Adventures of a Scottish Heiress

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Please come in,” the woman offered and led the way up the steps to the front door.

  Ian turned to Lyssa. He raised his eyebrows, questioning what she wished to do.

  She had no choice. She’d traveled far to get here and she would not be put off now. Besides, her apprehension was probably due to being tired and finding herself at journey’s end. Putting on her best smile, she moved forward with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  At the doorway, she paused in front of her newly discovered cousin. “I’m Isobel’s daughter.”

  “So, one of you has finally come home, have you?” her cousin asked, the hint of a smile on her lips not quite reaching those disconcerting eyes.

  “I suppose.”

  For the space of a heartbeat, the woman took Lyssa’s measure. At last, her cousin said, “I’m Anice Davidson. Your uncle Alan’s daughter.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Cousin,” Lyssa said politely.

  Anice smiled and opened the door. “Please come in.” She entered, expecting them to follow.

  Inside, the house was not anything like Lyssa had anticipated. In her imagination, she pictured an old, established mansion with ancient furniture that had survived the generations.

  There was no furniture in the front hall or a place to put it, since the room was completely taken over by hunting trophies. The heads of stags, red deer, whitetail, and even what appeared to be a reindeer covered every available inch of wall space. Stuffed grouse, quail, and pheasants lined the floor around the walls. The showpiece was a wildcat posed to be fighting a badger in an alcove by the stairs of what had been designed to be a stately room.

  Lyssa was all too conscious of so many lifeless eyes staring down upon them. Attempting to defuse her unease, she commented, “Someone is quite a hunter.”

  Anice smiled. “All Davidson men are hunters.”

  Nodding her head in acknowledgement, Lyssa caught a glimpse of the next room. The red walls there were covered with swords and dirks. She was aware that Ian stood by the closed front door, his arms crossed. She knew he was no more comfortable than she was.

  Footsteps came from a side hall off to the right and a portly manservant entered the room. He had a bald pate with a tuft of hair over each ear and a bulbous nose that commanded his face. “Och, Miss Davidson, I dinna hear you return.” His accent was so thick, Lyssa could barely understand him.

  “Birdy, please tell Ramsey we have visitors, and perhaps Cook will prepare a tray for our guests? They have traveled quite a distance.”

  The servant eyed both Lysse and Ian in a bold manner that Lyssa didn’t find appropriate. She stared right back. Birdy’s gaze dropped. “Aye, ma’am,” he said, bowing and leaving the room by way of the hall.

  “Shall we go into the sitting room?” Anice asked and led them into the weapon room without waiting for a response.

  Lyssa glanced toward Ian. A muscle worked in his jaw and she could tell he was on guard. She didn’t feel comfortable herself. The air in the house was as cool as the mossy dampness of a stream bank. She wondered if the windows had ever been opened to let in a fresh breeze. The whole atmosphere gave her goose bumps.

  Anice sat on one of two grand leather settees facing each other in the middle of the room. There also were two large, high-backed leather-upholstered chairs positioned in front of the marble fireplace, their backs to the rest of the room. Anice motioned for Lyssa to sit on the settee opposite her, before looking up at Ian expectantly. “You have not introduced your companion, coz.”

  The familiarity of the name “coz” struck a jarring note with Lyssa. “This is Mr. Ian Campion of London,” she said quietly. “He is—” She hesitated. How should she introduce him so as to not create the wrong impression with these new relatives?

  “Her bodyguard,” Ian interjected smoothly.

  “A bodyguard?” Anice gave him a speculating glance. “I am certain you have been in good hands with such a brawny man to protect you,” she purred with a slyness that would have served the Widow Potter well.

  “He has seen me safe,” Lyssa confirmed stiffly.

  “Would you care to sit, Mr. Campion?” Anice asked, patting the place on the settee beside her.

  “I’m content here,” he replied dutifully, having taken a post by the entry between the weapon room and the front hall. Lyssa noted he was using his brogue and she didn’t know why.

  Anice’s gaze slid to meet hers. “He’s Irish.”

  “Yes. From Dublin.”

  Her cousin’s gaze turned lazily knowing. “I’ve always liked the Irish.”

  Lyssa released her breath slowly, caught by her cousin’s open sensuality. Ian didn’t move, not even a muscle, and Anice’s smile grew larger.

  Fortunately, Lyssa was saved from making any reply by the appearance of her cousin, Ramsey Davidson.

  He was of average stature with a lean, hungry face and slashing eyebrows. Whereas she and Anice were fair of skin and hair, he was the opposite. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes…and a dark smile.

  “Cousin,” he said holding out his hand in greeting. Lyssa stood and offered her own. He gallantly kissed the back of it. “Welcome to Amleth Hall.”

  “I appreciate your welcome, sir,” she murmured.

  “Sir?” He laughed. “We are cousins. I’m your second cousin. My father was Osgood Davidson, your mother’s uncle.”

  “It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said dutifully.

  Ramsey glanced round at Ian. “He is her bodyguard,” Anice supplied. “Mr. Campion is Irish.”

  “Hmmm, Irish.” Ramsey repeated, as if the words held no import. His whole attention was on Lyssa, and she felt a certain warmth rise to her cheeks under his full regard.

  Birdy entered the room, carrying a tray of biscuits and, of all blessings, a teapot with steam rising from its stem that he set on a tea table beside Anice. “Would you care for a cup?” Anice offered.

  “Gratefully,” Lyssa answered, sitting.

  Ramsey dropped to sit beside Anice. He crossed his legs, spreading his arms along the back of the settee. Lyssa was conscious that he watched her every move. Ian came to stand behind her. Anice served them.

  “How interesting you travel with a bodyguard,” Ramsey observed. “Did you bring other servants?”

  Lyssa was in the act of taking a sip of her tea so Ian spoke for her. “We were waylaid by robbers. We had a maid with us but she was separated from our party.”

  Ramsey sat up. “How unfortunate. Did you report the matter to the local magistrate?”

  Ian replied smoothly, “Yes. All is taken care of.”

  “Ah,” Ramsey said, drawing out the word. “Very good. And we have you here safe and sound, Cousin.”

  Lyssa smiled and hid behind another sip of her tea, not displeased at Ian’s story. There followed an awkward moment of silence. Ramsey broke it by saying, “You look very much like your mother, Lyssa.”

  “How do you know?” she wondered.

  “From the painting. Did you not know about it?”

  Immediately, Lyssa set down her teacup. “No. I mean, Father has portraits of Mother, but they were done after I was born.” And after she’d become ill. The color in her mother’s cheeks had all been artificial.

  “We have the one our grandfather commissioned,” Ramsey said. “He had the painting done to show potential suitors far and wide what a jewel the Davidsons had to offer. I admit it is a masterpiece. The family lore is Isobel received no fewer than five offers for her hand on the basis of the painting alone.”

  “I never knew this story,” Lyssa said.

  Ramsey leaned forward. “I’m not surprised your father didn’t tell you. He must have thought it a grand jest, stealing her away from us the way he did.”

  There was a proprietary air in his comment. “My grandfather must have been disappointed,” Lyssa said.

  “He was outraged,” Ramsey agreed, but without heat. “His temper lasted for weeks. The family coffers needed
to be replenished, we needed her to marry for money, and your mother’s choice of husbands did not honor her obligations.”

  “My father has done well for himself since,” she said in her defense.

  “Yes, he has.” Ramsey smiled. “Welcome home, Cousin.”

  Lyssa didn’t know quite how to take his remarks. As with Anice, there seemed to be a hidden meaning as if he played some game with her. She didn’t know if she was particularly keen on him.

  But then he asked, “Would you like to see the painting?”

  Without hesitation, she said, “Yes, very much.”

  Ramsey stood and offered his hand. “Then come.”

  Lyssa placed her hand in his and came to her feet. Anice also rose and as they started from the room, Ian fell into place beside them. He had his knapsack slung over one shoulder and Lyssa sensed he would rather have his pistol out and ready.

  Ramsey glanced at him. “Is he always this tiresome?”

  “Yes,” she said proudly and could almost feel Ian grin behind her.

  Ramsey led her into a long gallery that took up the rear of the house. The walls had more hunting trophies and the paint was plain. These were family quarters. The windows overlooked Loch Linnhe. Through a window off to the left, she could see rooftops.

  “Those are the stables,” Ramsey said, noting where she’d been looking. “You’ve heard of the Davidson Stallion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait until you see him. We’ve had nothing but winners out of our mares, but he is a prize.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Have you?” he asked. He took her hand. “I’m flattered my horse’s fame has spread already to London. Or has your father kept a particularly sharp eye on this part of the family?” He gave her fingers a little squeeze.

  Lyssa didn’t know what to make of his words or his actions. She tried to move away, but her cousin kept his firm hold. She could not pull her hand away without insulting him. “My father admires fine bloodstock,” she murmured and then changed the subject, “Is that Loch Linnhe?” She attempted to gesture with the hand he held. The movement was awkward but served to get Ramsey to release his hold.

  He smiled good-naturedly. He knew what she’d been about. “Yes, it is. There is a cliff there. Not steep, but one should be cautious all the same.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Has someone gone off it?”

  Anice answered, “Over the years we’ve lost a person or two.”

  Lyssa looked out at the smooth water beyond the cliff and did not feel comfortable.

  “Come,” Ramsey said and steered her toward a sitting room off the gallery. It was so small it only held a desk and two chairs. The walls were paneled and Lyssa could imagine the lady of the house using this room to make out her menus and list of chores for the week.

  Above the desk hung the portrait.

  The moment Lyssa set eyes on it, she could not speak. This was her mother as she’d never known her. This was the woman her father had fallen in love with, and Lyssa understood why.

  Her mother’s skin was the color of rich cream, her eyes a laughing, sparkling blue. Lyssa remembered how, before her mother had become so terribly ill, their house had been full of her laughter.

  In the portrait, her mother’s hair was a rich auburn. She sat beneath a spreading oak. Over her shoulder, she wore the Davidson plaid, much like Lyssa’s own, and behind her stood a horse as silvery white as the moon. Gealach. Her grandfather had placed in this picture everything of value to his clan—its pride and its beauty.

  The wave of homesickness caught Lyssa off guard. She leaned over the desk as if wanting to see beyond the artist’s brushstrokes. In truth, she was moved to tears by how much she missed her mother.

  Her trip was worth all the danger and hardship for this one moment. This was what she’d come looking for—a glimpse of her mother. Of her past. Of what might have been and was no more.

  When her mother had died, she’d mourned as only a child can…but she hadn’t realized truly all that she’d lost. Her father had moved on. She couldn’t. There was no replacing her mother in her life. She’d lost the wisdom, the concern, the care…the understanding.

  And no matter how long she lived, this void in her life would not be filled. Her mother’s love was irreplaceable.

  But that didn’t mean she was betraying her mother’s memory by not stepping forward with her own life.

  Sinking into the chair at the desk, Lyssa folded her hands and let the tears flow. They rolled down her cheeks and she didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  She sensed Ramsey and Anice withdrawing as if embarrassed by her emotion. Ian moved closer and she welcomed his strength. If they were in private, she might have even reached for his hand.

  “If you’d like, I’ll give you the portrait,” Ramsey offered.

  “You would?” Lyssa said, looking up at him. “I would be ever so grateful. I would even pay for it.”

  Ramsey knelt beside her chair and Ian was forced back. “I could not accept money from you, beautiful cousin.” He spoke in a low voice but she knew his words were heard by everyone…and there was the warmth of male interest in them.

  She was too grateful to care. “Thank you. You cannot imagine what this means to me.”

  “We’ve all lost someone or something in our lives and this is a fitting gift.” He stood. “Now, come. Dinner will be served in two hours and we still haven’t taken you to your room to freshen up. I’m certain Birdy has seen to your luggage.”

  “I have no luggage,” she confessed and then relying Ian’s earlier lie she said, “It was stolen when we were attacked.” She could have told the truth. She didn’t.

  Ramsey shook his head. “How fortunate you are to be alive.”

  “Yes,” Lyssa agreed.

  Turning to their cousin, he said, “Anice, do you have a dress that would fit Lyssa?”

  “I’m certain I do. I shall have one or two sent to your room.”

  “Thank you, coz,” Lyssa said and meant the words. Her earlier foreboding had evaporated. In fact, she thought she’d been rather silly. She took her cousins’ hands and, in an effort to make amends, said, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be here…and for this moment with the portrait.” Tears threatened to overwhelm her again. She forced them back. “I’d forgotten so much. If you will excuse me, I would like to go to my room.” She needed a moment alone to compose herself.

  “Of course,” Anice said and shepherded Lyssa out into the gallery, directing her toward a back staircase.

  Ian started to follow but Ramsey stepped in his path. “I’ll have Birdy take your bodyguard to the servants’ quarters.”

  Lyssa stopped. “No.”

  “No?” Ramsey turned as if surprised she would countermand him.

  “I mean, my father wants him close to me.”

  Ramsey’s eyebrows rose speculatively.

  Lyssa met his gaze squarely. “He is my bodyguard, cousin. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply an impropriety,” Ramsey answered, and heat rose to Lyssa cheeks.

  “I’m certain you didn’t.”

  For a second, she thought Ramsey was going to push the issue. Instead, he said, “Anice, have Birdy put the bodyguard in the White Room.”

  “Come,” Anice said. “I’ll show you both to your rooms.” She started up the stairs and there was nothing left for Lyssa to do but follow, Ian at her heels.

  The first floor where the bedrooms were located was a long stone corridor. The carpet down the center of the hall was practically threadbare. The walls were obviously thick and not a sound seemed to travel through the house. The whole effect was positively medieval.

  Halfway down the hall, Anice stopped at a room and opened the door, motioning Lyssa through.

  The room was done in shades of blue and bur-gundy in a style that had long since passed. The furniture was heavy and ornate and the bed curtains seemed to have been hanging for a century
or more, because the dust was still there. Yet the sheets appeared to have been changed and there was hot water in the pitcher on the washstand and clean towels.

  Lyssa nodded her pleasure. “This is very nice.”

  “I thought you would like it. This room was your mother’s,” Anice answered. “I hope you will be comfortable. I’ll have my maid bring the dresses for you, and perhaps a pair of slippers? We seem to be of the same size.”

  “I would appreciate them,” Lyssa answered. “And a bath, if it would not be too much trouble.”

  “Of course not,” Anice answered.

  Lyssa noticed that Ian was looking around the room as if expecting danger lurking in the corners. “Where is Mr. Campion’s room from here?”

  “The White Room is at the top of the front stairs,” her cousin said. “He should be comfortable and close. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Campion?” She went through the door.

  Shouldering his ever present knapsack, he followed Anice out, but before he shut the door behind him, he whispered, “Be watchful.”

  Lyssa nodded. He left and she was alone in her mother’s room. Lyssa tossed her plaid on the bedspread, crossed to the window, and opened the drapes. Her room overlooked the back lawn and Loch Linnhe. She didn’t hesitate to try to open the windows; she wanted the fresh air.

  They didn’t open easily and she had to put her shoulder to the task, but she accomplished it. For a moment, she enjoyed the breeze while looking at the stables, surprised at how well she could see them from this angle. Stable lads were busy with their chores. There must have been ten horses being walked or exercised, but she did not see a gray stallion.

  Closer to the house, she noticed Birdy talking to three burly tenants. She hoped they were discussing work to be done in the gardens. The yards could be quite charming with a bit of planning. Perhaps she could suggest some ideas to Ramsey over dinner—because she was going to stay for a while. Her earlier doubts had vanished. She needed to be here.

  Her hand on the windowsill, she turned and surveyed the room, and felt a sense of belonging.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” she called, expecting Anice’s maid.