Chapter Three
IAN was well pleased with himself. His entrance had been perfect—especially his waiting until after the card-reading mumbo jumbo.
At the sight of him, the self-named “Gypsies” turned tail and scattered off into the woods.
They knew the game was over. But best of all, the headstrong Miss Harrell stared up at him as if he were the devil incarnate.
Good.
This task was turning out to be easier than he’d anticipated.
With a coin slipped here and there in the dark corners of London, he’d learned of a wealthy young woman who had hired some “Gypsies” to transport her to Scotland.
Supposedly, the heiress was to stay hidden in the wagon, but after time, she had felt safe enough to show herself along the road and thus became very easy to track.
More than one person, upon seeing the miniature, told Ian that the young lady’s red hair was a hard thing to forget—especially among dark-haired gypsies.
Now he understood why they had felt that way.
Here in the glowing embers of the fire, the rich, vibrant dark red of Miss Harrell’s hair with its hint of gold gleamed with a life of its own.
She wore it pulled back and loose in a riotous tumble of curls that fell well past her shoulders.
It was a wonder she could go anyplace in Britain without being recognized.
And her clothing would catch anyone’s eye.
It was as if she were an opera dancer dressed for the role of “Gypsy”…
except the cut and cloth of her costume was of the finest stuff.
The green superfine wool of her full gypsy skirt swayed with her every movement.
Her fashionably low white muslin blouse was cinched at the waist with a black laced belt and served to emphasize the full swell of her breasts.
She must have had some sense of modesty, because she demurely topped off the outfit with shawl of plaid that she wore proudly over one shoulder.
He was surprised she didn’t have hoops in her ears.
Her awestruck silence was short-lived. She tossed back her curls, ignored his hand, and announced, “I’m not going with you.”
“Yes, you are,” Ian countered reasonably. “Your father is paying me a great deal of money to see you home safe, and see you home safe I will. Now come along. Your maid is waiting at an inn down the road with decent clothes for you to wear.”
Her straight brows, so much like her father’s, snapped together in angry suspicion. “You’re Irish.”
Ian’s insides tightened. Bloody little snob. But he kept his patience. “Aye, I am,” he said, letting the brogue he usually took pains to avoid grow heavier. “One of them and proud of it.”
She straightened to her full height. She was taller than he had anticipated and regal in her bearing. Pride radiated from every pore. A fitting daughter to Pirate Harrell. “I don’t believe you are from my father. He would never hire an Irishman.”
“Well, he hired me,” Ian replied flatly, dropping the exaggerated brogue.
He rested a hand on the strap of the knapsack flung over one shoulder.
“The others couldn’t find you. I have. Now, are you going to cooperate with me, Miss Harrell, or shall we do this the hard way?
In case you are wondering, your father wants you home by any means I deem necessary. ”
Her eyes flashed golden in the firelight like two jewels. “You wouldn’t lay a finger on me.”
“I said ‘by any means I deem necessary.’ If I must hog-tie and carry you out of here, I shall.”
Obviously, no one had ever spoken this plainly to Miss Harrell before in her life.
Her expression was the same one he imagined she’d use if he’d stomped on her toes.
The color rose to her cheeks with her temper.
“You will not. Abrams and my other Gypsy friends will come to my rescue. Won’t you, Abrams?
” she asked, lifting her voice so that it would carry in the night.
But there was no reply save for the crackling of green wood in the fire and the rustle of the wind in the trees.
“Abrams won’t,” Ian corrected kindly, “because, first, he knows he’s not a match for me. I have a bit of a reputation for being handy with my fists, Miss Harrell, and that allows me to do as I please. And secondly, because he’s no more a Gypsy than I am. Are you, Charley?” he called to “Abrams.”
“Who is Charley?” Miss Harrell demanded.
“Charley Poet, a swindler if ever there was one. You probably think Duci is his wife?”
“She is.”
Ian shook his head. “She’s his sister. And your fortune-teller is his aunt, ‘Mother’ Betty, once the owner of a London bawdy house until gambling did her in.”
“That’s a lie!” a female voice called out to him. “The house was stolen from me!”
“Is that the truth, Betty?” Ian challenged. “Come out of hiding and we’ll discuss the matter.”
There was no answer.
The color had drained from Miss Harrell’s face, but still she held on to her convictions. “I don’t believe you. I’ve been traveling with these people and they are exactly what they say they are—Gypsies. They even speak Romany.”
“Charley,” Ian said. “Get out here.”
A beat of silence and then sheepishly, Charley appeared at the edge of the woods. He was slight of frame, and with a scarf around his head Ian supposed he could pass for a Gypsy. “Tell Miss Harrell the truth,” Ian said with exaggerated patience.
“We didn’t mean no harm,” Charley said, his “Gypsy” accent gone. “And we got her to Scotland. We were going to take her where she wanted to go. She paid us—you can’t be angry at us, Campion.”
“It’s her father you need to fear, not me,” Ian answered. “And I’ll warn you right now, Pirate Harrell wanted me to bring back your head on a pike. Head west, Charley, don’t show your face around London for a year, and we’ll call ourselves even.”
Miss Harrell took a step forward. “You lied to me?” she accused Charley in round tones, as if she couldn’t believe the truth.
Charley shrugged. “Not really. Mother Betty has a drop of Gypsy blood in her. Her talent with the cards is real.”
But Miss Harrell was not placated. Her anger was swift and sharp. “I should have known. Gypsies don’t drink gin.”
“Some do,” Charley hedged and started backing away.
“Don’t you dare leave!” Miss Harrell ordered. “I’ve paid you to take me to Amleth Hall and so you shall—this, this”—she sputtered for words before deciding on one—“ox of an Irishman notwithstanding.”
Ian had been called worse. “Well, it was money wasted, Miss Harrell,” he replied philosophically, “because you are returning to London with me. And, by the by, my name is Campion, Ian Campion…but you may call me Mr. Ox if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
The look she shot him could have fried bacon.
He couldn’t give a care. “Go on, Charley. She’s in my hands now.”
“Well, I’d like the wagon, Campion,” Charley answered, taking another timid step forward.
“You can have it—” Ian started but Miss Harrell contradicted him, moving to confront Charley.
“This is my wagon. I paid for it and it is full of my belongings. What did you think you were going to do? Steal everything I brought with me?”
“Ah, now, Miss Harrell, Duci, Betty and I were good to you,” Charley reminded her.
“The three of you lied to me! I trusted you.”
“We were only being what you wanted us to be,” Charley said sympathetically. “And you had a good time. But now, Campion’s right. You should go home and marry that viscount your papa wants you to marry. If you’d been in the hands of less honest folk, you could have been in real danger.”
Her answer was to turn to Ian and, cool as you please, say, “I will pay you twice what my father offered to take me to Amleth Hall on the Firth of Lorne. In fact, we are not very far from there now.”
“Twice?” Ian questioned with amusement. “You don’t have the blunt.”
“I assure you, sir, I do.”
“And what of proprieties? What will your relatives say when you appear on their doorstep with an Irishman by your side?”
She made an impatient sound. “We can go to the inn and pick up the maid you brought along if you wish…although I would prefer not wasting the time.”
Ian was taken aback by her boldness. She was no milk toast debutante, nor was she as smart as she thought she was. He was both intrigued and put off. If she’d been one of his sisters, he’d be tempted to lock her up.
“I’m taking you home,” he said. “You’ve already been more than foolish, Miss Harrell, and you’ve been fortunate not to have had your throat slit, or worse.”
Her chin came up. “There’s something worse than having your throat slit?”
Ian suspected her of being impertinent and his temper flared, but Charley came to her rescue. “Here now, take it easy, Campion. She’s more than a bit na?ve. You know how the Quality are. You have to treat her with kid gloves a bit and talk to her like she’s ten.”
Miss Harrell whirled on him as if set on fire. “You don’t need to coddle me!”
“Beg pardon, miss, but we did.”
Here was the last bit of treachery and it hit Miss Harrell hard. “You didn’t,” she insisted.
“We did,” Charley confessed. “And you’d best go with Campion. You really shouldn’t be hanging with the likes of us.” Duci and Betty had ventured to the edge of the woods and they sadly nodded agreement.
“It’s been good fun,” Duci added, “but you must return home.”
Miss Harrell looked to Betty. “What of my tarot reading?”
“Ah, now, Viveka, that was real…and was I not right? Here is Campion and your course has changed.”
“This man is no Knight,” Miss Harrell pronounced. “And I am not going with him, even if I must walk the distance to Amleth Hall.”
With that grand pronouncement, she turned and would have marched off into the woods—save for Ian’s hooking his hand in her arm.
He swung her around. “It looks like I must carry you then.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I’d dare, Miss Harrell. I’d dare.” He slid his other arm through a strap of his knapsack, ready to pick her up. She stepped back, clenching her fists as if preparing to give him a punch if he came nearer.