This appeal met with stunned silence from all corners, until Alasdair said quietly, “We would have helped, old man. You had but to ask.”
“I thank you, Alasdair, but you have your own responsibilities at Cairn, and in the government. And I have my family to help me.” Ewan waited to see how this appeal would work on his cousin—if it would keep him at Crieff long enough for Ewan to sort through the past so he might look to the future. Malcolm was many things—greedy, in debt, and a practiced liar—but he was family. The ties that were bound in blood could not—ought not—be easily broken.
Malcolm took the bait. “Aye.” His smile was bright with some turbulent emotion Ewan could not decipher. “I should be honored, cousin.” He clasped Ewan’s hand as if he would draw him along with him. “Let us go there now. My—your—carriage awaits.”
Before Ewan could voice the arguments he had ready against such plan, his friends stepped firmly forward to his rescue. “But we must have you with us,” Archie Carrington objected.
“So much to catch up on,” Alasdair seconded.
Greer tried a softer protest. “But dearest, you promised me that we wouldn’t be parted. Please,” she mouthed as privately as she might with so many others around, all the while gripping his hand as if she wanted to say more. “Just stay.”
“Aye. Of course,” he answered immediately, before he turned to her lady mother. “If I may impose upon your hospitality, my lady.”
“But of course, Your Grace. Nothing would give us more pleasure.” The Countess was gracious enough to include his cousin. “And Mr. Cameron, please do join us as well. We’d be happy to have you join us at dinner.”
If Mr. Cameron rankled after having become used to Your Grace, Malcolm hid it well.
But then again, he always had. Ewan could hear his grandfather’s baritone as if he were standing beside him in Crieff’s library. “You will have to learn to be cautious of your cousin, lad, even as you help and protect him, for he lies as easily as he breathes.”
“I thank you, my lady.” Malcolm’s manners were as smooth as a loch at sunrise. “But there is much to be done at Crieff to prepare for my cousin’s return. Much to celebrate.” He smiled at Ewan. “Are you sure you can stand to keep away from Crieff after so long a time—perhaps after such an early dinner, I can persuade you to return with me to Crieff.”
Greer almost spoke—she opened her mouth to make some excuse—but her lady mother laid a hand upon her arm, and said in a quiet voice, “His Grace can surely speak for himself, Greer.”
So he could. Ewan lifted up their joined hand and placed a kiss upon his betrothed’s rather white knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere—you can let off strangling my hand now.”
“Oh, gracious.” She had gripped him so hard both of their hands were white. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he assured her. “It felt good—mostly,” he joked to relieve the tense look on her face. And on Alasdair and Archie’s faces as well—clearly they wanted him to stay. For just as clearly, they did not trust his cousin.
That made four of them. But while Malcolm had always been a liar and a cheat, his cousin had never shown any tendency toward violence of the kind that had kicked in Ewan’s skull and broken his ribs.
And family was all, Grandfather had always admonished him.
Until Ewan was sure—until the memory came fully back—he would bide his time and make no hasty accusations.
“I’ll see you out,” he said to his cousin. “If you’re sure you can’t stay.”
“No, I must go,” Malcolm insisted. “You know how much work must be done to keep Crieff running smoothly—enough that I shall be glad to turn it all back to you.”
“All in good time. First I must solve my own murder.”
And Dewar’s disappearance. And ask Greer to marry him. And then he would deal with Malcolm selling off Crieff’s un-entailed assets to pay his debts—surely Malcolm could not cart off the entirety of Crieff’s patrimony in one evening.
Another night could not matter.
There it was—another image, sharp and clear of Malcolm standing in front of him somewhere—somewhere dark and grey and stony—perhaps the outside of Castle Crieff, perhaps somewhere else, pleading with him about something.
The image faded before Ewan could decipher its meaning or recognize anything more substantial that the feeling of being imposed upon by his cousin. But perhaps that was just a natural feeling for him, who had felt imposed upon and disconnected from his true self for the better part of the last month. “I’ll see you out.”
As if they were all loath to let Ewan out of their sights, Greer, Alasdair, Quince and Archie all accompanied him to the entrance hall, where his cousin, Malcolm, took his reluctant leave. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to come back to Crieff now?” Malcolm asked one last time. “I should—”
“Not a chance,” Alasdair said jovially, but Ewan heard the steely finality in his voice. Clearly his friend had his reasons.
“Until tomorrow,” Ewan told his cousin. Tomorrow was soon enough.
Well,” Alasdair said, clapping Ewan on the back as the coach wheeled out of sight. “I thought the soaker would never leave.”
And there it was, another memory, as clear as if it were yesterday. “That’s what we called him.” It was more of a question than a statement, but Alasdair and Archie seemed not to mind—they looked at him with what he could only call fondness.
“Aye. Always touching you for one debt or another,” Alasdair claimed.
“You’re the soul of patience with him,” Archie added. “I’d have sent him away with a flea in his ear long ago.”
It was deeply heartening to hear his friends’ good opinion of him—it made Ewan feel at home, even if he wasn’t at Crieff.
He turned to the Countess. “My lady, if I may be allowed the hospitality of Dalshee, I should very much like a chance to make myself presentable before dinner.”
“But of course,” Lady Shee answered. “Let me call Mrs. Malloch.”
“I’ve already asked her to prepare a room, Mama,” Greer said.
“Excellent, my dear. Very good thinking. Why don’t you show His Grace up?”
“Of course.” Greer led them toward the stair.
“If my wife will forgive me—” Alasdair began.
“Of course—” Lady Cairn rejoined. “I’ve forgiven worse.”
“Excellent spouse.” Alasdair kissed his wife’s hand and turned to Ewan. “Come, let us repair with you to your chamber and see if we can make you into a gentleman, shall we, Archie?”
“Have they got bailing wire and a scythe handy?” Archie joked.
“I put myself in your more than capable hands,” Ewan returned. “As long as you don’t start drinking.”
“Too late, my friend. Too late.”
They went up the stairs in companionable bonhomie. It wasn’t home, but damn, it felt good to be back.
Lord Ewan Cameron
Castle Crieff
Perthshire
Scotland
1 June, 1791
Dearest Ewan,
Rome! My delight knows no bounds, but Rome, the Eternal City, gives me more pleasure from having had you in it before I came. I fancy I can see your likeness in the students clamoring down the narrow streets surrounding the Piazza de Spagna.
I love it all, from the cobbles to the plazas with their gorgeous fountains. We are fortunate to be the guest of my father’s friend, the Conte d’Aguirre here as well, in the old part of the city, the Pincian Hill. But I am sure you, who know Rome far better than I, know this. I must say, I grew up thinking Dalshee a fine, bonnie house, but it is nothing on the Baroque exuberance that is the Villa Aguirre. Mama and Papa are more reserved in their praise, for Mama says exuberance has its place, and restraint is the harder art.
Papa says something entirely different apropos our travels ~ that he no longer wishes us to visit France at all, for the great unrest brewing amongst the people a
nd what he calls the agitating classes is growing ever more fractious. Accordingly, we will travel south to Naples and the wonders of the buried city of Pompeii before journeying on from Rome north to the lakes, and from thence to Venice before traversing the Alps to Geneva in Switzerland, and then on to Salzburg in Austria.
Though I am vastly disappointed not to visit Paris and see the city for myself, I content myself that I have already seen its beauty through your eyes. And I suspect that I will spend the majority of the coming days as I am this moment ~ goggle-eyed with all the wonders there are to see.
But though I am grown more worldly, I still keep all my kisses safe for you, and remain as ever,
Your devoted G
Chapter 26
Greer could barely stand to let him out of her sight—her hand felt empty without his to hold—but some proprieties had to be observed. In her time apart, she dressed with more care than had been her want of late, for it was not every day that Dalshee played host to a fashionable marquess and marchioness, as well as a lost duke—a duke she wanted desperately to impress.
She chose her favorite redingote-style gown of cherry embroidered striped silk she had purchased in Italy, in the hopes that it would help her feel worldly. As if a dress might help a duke with a faulty memory somehow remember her.
But the moment he came down the stairs, she knew all her efforts to impress him had been for naught. Because he was nothing short of magnificent.
This man could never have been taken for a ghillie—he was tall and imposing and everything aristocratic and gentlemanly. Alasdair or Archie must have loaned him a fine suit of clothes, and he had shaved off the scraggly beard. The clean line of his jaw and high cheekbones were enough to make her gape at him like a shopgirl.
Her cheeks went hot with some awful mixture of attraction and trepidation.
“You are beautiful,” Mama, bless her perceptive heart, murmured, much as she had the first time Greer had been about to meet Ewan.
Her words made Greer feel less ordinary, less sharp-jawed and flame-haired, and reminded her that she was deeply loved. So loved that Mama had seated her on the opposite side of the table from Ewan, so she could look her fill without being rude.
“To Crieff and Dalshee,” Papa toasted. “Long may they prosper in harmony.”
“Hear, hear.”
They tucked into the filet de boeuf en croûte—for Greer was not the only one to bring worldly things back to Crieff from their travels—before Ewan addressed her father. “Speaking of the special relationship between Dalshee and Crieff—if I may be so bold, sir, I should like to know more about the circumstances of the betrothal. My memory is spotty and incomplete at best. Alasdair and Archie have been kind enough to help me with remembrances of some of our times together—”
“Many years’ worth,” Archie interjected. “Though not much of that is respectable enough for dinner conversation.”
“Thank you for your discretion,” Mama demurred.
“Aye,” Ewan agreed politely. “But I should like a better understanding of something so important to me. And to Greer.” He met her eyes across the table, and she felt her breath tighten in gratitude—he wasn’t perfect, but he was hopefully hers. “The contract was of long standing?”
“Aye, twelve years.” Papa took a sip of claret before he answered. “When it became apparent that Lady Shee and I would have no male heir, I naturally sought to secure the future of both Dalshee and my dear daughter. I approached the late duke, your grandfather, as I esteemed his counsel. It was he who suggested you as a possible bridegroom—with your father’s early death, God rest him—your grandfather was as concerned for the future as I.”
This was history that Greer knew by heart, having asked question after question of her parents when the idea was first presented to her so many years ago, but it was mortifying to think that the others would soon discover what she already knew—that Ewan remembered nothing of the betrothal. Or her.
“And so you betrothed us?” Ewan prompted.
“Not straightaway,” Papa collected. “There was the question of character, and you young people’s feelings to consider. We wanted to act prudently—we wanted, as your late grandfather used to say, to make haste—”
“—slowly,” a chorus from around the table rejoined with her.
“He used to adjure me with that all the time,” said Ewan with a fond smile.
“And so did you adjure us,” Alasdair reminded him.
“And me,” Greer added thinking of their correspondence, before the vivid recollection of his whisper in the dark of last night sent a wave of mortified heat streaking up her neck. “In your letters.”
Ewan’s gaze found hers across the table, which sent another flash of unhelpful heat scorching her cheeks and tingling under her skin at the very thought that he was thinking of their tryst in the bothy, too.
Her father, thankfully, took no notice. “We thought it best to formulate a plan of education to make you fit for each other, to make sure that the qualities needed for each of you to become a duke and duchess were not lacking. To form you for the future, and for each other.”
Greer had heard this talk, but it struck her for the first time that despite such guidance, and formation, their affinity for one another had been wholly their own creation—she and Ewan had chosen of their own accord to trust, confide and support each other. To suppose otherwise would be dismissive of her own free will.
A free will she wanted to exercise now—the past could not be changed, but the future could. “Perhaps we might also turn our well-formed ducal characteristics”—she cleared her throat to keep her voice from betraying her feelings, or her desperate sense of urgency—“to the more immediate problem of who it was that tried to murder both you and Ewan, Papa? And who is buried in Ewan’s grave? And what has become of Dewar? And why Malcolm Cameron is flat out lying?”
“Greer—” Her mother was aghast.
“Nay,” she answered. She was done with politeness and manners for manners’ sake—someone, who was likely still out there in the world, had tried to kill both her most beloved friend and now her father. She’d be damned if she would sit idly by out of politeness. “I know it is unladylike in the extreme, and that I have no proof of my assertions, and that one is supposed to give others the benefit of the doubt. But I have been formed to think for myself, and I think that the situation is dangerous. And I think Malcolm Cameron is dangerous. And I think that, at the very least, word ought to be sent to Crieff to make sure that Malcolm Cameron is not crating up and shipping off everything and anything he can haul off to sell!”
“Hear, hear,” Quince said. “We have reason to believe his debts are so considerable—”
“He won’t go.” Ewan’s voice was low but carried like a shout. “It would be best—easier, at least—if he did just disappear. But greed will keep him—he will stay because he thinks he can get more money yet out of Crieff. He will stay because he likes having his way. And he will stay because he cannot resist the temptation that I might not be fit to lead Crieff.”
“Ewan?” Alasdair asked carefully. “Did you purposefully lie, and tell him you couldn’t remember enough to have the responsibility of Crieff, so he would believe he could continue to take advantage?”
“I might have done, though it wasn’t entirely a lie. My ability, or lack thereof, is a real concern for Crieff.”
Greer’s heartbeat leveled out to a less lively throttle. “But you understand and admit that Cameron is dangerous?” she asked to bring the discussion back to the important issues.
Ewan wouldn’t agree. “Mostly to himself.”
“Ewan, please don’t be ‘too kind’ or too noble now,” she begged. “Not when you might embolden him to try to kill you again again—he’s already tried to shoot Papa.”
Her father pushed back from the table in alarm. “As the marquess said, Greer, I should be very careful if I were you, to have evidence before you start talking murder. Someone might ta
ke you seriously.”
“The gun came from Crieff, Papa.” Greer laid out her evidence. “It was Ewan’s particular deer rifle—”
“That Jäger from Hanover,” Ewan confirmed with a glance at Alasdair.
“Ah.”
“—left there for us to find to implicate either Ewan, himself, or this ‘imposter,’ I suppose, even though that doesn’t make much sense.” She closed her eyes for a moment to force herself to concentrate and reason it out. “It’s almost as if he’s… As if Cameron is lying as he goes along—and making accusations as he goes.” She was thinking out loud now, but the ideas were coming too fast to stop and think through. “Accusing others of the things that have happened before he might be accused. Accusing Alasdair and Archie of getting Ewan into trouble and being responsible for his death. And then accusing them of burying the body improperly. Accusing Ewan of racking up debt. Accusing the mad imposter of poaching and reiving and shooting Papa. And then accusing Dewar of the same the moment Ewan was proved to be alive.”
Papa sat down abruptly, as if his legs had gone from under him. “Good Lord. My own neighbor?”
“Nay,” Ewan disagreed. “But that will be Gow, I reckon, who shot at you. He was a military man, I begin to recollect for some reason, well versed with firearms, while Malcolm’s shooting and stalking skills always left a great deal to be desired—he doesn’t like the moorland. Doesn’t like the damp and dirt. Prefers the pavements of London, though a damper and dirtier place I’ve yet to find.”
“Cameron can still get up to a great load of mischief in the clean, dry castle,” Greer insisted. “He’s dismissed staff and sold some of your paintings in order to pay his debts, as well as trying to sell the barley fields by the loch.” Greer ticked the charges off on her fingers.
“He can’t sell those fields.” Ewan looked baffled. “We’ll have no malt to make whisky.”
MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4) Page 27