it might be best to put away the picture, and have something substantial to eat? Too much grief,” Mama continued to caution, “is…too much.”

  “It has been less than a fortnight, Mama.”

  “Aye, my dearest. But life does go on. And you are a young woman with responsibilities here at Dalshee, even if you will no longer have any at Crieff.”

  Mama was right—she had been avoiding her responsibilities, anything that felt like work. Mostly because it was too hard to concentrate on anything for longer than a short while. “I will apply myself, I promise.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Mama’s smile was both relieved and adamant. “Let me help you get dressed.”

  Half an hour later, she joined her parents in the breakfast room.

  “Still nothing—no notice in the Edinburgh papers,” Papa groused. “I’ll have to speak to Cameron about how things are to be done.” Her Papa looked up from his newspaper to smile at her. “Ah, Greer. Good to see you up and about, my dear.” He passed her a letter across the breakfast table. “See what you can make of this.”

  Greer took the missive addressed to the Earl of Shee and leafed to the signature on the last page. “Malcolm Cameron. What does he want?”

  “To sell me a piece of Crieff farmland.”

  “Arable land? I thought all such land was entailed upon the estate?” Greer had read—and understood—all the fine points of her marriage settlements.

  “When you read his offer, you will see that he says the field he seeks to sell is outside of the entail—thought I have my doubts—and is not accruing necessary profit.”

  Greer applied herself to reading the letter, making note with her finger where she stopped. “This land he’s talking about is on the south end of the upland loch, where it is protected from the wind, and is making no profit?”

  “So he says.” Papa’s tone was everything skeptical. “The last I recall, William Cameron—His Grace’s grandfather—had always sowed those four hectares with high quality barley that had always been slated for use in Crieff’s distillery.”

  “Has it been cut?” Greer asked. “But what would Crieff use for their distillery if they have no barley? This figure he names is too steep, even with a crop. And he certainly can’t think to sell it fallow for that price?”

  Her father shook his head. “I can’t imagine what he is thinking.”

  Greer weighed the possibilities. “He did say that the management of the estate was a bit beyond him—that he had n
ot been raised or educated with any expectation, or understanding, of estate matters. That he found his new responsibilities strange and difficult.”

  “He will find it stranger and more difficult still if he does not come to grasps with crops or budgeting. Still, the land would be a good investment for Dalshee.” Papa reasoned. “Perhaps you should like to ride up to the loch to take a look at the hectares in question—that way, I shall have an answer about the crop by dinner without the need to write and wait for His Grace’s reply.”

  “All right. I will.” It would force her out of the house—out of her melancholy. In fact, a good long dauber up to Glas Maol—walking instead of a ride—would be just the thing. Greer could be alone in the comfortable company of her dogs with her thoughts and her sorrow—wee Gent, who had not left her side for days, would do well with the exercise. Ewan’s dog and her own darling, sweet animals had kept her from entirely wallowing in grief—the wee dogs had to be fed and walked and petted and walked again, but Greer was a little ashamed that she had used the spaniels as an excuse to absent herself from her other duties.

  But today she could be comfortable and useful.

  She dressed for the day in old practical Scot’s clothes—nothing that she had brought back from her travels on the Continent—warm woolen plaids and quilted petticoats over sturdy boots. She packed a wee bag with enough food to last her a long day’s walk, took up her fowling piece from the gun room, and called the dogs to set off. She took her time making her way up the well-known paths, climbing slowly but steadily upward so not to tire herself. The knotted reach of the roots across the path made steps to guide her onward toward her secret place, though it really could not be much of a secret—half of Crieff and all of Dalshee must know that she liked to head for Glas Maol, the Green Hill. The high outcropping that marked the dividing line between the vast reaches of Crieff and Dalshee would give her the best overview of the barley field Cameron wanted to sell, before she descended to the upland loch for a closer inspection of the acreage.