by Wilde, Tanya
“What do you think, Mr. Murray?”
He lifted his eyes to Miss Walker’s and slowly let out a tired breath. What had he done to deserve this hell? But then, Drew already knew.
Chapter 6
Did he honestly leave her?
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
Without question, that arrogant beast would.
Torment, he had said. Isla held back a scoff. Had he not been the one who’d disapproved of her plans? Had he not been the one who insisted they travel by way of carriage? That they set out posthaste to outrun the gathering storm?
“I’m not tormenting him,” Isla announced to the walls of the room. “He is the root of all the torment.”
Moreover, he was a servant—the head groom of her family’s stables—but the man did not possess one subservient bone in his body. Just who was Mr. Ross? Too arrogant by half. And come to think of it, his speech much too well-educated for a simple groomsman. He possessed a good set of teeth, also—not that all servants had bad teeth, but still . . . His friend owned a fine carriage, if not a bit outdated in style. Not common, but not so unusual either. In addition, he knew the mail-coach schedules. Always close by yet always in the shadows.
Like a spy.
Or a well-connected man.
Or a man on the run, disguised as a stableman.
How long had it been? An hour? Two, at most? Pride had prevented Isla from searching him out. A woman had to retain some dignity, after all, but it was blasted difficult. With each minute, it grew harder still.
Changing into a set of clean, warm clothing had been more tempting than chasing after him at first. But now Isla rubbed the bridge of her nose and let out an indignant huff. This, right here, was a prime example of how he was tormenting her.
Unable to wait for a second longer, she strode from the room in search of the beast. For mere peace of mind, she told herself, briskly descending the winding stairs that led to the common rooms. The infuriating man had left her without making his intentions clear. Had he done that on purpose? Had he left her or not? Lord, the uncertainty drove her mad!
Unfortunately, of all the worst luck, the ninth step thought to play a trick on her, as Isla missed it altogether.
Och! She tumbled forward with a small cry of alarm.
In an effort to stave off her fall, she thrust out her arms to grab hold of the balustrade, but at the force with which she propelled forward, her hands glided over the wood, and her ribs slammed into the handrail, driving the air from her lungs. Isla shut her eyes and braced herself for the tumble.
Strong arms circled her waist and caught her up against a solid body before she took a spill.
“Mademoiselle! Are you hurt? Mon Dieu! My heart stopped when I saw you lose your footing.”
Fluttering her lashes, Isla found herself staring into a set of eyes so green they put the lushest Highland forest to shame. Concern lit a perfectly defined brow, partially concealed by strands of sandy hair. Isla blinked. And blinked again. She had been so deeply entrenched in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed him on the stairwell.
“Nay, the only thing hurt is my pride. Thank you,” she said as he steadied her on her feet. “You saved me from a terrible tumble.”
“Rescuing damsels in distress is a gentleman’s solemn honor, mademoiselle.” His smile came easily. Inviting.
Isla found herself returning his grin for no other reason than the natural charm flowing from him. He seemed the sort of character people gravitated toward. “For that, sir, I am most grateful.”
“Think nothing of it, mademoiselle.” His arm fell away from her elbow. “It is not often I get to display my nimble-footed capabilities.”
“I’m glad I could be of service,” Isla replied, straightening her dress.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jean-Balthazar de Boulainvilliers, Count of Château-Thierry,” he declared and bowed. “At your service.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Count Jean-Balthazar de Boulainvilliers of Château-Thierry. I am Isla . . .” She swallowed down her real name with a smile. “. . . Ross.”
“Miss Isla Ross,” the count repeated in a soft French drawl. “Short and to the point.”
“That’s me.” She inclined her head. “Och, well, I best be on my way.”
“Oui, I shall escort you.” He offered his arm. “We do not want to risk you losing your footing again.”
“Nay, please, I do not wish to trouble you any further.”
“No trouble, chérie. Now that I’ve rescued you from a certain fall, I can do nothing else other than take it upon myself to escort you safely down the stairs.”
“But you were on your way up,” she insisted. “I do not wish to be a nuisance.”
“Please, allow me this service.” He smiled down at her. “A beautiful woman should not be left unescorted in even the most respectable of establishments.”
Heat seeped into her cheeks at the compliment, and Isla inclined her head, placing the tip of her fingers on his arm. “How can I refuse such bold flattery?”
“It is best to be forward in matters of the heart,” the count answered as they descended the stairs together.
“Heart,” Isla teased. “We have just met.”
“And yet, I have met an angel.”
Isla snorted, letting out a laugh. Brazen flirtation seemed to be part of the count’s nature. An audacious fellow, this count, but not in an obnoxious way.
Tawny tones lit his hair, tied at the back of his neck with a neat ribbon. The color complimented his more vibrant, emerald eyes, arched under thick, slashing brows. Dressed in the latest English fashion, not quite the fit for the Highlands but not a sore sight, he exhibited the air of a true gentleman.
“Have you been here long?” Isla asked as they made their way to the dining room. He seemed to know everyone, staff and guests alike, greeting each lodger by name.
A shadow passed over his face but was replaced by a pleasant smile. “Longer than I had hoped.”
She was about to pry further when they entered the dining room, and her question died on her lips as she spotted Mr. Ross seated at a table with two women.
She watched with mild annoyance as he took a sip from his ale, the woman closest to him placing her fingers on his arm. Isla scowled.
So he hadn’t left, after all.
It seemed the scoundrel had found amusement to pass the time. The woman practically dangled from her chair to get closer to him. On a second, more thorough inspection, Isla found her to be quite beautiful. Tall, fair-skinned, and dark-haired—everything Isla was not. Of course Mr. Ross would prefer to keep company with such beauty.
How disappointingly predictable of him.
Her mood, which had vastly improved since the count had come to her rescue, plummeted again.
“Chérie?” A gloved hand settled over her fingers, drawing her attention to the count. “You are scowling.”
How strange, Isla mused as she stared up into the eyes of the Frenchman. He had one of those faces that, while striking and attractive, evoked a calm sense and steadiness rather than making her giddy and flustered. Not like Mr. Ross, who brought forth fire and flame.
She offered him a smile of gratitude.
“My apologies, Count. For a fleeting moment, I forgot about a thing that has been plaguing me.”
The count lifted a single brow.
Isla considered Mr. Ross. “A thorn in my side.”
DREW LURCHED TO HIS feet the moment he spotted Isla on another man’s arm. Ale spilled over the brim of his tankard as he slammed it down on the table. He did not care. The chair shot backward and toppled over. He did not care. The two startled women rose to their feet as well, bewildered eyes on him. He did not care.
He had eyes for only one woman.
What. The. Devil?
Who the hell was the man that coaxed such a sunny smile from her mouth? Where had she met him? Drew had left her in her room to bathe and rest. It’d only
been two hours, only two, and she had already made a new friend?
He scowled at the way the man stared at her—like she was the sun, the moon, and the stars. She was the sun, the moon, and the stars, but she was his sun, his moon, his stars.
It chafed all the more that he’d been right. What man could resist all that braided copper hair? Her mischievous smile that tempted even the proverbial heart made of rock? Laughing gold-dusted eyes—the same color as the small freckles that highlighted the creamy skin of her face?
Drew narrowed his eyes at the two.
He drank in the white-and-apricot-striped cotton dress that clung to her lithe body like a dream, flicking over to her hand resting on the man’s arm. A comfortable fellowship seemed to have formed between them, as though they had been friends for years, when Drew knew they could only have met within the past hour.
Drew clenched his jaw.
Every nerve in his body vibrated. His skin pulled taut across his shoulders, and his fingers twitched. Without acknowledging the women at his table, he turned and marched over to the couple. In the back of his mind, Drew knew he might be overreacting, but still, he wasted no time on pleasantries.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded of the man beside Isla. “And what are you doing with my ward?”
Surprise lit the man’s features, his eyes inspecting Drew from head to toe. “You are Miss Ross’s guardian?”
“I just said as much.”
“My apologies, Monsieur, I did not mean to offend you. I am Count Château-Thierry; I met your ward on the stairwell.”
Drew considered the man. A count? Here? In this godforsaken, decrepit, old place?
Isla, to his displeasure, inched her body slightly between them.
“You are being unforgivably rude,” she hissed.
“Oui, I see now.” The upper corners of the count’s lips lifted. “This is the pretty flower’s thorn.”
“What do you mean? Pretty flower’s thorn?” Drew demanded as a pink stain flushed Isla’s cheeks. He gnashed his teeth. “Just how did the two of you meet?”
“The count saved me from a tumble down the stairs,” Isla cut in, a note of warning infused in her voice as her eyes met Drew’s. “I am most grateful for that.”
“You almost took a spill?” His gaze trailed over her again, searching. Dammit, once again he had made an utter ass of himself. “Were you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She glanced beyond him. “You seem to have rudely left your guests behind.”
Drew glanced over his shoulder to where Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper regarded him with open curiosity. He sighed, turning back to Isla. His gaze dropped to her hand still resting on Count What’s-his-face’s arm.
He reached out and yanked her wrist away. “They rudely foisted themselves upon me first.”
“That is no excuse to forget your manners, Mr. Murray,” she said, her tone scolding, as she twisted her hand from his grip.
“Miss Walker can get a bit overexcited at times,” the count offered, hands clasped behind his back.
Drew cocked a brow. “You are acquainted with the pair?”
“Oui, I am acquainted with everyone here.”
“Is that so?” Drew ignored the dirty look Isla shot him, waiting for the count to elaborate.
“Count Château-Thierry has resided at the inn for a while,” Isla interjected on the count’s behalf. “All of which is none of our business.”
The count smiled at Isla.
Drew swore under his breath. The way the count stared at Isla . . . And the way she came to the count’s defense. He did not like it.
Drew should have introduced them as man and wife, not guardian and ward. There would have been no need to put on airs and size each other up, as he was sure the count was doing behind all that poise. But the Frenchman had saved Isla from a fall, and that, if nothing else, deserved a measure of begrudging respect.
“Allow me to thank you for coming to the aid of my ward.”
The count inclined his head. “It was no hardship at all, and as I’ve delivered Miss Ross safely into your care, I shall take my leave.”
Drew nodded and turned to Isla as soon as the count bid his farewell and withdrew from the room. “What are you doing, hanging on that man’s arm?”
“Demands the man who moments ago had a woman fawning all over him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do not pretend not to know of whom I speak.” Her eyes flicked to the table beyond.
“Miss Walker?” His voice mirrored his disbelief. “She is nothing but a busybody, whereas you were smiling ever so sweetly up at that count.”
“I was merely grateful to him for saving my life.”
“You are aware,” Drew said, leaning forward and lowering his face to hers, “that Britain is at war with France, and here you are, beaming all doe-eyed at a Frenchman.”
“You go too far.” Her eyes narrowed to slits.
Drew straightened. “Do I? Should I stand back while you bat your lashes at a man who probably fled the revolution to hide in Scotland? What will your brothers think of him, I wonder?”
“Why do you care whom I bat my lashes at? Furthermore, we are in no position to judge another person’s actions.”
Drew scowled. The lass was right. In a normal state of affairs, he ought not to have cared. And they were in no position to judge—certainly not him.
“Whether we are in a position to judge or not, I am responsible for your welfare.”
She folded her arms and glared at him. “Were you not leaving? Returning to the castle?”
Drew grinned. “Were you worried? Is that why you dashed down the stairs and almost tumbled?”
She snorted.
“You may recall,” Drew drawled, “that you are the one who told me to return to MacCallan Castle.”
“I did not think you’d truly leave,” she muttered.
“Does that mean you want me to stay?”
“Why are you twisting my words into knots?” she countered.
“In any case, we are stuck in a snowstorm, lass, and I’m your guardian. I’m not going anywhere.”
“A convenient title chosen by you so you could boss me around!”
“Convenient?” Drew drawled. This entire situation bred discomfort. And deep down in the reaches of his gut, Drew knew the discomfort festering there was just the start. “Believe me, lass, there is nothing convenient about it.”
Chapter 7
The moment Mr. Ross left Isla’s side to give Mrs. Drummond advice on a leaking roof, the same two women Mr. Ross had claimed had intruded on his privacy earlier, Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper, approached her. Not given the opportunity to decline Miss Walker’s enthusiastic invitation to join them, Isla was promptly ushered to a nearby table.
The term privacy seemed not to exist in this curious establishment, Isla had come to realize. The proprietors had even roped in Mr. Ross to advise in matters of restoration. It seemed to Isla they ought to be careful not to get sucked in by whatever peculiarity surrounded this place, or she and Mr. Ross might never be spat out.
“You are Mr. Murray’s ward, correct?” Miss Walker inquired. “Miss Ross?”
“Aye,” Isla answered, inclining her head. “Mr. Murray is my guardian.” She nearly choked on the word. How she longed to cry at the top of her voice that he was but an insolent groomsman. But that would be quibbling over trifles, and Isla thought herself above that.
Besides, she was convinced there was more to Mr. Ross than met the eye. The feeling of familiarity in his presence piqued her interest in the man. What exactly was Mr. Ross about?
“I hope you do not mind our intrusion,” Miss Walker said. “We are quite excited to have new guests at the inn, and I have taken the liberty of ordering a round of ale.”
Isla nodded, sensing no other choice. Miss Walker seemed like a woman who did not take no for an answer. “Of course,” she said. “I’ve never tried ale before.”
“Then Mr.
Drummond’s ale is the perfect introduction to the drink,” Miss Walker exclaimed. “Granted, it is a bit on the bitter side, but you will soon grow accustomed to the taste.”
Mrs. Cooper nodded in sage agreement. “I’ve grown quite fond of the drink myself.”
Curiosity began to bloom in Isla’s belly. She had never had anything stronger than tea. Of course, she’d seen her brothers stumbling about the castle after a night of excess drinking, but she had never understood the appeal. Why would you drink anything that made you act silly and stumble from one wall to another?
“Mr. Drummond brews his own ale?” Isla asked, her eyes sweeping the room for a sign of Mr. Ross. But he had vanished along with the proprietor. “Then I shall try it at least once.”
Mrs. Cooper nodded. “Wouldn’t think it by the looks of him, but he knows his ale.”
“Say,” Miss Walker perked up. “Was that the count we saw you with earlier?”
“Aye, he saved me from a tumble down the stairs.”
“He is a true gentleman,” Mrs. Cooper stated. “A good heart, that man.”
“And so splendidly handsome,” Miss Walker breathed on a dreamy sigh.
“He is quite dashing,” Isla admitted. But found herself more drawn to the ragged pirate sort: men who wore eye patches and flaunted the rules as though they no more existed than flying bears.
“Your guardian, Mr. Murray, is just as handsome,” Miss Walker ventured. “It must be marvelous to be the ward of such an attractive male. The ladies must swarm about him.”
Isla blinked. “I don’t . . .”
Mrs. Cooper waved a gloved hand in the air. “Do not mind her, dear. Miss Walker is as bold and forward as they come, being American and all. You grow used to it after a while.”
Isla nodded, biting down on her lower lip. She ought not to have been shocked. It seemed only natural that such a queer inn lodged unconventional guests. More unusual was her response to Miss Walker’s interest in Mr. Ross. Isla did not care for it at all.