“It’s from all of us. Me and Cook and Margaret and Sheridan.”
“I don’t want it,” Kyra said, appalled, pushing it back at the housekeeper.
“Want it or not, Kyra,” Maggie broke in, calmly, “you need it.”
Kyra knew her voice was rising. “I will not take your hard-earned wages. The thought is positively repugnant.”
Mrs. Myrtle seemed about to protest, but Maggie raised a hand. “Allow me to reiterate our position. If you do not take this money right now, Mrs. Myrtle and I will raise the alarm that your father is no longer with us.”
Mrs. Myrtle’s head bobbed in eager agreement. “Aye.”
Drat! Blackmailed by her own servants! Kyra gave a gusty sigh and reluctantly tucked the money into the small leather purse Maggie handed her. She really must learn to be more tyrannical with them in the future. Perhaps next time she saw them she’d threaten to let them all go—without references. Of course, as ornery as they all were they probably wouldn’t leave, she thought darkly, fitting the purse’s strap around her neck and down her shirt into the waistband of her breeches. Perhaps she would decree that all future insubordination would be greeted with a sound horsewhipping.
Provided she had a future.
“Well then,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Straightening, she turned to face the two women who had steadfastly stood by her side through everything life had thrown at her. This time the lump in her throat seemed to expand into her chest, as well.
Mrs. Myrtle dabbed the corner of her eyes, and Maggie gave a very unladylike sniff. The two women threw their arms around her again, squeezing the breath from her lungs. When they finally let her breathe, all three seemed to have something in their eyes—though not one of them would admit it might be tears.
“We’ll lead ye down the backstairs to the servants’ door,” Mrs. Myrtle told her. “Sheridan roused a stable boy—the laziest of the bunch—and told him to ready the fastest horse in the stable as Lady Kyra had an urgent message to send to her da’s doctor in Wiltshire.”
Her Apollo would be waiting! Kyra couldn’t stifle her grin. “You four certainly have thought of everything. It’s unfortunate you’re not enlisted—the military could use more capable strategists.”
As Maggie and Mrs. Myrtle descended the stairs, Kyra close behind them, they furtively offered snippets of advice. Kyra’s head was already spinning so quickly she barely registered any of it.
“Stay to the main roads, gel. And do not travel after nightfall unless ye absolutely have to. Highwaymen are less likely to bother ye in the day.”
“There’s an extra pair of breeches and a shirt rolled in your blanket. Oh, and socks. Make sure to keep your socks dry.”
“And see to it that ornery horse of yers gets enough rest. A tired animal is an unpredictable animal.”
“Write to us as soon as you get there.”
“And don’t forget to eat. Yer thin enough as is.”
By the time they reached the courtyard, Kyra felt sick. She’d always been a bit impetuous, her brother might even go so far as to say reckless, but this was by far the most imprudent thing she’d ever even considered. She was venturing away from the only home, the only life, she’d ever known. Alone. For all her antics, Kyra knew nothing of real jeopardy—until now, she’d led a predominantly safe and coddled existence.
Maggie and Mrs. Myrtle faded into the shadows of the house, their whispered goodbyes sliding past her into the brisk night air. Kyra’s knees shook as she eyed the stables.
Garnering her fading courage, Kyra inhaled and forced her feet to move toward the stables. Cook and Sheridan were waiting for her in the shadows. Cook grabbed her in a powerful hug and sobbed silently. Kyra finally broke free and turned to her very proper butler.
“You will see to my father’s arrangements?”
“Indeed, Lady Kyra.” Sheridan gave a brisk nod.
“And please send word to the MacKenzies the moment Edmund asks after me.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Well then,” Kyra said hesitantly. It was now or never. “I guess I’m off.”
Kyra abandoned all convention—why not?—and threw her arms around her stoic butler. Surprisingly, he actually hugged her back, albeit briefly.
“I believe your mount awaits you, Lady Kyra,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ve also arranged for Bob the groom to accompany you.” Before she could protest, Sheridan interjected. “He is discreet and completely loyal. He’s already told the sleepy stable boy that he may have tomorrow off, so no doubt the lad’s head is quite filled with thoughts of the new scullery maid. Hopefully he won’t look too closely at our late-night messenger.”
Kyra murmured an awkward but heartfelt thank-you. Then, before her courage wavered, she strode into the stable, nodded at the very large, very tense-looking Bob and took Apollo’s reins from the somnolent stable boy. Thank goodness she’d learned to ride astride as a child. Hoisting herself gracefully onto the skittering thoroughbred, she stole a peek at the lad tending her. He didn’t give her a second glance. In fact, he yawned loudly. Spurring her beloved horse, Kyra felt a surge of relief and a bite of panic as she and her escort flew out into the night.
She might just get away with this.
Chapter Three
May 30, 1821
Ethan Ashford, eleventh Earl of Griffin, glared at the cool river meandering slowly past his feet. He’d wakened long before dawn, temper already flaring. Of course, wasting three weeks of one’s life in Scotland searching high and low for an unruly, smart-mouthed chit would vex anyone’s temper. Especially when said chit had already spent a goodly number of years vexing him. She was just too much—too tenacious, too cheeky, too confident.
Unfortunately, she was also far too clever.
Who would have guessed that a mere slip of a girl could so effectively evade a pair of hardened mercenaries, a Bow Street Runner and an all-around snake-in-the-grass, collectively?
Grif’s stomach clenched into a tight knot. It had been in a knot for weeks. Three weeks, to be precise. Coincidentally, his ailment seemed to have started on the same day that his uncle Edmund had summoned him to Deverill Manor and relayed certain facts to him—the marquess’s death and Edmund’s unexpected guardianship had been the start of it. It had gotten noticeably worse when his uncle confessed to the chit’s well-orchestrated disappearance and the fact that she had been gone near a month before anyone saw fit to tell Grif.
Grif had not taken it well. He was man enough to admit that. Most likely his subsequent fit of temper—which resulted in a shattered window in Edmund’s study—stemmed from the fact that the damned marquess had failed to notify him about the change in guardianship.
It must be that, he told himself again, because he certainly wasn’t concerned for the chit who was no longer his ward. Why should he want guardianship of his lifelong adversary? She was, and had always been, a pain in his arse. He simply did not like to be kept in the dark about important legal decisions.
That probably also explained why he felt responsible for her even though she was not his responsibility. He hadn’t been given sufficient notice to stop feeling responsible for her. And Grif was almost convinced that he never would have taken up this insane quest to find her if his uncle weren’t paying him. He needed the money, after all. As the proverb goes, beggars should be not choosers.
Of course the money was why he’d cast aside his other obligations and focused on finding her—his lifelong nemesis.
For some inexplicable reason, interviewing the Deverill senior staff hadn’t helped his stomach condition. Cook and Mrs. Myrtle treated him like he was some foul thing the barn cats had dragged across the kitchen floor. Maggie, always a bit more subtle, sniffed at his questions and talked about the weather. Bob the groom just shrugged and went about
his business. Sheridan, of course, simply shut the door in his face.
He knew, even before Edmund’s proposition, that she was in Scotland.
So here he was, stuck in the bloody, rainy highlands. Oddly enough, his stomach disorder had decidedly worsened since his arrival. Weeks ago, Cameron MacKenzie, the MacKenzie himself, very politely told Grif that his niece’s whereabouts were none of Grif’s business.
Cam had then very politely told Grif to bugger off.
It had taken several days of bribing and threatening to get the MacKenzie to even admit that the chit was in Scotland. Had Grif’s mother not grown up on neighboring MacLeod lands, Grif doubted he would have gotten even that far with the wily Scot. Another day of hard bargaining left Grif with a headache to accompany his stomachache, but he’d at least gained the laird’s promise that the MacKenzies wouldn’t interfere with his search.
Two chilly, rainy weeks later and he still hadn’t laid eyes on the girl. Grif swallowed the bile that rose in his throat whenever he thought of the many number of horrible fates that might befall her. May have already befallen her. Every day she dodged him, she was vulnerable.
He had committed a litany of sins working for Edmund, yet in all his years of servitude to his uncle—many more than he’d care to remember—he’d never been this desperate to finish a job. Oh, he’d felt guilty. Few men could do the things he did without feeling a bit of conscience, but he’d never let himself get personally invested before. It was decidedly uncomfortable.
It wasn’t that he was worried about her, he told himself again. Kyra Deverill had managed everyone and everything from the moment she entered this world. She undoubtedly was having a high time in the wilds. He was mildly concerned at most. It was just that he didn’t like having to chase down spoiled brats who had more brash than brains. Obviously she had no idea of the dangers that might present themselves to reckless, unprotected ladies.
His stomach clenched again.
“Bloody, bloody hell,” he muttered, kicking at a small bush.
Sir Thomas Harting, his closest compatriot, stopped his razor mid-stroke to peer at him. Thomas’s lips quirked as he wiped off the blade. Grif pretended to ignore him. Thomas seemed to take great delight in watching him lose composure with such alarming regularity, and it was getting damned irritating.
Grif knew he had a reputation for being imperturbable—a reputation he’d worked hard to earn and which he lived up to as often as possible. His fellow cavalry members considered him fearless. His business associates considered him ruthless. Few knew the truth of the matter. His legendary heroics had little to do with genuine courage on his part.
It was easy to risk everything when you had little to lose.
As much as he disliked doing so, it had been appallingly easy to commit such outrageous acts. His conscience and personal safety were a small price to pay to ensure that his siblings and his mother didn’t starve on the streets. He would protect them and their reputation even if it meant walking through hell and back—and in some ways it felt he already had. For all his sins, however, Grif took comfort in the fact that he had managed to keep the truth of their situation from the public eye.
Thomas was the only one who truly understood Grif’s willingness to fling himself headlong into danger...because Thomas was in the same situation. They had served together in the cavalry, throwing themselves into the worst of the battle with little thought to personal safety. When their commanding officer had asked for volunteers to deliver communiqué from British troops to Prussian outposts, a task that would bring riders dangerously close to the French army, Grif and Thomas were the first to step forward.
He trusted Thomas as no other. Thomas had stayed by his side when Grif’s best friend, Riley Deverill, had taken a bullet in the gut. Thomas kept silent vigil, keeping them safe, as Grif comforted Dev in his last moments with empty chatter and inane promises of going home. And when Grif suffered a saber stroke to the midsection, Thomas had watched over Grif’s brothers—Simon and Phillip—as though they were his own family. Grif owed Thomas his life, many times over.
Right now, however, his friend was getting on his nerves.
“Have I told you how much I’m enjoying this excursion?” Thomas called.
“You’ve mentioned it,” Grif groused.
“I always relish taking money from your uncle, of course, and the pay for this job is more than generous,” he continued, ignoring the black look Grif shot him. “But I must admit, had I known how entertaining this one would be, I’d have done it for half the pay. To see the unflappable Grif completely flapped—over a woman, no less—has been worth the weeks of living like barbarians.”
“Stuff it, Thomas,” Grif said.
“What does Dev’s sister look like again?” Thomas called, trying not to chuckle.
Grif arched a dark brow at him. “You’re enjoying this a bit too much, don’t you think?”
“Every moment,” Thomas said with exaggerated relish.
Grif gave up and snorted in disgust. Thomas continued shaving. “Ah yes, I remember now. ‘Dark hair. Big mouth. Small chest. Devil’s own temper.’ How could I have forgotten such a meticulous description? And such a charming one at that.”
“Are you quite finished?” Grif asked calmly.
Thomas leaned over the cup of river water at his feet and rinsed his face. Then he grabbed the shirt he’d tossed over a branch. “For now. What say we rouse our lovely companions? I’d like to start out before midday.”
Grif nodded. His uncle had sent two of his lackeys to help in their search, meaning Edmund had hired them to keep an eye on him. The first was a Bow Street Runner named Conroy. Big and brawny, Conroy was a little dull but at least bearable. He had worked several jobs with Grif and Thomas, and Grif guessed he’d been military—the man took orders like a soldier. He seemed almost respectable, for a hired thug.
The other was Edmund’s heir and Grif’s distant cousin, a dandy named Andrew Dreyfus. Grif found him utterly loathsome. And while Dreyfus actually had a brain, most of the man’s thoughts were quite despicable. Not to mention he had an aversion to early morning searches. And late night searches. And midday searches. In fact, if it were up to Dreyfus, they would only ever conduct a search between the hours of two and four, and then only along the main roads.
Grif barely tolerated him. The only thing stopping him from abandoning Dreyfus in the middle of nowhere was the off chance that the man might somehow stumble across the silly chit on his own. Grif’s stomach tensed again, and he hurried back to camp.
Conroy was already awake when they returned to camp, stamping out their meager fire and gathering their provisions. Grif helped gather their things while Thomas took great delight in pouring the cup of icy water on Dreyfus’s head. Dreyfus sputtered awake, cursing. Dreyfus looked up at Grif, water dripping from his mud-colored curls and hatred filling his pale eyes.
Grif pointedly ignored him and saddled his stallion, Lucifer. “We leave in ten minutes,” he announced. “Anyone not in the saddle at that time will be left behind.”
Dreyfus stalked up to him, scowling. “You’re not lord of the manor out here, Griffin. You and your friend there are just the hired muscle, you know. Edmund put me in charge of retrieving Deverill’s brat. That means I give the orders.”
“You may give the orders, Dreyfus,” Grif said coolly, lifting himself into the saddle. “But I seem to command the troops.” He gestured to Thomas and Conroy readying their mounts. “And the troops leave in ten minutes. Or rather, nine minutes. Ticktock.”
Dreyfus glowered at him but rushed to grab his things. The man was at least smart enough to recognize he was outnumbered.
Grif sat atop his mount, trying to take some comfort in watching Dreyfus scramble about. He vaguely heard Thomas and Conroy twitting the man and he managed to muster a smile. Inwardly, however, he grimace
d at the prospect of another fruitless search, another day wasted. If they didn’t find Kyra soon, he’d likely go mad as a hatter. It had to be today. It would be today.
* * *
It was shortly after midday when they picked their way up a rocky, muddy road that led to a small farmhouse. Behind the house, sheep grazed in a paddock stretching across the gently rolling hills. Several tired outbuildings stood between the pasture and the house, their cracked and weathered foundations sorely needing the attention of a good mason.
Grif’s stomach growled. Looking over at an unusually dour Thomas and a glum Conroy, he suspected they were all ready to beg, borrow or steal some hot food. Rain had hindered all efforts of building a cooking fire, and for the last three days they had lived primarily on dried beef and drier bread.
What the people in this rural region lacked in material goods, they made up for in spirit and generosity. Travelers were usually warmly welcomed. It also didn’t hurt when those travelers had strong ties to the MacLeod and MacKenzie lairds—a fact that Grif would readily capitalize on today. Hunger before pride.
A young girl of about eight played with a toddler in the muddy courtyard, both of them laughing and stamping in the muck. Even beneath layers of grime, Grif could see the dark auburn hair that marked them as clan MacKenzie. The girl spotted them first. Shrieking, she ran into the house, no doubt to fetch her parents.
Sure enough, an instant later a large, ruddy man with the same dark red hair emerged from the small dwelling. He eyed the unexpected visitors, giving them a curt nod. “Afternoon.”
“’Lo,” Grif said casually.
“You ain’t MacKenzie.”
“MacLeod, on my mum’s side.”
The man scrutinized him. After a moment, he nodded. “Aye, ye’ve got the MacLeod eyes. Can’t mistake ’em. Green as the sea.”
“How far to Elphin?”
The man shrugged. “’Bout forty kilometers.”
“Do you happen to know if there’s an inn there?” Grif asked with his most disarming smile. “My friends and I are in need of a hot meal.” Thomas and Conroy murmured their assent. Dreyfus remained silent, sullen.
An Inconvenient Wife Page 4