Chapter 4
Strategically positioned at one entrance of the guest chambers occupied by a Miss Lucy LeBeau, Arran folded his arms and stood in rigid stillness, a sentry carved from stone.
The McQuoid-Smith family hadn’t learned their bloody lesson.
Correction.
With the exception of Arran, no one had learned a bloody thing when it came to letting strangers into their fold.
Last time, it had been Arran who had convinced the close-knit McQuoids to trust an outsider.
And Linnie was still paying the price for Arran’s misplaced faith in the Earl of Culross.
Yet now, it appeared he alone was wary—wary of the state in which his cousin Campbell had been returned to them, and of the startling revelation of a secret betrothal.
A lass of common origins, arriving on a crude wagon beside an unconscious Campbell.
Not that Campbell or any of the McQuoid-Smith brood were the uppity sort. They were hopeless romantics who believed love conquered all. Arran alone remained excluded from that number.
Granted, the tattered plaid cloak was where anything common about Miss Lucy LeBeau began and ended.
Surely Campbell would have said something to someone. Hell, to any of them.
This was the price of Arran’s keeping a distance from his family—he had no bloody clue whether Campbell had a mystery sweetheart tucked away somewhere.
Arran narrowed his eyes at the carved oak door the lady had disappeared behind and consulted his timepiece. Nearly an hour had passed.
What devoted, aggrieved betrothed failed to rush to her injured sweetheart’s side?
No. Something was not right about the young woman.
Footfalls sounded. Arran straightened as Dr. Earsley emerged.
He met the surgeon halfway down the corridor. “Have you gathered anything about Miss LeBeau’s connection to my cousin?”
The tall young doctor flattened his mouth into a tight line. “I can confirm Mr. Smith has not sustained serious injury.”
“That was not my question,” Arran said coolly. “Has she revealed anything further about how my cousin came to be in his current condition?”
“They were leaving an inn when the establishment’s sign detached from the building.
She attempted to call out a warning, but it was too late.
What she did manage,” Earsley said, his tone turning censorious, “was to prevent Mr. Smith from suffering further harm. She wears bruises from her efforts, but those will fade.”
Arran stilled.
The young woman had been injured. A detail he hadn’t expected—and didn’t quite know what to do with.
“Mr. Smith suffered a blow to the head. Based on her description, it is a worrisome injury.”
Arran’s stomach tightened. Preoccupied with questions regarding Miss LeBeau’s identity, he had failed to keep vigil outside Campbell’s chambers.
“Mr. Smith…?”
“When last I attended him, he was sleeping. Drifting in and out of consciousness, which is encouraging. Common with head wounds. Though, of course, head wounds remain unpredictable.”
There came a none-too-quiet stampede of a herd of which there could be no doubting.
Sure enough, his youngest sister, flanked by his other sister, Myrtle, and their cousin, Andromena, came leading the charge.
“What are you doing here, Arran?” Fleur demanded, her eyes all fire.
“I think that should be clear, Fleur,” he drawled.
“If the answer is anything other than to greet Miss LeBeau with a warm welcome that was absent earlier, then the answer is wrong,” Andromena said, her frown rivaling Dr. Earsley’s.
“Warmth for the woman who brought Campbell ba—ouf!” Arran winced at that dagger-like jab Fleur sent sliding into his side.
Fleur’s menacing glower intensified. “Let that be the end of your statement.”
“It was a quest—” At his faulty reply, Myrtle had already closed her eyes and began shaking her head.
“Tread very, very carefully.” Andromena made a slashing gesture across her throat, commanding him to silence.
“She saved him,” Myrtle added solemnly, stepping forward.
Arran regarded the three McQuoid musketeers with measured wariness. “I am merely pointing out she is a stranger to us. It would be wise to be guarded—”
“You are the absolute worst, Arran,” Fleur shot back. “You weren’t always the worst.”
“No,” Andromena said thoughtfully. “That was Dallin.”
On that point, they weren’t wrong.
“Andromena, Fleur,” Myrtle—always the family peacekeeper—interjected, “please check on Campbell for Lucy, and bring word of any change.”
Immediately promoted to criers on Miss LeBeau’s behalf, the pair sprinted down the hall, slippered feet pounding just as they had in childhood.
Arran returned to his post.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing, big brother?” Myrtle demanded behind him.
He arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, more brooding silence,” she muttered. “Let me be clear. Since your last voyage—”
Arran tensed.
Myrtle knew more than she should about the hell Linnie had endured.
“It left you jaded,” she said, carefully avoiding the details. “But I will not allow you to treat Campbell’s bride-to-be with anything less than kindness and respect. Can you manage that?”
Arran flashed a thin half-smile. “You know me and ladies.” He tugged one of her dark brown ringlets. “I’m only ever—”
“On your best behavior,” she finished with a scowl. “I’m going to check on Campbell. And stop stalking Miss LeBeau’s door—you’ll run her off. She’s skittish enough. We barely convinced her to stay.”
They had to convince her to stay?
Arran froze. Another warning bell rang in his head.
With utter confidence he would obey, Myrtle gathered her skirts and hurried away.
The moment she vanished Arran turned back to Miss LeBeau’s door.
A skittish guest. A mysterious connection. A near tragedy.
Myrtle had revealed far more than she realized.
He intended to remain as long as necessary, until she stepped out of—
The maids who had brought steaming buckets earlier began filing out of the chamber. They had entered with solemnity befitting Campbell’s state.
Now they left smiling. Laughing softly.
As they passed, Arran caught fragments.
“…a most wonderful lady…”
“…Mr. Smith found himself a true treasure…”
They floated by without curtsying, too absorbed in praising Lucy LeBeau, Campbell’s secret betrothed.
Everyone, it seemed—except Arran—had forgotten Campbell’s precarious state.
She would emerge soon.
Or so he told himself.
Thirty minutes later, he was still waiting.
Arms crossed, he drummed his fingertips against his sleeve.
He was joined by the unlikeliest of individuals.
“There you are, my boy.”
His father. The earl.
The McQuoid and Smith children always joked that the Earl of Abington was either buried in the antiquities he collected or hidden behind a newspaper.
He did not wander about seeking conversation—certainly not with his children.
“Father,” Arran greeted, clipped.
“Waiting to escort Miss LeBeau, are you?”
“Escort her?” Arran frowned. “Escort her where?”
The earl chuckled and clapped him on the back. “Lovely, isn’t she?”
Surely, they were not speaking of Miss Lucy LeBeau—the complete stranger they had just met.
“I don’t know, Father,” Arran drawled. “The lady is a stranger to me.”
“But she is not a stranger to all of us.”
Arran stared. “You have met her?”
God help him—had he been even more removed from the family than he realized?
His father tossed his head back and laughed, which was wildly inappropriate, given Campbell’s condition.
Arran almost declared they’d all lost their minds. But eccentricity was hardly unusual in the McQuoid-Smith clan.
“Ah,” the earl said, delight lighting his face. “Here she is now.”
Lucy stepped into the hall, throwing a furtive glance toward Arran.
Their eyes locked.
The impact was instantaneous—sharp, startling, stopping him cold. Her eyes, green like the hills of Scotland in spring, held softness and unmistakable wariness.
She looked away quickly.
“My lord,” she murmured, sinking into a graceful curtsy for Arran’s father.
“Tsk, tsk,” the earl said warmly. “No formalities between us.” He held his palms out towards Lucy.
Lucy hesitated only a moment before laying her hands in the earl’s.
“You are family now,” he declared, patting the top of her knuckles. “Isn’t that right, Arran?”
Arran’s gaze cut to the bold Scottish beauty. “I believe that will be true once she and Campbell recite their vows.” He gave Lucy a frosty once-over.
A delicate blush warmed her cheeks.
“And when is that happy occasion set for, Lucy?” he put that question to her the way a magistrate would a criminal offender.
The lady dampened her mouth, bringing Arran’s intention to sinfully lush lips; ones a better man would have flayed himself for noticing. “I…”
“Yes, Miss LeBeau?” Arran prompted her for an answer.
“Ignore this one,” the earl patted the young woman’s clean, but worn hand and drew Arran’s attention elsewhere.
Those strong, sturdy fingers attracted Arran’s notice far more than they should.
Hers weren’t the delicate, flawless, white of a polite lady, but all the more exquisite for them.
A man could imagine all manner of wicked delights.
A tightness settled in his groin.
“My boy has a big sense of humor like Campbell.” Not anymore.
Arran’s father perked up. “Did my rascally godson ever share with you the time he met King George IV—though he was only Prinny then. Campbell gave the king such a laugh.” The earl launched into his favorite story about Campbell; his voice faded into background noise.
Arran fought to look away from Lucy—and failed. Every instinct in him tracked her, sharp and unrelenting.
She’d been pretty before in her modest garments. But now? With the McQuoid ladies’ maids’ masterful work, Lucy was…breathtaking. Unsettlingly so. Even more unsettling was his notice of those details.
Her midnight-black curls had been swept into an intricate coronet, rebellious spirals slipping free. One brushed her cheek, drawing the eye to her heart-shaped face. Others trailed her shoulders; one lay nestled in the shadowed dip of her full breasts.
Stunned by the sight of her, Arran realized his father’s presence denied him any chance to interrogate the young woman—to demand answers, to learn how she came to be with Campbell…
And why she was here now.