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

by Elizabeth Essex

  Such sentiment may not surprise you, who know me so well, but I profess myself surprised at the strength of the feeling, which finds me in an almost agitated state of readiness to end my bachelorhood. We have done what we pledged to do—to give each other the time and freedom to grow up.

  If you are in agreement, and find yourself in a similar state of readiness, I propose that we marry at Crieff this autumn, or as soon as you feel yourself ready for the burden of taking me on. I will ask you to send your reply to Cameron House, Edinburgh, as business compels me there for meetings with lawyers, factors and agents regarding the final disposition of the estate which comes to me in full upon my four and twentieth birthday this month.

  I plan to return home to Crieff as soon as may be, where I shall await your coming with the greatest anticipation of happiness.

  Your devoted, C

  His Grace the Duke of Crieff

  Cameron House

  St. Andrew Square

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  16 August, 1792

  Dearest Ewan,

  I am in happiest receipt of your last, and my answer to your proposal is a most emphatic, Yes. Yes, let us marry ~ but at once! I, too, find myself anxious to return from the Continent to Scotland and begin our marriage as soon as may be. I confess that the fall seems too far away ~ I would be united with you as soon as travel and preparation allow. I will not write more, as the boy is waiting this instant to take my letter off to the packet boat but be assured that I am this moment on my way to you. I will send word the moment we have returned to Dalshee, and will set out directly to Crieff for our wedding, whereupon I will pledge myself,

  Your most devoted, G

  Chapter 30

  Ewan’s heart was thundering like hoof beats in his ears, blotting out all sound as his vision cleared to reveal the high-ceilinged library. He was not in the burn, choking on black water, but at home in Crieff, where the long lines of books stood sentry to the years in orderly rows. He was protected by his people, who were on the other side of the now-closed door. He was alive and with his murderous cousin, who had circled back to the desk.

  “You’re mad, dear cousin. Look at you, clutching the furniture like an invalid old man. Your brain is so disordered by your fall that I fear you’re a danger to yourself and to Crieff. And we can’t have that.”

  Ewan knew he would go mad if he stopped believing the evidence of his own heart and mind—he knew what he knew. “Nay.”

  “We’ll make you comfortable at home while you convalesce, and find a physician better suited to your condition than that incompetent leech man from the village.”

  Ewan might have been confused enough to thank his cousin for his concern, but Malcolm was as Malcolm had always been—he could not keep the hint of gloating from his smile. He could not hide the smirk that told Ewan his cousin had found find some bribable quack who would consign Ewan to the hell that was Bedlam for the price of some silver.

  “Nay, dear cousin.” Ewan threw the bastard’s own language back at Malcolm like a glove backhanded across his face. “Your days of lying and flattering and charming your way out of trouble are over. It really doesn’t matter which one of you hit me—Gow may have done the foul deed, but you did nothing to stop him. You took my ring from my finger, Malcolm. Grandfather’s ring. You knew what you were doing.”

  “And I know what I’m doing now.” Malcolm dove for the open drawer, snatching up the pistol he must have concealed there, leveling it at Ewan’s heart.

  This would be the end. This time, Malcolm would make sure there was no coming back from the dead, no usurping his place as the Duke of Crieff. This time, Malcolm meant to do the deed himself. And he would not miss at such close range. “Move away from the desk.”

  Ewan decided he would do no such thing—he could not.

  Because his gaze was caught by something left behind in the drawer. Something as bright and round as a penny. The face of a lass.

  A lass he knew.

  It was a portrait miniature, the glass cracked, and the gold frame dented from misuse. A portrait of a young woman who could only be a younger Greer—there was the familiar self-possession, along with the sweet mischief suspended in the depths of the warm brown eyes, and the wild fall of long, ginger hair, as bright and glorious as a penny in his palm.

  This he remembered—this lass, this image of his beloved. This is what he had been looking at that day. That day by the river.

  The sound of water and the wind through the trees filled his mind. He was seated on Cat Sìth, out of patience with Malcolm’s droning complaint, wanting to be home. He had reached into his pocket for his timepiece but pulled this out instead. And there she was, smiling up at him, his bright lucky copper penny in his palm.

  He took it now, holding the miniature fast in his hand, as if his grip might ease the hard, joyful hammer of his heart against his chest. “Greer.”

  “Yes, our lovely Lady Greer.” Malcolm’s frown dissolved into snide triumph. “Remarkably adaptable, isn’t she, and pretty enough for the Highlands. She’ll make a fine Duchess of Crieff for me, before she joins you.”

  For half a moment Ewan felt as if his heart might tear itself to pieces within his chest. But he would not allow it—he knew her thoughts, her heart, as well as he knew his own. Her affections were not changeable in the least.

  “Nay. Though I were gone a hundred years, you’d not get her. She’d never have you. You’re not worthy to so much as speak her name.” The puzzle pieces locked into place, solidifying the past, with only a few remaining pieces. “Where are her letters?” If he was going to be murdered again, he wanted them to hand.

  Ewan rifled through the drawers, opening and slamming—they would be somewhere in this desk, close to hand. Close to his heart.

  “Your sentimental little scraps of drivel?” Malcolm sneered. “How educational they were. How sentimental. But I learned all I needed to know to manipulate her before I burned them. Now stand away.” Malcolm twitched the gun in his hands to bring Ewan’s attention back where Malcolm wanted it.

  It worked—time slowed and narrowed down to the small circumference of the barrel.

  But Ewan would not do this to Greer a second time. He could not allow her to be so ill-used.

  He scooped his hands under the edge of the desk, intending to upend the heavy oak piece onto Malcolm, and hopefully shield himself from the shot. But before he could so much as take the weight of the heavy the mahogany in his hands everything happened at once.

  From above on the balcony came the sound of hammers being cocked back—Alasdair and Archie and Quince on the balcony with guns trained on his cousin, who turned toward the threat, while from behind Malcolm, Greer rose up like God’s revenge against murder and swung the butt of her fowling piece against the back of his skull with a crack that echoed off the wooden walls.

  Malcolm wavered and started to go down, but still managed to swing his pistol wildly toward Greer.

  Rage—blind, cold and deadly—erupted from him like a snake lashing out. Ewan was leaping for him, sliding across the desk to grapple the gun, and seize Malcolm by the throat, choking the lying, insinuating life out of him.

  The charge went off, blowing an unholy loud hole in the high ceiling, raining smoke and plaster down upon them.

  And then MacIntosh materialized out of seeming nowhere, with a brace of footmen, Geordie and Billy—Ewan was astonished to remember their names—who wrested Malcolm to the ground.

  “Ye’ll no’ want tae do that, Mr. Cameron,” MacIntosh instructed coolly, as he broke Malcolm’s grasp on the spent weapon.

  The footman pinioned his cousin’s arms behind his back, while MacIntosh very correctly returned the weapon to Ewan. “Yer pistol, Yer Grace.” And then, even more composedly, the steward stripped the cravat from his neck to bind Malcolm’s wrists.

  Ewan uncocked the hammer and emptied the burnt powder in the pan onto the top of the desk before he threw the weapon down. “By rights, I ought to
thrash the life out of you,” he told his cousin. He made himself step back, away from the villain, so he wasn’t tempted to lay hands on him again. “But I’ll save you for the hangman.”

  “You can’t do that. You wouldn’t—I’m your family,” Malcolm gritted through the pain that was no doubt erupting in his head. “Think of the scandal.”

  “Scandal? Do you think I care for scandal?” Ewan had to grip his hands into the edge of the desk to keep from plowing them into his cousin’s face. “You left me for dead. You and your man, with his boots and his knife, did your best to kill me. The fact that I’m alive owes nothing to you—your actions were the same whether I lived or died.”

  “It was an accident.” Malcolm was grasping at straws to save himself.

  “I don’t think so.” Ewan was not going to let him off so easily. “You don’t bash a man’s head in with a rock by accident. Or kick the air from his lungs and break his ribs by mistake. Nor pull a knife to finish what the rock and the boots had started without deadly intent.”

  “It was Gow with the rock and the knife,” Malcolm swore. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You watched and did nothing.” With each moment the memory of what had happened became clearer. “You stood and watched my life’s blood being spilled onto the ground, and you did nothing. And no matter who did the deed, it is you who wear my ring, Malcolm. You who stood by and took what was mine by right.”

  “It shouldn’t be yours,” Malcolm spat. “It shouldn’t be your right. I should have as much right as you to the fortune—”

  “You did. Grandfather gave us everything the same—allowances and opportunities. But you were never satisfied. You could have come with me to France, but you chose not to. You chose your fate just as assuredly as grandfather did.”

  “It wasn’t fair.”

  Ewan stepped back from the desk. “Now you’re the one who is taking like a madman, Malcolm.”

  “I should have had the right. I was older.” Malcolm recited his complaints as if they were a litany learned long ago. “I should have been the heir.”

  So this was the essence of the constant friction—the murderous tension between them. “I am not going to debate the laws of primogeniture and succession with you. I don’t make the laws, but by God, I follow them. What you suggest never could have happened. You’re railing against fate, not against me.”

  “Grandfather could have made it so.” Years of resentment poured out of Malcolm like poison. “He could have done what was right and given it to me. He could have done what was right.”

  “He did.” Of this Ewan was sure. Their grandfather had done his best to form them both for Crieff. But only one of them had heeded the lessons. “You made your choice just as assuredly as Grandfather did.”

  “And so can you choose, cousin.” Malcolm was not done with his recriminations. “All of this—this unpleasantness—”

  “Murder is hardly unpleasantness, Malcolm.”

  His cousin ignored him. “All of this could have been avoided if you had simply given me the money as I asked.”

  Ewan held as firm as he had that day on the bridge. “All of this could have been avoided if you had simply not made alarming bets with dangerous people.”

  His cousin nearly growled, grinding his teeth in frustration. “Everyone does it. I’ll warrant even you, my saintly prig of a cousin, do it. All gentlemen make bets. Why should not I?”

  “I do not. I do not gamble. I do not make bets. I never have and never will. And neither will you from now on. Because you are dead to me. Take him away from me.” He made himself speak in a more reasonable manner. “Lock him up in some cellar, or dungeon if we still have one.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace, the oubliette is still fully functional.” MacIntosh managed to keep a straight face. “We’ll toss him in there fae the nonce, while I send frae another magistrate.”

  “Another?”

  “Your Grace will in time remember that he is the magistrate. But I should recommend in this instance, of consulting another.” MacIntosh advised. “And there is the matter of Mr. Gow.”

  “Aye.” Ewan did remember. And he would, in time, remember all the lessons he needed to learn in order to do right by Crieff. “Keep them separated, if possible—let them stew in their own guilt.”

  “Just so, Your Grace.” MacIntosh inclined his silver head. “As you wish.”

  “Thank you, MacIntosh. You are a wonder.”

  “One does one’s best, Your Grace. Never less than one’s best.”

  Never less than one’s best. That was all he had to do—try. And with Greer by his side— he would be able to do anything together.

  He turned to her, and immediately she was in his arms, holding him so fiercely he knew she would never voluntarily let go.

  “Papa is a magistrate—he will be in presently. He’ll know what to do.” She put her lips to the hollow of his throat. “Why did you not wait for us? Why did you have to confront him in this dangerous way? He might have killed you.”

  “Because I had to.” He could think of no other reason that made any sense. “And because, thankfully, he’s not very good at murder.”

  “Your Grace.” MacIntosh returned and bowed in apology. “If I may intrude to suggest one other thing, Your Grace?”

  “Of course.”

  “The gravesite up the brae lies heavy on our conscience. Might I suggest sending the gardeners up to begin digging up the casket to see who lies within?”

  “If indeed there is anyone.” Ewan turned to his cousin. “Malcolm? Care to exchange that information for forgoing the indignity of the oubliette?”

  “I had nothing to do with the coffin—that was Gow’s doing.”

  “And where is your Mr. Gow?”

  “Trussed like a grollached deer on the back of Dewar’s pony.” Greer supplied. “All your Dewar’s doing.”

  “Dead?” he asked, wanting to be clear.

  “Nay, lad.” Dewar made himself known behind Alasdair. “Just laid out, like, after ’ee made the mistake of takin’ a shot at me, same as ’ee did tae the earl. But wi’ no better result, aye?”

  “Aye.” Ewan was glad the man was not dead. Let the gears of justice grind him down if they would. But he didn’t want death on his hands, only life.

  “I should have let him shoot the lot of you.” Malcolm’s sullen spite found a new outlet.

  “You did, Malcolm—a fact we’re not like to forget at your trial.” Another thought occurred to him. “Did Gow serve with your father in North America? With the Seventy-Fourth Regiment of Foot Highlanders?” Ewan was no longer astonished at the arcane bits of information that his brain made available at odd times so long as they were useful.

  Malcolm stared. “How did you know that?”

  “Grandfather was intensely proud of your father, Malcolm—he kept your father’s sword. It hangs in pride of place in the reception hall.”

  Malcolm was all sullen entitlement. “Why did he not give it to me?”

  “No doubt he was afraid that you would pawn it.” Ewan was done with his cousin’s resentment. “But I think we have also narrowed down who it was that used my long Jäger rifle to shoot at the Earl of Shee—it was Gow with his infantry experience, wasn’t it? Done at your command to blame me, and make Greer feel vulnerable, so she would marry you.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Malcolm spat. “He missed, and you’re to marry the nosy bitch and get her money after all.”

  Ewan gave in to the spike of rage that spurred him to backhand his cousin across the mouth. “You will never speak of her in that manner, or even so much as utter her name again,” he threatened. “Or I will wipe you from the face of this earth. Do you understand me?”

  Malcolm just smiled.

  The rage pulsed through him like poison. “Take my cousin up to the grave he had dug for me,” he ordered. He turned his back on his cousin and addressed MacIntosh. “Open it up so that it may be ready for my cousin when the magistrate—w
hom he ordered shot at—comes to deliver his sentence.”

  Malcolm tried to pull himself out of the footmen’s rough grip. “You wouldn’t.”

  Ewan made himself as cold as the water of the river. “Better yet, take my cousin up the hill and make him dig it out himself. See how he likes standing in his own grave.”

  For the first time, Malcolm began to look afraid. “That was all Gow’s doing—the body. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “And will he admit to that at your trial at the High Court at Lawnmarket? Will he stretch his neck to save yours? Paid him well, did you? Appreciated his underhanded work on your worthless behalf?”

  “He’s my blood—my mother’s brother. He always encouraged me. Told me what was due to me. He’ll do anything for me.”

  “Will he be loyal enough to take the noose for you?”

  Malcolm was stunned into silence. “What do you want from me?”

  “Justice.” Of this Ewan was sure. “Justice for Crieff.”

  “While I’ll get no justice.” Malcolm was bitter to the last.

  “What you might get instead is mercy.” Ewan took a deep breath. “Tell me if there is an innocent person buried in my grave, and I will argue for leniency. For you to be put on a ship and transported, rather than be hanged. So long as you never step foot on this island again, your life will not be forfeit. You are my only family, Malcolm. And I will honor that bond even if you don’t.”

  “Gow bought a pauper’s body from St. Cuthbert’s poorhouse.”

  “Ah.” Alasdair’s brow’s lifted. “It seems our old friend the Reverend Talent is up to new tricks. I shall have to pay him a visit.”

  Ewan turned to his oldest friends, to the brothers of his heart, and to the woman he loved more than life itself. “Give me your honest opinion—am I doing the right thing? Greer?”