by L. L. Muir
“See here, North,” said the blond. “I’m quite sure Ursula wouldn’t be happy to hear—”
“Relax, Your Grace,” Northwick replied. “The woman has shown no interest in any of us all night. Other than Condiff and Norleigh, there has been only one man she has bothered to speak to all evening.” He, too, turned to stare at Connor. The rest of them followed suit. That Harcourt fellow grinned like he’d just been released from prison. The blonde took a good look at Connor’s kilt and frowned.
Uncomfortable with being judged from afar, Connor stepped over to the gentleman and braced his feet apart, ready for whatever might come next.
North inclined his head, then grinned like his friend. “Don’t pretend you haven’t heard every word.”
Connor tilted his head. “I pretend nothin’.”
The dark one nodded. “That saves time.” He lowered his chin and looked deep into Connor’s eyes.
“Ye wish me to distract a woman? Aye, I think I can manage. But for how long?”
“Why should time matter when an innocent woman’s life might be at stake? And you’ve already proven of interest to her.”
The imposing man couldn’t be serious, so Connor felt no remorse for laughing. “Just like that then? A lass looks at a man over-long and suddenly he’s spoken for?” He scoffed. “Are we back in the Middle Ages, now?”
The cheerful one leaned forward again. “Why else are you here, man, if not to find a wife? You should thank us for the help.”
Connor rolled his eyes. “I suppose I’m here for the same reason you are—to rub… elbows…with the pretty lasses.”
Condiff’s eyes widened and he blushed with indignation. “That is quite enough. No one needs to claim my cousin. I will distract her myself until I can discover what she truly means to do about Norleigh. For all we know, she is earnest in her intentions to become acquainted with Denny’s friends.”
The blond settled his hand on the cousin’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Condiff, but she has already proven capable of bending you to her will. North is right. She needs a distraction. But don’t worry. The Scotsman can hardly win her heart in an evening. And he doesn’t look the sort to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to the Highlands, now does he?”
“I’m sure Ashmoore was jesting,” said Northwick. “But he is correct about one thing. Your pretty cousin has hardly noticed His Grace is in the room. So clearly, something is amiss here. And Miss Kellaway will certainly be safer with six of us looking out after her.”
The blond gave Connor a sober look. “You are willing to help, are you not?”
Connor felt more than a wee bit prickly under the steady stare of a man who was apparently a royal. If he knew what Connor had been in his past life, he wouldn’t want to be in the same room with him, let alone speak of favors. But coming together for a good cause felt all too familiar.
Hadn’t he done that very thing 270 years ago? And regretted it every day since?
And so, after a moment’s consideration, Connor faced all five men, offered a genuine bow, and said, “Thank you all the same, but no.”
He spun to face the stairs and stepped away, intent on leaving the disturbing party in an even more disturbing era. But his left shoulder was suddenly caught under the crushing grip of the one called Ashmoore.
“I do not think you understand, sir,” the man growled behind him. “This young woman may be playing a dangerous game, and we cannot help her unless we understand what she plans.”
He pulled Connor backward until he stood just ahead and to one side, affording them both a clear view of the dance floor. He’d spoken quietly into Connor’s ear, his voice infused with as much menace as his grip, and a promise of more pain hung like something unpleasant poised to fall onto Connor’s head.
But owing to the fact that he had suffered death already, Connor never truly feared what the man might do to him if he still refused. But he had no doubt that the typical mortal man would have wet himself to be in the same position.
The Jacobites might have fared much better at Culloden had this man been in their ranks. In the olden days, amongst the most superstitious, this Ashmoore might have enjoyed the reputation of a berserker… But even a berserker posed no threat to Connor—unless the man stood between Connor and all those women he meant to sample in his two days of mortality.
There he was, standing in the midst of a gaggle of noblemen who assumed he was one of them only because he’d been announced as one. But he’d be damned if he would spend another moment in borrowed skin!
Although… He’d likely be just as damned if he didn’t.
He shook his head, determined not to care, just as he had never cared. “If the lass is bent on revenge, who am I to interfere?”
“Unfortunately,” Ashmoore continued as if he hadn’t heard a word, “you seem to be the best man for the job.” He lowered his voice. “Any honorable man would step up to the challenge…”
He paused as if offering Connor the chance to admit he was not an honorable man, and in spite of the orchestra and the various pitches in the conversations of a hundred people, a tense silence encompassed them all, as if the other four were holding their breaths.
An insult. Of course it was. But not so public as to force Connor’s hand. If he admitted to being a blackguard, the man would stop pressing for his volunteerism help. If he had any pride at all, he would either offer his service or would have to call the man out. And he was fairly certain that few men would be fool enough to do the latter.
Mortality was growing on him, as it happened, and he was loath to give it up so soon.
“Tell me this,” Connor said, choosing none of the implied alternatives. “What is the lass to ye? Why do ye champion a lass ye dinnae ken? Who may not be in any danger after all?”
“She’s with Norleigh,” murmured Harcourt, though he wouldn’t look Connor in the eye when he spoke. “That alone puts her in danger.”
After a cursory glance around the gathering, Connor noticed that the rest of them, including the cousin, were avoiding his gaze as well.
Finally, Northwick looked him in the eye. “We may not know her, but we knew her brother. And we knew he’d been seduced into Norleigh’s web—”
“And we did nothing to stop it.” The blond lifted his chin like a man prepared to take the punishment he deserved.
“And how did this brother die?”
“Hung himself,” Ashmoore said quietly.
Northwick nodded once. “After Norleigh cheated him out of everything that wasn’t entailed. Who knows what advice he might have given the young man.”
“I see.” Connor had to look away from the five gentlemen who were clearly suffering with their sins. “I’ll do it.” The words snuck out of his mouth unbidden, and he tried desperately to unspeak them. “But I’ve only a pair of days—”
“Surely you can set aside—”
“I have my own reckoning to see to,” Connor said, interrupting Northwick. “The devil will be coming for his due, and he willnae be put off. Trust me on this.”
The larger man stared into Connor’s eyes for a long moment, assessing. And whatever he thought he might have seen through the windows to a ghost’s soul, it didn’t make him reconsider.
“Two days will have to be enough,” he said.
With a slight nod, the blond gave Connor the first sign of his approval. “We’ll do what we can to keep Norleigh’s attentions off of Miss Kellaway.” He looked to the dance floor. “But I doubt it will be easy. She is quite fetching.”
“Don’t worry,” said Northwick. “You need only draw her attention as often as possible, and hopefully, she’ll let slip what she knows about the man. Keep them apart. Give her something more pleasant to think about than that foul creature she’s dancing with.”
Ashmoore’s hand returned to Connor’s shoulder and suddenly they were facing each other. “If you sully the girl, or her reputation, only part of you will be returning to Scotland.” He glanced pointedly
at Connor’s sporran.
“I understand,” he said through gritted teeth. “I only wish I didn’t.”
It seemed the prudent thing to do to put some distance between himself and the threat, so he stepped closer to the dance floor and waited for the tune to end.
Perhaps I’ve already crossed over to the afterlife and this is punishment for all my sins. Perhaps I’m to spend eternity in a place and time where the women cannot be touched and my English enemies are to be my taskmasters.
CHAPTER SIX
Mercy felt the heat rise from her face and didn’t know if it was due to the exertion of the dance, or because she was standing so close to the Scotsman that her skirts covered his boots, and she could see each of a thousand small whiskers beginning on his face.
She stepped back quickly and curtsied. “My apologies, Lord Grant. I am afraid I was still reeling from the dance.”
His frown lessened, but only a little. “My name is Gray, not Grant. Cousin to Lady Grant.”
She took a swift breath and held it for a few seconds, trying to control the resentment that rose in her chest at the mention of her other enemy. “I owe you another apology then, Lord…Gray.” She inclined her head and stepped to the side, but he mirrored her movement and she could not pass him as smoothly as she’d intended.
“Since everyone here has seen us speaking together, introductions or not, won’t you linger a wee moment?”
Mercy was temporarily at a loss for words. It was obvious, from the set of his jaw, that he was upset about something—and quite possibly her. But she wasn’t particularly interested in wasting breath with another man named Gray, either.
His eyes bore into hers. He forced a smile she knew he did not mean, and showed no signs of relenting. So she sucked air deep into her lungs, a few deep breaths to clear her head and find her voice.
“My lord,” she refused to speak his unpleasant name again, “is something the matter?”
He glanced down long enough to smooth his features and gave her an improved smile. “As a matter of fact there is, lass—” Someone behind the Scot cleared his throat rather loudly, and they were both distracted. “Would ye mind telling me just what ye’re about?”
He stumbled forward as if he’d been shoved from behind, but the handsome Duke of Rochester was the only one within reach of him, and the blond’s attention was on his friends. The Scotsman frowned briefly over his shoulder in any case, then turned that frown on her again.
“What I meant to ask, my lady, is if ye have somewhere particular ye mean to go, or could ye take pity on a countryman and show me the next dance?” He cleared his throat as if the words had left a sour taste in his mouth, but it made no sense to her.
The man had obviously been interested in her earlier, but suddenly he thought it a chore to ask her to dance? And the way he’d ground out the word countryman—had he only just realized she was English, or been reminded that, as a Scot, he should have held her in some measure of contempt for what her ancestors had done to his?
The man was a mystery, certainly, but she had no time and no attention to spare for puzzling him out. She had a task to accomplish, and that task only involved herself and Lord Norleigh.
“As I assume you aren’t truly interested in dancing with me, sir, I will happily decline.” She picked up her skirts, bobbed quickly, and turned to her left, intent on giving him a wide berth.
But there he was again. “Happily?”
She huffed out a breath, but wasn’t so cruel as to let others hear her exasperation. “Yes, happily. For both our sakes. For I can promise nothing tonight. My….schedule… is not my own. I cannot know from one dance to the next where I will be needed. And at the moment, I am needed elsewhere. I’m certain there are dozens of young ladies eager to partner you for the next dance—perhaps someone who interests you more than I? Perhaps you can find a young woman wearing a touch of plaid. Now. If you will excuse me…” She gathered up her skirts and scurried around him, foregoing another curtsy in hopes of escaping while he bowed.
She moved toward the stairway that would lead up to the ladies’ chamber on the first floor, and left all thoughts of Scotsmen behind her. Lord Norleigh needed time to wonder where she’d gone off to, and with whom. Thanks to her sharp ears and an overheard conversation, she’d learned that the notorious viscount appreciated games of cat and mouse. So it would be in her best interest to get that game started.
But if there was one thing Mercy knew without anyone telling her, it was that Norleigh was possibly the most jealous man in England. For if he were driven to ruin another a young man like Denny out of spite, Norleigh had a powerful green-eyed monster lurking within him. And it was that monster Mercy would use to destroy him.
So perhaps her brief conversation with the Scotsman hadn’t been a complete waste after all.
She paused at the top of the steps to look down upon the head of that very Scotsman and found him conversing with the same four gentlemen, and her cousin once more.
Poor fools, she thought. Did they suppose she was so desperate for a husband that she would welcome the attentions of a handsome Highlander? Or were they throwing the man in her path to distract her from Norleigh?
She’d never been introduced to the duke and his friends, but she knew of them. And it was reasonable to believe they had her best interests at heart. If so, she couldn’t be angry at their interference. But her best interests would be realized when and only when Norleigh had his just reward.
Perhaps, when it was all said and done, they would realize what a clever woman she’d been all along, and that she had never truly needed their help.
Too bad she couldn’t explain her plans with them so they could forget about her and go on their merry ways. Dozens upon dozens of young ladies were expiring for want of a dance partner. Did they think they’d been invited to this country party to play the part of window dressing?
Granted, the Duke of Rochester’s heir was too handsome to gaze upon for long without losing one’s wits, but that didn’t excuse him and his fellows from doing their duty. Well, if they wanted to be fawned over for their looks alone, they’d best strip off their coats and go strike a pose in the gardens. As it was, the only thing they were accomplishing was making lonely young women feel all the lonelier.
Her eyes sought out the dark head of the Highlander once more and the image came to mind of him tearing off everything but his kilt and striking a Grecian pose. She could easily imagine the droves of women, young or old, flocking out the doors after him. And suddenly, she got a small taste of the jealousy that Norleigh suffered.
She suddenly found herself gazing into the upturned face of the Scotsman again and the corner of his mouth lifted in a sly smile. The fool thought she’d been watching him, so she rolled her eyes and shook her head at him and was pleased when that smile fell away.
At least she thought she was pleased.
She shrugged off the distracting thoughts and turned away from the balustrade. Encouraging the man, speaking to him in the first place, had been a mistake. He likely felt beholden to her for conversing with him when others would not. But hopefully, as his acquaintances grew, he would forget about her.
Of course, she wouldn’t have risked any damage to her reputation if this country party wasn’t to be the last time she would have any use for it. Why safeguard her name when its destruction loomed near?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Connor found it nearly impossible to enjoy his food and drink with that pack of tall English bulldogs at his heels. The cousin, Condiff, had drifted off to drown his guilt in dark brown liquid, and Connor would have joined the man if the other four weren’t still hounding him.
What did they expect him to do while she was upstairs? Send her texts on her mobile?
Of course not. No one had mobiles in 1811, did they?
He stuffed another crumpet into his mouth to cover his growl of frustration. Delightful lasses, all dressed like bloody Cinderella, eyed him like a welcome version
of Prince Charming, but could he speak to them?
Nay.
Could he touch them? Run a finger through a ringlet or two?
Nay.
Take them for a stroll in a dark garden and give them something to remember him by?
Nay, nay, nay.
He had to wait upon one of the few women at the ball who had no interest in him. Or at least, she pretended indifference. After recalling their previous conversation, he wondered if it had anything to do with his name? She hadn’t been pleased to learn he was a Gray and not a Grant. But if she was intent on stalking that Norleigh fellow, why would his name matter?
Though he would have preferred to torment the nervous dogs a while longer, he’d had his fill and wandered back to the ballroom. One of the dogs cleared his throat in warning, but Connor had already seen her. That rebelliously green necklace tended to stand out among the drabber colors of the room, along with those berry lips of hers.
Feeling a bit defiant himself, he determined once more to get a taste of those lips, whether or not his bulldogs approved. He would simply have to do so in private so he didn’t ruin her reputation.
The devil on his shoulder tried to spur him into action with a whisper. “What can her reputation matter? She existed two hundred years ago…”
Well, what of it, he argued. I existed seventy years before her and I am here now.
Yes. He was there. And she was there. And since the impossible had already happened, what was to say that more impossible things weren’t there for the taking?
Lifting onto her toes, she surveyed the crowd and seemed to find what she was looking for. Connor followed her gaze and found Norleigh standing at the French doors that led to the balcony. The man’s head turned back and forth, searching for someone as well, and Connor had no doubt it was Mercy Kellaway.
The lass seemed pleased, and when she found Connor staring at her again, she smiled even brighter.
He was instantly suspicious, and held his ground while she made her way toward him. As she closed the distance, he tilted his head to one side and cocked an eyebrow, then waited for her to confess. It was a trick he had used on many in his day, and few were able to hold their tongues when they thought he already knew the truth.