The look on his face told her everything the words he did not say did not—he had no idea. He did not remember. He had no recollection of her.
The thought was sickening—scorching heat tightened her throat. “Oh, dear God. You don’t remember, do you? We were to be married—the two of us. I was the one you told the ostler about and asked him to wish you happy. We were to be married at Crieff and be happy. How could you not remember that?”
How could he have come back to her, and still not be hers? How?
Lord Ewan Cameron
St. Salvador’s College
St. Andrew’s, Fife
10 March, 1791
Dear Ewan,
I am happy to report that I am a stout, and even hearty sailor. I am enchanted by every facet of the sailing from the positioning of the sails to the turning of the wheel. I am on deck as much as possible, for nothing is lovelier that the feel of the wind off the sea. I hope you don’t think I write to mock you and your mal de mer! I should never forgive myself if you thought so.
Our course takes us south along the Coast of France around through the Straits of Gibraltar. Our sojourn on the ‘Rock’ as it is called, has been short but pleasant ~ it is the loveliest of towns with fine shops and a glorious climate. On to Malta, which was even more charming a town that Gibraltar, and which Mama liked especially, and from there to Leghorn, or as you, and the locals would have it, Livorno.
We are at a very nice inn here for the few days that Papa says will take to arrange our travel onward through the country. I expect to be gone from here but will write to tell you our direction soonest. Until then, I remain,
Your intrepid Greer
Lady Greer Douglas
Dalshee House
Perthshire, Scotland
6 April, 1791
My Lady G,
I write to tell you my studies are at an end, and I am throwing books and bats into my trunks as fast as I may, to head home to Crieff. Though I will miss my steadfast companions who have been with me these past six years—the quadrumvirate of Alasdair, Archie, Rory and myself—I know it is time to be home and put all I have studied and learned into practice. And I will venture to say that I also look forward to your return. But I will in the same breath pledge to you that you shall have all the time in the world that you want to finish growing up and traveling to your heart’s delight. I shall not begrudge your time spent in happy travel, even if I never found it so myself. I shall content myself in a smaller travel—up to the crest of Glas Maol, there to patiently await your return, as you so patiently awaited mine.
Ever your servant, EC
Chapter 24
The grief was like that hole in the path she kept stepping in, no matter how carefully she tried to place her feet.
“Lass.” She could hear the apology in his voice as he came toward her with his arms spread wide to sweep her up into his embrace. As if that would put everything all to rights again.
“Don’t,” she said, stepping away. “I’ve already made one foolish judgment here.” She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see the rumpled pallet, still warm from the heat of their bodies. “I’ll not make another.”
“Foolish?” It was his turn to be hurt by the cut of her words. “I thought what we did was beautiful. And I’ll not regret it.”
Greer knew she had spoken too rashly. “I don’t want to either.” Her voice was cracking from the hot pain of trying to hold her emotions in check. But it was too hard. “I thought that you were my husband-to-be. I thought that you knew me, the way I knew you. But you don’t even really remember me.”
“Nay,” he finally admitted. “Not from before. But I remember every moment that we have spent together since we met—every help, every kindness, every kiss.”
“But when the ostler told you that you were to be married, you said a man would remember something like that.” Her voice cracked. “Someone so important.”
“Lass—” His voice was full of regret, but it was not enough.
“My name is Greer.” She dashed the useless tears from her eyes. “I’m not just some lass. I am someone so important that you should remember my name.”
He took her rebuke like a man—he flinched but he took the blow. “Greer,” he repeated solemnly. “I remember your name—I will never forget it.”
“But you already have.”
“I’m that sorry, Greer.” He spread his empty arms wide in a gesture of frustrated futility. “But I’ve no control over what comes back to me. I’ve only just discovered who I am, and I’ve hardly had time to reckon what in God’s name I’m supposed to do about that. I’ve been beaten within an inch of my life and left for dead—and said to be buried, so there’s even more mischief afoot in that—by people I can’t remember, and I have no bloody damn idea why.” He scrubbed his hand into his cropped hair, fisting up the short lengths as if he would pull the information out of his thick skull. “And if that’s not also important for me to remember, I don’t know what is.”
She was almost too hurt to admit the right of his words. Almost.
“I know you are right.” But his omission hurt all the same. And yet, she loved him—she always had. Loving him was a habit she could not, and would not, break. Not now when they were so close. “If you are to remember anything more, I think it best we go to Dalshee. Your friends are there—Alasdair and Archie—and they can help you.”
“You have helped me.” He reached for her hand and held it, her fingers cold in his warm palm. “Every time that I am with you, I remember something more. Your presence, and your confidence, have helped me more than you know.”
She didn’t feel very confident now. But what could not be avoided must be faced with equanimity, if nothing else. “I am glad to have helped. So let us see if we can do more. Let us go to Dalshee.”
As soon as she was dressed, she began walking, not even waiting for him to bring Cat Sìth around from the shed behind the bothy. She needed the exercise to try and soften her feelings and ameliorate her thoughts. And she needed some small space away from him so she didn’t end up kissing him again.
He caught up with her soon enough, walking with the big stallion trailing behind him like a big dog on a lead. “Greer, lass. I know I’ve disappointed you—I’ve disappointed myself. I wish to hell I could remember everything—don’t you think I want to?”
“Aye.” She knew it wasn’t his fault. But that didn’t make the knowledge any less hurtful or easier to bear. “We’ll just have to scrub along as things are.”
“We will.”
She couldn’t tell if he were repeating it for her benefit or his own, but he took her hand in a gesture of affection and affinity that could not help but give her hope that even if he hadn’t remembered her, he might yet.
“Come, Greer, lass. We’ve a long road ahead of us—and not just getting off this moorside. And Cat Sìth’s been waiting all these years to make your acquaintance.”
“But—” She swung back to him. “But how do you know that unless—” Unless he really did remember more.
The realization brought a quick smile to his face. “That’s how it comes—fits and starts that I don’t always know the meaning of. But I will, I promise. But now come, meet my wee beastie.”
Wee beastie, indeed. She put out her hand for the great goliath of a horse to whuff gently at her fingers with his bonnie black velvet nose and nuzzle against her as if nudging her closer to Ewan, who took advantage of his wee beastie’s assistance to lift her astride Cat Sìth’s broad back.
He swung himself up directly behind her. “That’s better.” He tucked her snug against his chest and urged the animal on. “Tell me more about Dalshee, and who we’ll meet there.”
“My father and mother, the Earl and Countess of Shee. I think you may have met them before, when you were young—when the betrothal was first being discussed between Papa and your grandfather.”
“Ginger-haired, rangy fellow, your father?”
She couldn’t help
but smile at such a description. “Aye. Gone white now.”
“Aye.” He smoothed a fly-away hair out of her face. “You favor him.”
“In coloring, but I’m told I also look like my mother, who is more petite.”
“Oh, aye?” His agreement rumbled thought his chest and down her spine. “Dark hair and an oval porcelain face?”
“That is she.” How strange that he should remember her mother from years and years ago, but nothing of her and their betrothal. But life wasn’t very often fair. “Though she too has some white at the temples, she’s as beautiful as ever.”
“Then you do take after her.” He pressed a warm kiss to her temple to seal his words.
He was such a man—a good, honest, true man that she wished with all her heart that his not remembering her didn’t hurt. But it did. And as much as she wished and hoped and prayed that something better—some remembrance—lay ahead of them, there was no way to be sure.
There was no way to face the future but to go to it.
They approached Dalshee House from the rear, winding down from the hills. Greer half expected her father to be out on the lawns searching for her, but they wound their way through the wilderness garden with no interference.
But now that she was home, and the idyll in the bothy was well and truly over, Greer began to get nervous—a cold lump of dread and guilt settled like day-old porridge in her belly. “I hope my father’s all to rights. And the lad.”
“I hope so, too,” Ewan answered, but he kept his voice low, too, almost as if he felt the same sense of dread.
The enclosed stable yard was empty and quiet—Cat Sìth’s hooves echoed off the stone walls—even though a number of traveling coaches were parked nearby.
“My father’s guests. That one is the Duke of—”
“—Cairn’s,” he finished. “Alasdair’s. Aye. I’ve ridden in that carriage.” He drew rein, but did not dismount, waiting for something—anything.
Robbie, the groom, obliged them by coming out of the stable, followed by several others. “Mileddy.” He came forward but didn’t take the stallion’s bridle. “There was a rumor said as ye was kidnapped.”
“Who would say such a thing?” Surely not Lord or Lady Cairn, or Carrington. And certainly not her parents. “Lachlan?”
“Weel, aye, mileddy.” Robbie looked uncomfortable to be clyping on his mate.
“He should know better than to spread rumor. I was not kidnapped. As you see.” But her own trials were nothing to others’. “But how is Leslie? How does he fare?”
The question seemed to prompt the groom out of his unease. “They had the medical man up frae Crieff. ’E’s still there, up the ’ouse.”
“And my father?”
“Fit enough tae be out ‘ere last night, pacing the yard, waiting fae ye, mileddy.”
Guilt might have painted her cheeks a riddy red, but it could not compete with the relief that lightened her lungs. “Excellent. Thank you, Robbie.”
By now there was a collection of people, some from Dalshee, along with others she did not know.
Ewan surveyed the little crowd before he dismounted, and then reached up to hand her down. “Robbie, see to my horse, if you please. Keep him away from the mares, if you don’t care to have the stable come down upon your ears.”
The lad took the reins. “Aye, sar. Laird. Yer Grace.”
“I told ye.” Greer recognized the young ghillie, Lachlan Keith, speaking. “Saw ’im myself, I did. Told ye he weren’t a ghost. And ’ee couldn’t’a stole an ’orse that were ’is own.”
Ewan stopped to face them all. “Who said I stole my horse?”
The lads looked back and forth at each other, as if loath to be the one to tell.
“Lachlan?” Greer prompted.
“Just a rumor, mileddy. That Laird Ewan— Weel, they was sayin’ down the village as himself’s an impostor—a mad mon, ravin’ up and down the glens. And stole the ’orse.”
Ewan’s reaction to such infamy was far more sanguine that hers. “But you know me,” he suggested reasonably, looking to some of the older members of the small crowd. “I’m no impostor.”
A coachman in Cairn livery stepped forward. “Aye, Yer Grace, I ken ye.”
“Good man, Cowrie.” Ewan’s relief—and surprise at what was clearly a sudden memory—were evident as he nodded his thanks to the Cairn coachman. “How’s that new bairn?”
“Growin’ like a wild carrot, my lad is, Yer Grace.”
“Excellent. Good to see you in good health. See my wee beastie gets some oat mash, if you please, Robbie.” He flicked a fond glance at the horse. “He had to spend the night in lesser accommodations than these, and he’s not overly fond of standing in the rain.”
“Aye, Yer Grace.” Robbie knuckled his forehead and bowed himself away.
Ewan smiled at the others, and then turned and offered Greer his arm, as if he were a brocade and velvet-clad courtier, and not a mad, bad impostor wearing second hand clothes and sleeping on the moor side. “Shall we?”
“Let’s.” She took his arm, and together they went into the house.
“I should have listened to you days ago,” he admitted. “And come here then. But then if I did, I wouldn’t have Cat Sìth.”
“Nay.” She hurried along, anxious to get to her mother—kidnapped indeed! Her poor mama must be beside herself with worry. “But I can’t like these rumors—there seems to be some great maliciousness at work there.”
“Well, I did take Cat Sìth from the stable. And if the villagers thought I was dead, seeing me ride him to the inn…” He shrugged and smiled, everything kind and reasonable in explaining people’s behavior while she was bristling with judgment and suspicion.
“But this supposition that I died and was buried—I’m not dead, so who is buried in my grave?”
“Indeed. I have no notion—I never did see the body. They buried the coffin before the service. Mrs. Peddie was beside herself at the impropriety of it all.” An impropriety that Malcolm Cameron swore he knew nothing about.
“Aye. Mrs. Peddie—Crieff’s housekeeper. Aye, of course.” He nodded as if he were matching the name to the face in his mind’s eye. “But my cousin has seen to the estate in my absence? He’s protected Crieff at the very least?”
“Ewan, I fear not.” She touched his arm to stop him—to warn him against that dangers she was sure still lay ahead. “Your cousin has been doing all he can to sell off Crieff’s un-entailed assets to pay his personal debts of honor—racing losses mostly, which, according to your friend Archie, are considerable—though Malcolm has claimed the sales are retrenching due to your financial mismanagement.”
“Hell mend me.” Ewan drew in a long, tense breath. “So he’s to blame me for…mismanaging Crieff? Stealing a horse I already own? Shooting your father, most certainly, as they used my own particular gun, and left it to be found?”
“Mileddy!” Greer’s lady’s maid, Morna Beale, came running toward them.
“Ah, Morna.” Greer let go of Ewan’s arm to peel off her gloves. “I’ll need water brought up to bathe immediately. And please tell Mrs. Mallach I shall need the green guest chamber made ready with hot water for my guest. Where is my lady mother, and how is my father?”
Morna bobbed a belated curtsey. “Weel, mileddy. Doctor patched ’is lordship up straight away, and yer lady mother’s that anxious fae word o’ ye.”
“Thank you.” But her relief was only a temporary thing. “And Leslie Keith?”
“Doctor saw tae ’im first, mileddy, as ’is lordship insisted.”
Of course. Dear Papa. “As he would. And my mother?”
“Aye, mileddy, in the drawing room with her guests. I’m that glad to see ye, I am. They’ve been talkin’ aboot ye somethin’ fierce in the drawing room.” The maid sent a half-fearful glance at Ewan. “Ye and yer friend, both. There was rumor flyin’ up an’ down the glens that ye were kidnapped by a horse-thievin’ mad mon.”
“I suppose I ou
ght not have taken my horse.” Ewan smiled, charming the maid with quiet humor, much as he had in the stable yard. “But he is my horse, and I had need of him, and didn’t have the time to tell my cousin that.”
Morna’s mouth opened in a little moue of astonishment. Doubtless, she would carry this fresh intelligence straight to the servants’ hall for dissemination throughout the glens.
“Thank you, Morna.” Greer turned the lass by the shoulders and set her off in the right direction. “Laird Ewan and I will go straight in to the drawing room, while you see to the water.”
“Aye, mileddy.” The lass scurried off to tell her news below stairs.
To say they made a dramatic entrance was putting it mildly—there was a collective gasp, and Mama’s hand went to her mouth in tense relief. Greer had to go immediately to her mother, who clasped her hand with nothing short of maternal devotion. “Thank the Lord you’re all to rights.”
“I am. And I see Papa is as well.” She kissed her father’s cheek. “But the boy, Leslie—how does he fare?”
“He’ll live,” Papa said as if he still wanted convincing. “It was not so bad as we thought—the ball passed through the shoulder, missing the collarbone. Nothing broken, no internal vessels unduly disturbed. Since then, our concern has been all for you.”
“Archie and Alasdair went back and combed the glen for some sign of you,” Lady Cairn supplied, “but could find none. Not even your gun. Which I told them meant you’d kept it.”
“Indeed I did,” Greer confirmed. “And we found the other gun, Ewan and I—the rifle that was used to shoot Leslie, though the perpetrator had long since cleared out.”
“Good work, old man.” Alasdair and Archie, naturally, had already come forward with words of greeting and fond abuse for their dearly un-departed friend. “I knew you couldn’t be dead, you thick-headed old goat.”
She had known, too, hadn’t she? She had always felt that she would have known if Ewan were really dead. But she had been cautioned and reasoned into accepting his death.
MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4) Page 25