Chapter Thirteen
A young girl of perhaps sixteen came out the door. She did not wear a bonnet and her hair was unbound down around her shoulders in the Scottish way. The girl’s hair was straight instead of curly and blonde rather than red, but she and Lyssa could otherwise have passed for sisters.
Here was family, the fragile connection Lyssa had longed for since her mother’s death.
Her feet moved of their own will. In two steps, she wasn’t walking but running. Behind her, Ian followed at his own pace.
The girl noticed them and hesitated, watching them approach.
Lyssa was suddenly aware of her appearance and forced herself to slow down. Her clothes were certainly the worse for wear, her curls were absolutely unruly from going for days without a brush to tame them, and she knew her complexion must be a sight from being out in the sun without a bonnet.
She stopped, embarrassed. This was not the way she had pictured meeting her Davidson relatives for the first time.
Ian came up beside her. Sensing her reticence, he took the lead, approaching the young woman.
“I’m Ian Campion and we’re here to pay our respects to Laird Davidson.”
The girl’s gaze honed in on Ian with feminine appraisal, and she liked what she saw. Lyssa realized the girl was actually older than she’d first thought. Indeed she was a woman, and several years older than Lyssa herself.
“The Laird is my cousin,” she said in a voice made all the more musical by its soft lilt.
“Will you tell him Miss Lyssa Harrell of London, a relative of his, wishes to pay her respects?”
“I didn’t know we were expecting company,” the woman countered.
“We were unable to announce our travel plans,” Ian answered.
The woman’s gaze swung back to Lyssa. The color of their eyes were different. Lyssa’s were green like her father’s. Her cousin’s were a guileless blue, and yet, Lyssa felt a hint of uneasiness. She wondered if Ian experienced the same.
“Please come in,” the woman offered and led the way up the steps to the front door.
Ian turned to Lyssa. He raised his eyebrows, questioning what she wished to do.
She had no choice. She’d traveled far to get here and she would not be put off now. Besides, her apprehension was probably due to being tired and finding herself at journey’s end. Putting on her best smile, she moved forward with a confidence she didn’t feel.
At the doorway, she paused in front of her newly discovered cousin. “I’m Isobel’s daughter.”
“So, one of you has finally come home, have you?” her cousin asked, the hint of a smile on her lips not quite reaching those disconcerting eyes.
“I suppose.”
For the space of a heartbeat, the woman took Lyssa’s measure. At last, her cousin said, “I’m Anice Davidson. Your uncle Alan’s daughter.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Cousin,” Lyssa said politely.
Anice smiled and opened the door. “Please come in.” She entered, expecting them to follow.
Inside, the house was not anything like Lyssa had anticipated. In her imagination, she pictured an old, established mansion with ancient furniture that had survived the generations.
There was no furniture in the front hall or a place to put it, since the room was completely taken over by hunting trophies.
The heads of stags, red deer, whitetail, and even what appeared to be a reindeer covered every available inch of wall space.
Stuffed grouse, quail, and pheasants lined the floor around the walls.
The showpiece was a wildcat posed to be fighting a badger in an alcove by the stairs of what had been designed to be a stately room.
Lyssa was all too conscious of so many lifeless eyes staring down upon them. Attempting to defuse her unease, she commented, “Someone is quite a hunter.”
Anice smiled. “All Davidson men are hunters.”
Nodding her head in acknowledgement, Lyssa caught a glimpse of the next room. The red walls there were covered with swords and dirks. She was aware that Ian stood by the closed front door, his arms crossed. She knew he was no more comfortable than she was.
Footsteps came from a side hall off to the right and a portly manservant entered the room. He had a bald pate with a tuft of hair over each ear and a bulbous nose that commanded his face. “Och, Miss Davidson, I dinna hear you return.” His accent was so thick, Lyssa could barely understand him.
“Birdy, please tell Ramsey we have visitors, and perhaps Cook will prepare a tray for our guests? They have traveled quite a distance.”
The servant eyed both Lysse and Ian in a bold manner that Lyssa didn’t find appropriate. She stared right back. Birdy’s gaze dropped. “Aye, ma’am,” he said, bowing and leaving the room by way of the hall.
“Shall we go into the sitting room?” Anice asked and led them into the weapon room without waiting for a response.
Lyssa glanced toward Ian. A muscle worked in his jaw and she could tell he was on guard.
She didn’t feel comfortable herself. The air in the house was as cool as the mossy dampness of a stream bank.
She wondered if the windows had ever been opened to let in a fresh breeze.
The whole atmosphere gave her goose bumps.
Anice sat on one of two grand leather settees facing each other in the middle of the room.
There also were two large, high-backed leather-upholstered chairs positioned in front of the marble fireplace, their backs to the rest of the room.
Anice motioned for Lyssa to sit on the settee opposite her, before looking up at Ian expectantly.
“You have not introduced your companion, coz.”
The familiarity of the name “coz” struck a jarring note with Lyssa. “This is Mr. Ian Campion of London,” she said quietly. “He is—” She hesitated. How should she introduce him so as to not create the wrong impression with these new relatives?
“Her bodyguard,” Ian interjected smoothly.
“A bodyguard?” Anice gave him a speculating glance. “I am certain you have been in good hands with such a brawny man to protect you,” she purred with a slyness that would have served the Widow Potter well.
“He has seen me safe,” Lyssa confirmed stiffly.
“Would you care to sit, Mr. Campion?” Anice asked, patting the place on the settee beside her.
“I’m content here,” he replied dutifully, having taken a post by the entry between the weapon room and the front hall. Lyssa noted he was using his brogue and she didn’t know why.
Anice’s gaze slid to meet hers. “He’s Irish.”
“Yes. From Dublin.”
Her cousin’s gaze turned lazily knowing. “I’ve always liked the Irish.”
Lyssa released her breath slowly, caught by her cousin’s open sensuality. Ian didn’t move, not even a muscle, and Anice’s smile grew larger.
Fortunately, Lyssa was saved from making any reply by the appearance of her cousin, Ramsey Davidson.
He was of average stature with a lean, hungry face and slashing eyebrows. Whereas she and Anice were fair of skin and hair, he was the opposite. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes…and a dark smile.
“Cousin,” he said holding out his hand in greeting. Lyssa stood and offered her own. He gallantly kissed the back of it. “Welcome to Amleth Hall.”
“I appreciate your welcome, sir,” she murmured.
“Sir?” He laughed. “We are cousins. I’m your second cousin. My father was Osgood Davidson, your mother’s uncle.”
“It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said dutifully.
Ramsey glanced round at Ian. “He is her bodyguard,” Anice supplied. “Mr. Campion is Irish.”
“Hmmm, Irish.” Ramsey repeated, as if the words held no import. His whole attention was on Lyssa, and she felt a certain warmth rise to her cheeks under his full regard.
Birdy entered the room, carrying a tray of biscuits and, of all blessings, a teapot with steam rising from its stem that he set on a tea table beside Anice. “Would you care for a cup?” Anice offered.
“Gratefully,” Lyssa answered, sitting.
Ramsey dropped to sit beside Anice. He crossed his legs, spreading his arms along the back of the settee. Lyssa was conscious that he watched her every move. Ian came to stand behind her. Anice served them.
“How interesting you travel with a bodyguard,” Ramsey observed. “Did you bring other servants?”
Lyssa was in the act of taking a sip of her tea so Ian spoke for her. “We were waylaid by robbers. We had a maid with us but she was separated from our party.”
Ramsey sat up. “How unfortunate. Did you report the matter to the local magistrate?”
Ian replied smoothly, “Yes. All is taken care of.”
“Ah,” Ramsey said, drawing out the word. “Very good. And we have you here safe and sound, Cousin.”
Lyssa smiled and hid behind another sip of her tea, not displeased at Ian’s story. There followed an awkward moment of silence. Ramsey broke it by saying, “You look very much like your mother, Lyssa.”
“How do you know?” she wondered.
“From the painting. Did you not know about it?”
Immediately, Lyssa set down her teacup. “No. I mean, Father has portraits of Mother, but they were done after I was born.” And after she’d become ill. The color in her mother’s cheeks had all been artificial.
“We have the one our grandfather commissioned,” Ramsey said.
“He had the painting done to show potential suitors far and wide what a jewel the Davidsons had to offer. I admit it is a masterpiece. The family lore is Isobel received no fewer than five offers for her hand on the basis of the painting alone.”
“I never knew this story,” Lyssa said.
Ramsey leaned forward. “I’m not surprised your father didn’t tell you. He must have thought it a grand jest, stealing her away from us the way he did.”
There was a proprietary air in his comment. “My grandfather must have been disappointed,” Lyssa said.
“He was outraged,” Ramsey agreed, but without heat. “His temper lasted for weeks. The family coffers needed to be replenished, we needed her to marry for money, and your mother’s choice of husbands did not honor her obligations.”
“My father has done well for himself since,” she said in her defense.
“Yes, he has.” Ramsey smiled. “Welcome home, Cousin.”