Chapter Thirteen #3
And he also wanted to get her back to London to collect his money.
Lyssa crossed to the washbasin and poured warm water into the bowl. She picked the soap up and smelled it. It was a homemade variety, one not as good as the sort Ian’s sister made. “I’m not going anywhere,” she confessed, unable to look at him. “We’ve only arrived and I’m happy to be here.”
“And I’ve learned that when the hairs at the small of my neck are standing on end, danger is nearby.”
She started washing her hands, her back to him. “Could you not be overreacting?”
He came round to face her. “Overreacting? They are the ones who are not reacting at all. No one seems surprised at your arrival—”
“Anice did.”
“They didn’t ask a few questions about your luggage and lack of servants—”
“We explained to them we were robbed and frankly, we look like we’ve been robbed.”
“Nor did they wonder why Dunmore Harrell’s daughter had to walk across Scotland?”
“What are you suggesting, that we run out the back door while everyone waits for us to come down for dinner?”
“Yes,” he answered. “And the sooner, the better. Something is not right.”
She dried her hands and laid down the towel. “I don’t want to leave.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he returned evenly. “We are going down those stairs and out the door. I’ll find another way for us to reach London.”
“I’m not going to London.” There, she’d said it. She braced herself for the worse.
A muscle hardened in his jaw but he didn’t act surprised. “You must go to London. Your father wants you there. Immediately.”
“I’m not going,” she affirmed quietly, well aware of what was at stake for him. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave—not yet. “I wish I could, Ian, but I can’t. I belong here.”
“The hell you do.” He took her by the arms and appeared ready to shake her he was so angry, but he didn’t.
Instead, he stared down into her eyes. “You have a marriage to go to, lass. A man you are promised to and I have a family waiting for the money I’m to earn.
You will leave with me if I have to carry you, and you know me well enough, Lyssa, I don’t make empty promises. ”
“Don’t worry about money!” she flashed back. “I’m certain Ramsey will reward you handsomely.”
“Ramsey?” Ian laughed. “Have you not looked around? There is no money here, and if they have any, it appears they spend it on the horses.”
“You will get paid your money,” she promised, reaching for her temper to ease her conscience. “I’ll see that you receive every shilling. But I’m not returning to London. If my father wants me, he can come here himself.”
Ian let go of her as if she had turned to fire. His eyes silvery bright, he said, “You planned this from the beginning, didn’t you, Miss Harrell? All right. Very well. Have your evening with your family, but come the morrow, we leave.”
“We will not,” she vowed with equal heat.
He shook his head. “I’m not a man to cross, Miss Harrell, and you’d best remember the fact.” He stormed over to the door, threw it open and almost ran over the maid who had arrived with Anice’s dresses.
Lyssa collapsed on a chair at the dressing table. Standing up to Ian was not easy…especially when she knew she was doing him wrong.
The mobcapped maid said in a timid voice, “Miss Davidson asked I bring you these.” She held out two dresses, one blue and the other a soft green. She also had a pair of black slippers.
“Yes, thank you,” Lyssa replied. “Please put them on the bed.” She wished the girl had not caught Mr. Campion in her room. The worst part was, she was still so upset by the confrontation that her hands shook—something she did not want the maid to see.
So she put on her best smile and pretended to admire the dresses. And if he thought she would leave here on the morrow, he was wrong.
Ian was so angry he could break something. He charged into his room and threw his knapsack on the bed with such force it skidded across the mattress and fell off on the other side.
Damn Lyssa Harrell for cheating him.
He’d known it was coming. Last night, she’d been unusually quiet. He’d sensed something was at work in that red-haired head of hers. He should have paid attention to his instincts and not brought her here! He kicked shut the door.
Now what the devil as he supposed to do?
He felt damned betrayed. He’d thought of himself as her protector—he’d thought he’d meant something to her. He’d believed—
Ian broke off his thoughts and leaned back against the door. “You poor, stupid Irishman. You’re a lovesick fool.”
The moment he spoke the words aloud, he realized they were true. He had fallen in love with the most stubborn woman in the universe.
And his marching into her room moments ago? Had he truly sensed danger or was he acting out of jealousy?
He hadn’t liked Ramsey Davidson the moment he laid eyes on him. The man was too poised, too glib—and his heels were as round as Ian’s own. The man was done up. Anyone with half of a head’s sense could see that by the state of the house and grounds.
At first, Lyssa had been as uneasy as he—until she’d been presented with the portrait of her mother. Then her whole response to the situation had changed.
Ian pushed away from the door and walked to the center of the room. His was not as finely furnished as Lyssa’s was, but he wasn’t interested in rugs and drapes.
Pacing a path across the room, he focused his thoughts on the portrait and the response it had provoked in Lyssa, one he was certain she could not have anticipated. If so, it would be up to him to keep her safe, even if he must physically remove her from this place.
As to the rest, his love for her was doomed. Pirate Harrell would never let some Irishman—especially one who didn’t have two guineas to his name—marry his prized daughter. Furthermore, Lyssa had too much sense to saddle herself with a man like Ian.
A soft knock on the door disturbed him and his first thought was it had to be Lyssa. Perhaps she’d thought about what he’d said and had come to her senses, so without hesitation, he crossed to the door and threw it open.
Lyssa Harrell was not standing there.
Instead, there were three ugly Scottish brutes. Two stood no higher than his chest but the third was almost a head taller than himself.
And they weren’t here to welcome him to the estate. Two held cudgels which they slapped in the palm of their hands. The big one carried a sack.
“Mr. Campion?” one of them said.
Ian backed into his room. He wasn’t going anywhere peacefully, and the Scots followed him in, ready for a fight.
Damn, he hated being right.