by Wilde, Tanya
“Do you think me silly, Mr. Ross?” Isla asked, pausing when the maid brought their tea. She didn’t want him to think her silly. She wanted him to . . . Och, she did not quite know the answer to that. Just not silly. “For running off?” she finished when the maid withdrew.
“Nay, you might be the bravest person I know,” he said, pouring them each a cup and taking a sip. “But having said that, were you my sister, I’d have taken you over my knee.”
You can still take me over your knee.
The words were on the tip of her tongue. But she blurted out something far worse. “That sounds more tempting than it should.”
He spit the tea back into his cup.
Isla’s cheeks burned vermillion, a color she was sure did not fit her complexion. “I never meant to say that,” she hastened to say, sure her face mirrored the horror in her voice.
“I don’t imagine you did, but now that you have, I cannot get the picture out of my head.” He grinned.
Despite her embarrassment, Isla found it impossible not to lift the corner of her mouth when his lips curved up like that—mysterious, suggestive. And before she could respond—a blessing, perhaps—the maid arrived with their food.
Shelve and pivot, Isla. Shelve and pivot.
Drew blinked down at his beef stew.
And blinked again.
Nay, it could not be called stew, much less beef stew.
There was nothing steamy, flavorful, or mouthwatering about what had been placed before him. Tepid, flavorless, and unappetizing—those were more appropriate descriptors. He dragged a spoon through the meal, noting barely enough meat in the dish to sustain a child, let alone a grown man with an appetite. And Drew had always been in possession of a healthy appetite.
“I’m not one to complain,” Isla said, inspecting her bowl. “But I distinctively recall Mrs. Drummond saying they offer warm food and comfortable beds.”
“Aye,” Drew muttered. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“I suppose, given the state of the place, it should not come as a surprise that the meat seemed to be carved from the leg of a starved lamb.”
Drew bit back a laugh. When he had first caught a glimpse of her descending the stairs—creamy white skin freshly touched with a blush of pink, copper hair secured in a bun, a goddess in plaid—words had failed him. Even now, with her lips curled in displeasure, she stole his breath.
“Vegetable broth, I believe, is the term for this dish,” Drew drawled.
She snorted, and Drew watched transfixed as she lifted her spoon to taste the broth. Her lips parted, and she slid the spoon into her mouth, her brows puckering. He nearly groaned as she withdrew the spoon slowly, her tongue darting over her lips to capture each drop. Sensual, decadent, and deuced ridiculous.
“It’s not that bad,” she murmured, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “A bit tasteless, but otherwise passable.”
Drew swore and tried to focus on his food, but a flash of blue drew his attention to the doorway as the count entered. Drew scowled, in no mood for the meddling, madcap characters of the inn today, especially the count. The man got on his nerves with his perfect poise.
Isla waved at the count, who smiled and inclined his head, not breaking his stride as he strode to claim a table in the far corner of the room.
“What do you find charming about that jackanapes?” Drew muttered, sticking a spoon of broth in his mouth.
Her disbelieving eyes swung over to him, and he cursed.
“Are you jealous?”
“Of course,” he exploded, then, “. . . not,” he finished levelly when she raised a stunned brow. He cleared his throat. “Why would I be jealous?”
Jealousy meant he was uncertain and insecure. Preposterous. Absurd. Drew was not jealous. He would never be jealous, could never be jealous. He was so bloody jealous he could hardly breathe. “The man is here, which must mean he is haunted.”
“He is rather dashing,” Isla said with a small shrug.
That she would so boldly admit she found the count dashing made Drew’s blood boil. “The man is a pompous peacock.”
“You are jealous!” Her eyes widened, and a flicker of something crossed her expression. Disbelief? Amusement? Perhaps both.
Drew cared for neither.
“How much longer will this storm rage on?” he questioned testily. It was as if the weather were conspiring to keep them there, in Scotland, at the inn. Together.
“Do not change the subject.” Isla pointed a jaunty finger at him. “I wish to know more about why you dislike the count so much.”
“And I wish to know what about being taken over my knee you find so tempting.”
Her mouth clamped shut.
“I thought as much.”
She sipped a spoonful of broth. After a moment’s pause, she said, “I’ve grown quite fond of this inn.”
It was Drew’s turn to level her with a disbelieving stare. “Nay, you have not.”
She shrugged. “This place grows on you, in a strange, unexpected way.”
“You’re not scared of what lurks in the night anymore?” Drew inquired, almost thrusting his palm against her temple to feel for a fever. “You wish to stay?”
“Lord, nay, the bed is far too uncomfortable.” She sent him a faint smile. “And I know what lurks in the shadows at night.”
Drew suspected he knew the answer to that as well.
Two seconds later, Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper breezed into the room, their faces lighting up when they spotted them.
“Mr. Murray and Miss Ross! Just the people we were searching for!”
Drew didn’t flinch, but he was close.
“We wish to invite you to a card game in the common room,” Miss Walker began as they reached their table. “It’s so tedious to spend the whole day reading and sitting about.”
Mrs. Cooper nodded in agreement.
A card game? Why the hell did that sound perilous?
He stiffened when Isla shot upright in her chair. “I love to play cards.”
“So you will join us?” Miss Walker asked eagerly. “Shall we meet in, say, an hour in the common room?”
“Of—”
“Possible calamity,” Drew cut her off with a desperate glance—a warning to her earlier remark.
She frowned at him, and then those dreaded twinkles flashed in her eyes again. Drew’s heart sank as she turned to Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper.
“Of course we will join you,” the wench declared, sweet as sugar. “What a calamity it would be if we cannot pass the time in such a fun manner!”
Drew had a bad feeling about this. It’s just a card game, he told himself. What can possibly go wrong at a card game?
Drew swore he heard laughter coming from within the walls.
Chapter 13
Six hours later, Drew suspected he’d be the one to cause a calamity. His death. Death by utter boredom. Would anyone outside of this establishment blame him? He thought not. Five hours of watching the three women giggle and cheat at every card game known to man, changing existing rules and inventing their own as they played, drinking ale and eating sour bread and cheese. Five hours of watching Count Coxcomb indulge their antics with an equally indulgent smile. Five hours of pretending not to notice Mr. Shelby fondling his wife across the room on the sofa.
The only reason—and Drew considered reason a very loose term in this instance—he hadn’t exploded into tears of boredom was the fact that five hours had gone by without chaos raining down on them. That offered at least minuscule comfort. But now, evening had fallen, and candles had been lit all around the room. In light of what had happened the previous evening, Drew was not about to take any chances that a real fire would break out tonight.
And he was resolved to keep an eye on Count Coxcomb—the very picture of romantic indulgence.
“Are you certain you do not wish to play, Mr. Murray?” Miss Walker asked for the twenty-second time.
“Aye,” Drew answered for the tw
enty-second time. He knew because he had counted. It marked the passage of time, and he was on calamity duty.
“Do not mind him,” Isla volunteered, expertly shuffling the deck of cards to deal the next hand of Whist. “Fun is not part of Mr. Murray’s nature.”
“Someone needs to keep a level head around this place.”
“Of course, Mr. Murray is guarding us against any villain who dares appear, like in the grand love stories. Are you not, Mr. Murray?”
Drew turned his stunned gaze to Miss Walker. What was this new tone in her voice? She’d practically purred his name.
He scowled.
It must be the weather that sparked this madness. Either stormy spells inspired romantic notions, or the boredom of being cooped up fueled absurd desires to occupy minds.
Drew did not want to occupy the mind of Miss Walker.
The mere notion made him shiver.
“Are all the devils not here?” Isla teased, and her soft voice rippled through his veins.
“Oui,” the count said, his chuckle interweaving with Isla’s laughter. “One never knows what crooked bounders lurk in the shadows, right, Mr. Murray?”
Drew fought the urge to march over to the Frenchman and grind his tongue to sand beneath his boot. The only crooked bounder lurking in the shadows is you, Count. Maybe not. But Drew liked to believe the count was not all charm, not just the indulgent gentleman he presented to the world.
“Aye,” he muttered when all eyes turned to him in question. “They usually present themselves in sheep’s wool and hide among the lambs.”
A shadow passed over the count’s eyes but was swiftly replaced by a smooth quirk of his lip. Careful, Count Coxcomb. You might sport a bloody nose if you continue getting on my nerves. The man might be titled, but he was not in France now.
“Mr. Murray is a fine, upstanding gentleman,” Mrs. Cooper announced, to everyone’s surprise.
Miss Walker exhaled a dreamy sigh.
“I like a man with valor, and Mr. Murray is the picture of Highland valor. Do you not agree, Miss Ross?” Miss Walker asked.
“Valor . . . Now there’s a word I haven’t thought of to describe Mr. Murray before.” She shot him an amused look as she shuffled, her lips curving into a sensual arch. “You have gained quite the following.”
Drew fought for the breath her smile had knocked out of him. He cared only for her to be his follower, as he was undoubtedly hers.
“Mr. Murray,” Miss Walker gushed, her cheeks flushed with the effects of ale. “You must tell me all about your life here in Scotland. I wish to know all there is to know about you.”
Drew had never been one to roll his eyes. It wasn’t in his nature; it was not supposed to be in any man’s nature. But devil take it, his eyes had been rubbed raw from darting heavenward these past five hours. It was that or burst into tears from utter tedium.
His eyes rolled now—mentally—because the shameless woman batted her lashes at him.
“Miss Walker,” Mrs. Cooper spoke up. “Are you quite done harassing poor Mr. Murray?”
Drew hid a grin. Leave it to Mrs. Cooper to get right to the point. Suffice it to say, Drew was in a torturous predicament. The only thing making it bearable was the wench laughing at him with her eyes. His gaze flicked to her, and he did his best to avoid the slope of her neck, the soft arch of her lips. Focusing on that got him all hard and bothered. And that would be noticed by the hawkish Miss Walker.
But Drew needn’t have worried about that, as any erotic thought was interrupted by Mr. Donnelly bursting into the room, scrubbing his body frantically with his arms. The deck of cards flew midshuffle from Isla’s fingers, cards scattering everywhere.
Drew couldn’t suppress a groan.
It has begun.
“I’m burning up!” Mr. Donnelly cried. “I’m burning up!”
“Oh, for the love of Zeus!” Mrs. Cooper snapped. “Calm down, you old fruitcake. You are not burning up.”
“I’m burning up!” Mr. Donnelly repeated, arms scrubbing furiously. “I’m burning up!”
“Do you think something bit him?” Miss Walker asked.
“I’m not sure,” Isla murmured.
“Mr. Donnelly,” Mrs. Drummond admonished, rushing into the room after him. “Please calm down so I can have a look at your skin.”
Drew blinked.
“Nay! The hag set me on fire!”
“What hag?” Drew asked, instantly regretting it, wishing he’d had the foresight not to pour oil on an already blazing fire.
Mr. Donnelly stopped midscrub to point straight at Mrs. Cooper. “That hag.”
“That is it!” Mrs. Cooper snapped. “Hand me the poker, Count. That lout’s life ends today.”
Miss Walker leaped up to restrain Mrs. Cooper by the arm, but the elderly woman proved to be much more quick-footed than Drew would have reckoned. Before anyone could stop her, she snatched up the poker and set out after Mr. Donnelly, waving her iron weapon in the air like a pitchfork.
“Mrs. Cooper!” Miss Walker exclaimed, but the older woman was beyond listening.
“Mr. Murray, do something!” Miss Walker cried, hands lifting to her throat.
“What would you have me do?” Drew asked. “This is between them.”
“Aye, leave them be,” Isla nodded, gathering the cards. “Any interference from us might worsen the situation.”
Drew agreed.
“But what if they kill each other?” Miss Walker cried.
Then we will have a real haunted inn on our hands, Drew mused, watching Mrs. Cooper chase Mr. Donnelly around the sofa as Mr. Shelby and Lady Amanda sat clutching each other in bewilderment.
“They are merely using each other to vent their frustrations,” the count answered Miss Walker. “I agree with Miss Ross. We may worsen their feud if we interfere.”
Drew shot the count a sour look.
“How dare you accuse me of setting you on fire!” Mrs. Cooper shouted. “The only part of you on fire is your addled brain!”
“Hag!” Mr. Donnelly shouted back, dashing to the row of windows. “I need to put it out!”
Drew jumped to his feet, his mind’s eye already envisioning the catastrophe to come. Too late. He knew it as soon as he saw Mr. Donnelly grasp for the window latch. Devil take it! He didn’t wait to see what blight struck the common room next; he simply turned and crossed over to retrieve Isla from where she sat beside the count.
He heard the cry of outrage before he felt the gust of wind sweep through the room, saw the events unfold on Isla’s face, her eyes going round as saucers and her hand lifting to cover her gaping mouth.
Several gasps.
“Oh!” Mrs. Cooper screeched. “How dare you wave that, that thing at me?”
Drew grimaced. His fingers circled her upper arm right before—whoosh—the room plunged into darkness.
The scent of vaporized wax tinged the air; the room quieted as everyone stilled, adjusting to their loss of sight. Slowly, one by one, Drew’s senses thrummed to life, drawing in Isla’s rosy scent; he tasted the sweetness on his tongue. His fingers were still clamped around her wrist where he had seized her to tug her against him. He swore he heard the beat of her heart against his.
“It’s so dark! I cannot see a thing!”
Drew flinched at the snap of Miss Walker’s voice.
“Where are the matches?” Drew asked in the direction he’d last glimpsed Mrs. Drummond.
“Mr. Drummond has them,” Mrs. Drummond answered, finding her voice. “I must ask that everyone remain calm.”
“Calm?” Mrs. Cooper demanded. “How can I remain calm? That, that bounder Mr. Donnelly has scarred me for life!”
Mr. Donnelly remained suspiciously silent.
“Miss Ross,” the count murmured, “are you all right?”
Drew rolled his eyes in the man’s direction. What was Count Coxcomb about, in any case?
“Aye,” Isla answered, her voice laced with shock. “A bit startled is all.”
/>
“I swear that man does this on purpose,” Mrs. Cooper complained. “Rushes in, stirs up trouble, then disappears.”
“The window,” Drew began as the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
“I will see to it,” the count announced.
“Are you warm enough?” Drew asked Isla when she shivered against him.
“I will survive.”
He lowered his head until his lips brushed against her ear. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, circling his arms around her and pulling her close. “I will allow you the use of my body for warmth. You may say thank you.”
She huffed but did not pull away.
A low, sensual groan caught everyone’s attention.
Drew cursed. He hoped to Christ that wasn’t the newlyweds’ way of warming up.
“Oh!” Another moan came, but this time it was the unmistakable voice of Miss Walker. “How wicked you are, Mr. Murray.”
Drew froze. As did the blood in his veins.
“Did she just . . . ?” His muted words failed him.
“Aye,” Isla whispered back, as shocked as he. “Does she . . .”
“Believe someone else is me?” Drew murmured. “Aye.”
A delighted giggle.
“Miss—”
Mr. Shelby’s voice died on a sound of lips smacking over another pair.
“Does she not know we can hear her?” Isla asked.
“I believe that is the point,” Drew growled low.
“Should I say something?”
“A—”
Creak.
Their heads whipped around.
Crack.
The only other sound was that of eight people holding their breath.
Creak.
Drew had the oddest thought at that moment, as his heart skipped in his chest—all these “haunted” people weren’t as unaffected as they appeared.
Crack.
The sound drew closer and closer.
Someone whimpered.
Even in the darkness, Drew sensed everyone turn to the ominous creaks in the floorboard as someone or something approached.