Chapter 8
Castle Broch Murdo was a crumbling ruin. Deidre had lived in some rough accommodations in her life, but this place Ewan had brought them to might just be the roughest. As far as she could tell, the only reason it was still standing was that it had been built to withstand sieges and catapult attacks. The squat little fortress clung stubbornly to the land atop the cliffs, leaking stone in places but maintaining its stalwart foundation.
The tree line had encroached on the castle’s walls, allowing them to stop a few feet from the gate without being immediately visible to anyone inside. Their haphazard party was gathered there, arguing in the early morning light.
“It isnae safe,” Ewan said for the fourth time.
Angus was losing patience. “It’s as safe as we’re like to get, lad.”
“I’ll go alone.”
“Ye will nae. The only thing we know for certain is the castle is overrun with thieves. Maybe it’s just a few, and maybe they’re all as stupid as this lot, but ye cannae be certain.”
“I’m nae dragging a woman into danger.”
Deidre wasn’t exceptionally keen on risking her life either, but it was beginning to sound preferable to standing around in the damp morning mist. “You could take Angus.”
“And leave the lot of ye out here with the horses and our kit,” Angus scoffed. “I dinnae think so.”
“We wouldn’t—”
“Mayhaps nae, but if ye did, it would be my own damn fault for trusting ye.”
She couldn’t really argue with him. If their situations were reversed, she wouldn’t trust her, either. The only thing keeping her from grabbing what she could and bolting was the lack of anywhere better to go.
“I could take Tristan.”
Deidre turned on Ewan. “If it’s too dangerous for me, no way in hellfire are you taking my brother.”
“Hey.”
“Absolutely not, Tris.” She wasn’t going to sit out here, thinking the worst, with both of them in there.
“I’ll go alone.”
“Ye willnae. Take the lass.”
“The lass ye dinnae trust with yer horse and bed roll,” Ewan reminded Angus.
“I trust her instincts when it comes to saving her own skin and she’s hardly helpless. Ye’ll take her.”
Ewan looked like he would keep protesting indefinitely. Deidre didn’t have the patience for another round of the same argument, so she did the only sensible thing. She turned and started walking toward the portcullis. It would have been a formidable deterrent, but for the gaping hole rusted through its center.
“Ye’ve lost yer damn mind,” Ewan grumbled, catching up with her.
“Perhaps. But I’m also tired,” she said. She’d barely gotten to sleep before waking up to a knife at her throat, and they’d ridden through the night after that. Deidre was ready to advance on a brace of cannons with nothing but her wits if there was a bed at the end of it.
“Ye dinnae have to do this. Ye should go back.”
“You should go back,” she countered. “I suspect I have more experience dealing with the sort of men we’re like to find inside than you do.”
Ewan’s brow furrowed. “Last night, when ye called to the lad . . . ye come from the traveling folk?”
Damn it. Sloppy, Deidre. Very sloppy. She stopped walking.
“And you think the one has something to do with the other?” she challenged.
“No, I—”
“I know about criminals because I grew up poor and alone, not because of who my people are. My mother was an honest woman. If you mean to say otherwise—”
“Deidre. Christ.” Ewan lifted his hands in defense. “It was just a question. I dinnae have anything against yer folk.”
“They’re good people.”
“I’ve no reason to doubt ye.”
Deidre searched his face for signs of a lie, but he seemed genuine. She nodded and started walking again. The sooner she had some rest, the sooner she’d start feeling like herself again.
They made their way through the outer courtyard unchallenged. Broken pieces of furniture and old carts lay haphazardly around the edges. In many places the greenery had grown over them, making it appear as though the plants had gone on the attack and were now devouring them. When they reached the main doors, hanging slightly askew but still functional, they stopped.
“Should we knock?” She asked.
“Might as well,” Ewan answered. He pounded, rattling the doors on their hinges.
Deidre kept an eye on their retreat. When the door eventually lurched open, revealing a disheveled man reeking of liquor and God knows what else, she realized she needn’t have bothered.
Amateurs, indeed.
“Aye? Whaddya want?” the slim man slurred. He might have been attractive if he had a bit more chin and a bit less overbite.
“I am looking for the Earl of Broch Murdo,” Ewan told him in an authoritative tone that sent shivers over her skin.
The slim man burped. “Well, ye’ve found him.”
Ewan looked him over from head to toe, eyebrow raised.
Deidre snickered.
“Wot. Never seen an earl before?” The imposter noticed Deidre for the first time. “Well, hello there, lovely. Have ye come to see how the other half lives?”
He reached for her, but Ewan caught his wrist. The Highlander twisted as he pushed his impersonator backward. Deidre followed them into the entranceway. Her eyes adjusted to the deep shadows as the musty, stale air assaulted her nostrils. There was an underlying rot that crept in beneath the general smell of mold and dust. Definitely worse than any hovel she and Tristan had stayed in.
“Oi. Wot’s yer problem, guv?” the slim man squeaked.
“My problem,” Ewan said through gritted teeth, “is that I am the Earl of Broch Murdo, and you will never—ever—attempt to touch her again.”
He punctuated his words with twists until the man was up on his tiptoes grimacing.
“Ewan, that’s unnecessary.”
“Quite right, mate. Dinnae ken she was yers. Honest mistake.”
Ewan held him against the wall a moment longer before letting him go.
The fake Lord Broch Murdo rubbed his arm, checking to make sure his damage wasn’t permanent. “Yer really the earl?”
“Aye,” Ewan growled.
Deidre’s skin tingled. She would have to do something about that, but now wasn’t the time.
The dark-haired man’s Scots accent fell away. “You do look like that cove in the paintings. Blind me. I figured you were dead or summat.”
“Clearly nae.”
“I’m gathering that.” The fake earl slid a glance at Deidre. “Doing all right for yourself, though, all things considered.”
The rumble that came from Ewan did not bode well.
Deidre intervened. “Who are you, then?”
“Tom Darrow, at your service,” he said with a flourishing bow. He looked up behind his curled forelock, clearly expecting them to be impressed. “The famous outlaw?”
Deidre shook her head.
“Scourge of Liverpool?”
“Sorry.”
His face fell, before perking up. “Well, that’s why I came north. To start fresh. Escape my reputation, and all that. It’s quite formidable in certain circles.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said. This man wouldn’t know formidable if it grabbed him by the stones and hauled him into a dark alley. What kind of a place was this?
Darrow was taking Ewan’s arrival in remarkable stride. He hiked up the slipping waistline of his pants and said, “I ’spose you’ll be wanting to talk to the countess then.”
Ewan went completely still. “The countess?”
“Lady Iona.”
By the set of Ewan’s posture, this was not welcome news. “My grandmother is still alive?”
“Oh yes. Healthy as a horse, she is. Stays up in the solar these days, though.” Darrow waved a hand obliquely around the hall. “Doesn’t like to see wots become of it. The solar is through—”
“I ken where it is.” Ewan rubbed at his temple as he headed into the great hall. Insufficient light and piles of broken furniture and refuse forced him to move slowly.
Deidre followed his carefully chosen path. “Interesting decor, Mr. Darrow.”
“We’re between housekeepers at the moment.” Darrow had the decency to sound chagrined. Whatever else he might have done before impersonating Lord Broch Murdo, it hadn’t involved running a large house.
The stone steps leading up were clear of debris, as was the second floor. There still weren’t any lamps lit, but the rising sun sent shafts of light through the arrow slits spaced along the upper-story walls. Ewan hesitated in front of the door that led to the solar. He looked as if he was preparing to face a hangman rather than an old woman.
Deidre moved nearer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this right now.”
“No? When then?”
Deidre did her best impression of someone not pointing out the obvious. “Perhaps after the sun has finished coming up? I don’t know much about countesses, but from what I’ve heard, they’re not usually early risers.”
“Dowager countess,” Ewan corrected.
As if the distinction made a bit of difference under their present circumstances. She ignored him. “Darrow. We’ll need four beds. Clean ones.”
“Erm, I—”
“Will see to it yourself, if that’s what it takes. Otherwise, the extremely muscular gentleman you’ve been impersonating is going to become quite irate.”
Ewan’s eyebrow rose. She ignored him.
“Of course. I’ll just . . .” Tom Darrow looked around the hallway, as if it would magically produce aired mattresses and clean linens. Instead, it produced a tall woman with graying hair and fierce features. “Iona, love, I was just coming to find you.”
Love? Deidre hadn’t expected that, or the smile that twitched the corners of the older woman’s lips.
“Who was at—” The countess went silent when she saw Ewan. Her mouth tightened back to a frown as she looked him from head to foot.
“Grandmother.” Ewan’s voice was stripped of any emotion.
The dowager’s eyes rose back to his face before the older woman abruptly turned to Darrow. “He is not welcome here. I want him removed.”
“He’s come back to claim the title, Iona. You won’t need me to pretend—”
“Nonsense. We will continue the same as we have been,” the countess announced. Her chin lifted imperiously.
“So he’s yer lapdog then.” Ewan’s voice was low and cold. “I suppose I shouldnae be surprised.”
His grandmother returned frost with frost. “I certainly am. It’s remarkable ye even remembered where to find Broch Murdo. Kindly forget for good this time after Tom shows ye out.”
“I’m nae going anywhere, and if yer precious Tom so much as looks at me sideways, I’ll save the hangman the trouble of stringing him up for fraud.”
Darrow’s dilemma was apparent as the countess’s expectant stare landed on him. Ewan’s raised eyebrow was full of menace.
“Perhaps we should let him stay awhile,” the Scourge of Liverpool suggested. His smile was full of apology.
It was wasted on the dowager countess. She stomped past Ewan and Deidre, letting the door to her rooms slam shut behind her.
***
Tom Darrow had managed to produce two clean bedrooms without trouble, and—with the help of his newly returned highwaymen—piece together two more out of salvaged remnants from other rooms around the castle. Ewan was leaning back in an armchair when Angus entered without knocking.
“Ye sure ye want to stay in here?”
“No,” Ewan answered, but he didn’t get up.
This room had been his father’s when Ewan still lived at Broch Murdo. At some point Ewan’s grandfather must have died and his father would have moved into the lord’s chambers, but at the time it had belonged to Hugh. Ewan wanted to be as far from this room, from this entire place, as possible. But they were here, and it was the only livable room that got a decent breeze.
His godfather prowled the room. Angus had chosen to wear his sword belt—something Ewan hadn’t seen in years. He realized it couldn’t be easy for the older man to be back, either. Angus was a MacMurdo by blood, but he’d left with Ewan the day Maggie Dalreoch had come to take her sister’s son.
“Expecting an attack from any quarter in particular?”
“Just being careful.”
“Ye heard about my grandmother?”
“Aye.”
“Ye dinnae seem surprised.”
Angus shrugged. “Iona MacMurdo was born with ice and venom in her veins. Like as nae, she’ll live forever, because neither God nor the devil wants to take her.”
Ewan smiled at that. It was the truth. He remembered his grandmother as a cold woman with hard eyes. Their brief encounter in the hall hadn’t given him much reason to believe she’d changed in the last twenty-five years.
“So what’s the plan then, lad?”
It probably would have been helpful to have one of those before he’d set out. “I need to find whoever wrote the letter.”
Angus nodded. “Nae many people about. Cannae be that hard. What about the rest of it?”
“The rest of it?”
“Aye. Do ye mean to repair it? The place is in sorry disarray, but it’s yers by rights.”
“I’ve half a mind to set it ablaze and ride away.”
Angus chuckled. “Wouldnae take. Yer great-great-grandfather tried that in ’forty-two. On accident, mind. He was piss drunk and out of his mind . . .”
The story trailed off. Piss drunk and out of his mind. It tended to be an accurate descriptor for most of the MacMurdo line. It also tended to end badly; usually with violence.
“A strong earthquake could drop it into the ocean.”
“Possibly. Hard to count on, though. Fickle things, earthquakes.”
They both chuckled and were silent for a while. The weight of the castle settled around them.
“Might be we should stay for a bit,” Angus said, staring out the window. “Maybe it’s time to lay the old demons to rest.”
“Morag talked to you.”
“Morag’s nae the only one with eyes, lad.”
“I’m fine.” He rubbed at his temple.
“Oh, aye? Prove it. Move to the room on the inner corridor.”
Ewan couldn’t do that. The moment the lights went out, the walls would start closing in on him. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he told himself he could get out any time, the stale air would start choking him. With a breeze, he could convince himself he wasn’t far from escape. “I can do that back at Dalreoch. It doesnae need to be here.”
“If that were true, ye’d have done it already.”
“It might be something that never gets better.”
“Might be,” Angus agreed. “You’d have to try to ken for certain, though.”
Ewan sighed. “We’ll stay. It will irritate Iona to no end, and I still need to find out who wrote me. We might as well clear out Darrow and the other criminals while we’re here.”
“They’ll just come back, you know.” Deidre’s voice came through the connecting door between Ewan’s room and the next. “They’ve got a good deal here. They won’t stay gone once you leave.”
Ewan walked over and opened it. “I’ll add eavesdropping to the list of yer many talents.”
She slid past him with a wink and the hip sway that never failed to completely distract him. “Talk quieter.”
“Finished looting the silver?” Angus asked from his post at the window.
“No use. This place has been picked clean.” She boosted herself onto the edge of Ewan’s bed. “Looks like you’re broke, sweetheart.”
“I assume ye have a suggestion, with yer superior knowledge of the criminal element, on how I can get rid of them for good.”
“Short of killing them, no. But I do have a suggestion for how you can make them useful.”
“Aye? How’s that?” Angus was skeptical.
Deidre kept her eyes on Ewan, dangling her shoe off her toes. “Let me use my many talents to make them better criminals.”
He took an involuntary step toward her. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you have a bankrupt estate that is ideally situated for a smuggling operation. You make a profit and the highways become safe from ineptitude once more. Everyone wins.” Her smile was dripping with seduction.
“For God’s sake,” Angus grumbled. He looked between the two of them, settling on Deidre. “And what do ye get out of it?”
She smiled. The shoe dropped to the carpet, with a silent “oops.” “When you leave, I stay. I’ll keep things running up here and send you your cut.”
Ewan took another step toward her. How did she do this to him? It was like she could reel him in at will.
The spell was broken by Angus’s broad face filling his vision as the older man stepped between them. He shook his head, expression full of disapproval. “That’s enough of that, lass.”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“And the pope’s just Catholic.” Angus picked up her shoe and tossed it back to her. “If ye want to deal, ye’ll do it straight.”
Deidre leaned down, sliding it back over her stocking. “What would you like me to do, throw a bag over my head?”
“Couldnae hurt, but I’ll settle for ye nae taking yer clothes off like a—”
“Angus,” Ewan warned.
“Welcome back, lad. Think ye can keep yer wits about ye for more than a minute this time?”
“I’ll do my best.” He looked back at Deidre. “What makes ye think I want to be in the smuggling business?”
She smiled. “Because you like a bit of danger and you don’t have any great love for the crown. It’s a victimless crime.”
“It’s still a crime.”
“It’s fun.”
The way she shaped the word with her mouth, teeth dragging across her full lower lip—
Angus made a noise close to a growl and walked to the door. “Yer hopeless. Come find me when ye wind up naked and penniless again.”