The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16)

by Emma V. Leech

  “Like that skirt of yours,” Samuel observed, making the twins snicker with amusement.

  “It’s a kilt,” Ross snapped, glowering. “And ye can all come if ye wish and the devil take ye, but don’t blame me when yer soft English bones freeze to the marrow and the north wind comes howling down the chimney.”

  “Challenge accepted,” Sampson said, looking pleased with himself.

  “I’m coming too,” Samuel added, gaining a nod of approval from his older brother.

  The twins looked at each other and shuddered in unison. “We’ll keep our fine English bones warm in our nice feather beds, thank you,” said one.

  “With some fine English ladies to keep us company,” added the other with a wicked glint in his eyes.

  Sampson rolled his eyes and gave a heavy sigh. “Welcome to the family, Ross, I wish you joy of us.”

  Chapter 16

  “Wherein tempers fray and temperatures mount.”

  The morning after the duel, Ross had been in a foul mood. He’d cursed the doctor who had attended him as a blundering fool as he’d tried to dig the bullet from his shoulder. Bruised and exhausted, now he was determined to go home at once. Despite every entreaty from his brothers that he should stay until the wound had mended, he insisted on leaving. After his first experience at the hands of an English medical man, Mrs Murray was the only one he trusted to patch him up, having done so many times before.

  His insistence seemed a little less wise as they crossed the border into Scotland three days later. The journey had gone quicker than Ross had ever experienced it, and in more luxury than he’d ever imagined, as Sampson oversaw the entire expedition. From the lists of supplies the man had instructed to have follow on after them, he clearly thought they were going into the wilderness. Ross wondered if he expected to sleep on a dirt floor and chew on raw meat, but he was too weak to comment.

  His shoulder was burning, yet he was chilled to the marrow. His rash words about fine English bones seemed to be coming back to haunt him as he tried not to shiver.

  “Ross.”

  Ross’ eyes snapped open, and he found the now familiar and serious gaze of Sampson regarding him with concern.

  “You’re sick as a dog, man. Let us find a surgeon.”

  With an effort, Ross shook his head. “Nearly there. Mrs Murray. She’ll see to it. Better than any doctor.”

  By the time they drew up outside Tor Castle, he was shivering in earnest. He knew he ought to take charge and make arrangements for the horses, for his guests, but it was all he could do not to pass out.

  Dimly aware of Sampson hammering on the great doors of the castle and tugging on the bell pull, Ross’ grasp on consciousness was diminishing as the pain, the cold, and the burning heat took hold.

  He wondered if Freddie was still here. Would she still care a damn if he was back, if he was hurt? Likely not, after the way he’d treated her. If she had an ounce of sense, she would have done as he’d told her to, gone back home, and not given him another thought. She’d find herself a decent man, one who wasn’t such a blasted tyrant with the devil’s own temper. The idea made his heart clench, and this time he didn’t fight the wave of oblivion that tempted him into the darkness.

  ***

  “Damn it, Sampson, hurry up! He’s fainted.”

  Sampson rushed back to the carriage, despite there still not being an answer at the castle.

  “I think you mean he’s passed out,” Sampson amended with a grim smile. “I’m not sure the Scottish branch of the family would appreciate it being described as fainting or swooning. He’ll likely take your head off.”

  “Not at the moment he won’t,” his brother observed. “He looks bloody awful.”

  “Damn him, the stupid, pig-headed lummox. I should have forced him to stay at that last stop.”

  “I’m not sure anyone forces Ross Moncreiffe to do anything,” Samuel said, watching the slumped figure of their half-brother with concern.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Both men looked around, a little startled by the immaculate butler who had approached their carriage without them noticing.

  “You must be Digby,” Sampson said in relief, climbing down. “I’m Sampson Pelham, this is my brother, Samuel. Your Captain Moncreiffe is here, injured, I’m afraid. He insisted on getting back to Mrs Murray rather than seeing a doctor.”

  “Good heavens!” Digby exclaimed, running back to the house in a most undignified fashion. “Mrs Murray!” he bellowed. “Mrs Murray, come at once.”

  “We must get him inside,” Sampson instructed Digby as he rushed back to them. “Can you get a couple of footmen to come and help us?”

  “No, sir,” Digby replied apologetically. “There’s only myself and Mrs Murray at the castle, but with you, your brother, and the driver too….”

  The four men laboured under the dead weight of the captain and carried him in through the wide oak doors of the castle.

  “Ross!” Mrs Murray exclaimed in horror, running towards the captain as though he was her firstborn son rather than her master.

  Sampson frowned but kept his mouth shut, not yet understanding what the situation was in this rather peculiar household. The castle was a medieval behemoth and looked every bit as uncomfortable and draughty as Ross had predicted, yet there was a butler grand enough for the Duke of York, a hysterical housekeeper, and none other.

  “Bring him through,” Mrs Murray instructed at once. “What’s happened to him?” she demanded, her furious gaze landing on Sampson. “Who are ye? Why are ye here with him?”

  Deciding to answer the questions in order and rather taken aback at being spoken to so bluntly by the staff, Sampson was at his iciest.

  “He was shot in the shoulder in a duel. I’m Mr Sampson Pelham; that is my brother, Samuel. We were with Captain Moncreiffe when it happened, and he insisted on being conveyed here to you.”

  The woman paled, her hand going to her heart. “A duel?” she shrieked, running up the stairs behind them before grinding to a halt at the top and adding in arctic tones, “Pelham?” She gasped, staring at first him and then Samuel. “Ye shot him? Your own brother?”

  “No!” Sampson replied in no uncertain terms, having had quite enough of this. “It was our bloody father. There’s no love lost between us and we are happy to know Captain Moncreiffe, but may we speak of this once you’ve seen to his wound?”

  “Oh!” Mrs Murray said, immediately contrite. “Poor Ross. Of course, bring him through.”

  They carried him through to a comfortable but simply furnished bed chamber, all four men sweating as they heaved his unconscious form onto the bed. He roused as they did so, groaning in pain as they jarred his shoulder.

  “Mrs Murray?” he said, as the woman hurried to his bedside and grabbed hold of his hand.

  “Aye, laddie, I’m here. What have ye gone an’ done, ye daft beggar?”

  “Duel, with Viscount Cheam, my Da.”

  “Oh, my God,” Mr Murray exclaimed. “How did ye find out?”

  “Overheard ye talking before I left.”

  “Oh, Ross, they’ll hang ye for sure,” she said, bursting into tears and burying her face in her apron.

  “Ach, he’s not dead,” Ross said in disgust. “The bastard tried to shoot me in the back but I deloped. More’s the pity,” he added, looking as if he regretted that fact quite severely at this moment.

  Sampson could hardly blame him.

  He listened with amusement, rather impressed by the filthy volley of curses from Mrs Murray that rained down upon his father’s head as that information was digested.

  Ross laughed, and then groaned, which brought Mrs Murray back to the point and suddenly she was all business, taking off the festering bandages.

  “The wound’s infected,” she said, shaking her head. “Ye great eejit. Why did ye not get it seen to sooner?” she scolded him, glaring next at Sampson and Samuel for allowing it to have gone unseen so long.

  “He wouldn’t let us
. Insisted you deal with it, or no one,” Samuel said, as he and his brother watched the redoubtable housekeeper tear up again and stroke the captain’s hair with affection.

  “Daft beggar,” she said again, sniffing. “It’ll need a deal of cleaning and I’ll need meadowsweet to bring that fever down.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” Sampson asked, the question earning him a swift, considering look from Mrs Murray.

  “That depends,” she said, folding her arms and looking at him as if he was a boy in short trousers, rather than a large man in his prime who was heir to a viscountcy. Such things clearly did not impress Mrs Murray. “Are ye asking to pay lip service to the niceties, or do ye mean to make yerself useful?”

  Sampson stiffened, fighting the urge to tell the woman to keep a civil tongue in her head, but a low laugh came from the bed.

  “Give over, Mrs Murray, he didnae have to come all the way here with me, now did he?”

  Mrs Murray made a sound that suggested that had been the very least he could do, but she softened her tone a little. “Do ye know what meadowsweet looks like?”

  It irritated Sampson that the first thing she’d asked him was something he didn’t have any knowledge of but there was nothing else but to admit it. “No.”

  The woman gave a huff of impatience. “Never mind. I’ll draw ye a picture. I’ll need a good bunch and it’s late in the season, so it’ll be hard to find.”

  A woman’s terrified voice sounded in the corridor behind them. “Mrs Murray, Mrs Murray, Digby said Ross is hurt—”

  Sampson looked around as the door flew open and a young woman burst into the room.

  “Ross!” she cried and threw herself to her knees beside the bed. “Ross, what happened?”

  “I’m all right, lass. Dinnae fret yerself so,” Ross said, smiling at the young woman.

  Sampson wondered if the fellow knew his heart was in his eyes as he looked at the distraught girl who clung to his hand, pressing it to her cheek. Miss Wycliffe, then, Sampson assumed. He’d never met her himself, but Sam had told him about her, speaking of her fondly—for Sam.

  Sampson exchanged a glance with Samuel, who grinned at him, clearly having noticed the same thing.

  “He’s going to be fine, miss, but I’ll need yer help if we’re to stop this fever.” Mrs Murray patted her on the shoulder before urging her to her feet.

  Miss Wycliffe let go of Ross’ hand with obvious reluctance.

  “But what happened?” she asked, looking around, suddenly noticing Sampson and Samuel.

  “Sam!” she exclaimed, running to his brother who grasped hold of her hands, beaming at her and raising one to his lips.

  “Hello, Freddie. This is a turn up isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Sam, how lovely to see you, but….” She paled, suddenly making the connection between Sam and Ross. “Oh, no….”

  She trailed off, staring back at Ross, who was glowering at Samuel with a look that suggested he’d best let go of Miss Wycliffe’s hand at once or lose it.

  Mrs Murray, taking in the situation and coming to the same conclusion, dragged Miss Wycliffe from the room with haste. “Come along now, no time to lose. Mr Pelham, you come too, please. If ye really mean to make yerself useful, ye can tell us everything that’s gone on while yer at it.”

  Sampson hesitated, looking between Ross and Samuel. Sam, the idiot, was grinning, even though Ross was glowering at him. Deciding his fool brother could look after himself, he hurried after Mrs Murray.

  ***

  Ross did not want to dwell upon the overwhelming rush of relief he’d felt as Freddie had appeared at his door. Nor did he want to consider why his throat had become so alarmingly tight as she threw herself down beside his bed and clutched at his hand as if she’d never let go. He felt like he’d been holding his breath since he’d left home and only the sight of her would let him breathe easy again. Until he’d seen her pleasure in greeting Samuel, that was.

  He was gritting his teeth so hard he was in danger of breaking something. This was why he needed to keep clear of Freddie. In some dim part of his mind he knew Sam had been her friend. If there had been more than that it was none of his affair. Yet … the idea it might have been more than that made him slightly unhinged.

  Ross watched as Mrs Murray dragged an unwilling Freddie from the room and Sampson gave them both a doubtful look before leaving them alone.

  “If ye laid a hand on her,” Ross growled, cursing the fact he felt weak as a bloody kitten, “I’ll rip yer balls off and stuff ’em down yer throat.”

  Samuel made an expression of distaste but looked otherwise unconcerned. “A rather unpleasant prospect,” he said, his tone far too light for Ross’ liking. “Though, as you can hardly stand, I don’t feel in any immediate danger.”

  “Then ye are a fool as well as a blackguard,” Ross said in fury, starting to haul his protesting limbs upright.

  “Oh, do stop beating your chest. I believe society has progressed beyond dragging your mate back to a cave by her hair,” Sam said in disgust. “I told you before, we are friends. Nothing more, nothing less. And, as such, I might ask you the same?”

  Sam stared at him, a glittering look of anger in his blue eyes. “Have you laid a hand on her, you bastard? Because, unless you mean to marry the girl, we will have to settle our differences once that shoulder of yours is mended.”

  Ross went very still, wondering how he’d suddenly become the villain of the piece but discomforted to realise he suited the part.

  “Damn you!” Sam said in fury. “What did you do? Is she still a virgin?”

  “Hold yer blasted tongue,” Ross snapped back. “Of course she is. I would never….” He paused then, wondering if that was true. “It’s why I left, to get away from her before—”

  “Before?” Sam repeated, his tone icy.

  “Before… things could go too far,” Ross said through his teeth.

  “And now?”

  Samuel was staring at him, arms folded, an implacable look in his eyes that suggested Ross had better choose his next words with care.

  Ross considered that but didn’t answer. There was a panicky, jittery rhythm to his heart that he wasn’t entirely sure the fever was to blame for.

  “What do ye mean?” he asked, even though he knew full well.

  “I mean that you’re likely to have Miss Wycliffe tending to your fevered brow over the coming days and, if you take advantage of her, I’ll have you marching up the aisle before you can get that bloody skirt back on.”

  “It’s a kilt!” Ross ground out, despite knowing Sam was going out of his way to aggravate him.

  “Then I’ll kill you,” Sam added, glaring at him.

  “Ach, ye and whose army?” he snapped back, aware that he sounded like a five-year-old but too infuriated to care.

  “When you have three brothers, no army is required.”

  The words were cool and assured, and Ross was suddenly envious. He’d only known that kind of camaraderie in the army. The certainty that the man beside you would fight for you, no matter what. He’d not realised how deeply he’d miss that sense of belonging once he’d sold out. What might it be like to have brothers, to know they’d always have your back, even if you’d been an idiot?

  The atmosphere simmered around them until Sam gave a sigh and sat down at the end of his bed.

  “Don’t you like her enough to marry her?”

  Ross made a sound of disgust at being asked such a thing.

  “It’s a fair question,” Sam persisted. “As you clearly liked her well enough to put your hand up her skirt.”

  “Mind yer filthy mouth. I’ll not have ye talk so about her.”

  Sam snorted. “I’m not talking disparagingly about her, it’s you I’m condemning.”

  Ross groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. He was freezing cold, everything hurt, and he just wanted to sleep, but Sam was right. He ought to be condemned for what he’d done.

  “I’m nae good enough
for her,” he said gruffly, irritated to have to admit it. More so, when he realised Sam was the kind of man she ought to marry. He was a gentleman who’d been born to the same world as she had, not some uneducated lout who’d dragged himself out of the gutter by making use of his own violent temper and gaining success in the army.

  “Isn’t that for Freddie to decide?” Sam said, his voice kinder now.

  “That’s Miss Wycliffe to you,” Ross muttered, tugging the bed covers over himself as he began to shiver again. “Hell’s teeth, I’m cold.”

  Sam sighed and then headed to the fireplace. “You need more staff,” he muttered, kneeling to light the fire.

  Ross closed his eyes as exhaustion rolled over him.

  He didn’t know how long he slept but when he woke his bedroom was full of people scurrying around obeying Mrs Murray’s instructions. It was hard to keep his eyes open until they settled on Freddie. She looked pale and worried, and he hated that he’d made her look that way almost as much as he was glad she worried for him. He was a selfish bastard, there was no doubt about that.

  “Right now, laddie, we need to get ye back to rights,” Mrs Murray said, and Ross found himself amused by the fact she’d started talking to him the way she had when he was a boy.

  Since he’d returned from the war there’d been nothing less than a respectful captain at her lips, but suddenly he was Ross and laddie once more. Not that he minded. She’d been the closest thing to mother he’d ever had, and it was rather nice to be fussed over, even if her style was more bullying than cosseting.

  “Now, ye’ll not thank me while I do this, but if ye want to live and keep that arm, it’s got to be done.”

  Ross nodded his understanding before turning back to Freddie, who looked as if she wanted to cry.

  “Dinnae fret,” he said, irritated to discover his voice trembling as he fought to stop his teeth from chattering. “Mrs Murray has patched me up plenty a times before, and I had worse than this in Spain. In France, too, come to that,” he added, chuckling, though Freddie didn’t seem to find it amusing.