Chapter 2

Dearest Kitty,

I hope you will not be terribly vexed with me, but I have decided to come to town after all. If all goes well, I shall leave first thing tomorrow morning, but I thought I had best warn you of my arrival.

―Excerpt of a letter to the Right Hon'ble Kitty Baxter, The Countess of Trevick, from the Hon'ble Miss Violetta Spencer (cousin and adopted daughter to The Right Hon'ble Kitty and Luke Baxter, Countess and Earl of Trevick).

25 th March 1850, Spinney Cottage, Alconbury, Cambridgeshire, England.

Muir looked around at the sound of a contented sigh and smiled at Sally.

"Must you go?" she asked, giving him an admiring glance as he sat and tugged on his socks.

"Aye," he said. "That I must, lassie. I told ye I'd be off in the morning, did I nae?"

"Yes, only 'tis a shame. I don't start work until this afternoon."

Muir chuckled and got to his feet, moving to the bed. He bent and kissed her before chucking her under the chin. "Sorry, hen, but I must away. I've to be in Scotland before the end of the week or my da will tan my arse."

"Aren't you a bit big for that?" she asked sceptically.

"Aye, but ye dinnae ken my da," he said, grinning at her. "Thanks for everything," he added, blowing her a kiss before he made his way out of the cottage, careful to take the back door and keep out of sight in case anyone was watching.

Striding out, Muir hurried back to the Rising Sun to grab his bag and his horse. Once he'd paid his shot, he headed out into the stable yard where one of the grooms recognised him and hurried off to fetch his mount. Kicking his heels for a moment, Muir set down his bag and leaned back on a heavy oak post, reading a newspaper that he'd picked up inside.

To his eternal relief, the news reported that Narcissa Anson was out of danger and making a swift recovery. The paper also related the truth of the events surrounding Lord Richmond's murder. Thank God for his da, Muir thought, though he had no illusions that the story wouldn't stick to him for the rest of his days. Where there was smoke, there was fire, was what most people believed, and he doubted the ton would ever completely exonerate him of the crime. He sighed and folded the paper, stuffing it in his bag before he straightened to watch the activity of the yard. A large carriage rumbled in at that moment and suddenly everything was chaos as the ostlers leapt into action, changing the horses while the passengers alighted for a quick meal and stretch of their legs.

Muir's attention was so focused on the bustle before him that he almost didn't hear the muffled scream, but he turned his head to the side, where there was an open doorway set into a high brick wall. For just a moment, he glimpsed a woman struggling in the arms of a man. The scream must have come from her, but the fellow clapped his hand over her mouth before she could draw attention to herself, and dragged her on, out of sight.

Muir straightened, hardly able to believe his eyes, but he did not doubt what he'd seen. Moving quickly, he ran to the opening and peered round. His breath caught as he saw the man half dragging, half carrying the struggling woman towards his carriage. The brave little lass kicked and fought with all her might. Turning in his arms, she caught him a good one with her knee, right in the privates. The fellow let her go, sucking in a sharp breath before backhanding her so hard she hit the ground with a thud.

Fury exploded in Muir's soul as he watched the girl reel back and fall with a cry of pain, and he did not stop to think. With a bellow of rage, he took to his heels, bearing down upon the bastard like an unstoppable tide.

Delia's head spun, her cheek burning and throbbing. Half in a daze, she forced herself to look up, certain Malmsey must be about to grab her again and knowing she must try to escape, for she might not get another chance. A scream rose in her throat as he towered over her with murder in his eyes.

"You little bitch," he muttered, and grabbed hold of her hair.

At that moment came a sound like no other she had heard in her life before. It was a bellow of rage, the kind of noise she had imagined coming from a pirate king as he boarded a well-laden vessel ripe for plunder. Even Malmsey seemed struck by it, for he spun around, the colour leaving his face as his eyes widened in horror.

Delia followed his gaze and felt her heart stop, for there, barrelling towards them in full flight, was a Highland warrior. Kilt flying, and with an expression of such fury on his features, she could well understand Malmsey's obvious terror at the sight. Lord, but he was magnificent, though he was moving so fast she could only gain an impression of a roaring warrior, big and broad and ready to do battle. Her heart thudded hard with relief as Malmsey let go of her hair, moving to defend himself. Delia scrambled back, just as the Scotsman tackled Malmsey, crashing down on top of him with such force she felt the impact herself and heard the breath expelled from Malmsey's lungs.

A fight ensued, of the kind Delia thought she had read about, though the reality was brutal and far more frightening than any description in a book. The urge to flee and leave the two men to their fates tugged at her, yet how could she leave her heroic rescuer? Instead, she ran back to the stables and, though she knew she was about to ruin herself quite comprehensively, she would not have an innocent man's blood on her hands. The Scotsman might look entirely in charge of the encounter, but she did not trust Malmsey as far as she could throw him and would not be surprised if he had some dirty trick up his sleeve.

This time her cries were heeded at once, and a crowd ran after her, hurrying to the scene of the fight. Instead of trying to stop the two men from murdering each other, however, the wretched mob started taking bets.

"Oh, do stop them," Delia begged, running to the man she recognised as the innkeeper. "Please, sir. That wicked man kidnapped me, and the other has only come to my aid. You must help him."

"The Scot? No, miss, don't you fret none. I think the lad has his lordship's measure and I'm glad of it. I've been waiting this age to see someone take the shine off that self-satisfied bastard—excuse my French—but there's no denying he's a blackguard, is Malmsey."

Delia let out an exclamation of frustration and turned back to the fight. The men were on their feet again, though Malmsey looked the worse for wear. As she watched, however, he bent and reached into his boot, then he threw himself forward. Delia saw the flash of a blade and screamed with all her might.

"He's got a knife!"

There were gasps throughout the crowd as Malmsey sent the Scotsman to the ground and thrust the knife towards his chest. The Scot grasped hold of Malmsey's wrist, holding it off, though Malmsey shifted, grasping the knife with both hands and putting his entire weight behind it as he drove it down.

"Don't just stand there!" Delia screamed with incoherent fury.

Belatedly, the innkeeper moved forward, just as the Scot forced the angle of the knife back, turning the Malmsey's hands away from him. The angle must have put the man off balance, for his weight shifted, his boots scrabbling for purchase on the dusty ground as he slipped, falling heavily.

Delia watched in horror as the crowd surged forward, pulling Lord Malmsey off the Scotsman, and revealing his lordship with his own knife plunged deep into his belly. Malmsey gasped, his mouth opening and closing as he clutched at the knife, his eyes wide with terror.

"He's killed me, he's killed me!" he rasped, his accusing gaze on the Scot.

"Fetch a surgeon," the innkeeper bellowed. "Take him inside, quick now."

Delia watched in a daze, swaying on her feet at the appalling sight. Suddenly it was too much. The effects of the ether had still not worn off, she had barely eaten a morsel in the past days, and now the terror of the past few moments and its violent denouement were more than her senses could take.

"Oh, dear," she murmured, which seemed a very inadequate thing to say but appeared to be all she could manage.

"Lady Cordelia? Christ, lassie, I had nae idea it was ye," came a startled voice and Delia's eyes drifted to the man addressing her. "Are ye hurt?"

"Mr Anderson?" she murmured in surprise and then fainted dead away.

Muir stared at the woman he had rescued from Malmsey's clutches and could hardly believe his eyes. He had not got a good look at her until now, but now he recognised her well enough.

He addressed her, but she only looked at him blearily before she crumpled. Muir thought perhaps she had said his name but could not be sure as he reached for her, too late realising he had just covered her gown in Malmsey's blood. Well, there was no help for it now. Hefting her into his arms, he discovered she was not as feather light as he might have expected of such a petite little creature and carried her inside the inn.

"A private parlour for the lady," Muir shouted at the innkeeper, who immediately dropped what he was doing and showed him up the stairs.

"I reckon her husband is below, sir. Shall I fetch him? Good Lord, such goings on in my inn. I don't like it, I tell you. A respectable place, this is."

"Well, Malmsey isn't respectable," Muir said shortly, staring at the man with interest, for to his certain knowledge Lady Cordelia had been unmarried when he'd left London and had made no announcement of a betrothal, let alone a speedy nuptial. "And I should be pleased to meet her husband. Send him up at once."

"Yes, sir," the innkeeper said as Muir carried Lady Cordelia to the bed and lay her carefully down.

She stirred, giving a little moan. Muir extracted a small silver flask from his person and sat down beside her, easing one arm behind her shoulders to lift her a little.

"Here, lassie, a wee drop of whisky will put all to rights," he told her, pressing the open flask to her lips and tilting it up.

Lady Cordelia spluttered and gasped, then stared up at him with an expression of mute dismay.

"W-What was that?" she demanded, clutching at her throat and grimacing comically.

"That's the finest whisky you'll get anywhere in Scotland and will do ye a deal of good. Take another sip."

She shook her head, holding her hand out to stop him from giving her another dose.

"Dinnae make a fuss, 'tis only a sip. It will give ye strength enough to deal with what's next."

"What is next?" she asked in alarm.

"Well, yer husband is on his way up, so I'm told," he said, watching her expression closely.

"My—" she began, only to gasp and sit bolt upright, clasping his arm. "Oh, Mr Anderson, you must help me," she pleaded, just as a man walked through the door.

Muir turned, frowning as he regarded the fellow. He looked vaguely familiar, though he could not say from where. A spindly fellow with an air of gravity about him… for a moment, Muir wondered if he was a curate.

"Darling!" he exclaimed, hurrying into the room towards Lady Cordelia. "Did that vile man hurt you?"

Muir felt as much as saw Cordelia stiffen as the man rushed towards her. "Don't you come another step, Enoch," she told him with some force. "I shall never forgive you for getting me into this horrid mess and I am not and never will be your darling!"

Well, this was interesting. Muir looked from one to the other of them, observing the livid scratches down the man's cheek.

"Is he nae yer husband then, my lady?"

"No!"

"Yes!"

Both answered at once, but the thin fellow spoke louder, holding Muir's attention for the moment. "We eloped," he said with a chagrined smile. "Dreadful, I know, but she feared her brother would disapprove of the match, for I have no title nor fortune. Sadly, she's got cold feet since, but now she's quite thoroughly ruined, so—"

"You wicked liar!"

Muir turned to see the lady had got herself onto her knees on the bed and was gazing at Enoch with such blazing anger her cheeks were flushed scarlet, her lovely blue eyes glittering with the force of her fury. She was really quite splendid, considering everything she'd been through, and he could only admire her spirit as she pointed at her would-be husband with an accusing finger. "He kidnapped me, and I would rather be ruined ten times over than spend another second in his company, the vile, despicable, dishonourable rat!"

"My dear," spindleshanks said again, trying to reach for her hand. "You're overwrought and—"

Muir grasped hold of the fellow's wrist, keeping him back. "Is this true?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Though recent events might give people pause to believe it, Muir was by nature a peaceable and pleasure-loving fellow who had taken nothing much too seriously over the past years. However, anyone who knew him would know that tone of voice was not one to trifle with. It seemed this fellow recognised the dangerous note in it too and stilled. He tried to tug his hand free but failed to do so.

"Answer the question, sir."

"This is none of your affair," the man said stiffly. "Nothing more than a lovers' tiff. It is regrettable that Lord Malmsey had to interfere in the matter but, as we all know, there is nothing he would not do for his own pleasure."

"Well, if that's not the pot calling the kettle black," Lady Cordelia piped up. "You just wanted my dowry and title, Enoch, the same as all the others."

"That is not true!" he replied. "I have loved you since—"

"You have loved my father's rank and power," she shot back, her voice trembling with emotion. "You have never heeded my wishes, never listened to me, only droned on and on about all the things I ought not to do and attached yourself to me at every opportunity. We were friends once, Enoch, which is the only reason I let you do so, and now I see my folly in not having given you the set down you so richly deserved. Go away, Mr Goodfellow, I shall not marry you."

"Then whom shall you marry?" he demanded.

Muir noted the coldness in the man's eyes and did not doubt the lady's estimation of his character.

"For you are quite ruined. No one will have you now. Gossip will spread and tell tales of the fact you spent all that time with me alone, and then with Lord Malmsey. You're fit for no one, Delia. Goodness, there won't be a respectable man in England who would—"

Muir grabbed Goodfellow about the throat with his free hand and backed him up against the bedroom wall.

"Shut yer fat gob," Muir growled, having heard quite enough to have a decided opinion on what kind of man he was dealing with. "There will be nae gossip, do ye hear me? Nae a word of this will pass yer lips, or else I'll have the closing of them and ye will eat nowt but soup for the rest of yer days."

Mr Goodfellow turned a sickly shade somewhere between green and white, but he held Muir's gaze defiantly. "I don't need to breathe a word. You think news of Lord Malmsey's murder won't travel like wildfire, and that the cause of the fight was Lady Cordelia here? She's ruined no matter what I say, and her only choice is to marry me."

"I'm afraid I must beg to differ," Muir said, enraged, both by the man's arrogance and at being put in a position where he must sacrifice his own future for the sake of honour. "Lady Cordelia?" he said, not taking his eyes from Mr Goodfellow.

"Yes?"

"It's nae much of a proposal, but I'm afraid yer out of options. Skinny malinky longlegs here is right, damn him. Yer certainly ruined, but if ye'll have me, I'll wed ye myself."

There was a stunned silence as she digested this.

"You w-would do that?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper, though he thought he heard the relief behind the words and was hardly surprised by it.

Muir sighed inwardly, for he wished more than anything to tell the lass that he would not, but he was no villain, he knew what his honour demanded. He could not in all conscience leave the girl in the hands of such a piece of work as Mr Goodfellow.

"Aye, I just said so, did I nae?" he said, unable to keep the terse note from his voice.

"Don't be a fool, Delia," Mr Goodfellow said, his voice rasping somewhat from the hold Muir still had on his throat. "You don't know this man from Adam. He's a heathen and will probably beat you and ach—"

Muir tightened his grip. "I have never raised my hand to a woman in my life and I never shall, ye miserable bastard."

"Yes, Mr Anderson," came the sudden reply from the bed. "Yes, I shall marry you."

"Right, then," Muir said, reaching around and opening the door before shoving Mr Goodfellow out of it with some force. Goodfellow staggered back, hitting the opposite wall before he fell on his arse. "Yer nae welcome here, so I suggest ye leave afore I stop feeling so peaceable."

"Or what? You'll murder me, like you did Lord Malmsey?" the fellow sneered.

Muir took a step towards him, and the fellow ran like the rat he was, scurrying down the stairs, and if he knew what was good for him, far away from Muir.

Standing at the top of the stairs, Muir watched for a moment before he looked down at his hands and saw the dried blood there. Malmsey's blood. His stomach dropped. The words slung at him were true enough, he supposed, though it had not been his intention. He'd had no choice, he knew that, and he was not about to beat himself up over the demise of such a villain. Malmsey would have murdered him without a second thought. All the same, his belly roiled. Swallowing down his nausea, Muir was about to turn away when the innkeeper appeared again.

"Sir," he said, somewhat apologetically. "Lord Malmsey is dead."

"Aye," Muir replied, his tone even. "Quicker than I expected, but I reckoned as much."

"Everyone here will speak for you," the fellow said hastily. "There're over forty witnesses who will tell anyone who wants to listen that you did nothing wrong. Malmsey was well known here and reviled, too. He's left a fair few bastards and ruined girls in the surrounding villages. There's none who will mourn him and that's a fact. I promise you, there's no need to fear reprisals."

"I thank ye," Muir replied, grateful but knowing just what this would do to his reputation, coming so swiftly on the heels of Lord Richmond's murder. "Would ye be so good as to send up a bite to eat and a pot of tea for the lady? She's had a trying day by anyone's measure."

"Her husband?" the man said in confusion.

Muir strode down the stairs and took out his purse, pressing a gold sovereign into the man's hand. "Ye dinnae know me, but I'm Muir Anderson, my father is the Earl of Morven and so ye may take my word for what has passed. The lady was kidnapped, first by that little shite, and then Malmsey figured out what had happened and sought to take advantage of the situation. The lady is to be my wife, and I'll have no shame or scandal attached to her name, d'ye ken my meaning, sir?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr Anderson," the fellow said, pocketing the sovereign. "Like I said, I run a respectable house. I cannot speak for everyone who witnessed what happened outside, but you may be sure no gossip about the lady will come from anyone I have any influence over."

"Good man," Muir said, slapping his shoulder, before making his way back up the stairs. He felt suddenly weary, and more than a little apprehensive about re-entering the room to speak to his fiancée .

Lady Cordelia was sitting on the edge of the bed, but she leapt to her feet as Muir came in and closed the door.

"Ye have no need to be feart of me, lassie," he said with a sigh.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said quietly. "I wanted to thank you for everything you have done and… and to release you from your offer. I know you only sought to protect me, and I only accepted to get free of Enoch."

"Aye, I did seek to protect ye, and I still do. Ye cannae change yer mind. Ye have nae choice now," he said, his voice flat, knowing she was not the only one.

She put up her chin, once more showing a strength of character he might not have expected from what he knew of her, nor by looking at her, considering the frills and flounces of an extraordinarily pretty, if tattered and grubby, gown. He could only admire her for the courage she showed. "My brother is the Marquess of Wrexham, my father the Duke of Sefton and—"

"And that will nae do ye a whit of good now, lassie," Muir said firmly, sorry to have to crush her spirits, but it was best she had no illusions about just how bad things were. "I'm afraid ye have caught yerself in a scandal of the sort ye dinnae yet comprehend. I left London to escape it and now I have made it a million times worse with the death of that miserable devil Malmsey, curse him."

Lady Cordelia stared at him in dismay, and Muir regarded her in return. She was a fetching creature, her curling hair the colour of old gold, though it was in a dreadful state of disarray after her ordeal. He had first met her a few years ago and thought her a charming but rather odd girl. She said the most extraordinary things and seemed to spend a good deal of her time in her head, daydreaming. Though he had liked her well enough, she was not at all the kind of woman he'd imagined as his wife. He needed a strong and capable woman, someone robust, who could handle being the wife of a man who was a farmer at heart and lived much of his life out of doors. A burst of resentment at having been caught once more in other people's troubles made irritation surge through him but he pushed it back down. It was not the girl's fault any more than it was his own.

"What do you mean?" she asked, recalling him to the conversation. "What scandal did you seek to escape?"

"The murder of Lord Richmond," he said, running a hand through his hair.

She gaped at him in such horror, he almost laughed.

"Nae, I didnae murder him, though he well deserved it. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone saw me go after him and—" Muir sighed and shook his head. "Sit down, lassie. I've ordered something to eat and some tea. Let me tell ye the whole and then ye shall see just how big a scandal we have on our hands. If we stick together, we shall ride it out well enough, but I reckon we shall need to keep our heads down for a good long spell."