by Wilde, Tanya
Isla sighed. She had escaped the common room with her dignity intact. Barely. At that moment, overwhelmed by all she had discovered, two urges had filled her: bursting into an uncontrollable fit of tears or attacking Drew Murray’s head as Lady Amanda had done to Miss Walker’s.
She ended up doing the only thing she hadn’t wanted to do—dash from the room. Callum and Boyd followed her out, leaving Drew and the count with the rest of her brothers. Isla had led them straight to the dining room since the adjacent taproom was too obvious.
The maid sashayed to their table with the three ales Isla had signaled behind Callum and Boyd’s backs.
They stared at her in shock as she lifted her glass and took a healthy swig. She motioned to their tankards. “Aren’t you thirsty after your travels?”
“Lass,” Boyd stuttered. “You are drinking ale.”
“Mr. Drummond brews it himself,” she murmured, taking another swig. “You should try it. It’s quite good.”
Too flabbergasted to say more, they reached for their drinks, eyeing her curiously.
Callum curled his lip in distaste after a swallow. “Och, lass, this stuff is vile.”
Isla shrugged.
Boyd choked on his swig. “Lord, this is bitter.”
“I wonder if Mr. Drummond brews his ale for a woman’s taste,” Isla mused, trying hard to think about anything other than what was happening in the common room. “Perhaps for Mrs. Drummond.”
“Care to inform us about what you mean, lass?” Callum asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It appears only women prefer the taste of Mr. Drummond’s ale.” She looked at him. “What happens next?”
“We are returning home, and you are never going to see Drew Murray again,” Boyd answered in a firm tone that conveyed the decision final and unchangeable.
Isla took another sip.
She would decide her fate.
“Do you care for him?” Callum asked, watching her over the rim of his glass.
Isla met her brother’s gaze. She wanted to say nay, she did not, but that would be a lie. Still, his deception hurt, hurt soul-deep. He was her Drew. Her Patrick. Her Mr. Ross. And he had been right—his name stung.
Isla wanted to hate him. She wanted to hit him with a shovel filled with ripe horse manure. But she couldn’t summon even that much strength, numb down to her bones. All she could do was picture his face—his incredible shoulders, the ragged line of his jaw, the arrogant arch of his mouth—and wonder how she had not seen it before.
She could blame it on his beard, his eye patch, and his overall pirate appearance. But now that she knew him to be Drew Murray, his identity seemed startlingly obvious. The flashing storm in his blue eyes hadn’t changed. His bearing. The stubborn set of his chin. His impossible Highland swagger. There for all to see, had she cared to look closer. But she hadn’t.
Miss Walker rushed into the dining room in a flounce of blue silk, her neck craned as if she were searching for someone. Her countenance brightened when she spotted Isla, and Isla groaned.
“Miss Ross!” Miss Walker called out, heading straight for their table.
Isla groaned again at Callum and Boyd’s inquisitive stares. At least Miss Walker hadn’t lost her spirit after her confrontation with Lady Amanda.
“Miss Ross! I have just heard the most interesting rumor,” she breathed as she stopped at their table, out of breath.
Callum raked her with a sharp glance.
Boyd’s thick brow jutted up.
Miss Walker cast them a curious glance. “Who are th—” Her eyes widened. “So it is true!”
“What is true, Miss Walker?” Isla queried, half dreading the answer.
“That you and Mr. Murray are runaways!”
Och, runaways?
“Were you and Mr. Murray eloping?” Miss Walker asked.
“They were not,” Boyd growled.
“Oh,” she murmured, deflating, then brightened again. “Because you were caught!”
“Aye.” Isla could at least agree on that. “We were caught.”
“How utterly romantic,” Miss Walker sighed dreamily. “You had us all fooled!”
“Who is this?” Callum muttered under his breath.
“Must be the strangest woman I’ve ever encountered,” Boyd muttered back.
Isla kicked him under the table, eyes warning him.
“Are you one of her guardians?” Miss Walker asked Callum.
“Brother,” Callum answered.
“Then you are against Mr. Murray and Miss Ross’s match?”
“Aye,” he and Boyd said in unison.
The maid sashayed over to their table with impeccable timing and two bowls of stew, setting them before the men.
“What the devil is this?” Boyd growled, eyeing the dish with suspicion.
“Bloody hell,” Callum cursed. “Am I supposed to eat this?”
Isla hid a smile and took a swig of ale.
“But they are so in love!” Miss Walker exclaimed, head in the clouds, oblivious to the men and their displeasure.
Isla took another swig.
“And he is so handsome!” Miss Walker purred. “Even I tried to snatch him up.”
That caught her brothers’ attention.
“Really?” Callum asked, eyes traveling over Miss Walker. “Would not have pinned your preference as the dirty pirate type.”
Miss Walker nodded enthusiastically before turning to Isla. “Will you forgive me, Miss Ross? Had I known you were both in disguise and on the run, I’d never have made a pass at him.”
Isla wanted to point out that technically she had made a pass at Mr. Shelby but refrained with a faint smile. “’Tis all in the past, Miss Walker.”
“Smashing!”
Isla sighed.
If Miss Walker had any idea how she felt at that moment, she wouldn’t spew such ridiculous yet God’s honest truths. Drew Murray was handsome, no matter what disguise he slipped into. That devastating half-grin never failed to tie her belly into knots. She could understand how she had never recognized Patrick—they hadn’t talked much, and that ridiculous gray cap always obscured his eyes. But Neill Ross she should have pegged the moment he opened his mouth.
Hurt clawed at her breast.
He had warned her about his name. That it would sting.
“I, for one, would not mind a fiancé so handsome.”
“He is not her fiancé,” Boyd bit out.
Miss Walker ignored Boyd and lowered her voice. “The count, perhaps. I could listen to his accent forever! There is something rather primitive about him. Mysterious. Uncivilized, even. The way he moves . . . His eyes miss nothing.”
“Aye,” Isla absently agreed. She wanted to bang her head against the table. Miss Walker had no boundaries. Clearly, the girl did not believe Isla getting caught to be a problem or being attacked by Lady Amanda to be a deterrent.
“Perhaps he is my kindred spirit.”
Isla shut her eyes.
Boyd let out a rankled groan. “Woman,” he said roughly. “Whoever he is, he likely doesn’t agree.”
“The count is so dashing,” Miss Walker responded dreamily, but her eyes fell hotly on Boyd. “Refined and chivalrous, not rude and barbaric.”
“I’m sure you will find your soul mate soon,” Isla murmured, offering Miss Walker a faint smile.
“Why are you indulging this nonsense?” Boyd asked, turning his incredulous eyes to her.
Isla shot him a mean look.
“Miss Walker!” The arrival of a new voice announced Mrs. Cooper. “There you are! You ran off so quickly,” Mrs. Cooper narrowed her eyes at the girl. “To pester Miss Ross, I gather?”
Miss Walker had the grace to blush.
Isla sighed. “Mrs. Cooper,” she murmured, turning to the woman. “I have something to confess.” She threw a fleeting sidelong glance at her brothers. “My real name is Lady Isla MacCallan, and Mr. Murray, well, he is a Murray, but Lord Murray.”
“How exciting—
secrets, lies, and love! The makings of a true love story. And here I believed the count the most mysterious of us all.”
“Och, he still is,” Isla murmured to Miss Walker. “The count is a closed book.”
“We all have secrets, child,” Mrs. Cooper said. “Me, at my age, more than most.” She motioned to Callum and Boyd. “Are these lads your kin?”
Isla nodded.
“How did you find this place?” Mrs. Cooper asked them.
“By accident, ma’am,” Callum answered. “Would have charged right by had one of the horses not reared and tossed Kieran to the ground.”
Isla’s eyes flicked to her brothers in shock. Could it all be true? Could only those who are haunted find this place, purely by accident? Nay, how could that be? This establishment was no more than a run-down roadside inn. Her lashes lifted to Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper, then beyond to where Mr. Shelby and Lady Amanda—again fawning over each other—sauntered into the dining room, hand in hand.
And yet this appeared to be no ordinary inn at all.
“An accident . . .” She murmured to no one in particular, brows drawing together. “Our carriage tipped over, or we would have charged by as well.”
“Your carriage did what?” Boyd exploded. “By all that is holy, I’m going to strangle Murray!”
“Calm down, man,” Callum said, pushing Boyd back into his seat. “The lass isn’t hurt.” Callum turned to her. “You weren’t hurt?”
Isla shook her head.
“See,” Callum murmured. “Keep that temper of yours in check. There are ladies present.”
Isla let out a long-suffering sigh.
She wondered what Adair and the others were doing to Mr.—she checked herself—Drew Murray. The count had remained with him, she reassured herself. Despite the Frenchman’s mysterious air and haunted past, Isla believed him to be a man of honor. He hadn’t left Drew behind with her brothers even after learning the truth. Perhaps this marked the true magic of the inn: not the establishment itself, but the people contained within.
Isla wondered what it had been like for Drew to spend most of his time living with a clan he knew hated him and his entire family. Could she forgive him? She had believed he had abandoned her. He hadn’t returned even one of her letters. He’d just vanished. But then, perhaps he never received them. But she hadn’t disappeared and faded away into the background. And even if she could forgive him that, he had still deceived her.
“Girl,” Mrs. Cooper signaled the maid, “more ale.”
Boyd and Callum’s stunned gazes skittered to the elderly Mrs. Cooper.
“What?” Mrs. Cooper demanded. “Can’t an old woman enjoy ale in her advanced years?”
“Nay, ma’am,” Callum muttered as Boyd cleared his throat.
“Good.” Mrs. Cooper raked them over the coals with her eyes—a thousand devils danced within their depths. “And don’t you go and give Lady Isla trouble because she has developed a taste for it. There is nothing wrong with a woman drinking ale.”
Isla bit her lower lip to keep from smiling as her brothers’ eyes nearly popped from their sockets. When the ale arrived, the women lifted their glasses in salute.
“It’s not even noon,” Boyd complained, watching Isla with outright suspicion. “What else have you taken up besides drinking?”
“Singing bawdy songs?” Miss Walker suggested and laughed.
“That is all you, Miss Walker.”
“Learning bawdy songs, then,” Miss Walker snickered. “And please call me Eliza.”
Isla gave Miss Walker—Eliza—an appreciative smile. She hadn’t expected to make any friends on this journey—had only wished to reach Falcon and Davina in London. She had never dreamed that what she truly needed were these people. They had taught her that troubles were only insurmountable when one kept them close to one’s heart.
In these short few days, she’d found so much more than she’d ever expected. Mrs. Drummond’s “warm” food and “comfortable” bed. Mr. Drummond’s ale. Miss Walker’s enthusiasm. Mrs. Cooper’s sage statements. The count’s chivalry. Mr. Donnelly’s comic essence. Come to think about it, she had yet to meet Mrs. Donnelly. Mr. Shelby’s devotion. Lady Amanda’s inner harpy.
Tears prickled the corner of Isla’s eyes.
A woman on the run.
A man in disguise.
Aye, they were all haunted here.
Chapter 19
Drew stared into Roxburgh’s flashing eyes, which held nothing but fury and disfavor. He did not fault the duke for his reaction—Drew had disappeared with the man’s sister. But the days when Drew took a beating like a dog had long since passed. If the MacCallans wanted a brawl, they damn well better be prepared for him to fight back. If he went down, they were going down with him.
That didn’t mean he wanted to exchange blows.
He’d rather not.
In truth, Drew didn’t know if he could lift his fist and let it fly into one of the MacCallans’ faces. The last time that happened, it had ended in death—even if it had been an accident.
The fact that he even recognized the truth in that thought amazed him. It seemed the moment the words left Isla’s mouth, Drew had decided that he would believe them. Live and breathe them. It didn’t change the guilt he still felt. It didn’t change the ache ever-present in his gut. But her belief elevated him, guided him, and sure as hell gave him the resolve to say enough.
Enough of this feud.
However, most of the men before him were gunning for a fight. Their grim features told him as much. The only exceptions were Hugh and Duncan MacCallan. They looked alert and ready to intervene should fists start to fly. That might help his attempt to keep this civil.
And then Drew realized what room they stood gathered in.
He cursed.
Horns were bound to lock in this damn room.
Beside Drew, the count shifted into a position of defense. Drew kept the surprise from his voice. “This would be the moment where you bid your leave, Count,” he drawled, eyes not leaving his adversary.
“I would agree, did I not think a thrashing is coming your way.”
“You think you can take them?” Drew asked, half incredulous that the count would even try. Dressed impeccably, with not even a hair out of place, the man didn’t appear as if he could take on a nine-year-old boy.
The count smiled.
A dark, compelling, and thoroughly ominous smile.
Drew amended his initial assessment of the man.
“Enough of this,” Roxburgh growled. “Your hands are twitching, Murray. Do you want a fight, or do we discuss this like gentlemen? You know how the former ended the last time.”
“Which time was that?” Drew drawled. “The time you beat me to a bloody pulp after I came to pay my respects at your brother’s funeral, or the time I refused to leave as a biddable gardener?” His eyes raked over every one of the MacCallan men in the room. Bitterness set heavy in Drew’s gut. “And let’s not forget that you never fight fair.”
“Had we known you were the gardener, we’d have sent you to Murray Castle in pieces,” Kieran growled.
Drew’s heart slammed against his ribs in instant fury. He didn’t know which he yearned to do more: slam his fist into Kieran’s jaw or call him the vilest words imaginable to man. But because he was no longer the Drew of eighteen months past, and because he knew this MacCallan almost as well as he had Ewan, he opted for a bored look and smiled.
Kieran lurched forward, fists clenched, but was hauled back by the youngest, Hugh. “Get hold of your temper, Kieran. Or is the beating Ruthven gave you not enough?”
Kieran flushed, jerking his shoulder out of Hugh’s grip. “Murray deserves whatever is coming to him.”
“You think yet another beating is going to punish me?” Drew mocked. “I welcomed your fists the last time. I welcomed the pain. But do not think I will lie down and take a beating from you lot again. I have enough scars to remind me of your beefy fists. This time, I will
fight back.”
“What do you hope to gain here, Murray?” Roxburgh asked, shifting his brawny frame between the two men. “You must have known this ruse of yours couldn’t last forever.”
“Never crossed my mind until your sister ran off,” Drew said, watching the man’s face flame red.
“You blame us for that?”
“If you have to ask me that, Roxburgh, I reckon you should take a good hard look at how you have been treating your sisters.”
Roxburgh clenched his jaw. “That is none of your concern, and you still haven’t answered my question—what do you hope to gain?”
Drew shrugged. “Her forgiveness and hand in marriage.”
“Never,” Kieran growled.
Drew’s eyes flicked to him. “Not keen to have me as your brother-in-law?”
Duncan stepped up before Kieran could answer. He was one of the few MacCallans Drew actually liked. He had always been the most reasonable of the family—had, in fact, been the one to end the punishing blows of his brothers the two times they had beaten Drew.
“Have you compromised our sister?” Duncan asked.
“Of course not. I’m not a bloody cad,” Drew growled.
Roxburgh’s gaze cooled a little. “I have questions.”
“I don’t give a f—” Drew swallowed his curse as Lachlan and Kieran moved to block the entrance.
The count stiffened but said nothing.
“We have questions, Murray,” Roxburgh repeated, his arms folding over his chest.
“You are not leaving without answering them,” Kieran growled, mirroring his brother’s stance.
“I say we string him up by his legs and then ask the questions,” Lachlan suggested.
“Lachlan,” Gregor chided.
But Drew’s gaze had already fallen on the MacCallan who had said similar words to him after they had left him in the woods, beaten within an inch of his life. An instant chill ran down Drew’s spine as he was thrust back to that night. Cold seeped into his wounds as he lay and waited for death to call on him. He’d been so certain that night would be his last. But death hadn’t come. His brother, Alasdair, had.
He shook off the memory. Drew held no resentment for the men. Not anymore. And while he did not want to fight them, if they insisted, he was not averse to payback.