The Highlander Who Loved Me (MacCallan Clan, #2) Page 6

  “I’ve not noticed any women swarm around my guardian,” Isla said. “But then, he possesses a beastly character. As for being his ward, I suppose it’s the same as being a ward to any other man.”

  “I quite like my gentlemen beastly.” Miss Walker leaned forward and lowered her voice an octave. “I hear they are the most romantic.”

  Beastly romantic men? Isla didn’t know about that. She parted her lips to answer, but Mrs. Cooper’s next question caught her off guard.

  “Mr. Murray informed us you are traveling to London. Are you visiting friends?”

  Isla’s pulse fluttered. Mrs. Cooper had expertly cut off Miss Walker’s line of questioning with the worst possible subject imaginable. It was more fun inventing faults for “Mr. Murray” than potentially betraying their identities with one wrong word. Caution would be required to maneuver the possible powder keg of these inquisitive minds.

  “Aye.” She curled her lips into her sweetest smile. “Mr. Murray and I are traveling to England for a wedding.”

  Not the entire truth, but her brother Falcon and his wife, Davina, were in England for a wedding. Best to stick as close to that story as possible.

  “I do so enjoy weddings,” Miss Walker sighed. “Who are the bride and groom? I might be acquainted with the families, as I know just about anybody that is anybody in London!”

  That Isla could not rightly say. Her brain spun for an appropriately vague and indistinct response.

  “You are fortunate to be so well connected,” Isla murmured after a brief pause. “I must admit I’ve not met the bride and groom, as they are Mr. Murray’s acquaintances. Is there anyone of your acquaintance getting married in the next fortnight?”

  Miss Walker scrunched her brows together and thought for the longest moment. “No,” she said after a while. “I cannot say there is anyone that I’m aware of.”

  “Then you must not be acquainted with them,” Isla said, one corner of her mouth lifting. “They do hail from deep in the country, after all.”

  “I suppose you are right,” Miss Walker agreed, her eyes brightening when the maid arrived with their ale, the topic forgotten.

  Isla reached for her glass with the eagerness of a small child, inhaling the rich, somewhat heavy aroma of the liquid. She gulped down a healthy swig. Flavor burst on her tongue—a crisp, fruity, bitterness that coated her palate in light, bubbly tastiness.

  “Ye gods, this taste is like magic!” Isla shut her eyes in pleasure, savoring the ale.

  “You do not find it too bitter?” Miss Walker asked.

  “Not even in the slightest.”

  “Her tongue has not been affected by other ales,” Mrs. Cooper guessed.

  Isla could not say whether that was the reason or not, but it did seem as though she’d been missing out. Ale tasted much more refreshing than tea.

  “I cannot believe you have never tried ale before,” Miss Walker said.

  “Truth be told, neither can I.” Isla breathed in another swallow.

  “Why should men have all the fun, I always say,” Mrs. Cooper ventured. “Tastes even better with beef stew.”

  A young man and woman entered the dining room, deep in the clutch of love, from the looks of it. Isla could not miss the two; the heated glances they darted to each other were practically electric.

  She caught a flash of Mr. Ross trailing behind the lovebirds, in conversation with Mrs. Drummond.

  What could they be discussing at such length?

  Miss Walker, noting Isla’s interest but mistaking it for the young couple, spoke up. “That is Mr. John Shelby and his new bride, Lady Amanda Sterling. They eloped two months ago and came here after the wedding.”

  “Two months ago?” Isla asked, stunned. “Why would anyone stay that long?”

  “They are hiding from her father,” Mrs. Cooper said, her brows pinching together. “I believe they will return to England once Lady Amanda is with child and their marriage cannot be annulled.”

  “They seem quite in love,” Isla murmured, her gaze darting back to the newlyweds. “Why would anyone wish to annul such a beautiful relationship?”

  “Lady Amanda is a gentle creature,” Miss Walker said. “Who would suspect that a woman so delicate could run away with a man such as that?”

  “A man such as that?” Isla inquired, her gaze trailing over him, absently sipping ale. Mr. Shelby looked rather delicate himself, in a brawny sort of way. Not a look easily accomplished. It must be his youthful features, Isla decided. He appeared no older than two and twenty.

  “He is a farmer,” Miss Walker clarified.

  “Do not underestimate a woman in love, Miss Walker,” Mrs. Cooper piped up. “The ones who look the most fragile often have the most fortified hearts.”

  “I agree,” Isla said, studying the couple. “That she, a lady, loved a farmer so much as to elope with him proves that.”

  “She lowered her social standing by marrying Mr. Shelby,” Miss Walker argued. “A grave error of judgment, in my opinion.”

  “There are no errors in love.” Isla thought of Drew and Patrick, their once vivid features nothing but a timeworn imprint of stark lines and blurry edges. “Only losses or gains.”

  “And something to learn from each of them,” Mrs. Cooper agreed.

  “Aye, we ought to marry whom we choose,” Isla proclaimed. “That it is frowned upon to do so is one of many unfair aspects of society today.”

  “It seems I shall not win an argument with Miss Ross,” Miss Walker teased with a chuckle. “How refreshing.”

  A maid rushed past them in a hurry.

  “Goodness, slow down, child,” Mrs. Cooper called after her. “What is the rush?”

  “Mr. Donnelly!” the maid cried, then disappeared down the hall.

  Isla watched with interest as Mrs. Cooper’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “Who is Mr. Donnelly?” she dared to ask.

  “Do not mention that man’s name!” Mrs. Cooper complained, the first real emotion Isla had seen the older woman express.

  Miss Walker chuckled. “Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly are an elderly Scottish couple that rarely ever leave their room,” she explained. “But when they do, they are most scantily dressed, especially Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Oh dear,” Isla murmured.

  “Walks around bare-chested, clad in nothing but a skirt and socks, scaring the wits out of everyone,” Mrs. Cooper muttered.

  Isla hid a smile behind the rim of her glass. With the abolishment of the Dress Act of 1746, some of the older-generation Highland men had gone back to wearing kilts, and often only kilts. In all likelihood, Mr. Donnelly, and Mrs. Donnelly in tow, had taken on a new degree of eccentricity.

  “Scandalous,” Mrs. Cooper went on to grouse, visibly shuddering.

  “Who else occupies the inn?” Isla asked, wondering how many more novel characters were housed within the walls.

  “Us, Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly, Mr. Shelby and Lady Amanda, and now you and Mr. Murray. Oh, and the count, whom you have met,” Miss Walker murmured. “He is the most mysterious of everyone at the inn.”

  “And he has been here the longest,” Mrs. Cooper added.

  Isla doubted that—the mysterious part. Her gaze wandered to Mr. Ross, still in discussion with Mrs. Drummond. He was listening patiently to something the proprietor was describing, head tilted to the side in deep thought.

  Now there stood a man shrouded in mystery.

  His face took on an ethereal countenance in the warm glow of nearby candlelight. His head tilted to the ceiling, and he said something that made Mrs. Drummond squawk with glee; his mouth widened into an effortless smile.

  What was it about Mr. Ross . . . ?

  He’s so . . . so . . .

  Arrogant.

  Bossy.

  And . . . so . . . so . . . charming.

  Isla shook her head and glanced away, swallowing down more ale. Mr. Ross was not charming at all. He was rude. Insolent. His primary trait bickering with her—from the moment he had discovered
her in the stables right up to twenty odd minutes ago when he had stalked off.

  Her thoughts drifted back to that first encounter in the stables—how his arms had circled her, strong and powerful, to pull her from Handsome, how he had broken her fall when the carriage tilted, how he’d inspected her knee with the gentlest of touches.

  Och. Fine.

  He possessed a tiny bit of charm.

  As if sensing her gaze, he suddenly looked straight at her. Her awareness of him became so palpable that it seemed to stretch tautly across the distance separating them. Reaching. Always reaching.

  Why so suddenly? Why with him?

  Fire burned in his gaze. A trick of the light? Either way, holding that stare was akin to searing her tongue on a hot cup of tea. Isla glanced away. Indeed, Mr. Ross was much more mysterious than the count.

  “More ale,” Mrs. Cooper ordered from a passing servant.

  “What do you mean the count has been here the longest?” Isla questioned, recalling what Mrs. Cooper had just said.

  “Only that—”

  “Do you smell that?” Miss Walker suddenly asked and sniffed the air.

  Mrs. Cooper lifted her nose to sniff as well.

  “Burning wood,” Isla murmured and glanced about. “Though I don’t see any smoke.”

  “Cook must be burning the stew again,” Miss Walker said with a shrug.

  “About the count . . .” Isla started, but her companions’ focus had turned to the maid approaching their table.

  More ale had arrived.

  WITCHERY SEEMED TO be in line with her character, Drew thought as slight goosebumps rippled down his arms. With each passing moment, the storm outside gained force, and fever raged stronger in his blood.

  Sorcery, all of it.

  He shook his head. Not even as Patrick had he felt a pull to Isla MacCallan this strong. Could it be because they were alone, without her family present? The heaviness of their grief had passed? Their aliases? Or was it because, to the marrow of his bones, Drew knew his ruse was arriving at its conclusion? He had a most singular important opportunity in his grasp—another chance at a future he had thought lost to him.

  From the corner of his eye, he peered at the table Isla shared with Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper. She seemed to be enjoying herself, laughing, and . . . His brows pulled together. Was she drinking that vile stuff he’d nearly choked on?

  “Do you not agree, Mr. Murray?”

  Drew glanced back to Mrs. Drummond, his smile in place.

  “Aye,” he murmured, following the direction of her pointed finger. Why the devil had he agreed to give his input? “The trimmings are old, but . . .” he searched for a word that might sound appropriate, “pure.”

  She blinked up at him, and for a moment Drew thought he was done for, but then her face took on the light of a hundred glittering stars as she clapped her hands in glee.

  “Pure! I cannot change pure trimmings!”

  “Nay, I daresay you cannot,” Drew agreed.

  “How can Mr. Drummond even suggest such a thing?”

  Wait a minute, that was not what he—

  “Mr. Drummond!” Mrs. Drummond called out.

  Dammit! “Mrs.—”

  At that moment, an old man, completely shirtless, with boney arms waving in the air, suddenly rushed into the dining room.

  Drew choked on air.

  “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!”

  Stunned, Drew could only stare at the man. His skirt—much shorter than was proper for a kilt—showcased two skinny legs.

  “What in the name of Christ is—” Drew began before the man’s words finally breached his thoughts.

  “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!”

  Drew swiveled to Isla.

  “Mr. Donnelly!” Mrs. Drummond scolded. “Stop this twaddling at once!”

  Twaddling?

  Drew spun back again. “There is no fire?” he demanded from Mrs. Drummond.

  “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!”

  “For the love of—”

  A puff of smoke appeared in Mr. Donnelly’s wake.

  Chapter 8

  Chaos reigned.

  That is, chaos reigned around them. Not once did it touch Isla or the two women seated at the table with her, all sipping their second tankard of magical ale. A languid state of harmony surrounded the trio, and they watched the events unfold as if they were spectators at the theater.

  “Mr. Donnelly, I presume?” Isla murmured, watching a half-dressed elderly man wave his arms frantically about while shouting for an evacuation. Around them, footmen scurried past in a hurry.

  “In the flesh,” Miss Walker said.

  “Is there a fire?” Isla asked, sitting up straighter. “Goodness, did he walk in on a cloud of smoke?”

  “No child, someone must have stoked the fire in the common room again. Nothing to worry over.”

  “Mr. Donnelly is not quite in his right mind,” Miss Walker murmured. “As you can see.”

  Isla wished she couldn’t see, as it were—she saw too much. Too much leg, too much chest, just . . . too much. She glanced away, to where staff and Mr. Shelby and Lady Amanda were rushing to open windows. “Should we not help?”

  “By the time I lift my tired old bones, the tasks will be accomplished,” Mrs. Cooper said, sipping her ale for emphasis.

  Miss Walker waved a hand before her nose. “How putrid.”

  Isla stared at the women for a weighty two seconds, then shrugged. “If you are not worried, I suppose I ought not to be either.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Miss Walker exclaimed, lifting her tankard in salute.

  “Now,” Isla leaned forward. “About the count and—”

  “Miss Ross.”

  Isla angled her head to the deep voice that came from across the room. Mr. Ross strode over to their table, a pinched look on his face.

  “Mr. Murray.” Her heart stuttered.

  “The chimney is blocked in the common room.” His gaze flicked over the table and their ale before lifting to lock onto hers again. “Some idiot stoked a fire despite being warned the chimney is blocked. I’ll be back. Stay here where it’s safe and the smoke is thinnest.”

  “What about you?” Isla inquired, suddenly concerned for him. “Won’t you be inhaling the smoke?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, gaze returning to her ale. Before she could guess his intention, he snatched the tankard from her fingers and downed it in one big swallow, slamming the glass back on the table. He pulled a face. “You shouldn’t be drinking this.”

  Isla’s mouth dropped open as she watched him stride from the room. “Why that . . . that . . . jackanapes!”

  Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper chuckled as she waved her empty tankard at their barmaid, signaling for another. “I shall not be outmaneuvered by the likes of him,” Isla muttered.

  “Just so,” Miss Walker agreed.

  Settling back into her chair, Isla noted everyone once again at their post. The staff continued with their duties, the newly eloped couple sat at their table gazing into each other’s eyes, and most of the smoke that had spread through the dining room had nearly dissipated.

  “Everyone is once again undisturbed,” Isla murmured with the shake of her head. “How unusual.”

  Mrs. Cooper flicked her wrist in the air. “This is not the first time it has happened. Leave it to the men; the smoke will soon be entirely cleared.”

  “I reckon Mr. Donnelly is the culprit,” Miss Walker said with a suspicious note in her voice. “He always arrives on the scene in a frenzy, crying fire.”

  “Indeed, and if this is the day I perish from smoke inhalation, I shall, at the very least, meet the dawn tipsy,” Mrs. Cooper said, swallowing her ale.

  “As will I,” Miss Walker staunchly declared, saluting Mrs. Cooper.

  “How many times has this happened?” Isla asked, glancing between the two women. “And what did you mean when you said the count has been here the longest?”

  “This is the third time since
we have arrived,” Miss Walker said with a sulk. “The smell clings to everything for days after.”

  “How long have you been here?” Isla pressed, blinking at the sudden fog that settled over her mind. She shook her head. It seemed as if it took an eternity for that simple question to pass her lips. The effects of the ale?

  “Two full moons,” Mrs. Cooper answered.

  Isla’s eyes rounded. “Here? At this establishment?” How odd. People normally stay one or two nights at an inn. What was it about this place?

  Mrs. Cooper and Miss Walker nodded.

  “But why would you stay here for that long?” Isla asked, at a loss.

  “Is that shocking?” Miss Walker asked, mildly intrigued. “All of the establishment’s occupants have been here a while, many longer than us.”

  “What is shocking,” Isla answered, “is that you do not seem to find this place odd. Haunted, even?”

  “We are all haunted here, child,” Mrs. Cooper said. A flash of sadness crossed her features. “I left my husband after his last assault on my person. Miss Walker escaped an attempted assault from the man her father betrothed her to. Mr. Shelby and Lady Amanda have their reasons, as I’ve mentioned. Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly . . . well, who can speak for them?”

  “This is the only place they can be themselves,” Isla guessed, a tightness forming in her breast. She shifted in her seat.

  Mrs. Cooper snorted.

  “And the count, like us, has his reasons,” Miss Walker murmured. “But they stay close to his heart.”

  The painful ones usually do.

  “So, this inn collects haunted people?” Isla observed, thinking about what drove her to run from home.

  “None of us arrived here by accident.”

  Isla lifted a questioning brow to Mrs. Cooper, who slowly sipped her drink, eyeing Isla thoughtfully.

  “There must be a reason you are here too,” Mrs. Cooper probed.

  Aye, Isla thought. But not a reason she was willing to confess. It all seemed rather trivial in comparison to the problems of these guests. Fortunately, she was saved from further questioning when the count strode into the dining room, pulling at his cravat. He headed straight for their table.

  “Ladies,” he drawled in a smooth French accent. “My senses inform me that an incident with Mr. Donnelly has occurred.”