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

by Elizabeth Essex

  “Not at all. I am glad to find you much recovered since last we met,” he offered.

  Not exactly the most chivalrous of observations—she had been weeping when last they met—but true. “As are you, Your Grace. How are you adjusting to your new responsibilities?”

  “Better and better.”

  “Indeed.” Mama’s voice brought Greer back to attention. “His Grace was telling us the reason for his visit this afternoon.”

  “Yes?”

  Cameron seemed a little disappointed to be reminded of his purpose so soon. “I came to give you news that I have made the arrangements for my cousin’s funeral.”

  “Oh.” The crushing force of reality was a physical pain made worse by the pang of guilt—for the better part of a day, she had indulged herself in an unlikely fantasy, when she ought to be thinking only of what was real and right and due Ewan for all his years of devotion to her. “When are the services to be?”

  “Tomorrow, my lady.”

  “So soon?” After a fortnight of waiting for news, they would now have to rush to make arrangements to travel immediately. There would be no time to return to the glen with the food. Not unless she rode quickly and chanced the last portion of the trip back across the moor side in darkness. Still, Nicnevin was surefooted, and knew the way blindfolded.

  “I hope you will attend, my lady?”

  “Yes, of course.” Greer replied. “We shall most assuredly attend.” What could not be avoided, must be faced with equanimity. As quickly as possible. She rose and shook his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  But instead of taking his cue and his timely leave, his new Grace of Crieff had another idea. “It is a fine afternoon, is it not?” he asked conversationally. “Perhaps I might persuade you to show me some of Dalshee before I needs must depart for Crieff?”

  Oh, heavens—he really was calling. Greer had to admire his persistence, if nothing else. “Of course. Let us tour the gardens—I am always happy to show off Dalshee’s delights to visitors.” If she walked them toward the stable, she would only have to bide her time until his carriage was ready before she set out for the glen. “Let me first ring for your carriage.”

  “I rode.”

  “Over the moor?” How uncharacteristically intrepid of him.

  “No, along the valley roads. I know the road is far longer than the way over the moor, but as I am new to the area, I thought it best to stay to the established route.”

  Very practical, if a bit ‘townish.’ Greer forced herself to stop the uncharitable thoughts—the truth was she knew little of his habits and character apart from the one short, and incredibly trying, day. She should reserve judgment until she knew him better.

  She led the way out the French doors that led from the drawing room onto the terrace, and from the terrace, down to the lawn and through the high yew hedge to access the main garden. “This is the cutting garden,” Greer explained as they walked. “Though there are not so many blooms left at this time of the year.”

  “Very fine,” Malcolm Cameron complimented. “Very French, I should think.”

  “Oh, have you seen the gardens in France, Your Grace? Ewan wrote so admiringly of them. What think you of them?”

  “I have not,” he admitted. “I was not so fortunate as my cousin to travel and make my Grand Tour, as they call it, on the continent.”

  “Ah.” There was something in his tone she could not readily identify—some regret perhaps? In which case, perhaps it were best not to mention her own grand tour, taken in Ewan’s footsteps. “I am perhaps more fond of the Wilderness Garden that leads gradually out into the estate. It was designed by my mother in the style of Capability Brown.”

  Cameron shook his head. “I don’t know Mr. Brown, either. You must find me shockingly uneducated.”

  “Not at all.” She lied for the sake of kindness—there was no need to overstate something that was obviously true. “But you have all of Crieff’s resources at your disposal—such a magnificent library—should you feel yourself in any way lacking.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a very great reader. I shouldn’t think you one, either, with all your penchant for the out of doors. You were gone for a very long walk, this morning.”

  “Indeed, I do love a good long dauber—a long walk out of doors.” Something he perhaps did not like—she noticed his polished boots never strayed from the well-maintained gravel path. “But I also adore reading. Very much.” If she could not stop him from courting her with polite discouragement, she would present him with her truest self—without apology, the way she had with Ewan. “Our shared love of learning was something that united your cousin Ewan and me. We quite often sent each other books to read. We were quite attached in that way.”

  “‘Quite attached,’ to a man you never met? If I did not know you personally, I might think you quite fanciful.”

  Greer was taken aback at such a characterization—she did not like being thought fanciful. It smacked of dismissiveness, as if having an imagination were a bad thing. She much preferred the other characterizations most often given to her—rash, brash, decisive and outspoken. And romantic, perhaps—for she had developed romantic feelings for Ewan, but they were based upon reality not fancy. She had come to know and love her betrothed for his innermost thoughts and finer feelings. They were sympathetic to each other in a way that could never be fanciful.

  The word was, to her mind, very nearly an insult.

  And yet she might have been fanciful that morning—convincing herself that her friend at the bothy might be someone or something more than a mere ghillie. Inventing him a past to better suit her future.

  Cameron must have sensed her disquiet. “I have wounded you.” He laid his hand across his heart. “Forgive me, I meant no harm. I hope you understand that.”

  “Of course.” And she did understand. This was the flaw in her character, the fly in her ointment—this near instantaneous tendency toward rash judgment. She was always so sure she was in the right. Her parents were forever cautioning her to greater prudence. “I do understand, Your Grace. And I apologize that we seem to find ourselves in the most awkward of circumstances.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, running his hand through his stylishly disarranged hair in an unconscious gesture of frustration. “It is hellish not knowing what to do.”

  She ought to be kinder with him—he was as injured in his own way as her new friend in the bothy. “You have asked for my advice—perhaps what you need most of all is an experienced secretary, who can assist you in doing such things, such as putting a death notice in the newspapers.” She would save her papa the trouble of speaking—or if he had done so while they waited for her return, she would reinforce his advice to Cameron. “An experienced secretary—did Ewan not have a man? Mr. Henry Burr? He would have a great deal of the knowledge and experience you seek.”

  Cameron shook his head in polite disagreement. “I let Mr. Burr go. I thought it best to clean out house. Get rid of the rot straightaway, so I might have a better chance of righting things.”

  Righting what things? What rot? “Was there something wrong with Mr. Burr?”

  Cameron took a deep breath, as if he were steeling himself to speak. “I know it will give you pains to hear that my late cousin did not leave things on a sound financial footing, but the truth is I have inherited something of an awful mess.”

  It did give her pains to hear—the assertion was like a skelp, buffeting her back, annihilating all her dearly held assumptions. That Ewan had been a prudent man had been one of her oldest understandings.

  “Nothing could be further from my experience,” she insisted. An experience based on careful diligence on both her father’s and her own part in drawing up the marriage settlements.

  “I have no doubt that poor Ewan wanted you to think that all was right and tight with Crieff—who wouldn’t? I myself might even have been tempted to do the same to win such a prize as you. But the sad truth is the house of Crieff is more like a house o
f cards than not.”

  “Good gracious.” She had never been so unpleasantly admonished in her life—her hands went cold from the shock. How could this be true?

  “You understand exactly. Thank you. It is an enormous relief to tell someone who comprehends how important this is,” he gave her an earnest smile.

  Greer could not share any of his relief—every thought was in turmoil. “Very important.”

  “Indeed, though I am confident in my ability to correct the financial disarray, it will take some time before I feel confident in burdening the estate with expenses,” Cameron lamented. “But you had mentioned a rose bush ought to be planted at my cousin’s grave. Is this a tradition so longstanding the expense must be made?”

  “Nay. Though, if it is impossible for you to do so, I ask that you let me make the expense.” Especially as the relative cost of a rose bush was minimal. “It was an important, if not longstanding, tradition—Ewan made a memorial planting for his grandfather, as well as for his parents. They died when he was young. But I’m sure you know that.”

  “My father died when I was young, as well. But our families were not close—my father was estranged from his father and brother at the time of his death. And after my father gave his life in the service of our King and country, my mother did not feel welcome at Crieff.”

  Greer heard the bitterness in his voice and wondered why she had never heard any story that the pair of siblings came to be estranged—Ewan had never mentioned either Cameron or his mother or father to her in his letters. “I am sorry. I imagine it must have been hard to leave such a place as Crieff, and not think of it as home.”

  “Perhaps. She is dead now, too, so I’ll never know.”

  Greer stifled her sigh—clearly, Cameron wanted to remonstrate on the inequities of his life. “I am happy to make the memorial of the roses, if that might give you comfort?”

  “Thank you. I should prefer to reserve our funds so that any monies might be spent more liberally on the people of Crieff than in personal indulgences.”

  This sentiment was not anathema, but still somehow felt like a rebuke to Ewan’s memory.

  They walked on down the long flowering borders that edged the path, each to their own thoughts—hers to turning them toward the drive where his horse surely waited by now—before he spoke again. “How strange this is. I just realized that unlike me, who never expected to find myself at Crieff, the castle was to be your home.”

  “Yes,” she conceded. “Since the age of twelve I had expected that to be so.”

  He stopped and turned to her with that air of earnest gravity that clung to him like a mist. “It still might be, if you wish.”

  Oh, no. “Your Grace.” She must put paid to any romantic ideas—every feeling rebelled against the thought. Even though marriage alliances were sought for many other reasons than love, she could not countenance one without both affection and respect. “I appreciate the—”

  “Please.” He stopped her by taking her hand. “I am not an eloquent or romantic man, Lady Greer. I am out of my depth and know it. But my wishes have not changed since you first came to Crieff. I admire all I know of you, and I should still very much like the opportunity to fulfill the promise Crieff made to you. To make you the Duchess of Crieff, if that is what you still desire.”

  His declaration near stole her breath.

  Because she was tempted—tempted by expectation and ambition. Tempted by her own need to be recognized.

  Aye, if she were honest with herself, her ambition had always been to be a duchess—no matter if she was to inherit her father’s entire estate, which was not entailed away to the male line, she could never inherit his title. If she married Malcolm she would be Duchess of Crieff and have all the things—the duties and responsibilities, and above all the rights and recognition—she had always imagined.

  The only problem was what she desired, was something entirely different from ambition—she desired Ewan. Or at least the version of Ewan she had constructed in her head from his letters.

  What she felt for his cousin Malcolm was mostly…pity. And impatience. Pity that he had not had the opportunities that would have made him fit for the duties and responsibilities he now faced. And impatient that he did not correct those deficiencies now that he had the opportunity. “Things are so different now.”

  “Not so different,” he persisted. “Only a different man, and I’m told we’re very much alike, my cousin and I.”

  Perhaps—they were both men of a certain handsomeness. At least she had always found her Ewan pleasing to her eye—the miniature in her pocket showed a very well-looking young man of eight and ten who showed signs of one day becoming a strikingly handsome man.

  But handsome was as handsome does—character was the thing. She had felt she knew Ewan’s character—his thoughts and feelings—so thoroughly, so completely, that it would be impossible to do so with any other man, even his cousin, whose character she could not stop herself from questioning.

  “Please, Your Grace. It is too soon. We have not even buried my betrothed.” The man she had thought she knew so well.

  “Of course. Forgive me,” Cameron asked again. “But I could not miss this opportunity to express my feelings to you most ardently.”

  She could not help but be complimented, even if she could not return the sentiments. “You honor me, Your Grace, but we do not know each other well enough for either ardency or understanding. You don’t know me.” What he likely did know was her considerable dowry.

  “Do I not?” He shook his head, as if she misunderstood. “I know my own wishes, my own heart. I may be new to the countryside, but I am a man of the world, my lady. I have lived in London. And I know a remarkably beautiful woman when I see one.”

  Greer dismissed his blandishments as easily as he had her concerns. She knew beauty was entirely in the eye and ambitions of the beholder—character was the thing for women as well as men. If there were anything remarkable about her, it was her dowry. And her own ambition. “I might be a bonnie shrew or termagant.” She was certainly managing, though he seemed a man who wanted some managing, or at least some assistance in estate matters.

  “The sweetness in your manner tells me otherwise.”

  She could not but laugh. “This is doing it far too brown, Your Grace.” Though she had been spared the attention of fortune hunters due to her parents’ vigilance, as well as her early betrothal, she still understood the pot-hunters’ ways.

  He would not concede. “And the brilliance of your wit tells me, as well.”

  This praise was infinitely more calculated to please. “I thank you, but your mount awaits, Your Grace.” Cat Sìth, Ewan’s remarkable and unmistakable mount—black with the white star on his chest—stood waiting with a groom.

  Oh, but the animal was even more magnificent than she had imagined. And oh, how proud Ewan had been of his wee beastie. It hurt to see the horse for the first time whilst in possession of another. “I wish you a safe journey.” Greer stepped back, lest he be encouraged to act ardently again.

  He was anyway—he clasped her hand. “You will come to Crieff tomorrow?”

  She had much rather do almost anything in the world, but she had been raised to know what was right, and to do it regardless of the cost. “Nothing could keep me from Ewan’s funeral, Your Grace.”

  For nowhere else could she find the answers to all her unanswered questions. She had many doubts, but she refused to doubt that she loved Ewan, and had been deeply and honestly loved in return.

  Lady Greer Douglas

  Dalshee House

  Perthshire, Scotland

  11 December, 1786

  My Dear Greer,

  My apology for not writing sooner, but in an attempt to further our education and enlightenment, we have taken ourselves to tour Italy to round out our taste and erudition. Our first sojourn finds us in Florence, a city where the Renaissance is alive at every turn. Art and sculpture and architecture come together in such a harmo
nious way as to be entirely seamless—one cannot imagine the great cathedral without its immense, astonishingly powerful baldachin over the altar, or the Baptistry of San Giovanni—St. John the Baptist to us—without the impressively beautiful bronze doors called the Gates of Paradise.

  But all the sights—so much adornment and finery everywhere we look, makes me long for the simpler pleasures and familiar sights of home. Of the medieval imbalance of Crieff, with its pleasing lack of artifice or ornamentation. Of you, with your pleasing lack of artifice. I cannot express how much your honest enthusiasm and forthright opinions mean to me. It gives me much relief to know that you are, and will be, as true a friend and helpmeet to me as my boon companions. In fact, you are my companion—you accompany my thoughts as surely as Alasdair, Archie and Rory accompany my person. And now I have your marvelous book, as well.

  Therefore, it is with profound, heartfelt thanks for the Scots poems, which are superb, and which I cherish both for your thoughtfulness and their merit, that I send you this particularly lovely gem of a picture—it is called a landscape, and it is by the artist who invented this way of looking at the world of the ancients. I hope you will like it, for it made me think, for some unaccountable reason, of you.

  I remain steadfastly yours, EC

  Chapter 11

  While Greer stood back, silently wishing Cameron gone, his horse—the magnificent Cat Sìth—had other ideas. The moment Cameron stepped close to mount, the tall stallion, who had been everything docile under the groom’s gentle hand, began to toss his head and shy away.

  Cameron spoke sharply to Robbie. “Get ahold of him there, damn you.”

  “Oh, gracious.” There was no need to blame Robbie. “Let me help.” Greer spared no thought for Cameron’s delicate male sensibility but took the bridle from Robbie. “I’ll calm the wee beastie, while you toss His Grace up.”