Adventures of a Scottish Heiress

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I managed to avoid it so far.”

  “Oh,” Lyssa said, “so you haven’t met the widow yet?” She made a great pretense of looking around him for the blonde neighbor and other Anderson female relatives. “And where is your entourage? I can’t believe they are leaving you alone.”

  He held a finger up to his lips for silence. “I’ve steered them toward lads more their own age.”

  “That was thoughtful of you.”

  “That was smart of me. Did you see the jealous look on the lads’ faces when I arrived? A wise man doesn’t bait the pack. Let’s go get something to eat.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, directing her toward the house. The gesture felt good and—perhaps it was the whiskey—she liked being beside him.

  However, before they could get far, Mr. Anderson came charging up with the Widow Mary Potter. “Campion,” he said good-naturedly. “The widow says she has not had the opportunity to meet you yet.”

  Lyssa murmured, “Uh-oh,” under her breath. Apparently, Jean’s prediction was about to come true.

  Mary Potter stepped in front of Lyssa as if she didn’t exist and pushed her fantastical breasts at Ian. “I am so glad you could come. It is always a pleasure to welcome strangers.”

  Especially handsome ones, Lyssa wanted to add. She caught Ian’s eye and waggled her eyebrows but then, suddenly, she had her own problem. “Let’s dance,” Mr. Anderson said. He didn’t wait for an answer but pulled her toward the dancing.

  Lyssa attempted to beg off. “I don’t know the steps.”

  “You don’t need to know the steps, lass,” Mr. Anderson told her. “You just move.” And he was right.

  She danced once with Mr. Anderson, conscious that he attempted to swing her close to him every chance he could, but quickly escaped him. However, to her surprise, another young man asked her to dance, and when he finished there was another—although, as always, there were more women than men who wanted to dance. In fact, for the first time, she was having a grand time at a dance.

  Some of the reels she recognized, but most of the dances were regional or seemed to be created right there on the spot. There was stomping and whooping and clapping and all sorts of behavior that would never have been allowed on a London dance floor—and she reveled in it.

  Even the whiskey tasted good, and was it her imagination, or was she dancing better than she ever had before?

  The one person she didn’t dance with was Ian. He was being monopolized by the “Merry Widow” Potter. And when she didn’t have him, the girls of the shire clamored for the next dance with him. Lyssa could understand why. Ian was the best dancer there, and unlike the majority of men who danced when they were forced to and drank when they weren’t, he seemed to be enjoying the music.

  But then, what man wouldn’t like so much feminine attention? Other than when they’d had their earlier conversation, he’d barely glanced at Lyssa. He’d been too occupied with other women—not that she cared. After all, she was pretending to be his sister, and what brother asked his sister to dance?

  Still…it would have been nice if he looked over to her once in a while, as if concerned about what she was doing. Especially when she found herself without a dance partner a time or two…as she did at this moment. Of course, she could have found herself a partner if she’d been willing to throw herself at men the way the other women threw themselves at Ian.

  Jean and Maggie wandered over to her side. “Your brother is making quite a stir,” Jean observed.

  “It’s disgraceful the way Mary Potter is behaving,” Maggie added. “You’d think she’d never been married, the way she is rubbing that bosom of hers against Ian, and every other man, every chance she gets.”

  “Did you expect her to change just because her husband is in the house waiting for his burial?” Jean wondered. “Here, Lyssa, you look thirsty.”

  Lyssa covered her glass with her hand. “No more whiskey or I won’t make it home.” Already far too many people had imbibed too much and the wake was growing raucous. Only a short while ago, she’d seen a young man cover his mouth and lurch off into the surrounding woods beyond the torchlights set up in a circle around the yard. A few minutes later, the man marched back to the wake to drink some more. Another two lads were proudly wrestling over in a dark corner while other men took bets. Here and there a few couples slipped off into the night.

  If Maggie and Jean noticed these things, they didn’t say, and Lyssa didn’t doubt they weren’t as pleasantly dulled by the whiskey as everyone else. In fact, she and Ian appeared to be the two most sober people in the crowd, and she wasn’t certain he was all that clear-headed.

  Just then, one of the musicians, an open-faced redhead named James, grabbed Lyssa’s arm and pulled her toward where the dancers were forming two circles—an inner circle of women and an outer circle of men. “We need more for the circle dance.”

  “I don’t know any circle dance,” Lyssa protested.

  “You don’t need to,” James answered and drew her forward.

  “What do I do?”

  He stopped. “You women take your place and the men take theirs. The circles move in opposite directions until the music stops and then you dance with whoever you are standing in front of. The game is only fun if everyone is a part of it.”

  Before Lyssa could ask another question or offer protest, he was off, heading toward the wrestling boys, who’d finished their match.

  “Beg pardon,” a portly girl with pink cheeks said, squeezing in between Lyssa and the woman next to her in the circle. As Lyssa stepped aside to make room, she discovered what the girl was after. Ian was several people down from her in the men’s circle. All the women had their eye on him for the dance and were maneuvering for a position close to him, even to the point of poking elbows in ribs to gain their chosen place.

  Meanwhile, the men noticed the attention Ian was receiving. Nor were they as good-natured about it as she had assumed. Out of the corner of her eye, Lyssa caught James talking to the wrestlers. They glanced at Ian with undisguised resentment and she knew none of the gentlemen at the wake appreciated how easily the Irishman had swept their women off their feet.

  And the fact that James had little problem at all persuading the other men to dance made Lyssa suspect something was up.

  Everyone took their places and the music started. Lyssa’s suspicions were confirmed. The women all tried to place themselves in front of Ian and the men seemed to have another purpose in mind. Ian noticed them jostling him but he took it all in stride. His gaze met Lyssa’s and he shrugged as if to say he didn’t know what was going on.

  Round and round the two circles went, the women lingering in front of Ian, the men pushing him on.

  Lyssa tried not to pay attention to any of the games. After all, what did she care who danced with whom?

  The music stopped. She found herself in front of a thin man with legs like walking sticks that made him appear comical in his kilt.

  Then, suddenly, one man bumped another, and Ian was shoved to stand in front of her.

  The men looked at each other in triumph. “Sad news,” one of them said to Ian. “Looks like you’ll be dancing with your sister.”

  His announcement met exultant shouts from the men and miffed mews from the women. The plump girl next to Lyssa walked off in a pique of temper rather than dance with the man in front of her.

  But the music didn’t wait for anyone. Immediately the music of a Scottish reel filled the air and everyone’s feet started moving…save for Lyssa’s and Ian’s.

  She looked up to him. Not for the first time was she struck at how tall he was, except this time was different. There was music and laughter in the night air and somehow, being with him seemed more intimate.

  He made a wry face. “Shall we?”

  Lyssa had no choice. Everyone was dancing, and they were watching. Reluctantly, she placed her hand on the tips of his long fingers. His hand came down at her waist and she knew he felt as awkward as she did,
because he barely rested it there.

  They started dancing, joining the skipping line, and were surprisingly very compatible as partners. They moved together well and within heartbeats, Lyssa forgot the charade of being brother and sister, and even class distinctions. Instead, she enjoyed dancing with a man who did it well. A man who was attractive enough to command everyone’s attention. A man who, when he laughed as they missed a step like he just did, made her stomach go fluttery.

  Her stomach had never fluttered before. For anyone.

  And she sensed she was not the only one affected. His hold at her waist had grown more possessive. He pressed her closer to him and did not shift when her breast brushed against the side of his chest. At one point, when the dance called for her to lean in to him, was it her imagination or did he hold her close for a moment? Very close.

  She didn’t question these intoxicating new feelings. She didn’t put up barriers or walls. She accepted…and lost herself in the music, the night, and the presence of this man.

  And when the music stopped, neither one of them moved away from the other.

  Except that all of the men had come up to clap Ian on the back and laugh at him for the joke they had played. The women crowded in, too, wanting to win his attention…and Lyssa, still caught in a haze of bewilderment at her uncertain sense of longing, found herself pushed back and out of the way.

  That was fine with her. She needed a moment to sort things out.

  She wandered over to Maggie, who was busy comparing notes with friends on the births of her children. Jean giggled with some other women. Lyssa would have crossed over to her except that an older gentleman took that time to ask Jean to dance, much to the amusement of her friends.

  The next set started and Lyssa drifted over to the whiskey table feeling very much alone. For a second, she was tempted to have another nip, but decided what she really needed was to take a bit of a walk to clear her head. Whiskey fumes were obviously putting her in a self-pitying mood. After all, what did she care who Ian danced with?

  She checked to make sure Mr. Anderson was occupied dancing. She had no desire to run into him in the dark. He was…but she didn’t see Ian. She decided to search him out and moved toward the edge of the torchlight.

  Groups of people stood around, their laughter adding to the music. One or two men called to her, a sign the drink was getting to them, too. She ignored them.

  Away from the house, the village was quiet. In the full moonlight, she easily found a path that led down to the millstream. She’d not followed it far when she heard the sound of whispering and recognized the low timbre of Ian’s voice.

  Lyssa started to call his name, but then some inner sense warned her to hesitate. In the silence, a woman giggled and there followed the rustle of clothing.

  She should have stopped there. It would have been polite and prudent. But there was whiskey in her veins and a woman’s curiosity to be satisfied.

  Quietly, she moved closer until she could look around a bend in the path. There in the dark shade of a tree, Ian had his arms around the Widow Potter—or, to be more correct, she had her arms around him. She’d already removed his jacket and was laughingly trying to pull his shirt from his breeches, which he seemed to be trying to avoid even while they were both very involved with a kiss.

  Lyssa didn’t know what to do. To think that only moments earlier she’d been attracted to him to the point of confusion. Now, a part of her wanted to march over and pull the brazen widow off of him. Another part wanted to turn tail and run as far away from him as possible, especially when his hand came up to cover the widow’s right breast. Lyssa could see where it was as plain as day in the moonlight!

  The widow moaned like a cat in heat, her leg coming up to wrap around his thigh—

  “Ian?”

  The girl’s voice on the path above Lyssa not only startled her, but also caught the lovers. Ian pulled away to put on his jacket while the widow hurriedly rearranged her clothing. “I can’t be seen like this. Not tonight!” she said with belated worry.

  Ian merely grunted a response and pushed a hand through his disheveled hair. Lyssa wondered if she’d been wrong about his sobriety. He didn’t quite seem himself and there was a frown between his brows as if something bothered him.

  As for herself, she slipped back into the shadows, bending down and hiding in the bushes beside the path.

  “Ian?” the girl called again and came into Lyssa’s view. She was dark-haired and had nubile features—why did everyone have breasts bigger than Lyssa’s—and had been chasing Ian shamelessly all night.

  A second later, the girl stumbled on Ian and the Widow Potter. “What are you two doing down here?” she asked, amazed. Obviously they’d righted their clothing or she would have known what was going on!

  “I was showing Mr. Campion the millstream,” the widow said.

  “At night?”

  Lyssa was so proud of the girl she almost stood up and rooted aloud.

  “Of course, at night,” Ian answered with smooth Irish charm. “Especially in the moonlight. How better to see two beautiful women?”

  Lyssa had to cover her mouth to keep from making her opinion of such blarney known.

  But the women giggled and the next thing she knew, it sounded as if he was kissing them both.

  She couldn’t stay in hiding but had to stand up to see for herself. Her ears were not lying. Ian had his arm around the waist of each and nuzzled first one, and then the other.

  And they let him!

  To think she’d begun to admire him. Had even started to grace him with all sorts of splendid heroic qualities. And now he was making love to two women!

  Lyssa jumped out of her hiding spot and charged up the path toward the millhouse, crashing through the bushes without a care to any sound she might make.

  Behind her, she could hear one of the women ask, “Who was that?” but she didn’t wait for the answer to tell if she’d been seen or not.

  Rushing back into the party, she quickly found Maggie, who had two sleepy heads resting in her lap. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Past time,” her hostess admitted tiredly.

  “Come, I’ll help you with the children.” Lyssa lifted one in her arms. She didn’t know how Maggie would carry the youngest, as far along in pregnancy as she was, but she did.

  Jean had started to doze in a chair. Maggie shook her shoulder. “Come, Auntie, it’s time to go home.”

  “What about the others? Is Angus coming?” Jean asked.

  “You know Angus is always the last to leave,” Maggie said. “And some of the others have already left. Come.”

  They’d gone no more than a few steps when Ian appeared back in the ring of light, alone. The moment he saw Maggie and Lyssa, he crossed over to them.

  “Here, Maggie, let me hold the boy.”

  Maggie happily relinquished her son to his arms. “Thank you. He’s getting too heavy for his mother to carry.”

  “I’ll walk you home,” Ian said.

  “You can stay as long as you like,” Lyssa said coolly.

  “I’m ready to go home,” Ian answered. She could feel him stare at her although she refused to even glance at him.

  No one wanted them to leave. The women all called for Ian to stay and the men begged Lyssa to stay. Mr. Anderson shouted that another dance was forming and no one should leave now, but the time had come. Lyssa was exhausted and needed her rest for the next day.

  They took off in the dark, she and Ian holding the children and Maggie and Jean supporting each other.

  Ian fell into step beside her. “You’re angry.”

  “Over what?” Lyssa asked breezily while inside she seethed.

  “You know what.”

  “That you were kissing two women?” Lyssa managed a tolerably good shrug even with the boy’s head on her shoulder. “What you do is none of my concern, Mr. Campion.”

  “Liar.”

  Lyssa whipped her head around to confront him. “I be
g your pardon?” she demanded in a voice that could have frozen water.

  “Oh, stop that upper-class cold shoulder. You’re in a great pout and for what? Because I was kissing someone?” He snorted. “We have a full moon, a bit of whiskey, good music, and a willing lass. There is nothing wrong with kissing. At least not where I come from.”

  “Willing lasses,” she corrected. “Don’t you believe you were being a bit greedy?” She didn’t wait for an answer but informed him, “This is really none of my concern. You are paid to protect me and if you think grabbing women in the bushes is giving my father his money’s worth—”

  “You weren’t in any danger. And you were having as good a time as I was.”

  That was true, but Lyssa didn’t want to admit it. In fact, for some perverse reason, she relished picking this argument with him. It was good to keep him at a distance, even comforting. “Mr. Campion, this conversation between us is finished. Believe me when I say I don’t care what you were doing with those women. You could have been fornicating,” she said dramatically, using the boldest, worst word she could think of in her vocabulary, a word she’d never been brave enough to use before, “and I would not care.”

  His reaction was swift. “You are being damned silly.”

  That was not the response she had anticipated. Her temper was ready to go up in flames except he moved away, the set of his mouth grim, placing Jean and Maggie between them, both women too tired to care about an argument between “brother and sister.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they reached the Andersons’ farm. They helped Maggie put the boys to bed. Her two older sons were going to stay with friends in the village.

  Lyssa didn’t wait to say good night to Ian but marched off to her little room, shut the door, and hooked the latch. Moonlight lit the barn but her room was darker than pitch. She had to feel her way to the shabby cot. Removing her shoes and her belt, she wrapped herself in her plaid, expecting to fall asleep instantly. She didn’t…or perhaps she dozed. She wasn’t certain.

  All she knew is that she heard a scratching on the closed door. “Ian! Ian, let me in,” a woman’s whispered voice said.