Chapter 5

What on earth am I to do with such a boy, Matilda, I ask you? I swear he's given me more grey hairs than even his elder brother managed, and that's no small thing, let me tell you. He was always such a funny boy, full of mischief, but mischief has turned to trouble this past month and I worry for him.

The news that reached me this morning tells me he rescued Lady Cordelia Steyning from an attack by Lord Malmsey. That much I can well believe having met Malmsey. A loathsome man whom I cannot pretend to be sorry met such a fate, but that he did so at Muir's hands? Oh, my poor boy. I cannot imagine how he feels. First Richmond and now this. It's all anyone can talk of, and I hardly dare set a foot outside the house.

Though it seems he has come through this event as a hero, his reputation is that of a dangerous man with a violent temper, which is so far from the truth.

And now he is to marry this Cordelia creature? I know nothing of her, saving that her father, the duke, was a horrid man who refused to acknowledge me once because my father was in trade. Gordy was incensed, I can tell you and it was a near thing he didn't do murder. Oh, dear, perhaps it does run in the family. The men do have rather fierce tempers. I cannot deny it.

But who is Lady Cordelia, Matilda? Shall I like her? Is she suitable? Oh, please write back and put my mind at rest at once. I must return to Scotland as soon as I can arrange it, so please do not delay.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon'ble Ruth Anderson, The Countess of Morven to The Most Hon'ble Matilda Barrington, The Marchioness of Montagu.

27 th March 1850, Wildsyde Castle, The Highlands of Scotland.

"Wake up, lassie, we've arrived."

Delia stirred as Muir gave her a little shake, and she tried to rouse herself, blinking in the glare of the carriage lamp he held up to her face. Her entire body felt bruised, and her bones ached after so long travelling on indifferent roads. The weather had been kind at least, though cold, and the hot brick beneath her feet had lost any remnant of heat several hours ago. Shivering, she sat up, smothered a yawn, and put a hand to her hair only to discover it was escaping its pins on all sides.

"Drat it," she muttered, trying to rearrange it.

"Never mind that," Muir said with a touch of impatience. "My brother and his wife dinnae stand on ceremony. They know we've had a wearying journey."

"That's very well, sir, but I have never met them before. I do not wish their first impression of me to be a bad one," she retorted, too weary to watch her tongue as perhaps she might have otherwise.

"Lassie, I am tired and famished. I want to sit down in something that disnae move, preferably with a glass of whisky in my hand. Now stop yer blethering and tie the ribbons," he said, putting her bonnet firmly on her head before he climbed out.

Drat the man! Delia thought crossly but did as he asked upon hearing voices outside the carriage. Though it was a lost cause, she took a moment to smooth her rumpled skirts and pinch her cheeks to urge some colour back to them. She did not doubt she must look a fright, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

"Are ye coming?" Muir's impatient voice called her from outside and Delia hurried to stand, taking his hand and climbing down. It was full dark and though there were servants bearing lamps, she gained only a vague impression of a huge, looming presence as the walls of the castle disappeared into the night. It was not entirely welcoming or reassuring, but then a young woman hurried out of the castle, smiling warmly at Muir. Her expression faltered for a moment upon seeing Delia, but she fixed in place again.

"But Muir, how lovely to see you. We did not expect you to bring us guests, however, certainly not such pretty ones," she added, with an anxious glance at the man beside her.

That had to be Viscount Buchanan, Delia decided, for his resemblance to Muir was striking. He was looking at his brother with concern and no little disapproval.

"What this, Muir? What have ye gone and done now?"

"Can we nae get in the door first?" Muir said testily, eyeing his brother with annoyance. "I have nae desire to tell the tale before an audience, aye?"

"That depends," Buchanan said, taking Muir's arm and dragging him to one side, obviously hoping he was out of earshot. "Ye cannae arrive here with an unescorted woman! Are ye out of yer mind? Who the devil is she?"

"Oh, dear," Lady Buchanan said with a sigh. "He never did learn the art of whispering. I beg your pardon, my dear. I'm afraid you must have had a trying journey, and this is no warm welcome, is it?"

Delia, reassured by the kindness of the woman's smile, tried her best to return the expression. "I cannot blame Lord Buchanan for his words, nor anyone else for thinking my sudden entrance upon the scene a strange one. I'm afraid it is a ramshackle way of arriving, but you see I was kidnapped, and Mr Anderson kindly came to my rescue and—"

"Kidnapped!" the lady exclaimed, wide-eyed. "Mercy me! Oh, you poor, poor girl. Lyall, leave Muir alone. He's quite right, we need to discuss this inside. Come in, both of you, at once."

Catching sight of Muir giving his brother a smug look as he strode away, Delia followed Lady Buchanan into the house.

"But Luella," the viscount protested.

"But me no buts," she replied firmly. "This poor young woman has suffered a terrible ordeal, and I shan't have her explain herself on the doorstep. Where is this fabled Highland hospitality you are always telling me of? Don't put us to the blush, my lord, by forgetting it, please."

Glowering, his lordship followed them all inside.

Delia followed Lady Buchanan, who took them into a remarkably cosy parlour where a fire blazed in a huge stone hearth. They were divested of coats, hats and gloves, and Delia seated directly beside the fire. She soon found herself plied with tea, shortbread, and whisky.

"You are just in time for dinner, but I don't doubt you will want to wash and change, so I hope this will keep you going for the moment," Lady Buchanan told her with a smile.

"You are most kind, my lady, but—but I'm afraid I have nothing to change into," Delia said, feeling wretchedly out of place and embarrassed.

"Nothing to— The devil, Muir, what is going on here?" Lord Buchanan demanded of his brother.

Delia took her courage in both hands, for his lordship was a rather daunting figure and looked increasingly angry at his brother's unheralded arrival with a strange female in tow. It was not fair that Muir should bear the brunt of his displeasure.

"If you please, my lord. I beg you will not be angry with your brother, for without him I should be in fear for my life at this moment. If you will forgive me for my impertinence, I shall tell you I am Lady Cordelia Steyning. My brother is the Marquess of Wrexham. An old family friend who is the son of my father's steward kidnapped me. He drugged me and took me away, hoping to take me to Gretna Green and force me into marriage."

His lordship gaped at her, and then his expression softened, and he took his place by his wife's side. "I beg yer pardon, my lady. I pray ye will forgive me for being less than hospitable. I ought to have troubled myself to hear Muir's explanation."

"Aye, ye ought," Muir replied with a snort, helping himself to his brother's whisky decanter.

Buchanan ignored him. "And Muir got ye away?" he asked.

"Not exactly," Delia replied, taking another sip of the sweet tea she held to steady her nerves. "I hit Mr Goodfellow over the head with a fireside poker when we stopped for breakfast and got away from him."

"Oh, well done," Lady Buchanan said, her eyes gleaming with approval.

"Yes, well, I thought so too, at the time," Delia admitted. "Except we'd had a run-in with Lord Malmsey, and he had guessed things were not what they ought to be. Mr Goodfellow told him we were eloping, but… well, anyway, I escaped and had the misfortune to run directly into him. So, Lord Malmsey decided he would take me for himself."

"Goodness me. What an ordeal you have suffered." The lady moved to sit beside Delia and took her free hand, squeezing it tightly. "You were not hurt?" she asked in an undertone, and from the look in her eyes, Delia understood what she meant to ask.

"I was not in the least hurt, only a few bruises," she said, touching the tender skin where Malmsey had backhanded her. "But that is because Muir so bravely came to my rescue."

"Did ye now?" Buchanan was regarding his younger brother with approval and no little interest. "Malmsey fights dirty, so I'm told. He's no gentleman, aye?"

"He wasnae," Muir agreed, his back to the company, his foot on the fender as he gazed down at the fire. "He's deid," he added baldly.

Lady Buchanan gasped, and her husband surged to his feet, moving to stand beside his brother.

"Deid?"

"Aye," Muir replied, taking another drink from the glass he held.

"At yer hands?"

"Aye."

"That's not entirely true," Delia said at once, not wanting Muir to carry the guilt of a man's death, even if the blackguard had well deserved his untimely end. "Muir fought fair and square, but Lord Malmsey drew a knife and tried to kill him. It was his own fault that Muir turned the knife away and Malmsey fell upon it. So you see, he killed himself," she added, unable to repress the shudder that ran through her at the memory.

"Good heavens," Lady Buchanan said, gripping Delia's hand. "You poor girl."

Delia swallowed. Exhaustion swept over her, and the lady's kindness threatened to unravel what remained of her self-control. "It is Mr Anderson who has suffered the worst of it, I'm afraid. It has been quite dreadful for him, though he has never said as much but I know it must have been. Not only has coming to my rescue involved him in a most distasteful scandal, but now he feels honour-bound to marry me, for I'm q-quite ruined you see," she added, her voice trembling.

Silence filled the room, making Delia wish she had left it to Muir to make the explanations, but after all he had done for her, she owed him this much.

"Ye offered for her?" Buchanan asked, not quite able to keep the shock from his question.

"Aye," Muir replied evenly, glaring at his brother. "What else could I do? There was the little worm who had kidnapped her in the first place, offering his hand, and the lass looking like she'd rather die than accept him. I did what I could to stem the gossip, but a story like this is going to make the rounds in no time. I could nae throw her to the wolves and let the lass endure that, nor let her fall into the hands of such a vile little sh—"

Lady Buchanan cleared her throat and Muir shrugged, returning his attention to his glass and frowning as he discovered it empty. His brother took it from him and went to refill it himself.

"So, now what?" he asked Muir, returning and handing him the glass.

Muir stared at it for a long moment before he answered. "I hoped ye would let Delia here stay with ye for a few weeks while we get to know each other a little. It may be that she prefers ruin to marrying a highland sheep farmer, aye?" he said with a grim smile. "She's daughter to a duke, after all."

"I should never be so ungrateful as to—" Delia began, but Lady Buchanan patted her hand reassuringly.

"I think you are both exhausted. If you will excuse me for being presumptuous, I shall see you to your room, my lady, and have your dinner brought up to you."

Delia sighed in relief. "Oh, yes, I would like that above all things," she admitted. "Only, please call me Delia. I should much prefer it."

"As would I, so long as you call me Luella. And my husband is Lyall," she added, gesturing to the man who nodded. He still looked rather fierce, however, and Delia thought she might stick to ‘my lord' for the foreseeable future.

"Thank you," Delia murmured, forcing her aching limbs to obey her as she stood stiffly. "Goodnight, Muir," she added quietly.

Muir turned, his expression unreadable. "Aye, goodnight, Delia."

Delia nodded and followed Luella out of the room.

"Well, ye have gone and done it this time," Lyall said, though without rancour.

Muir could hardly disagree, though he glared at his brother irritably. "Is that the best ye can do? I'd hoped ye may have a solution of some sort, that ye would show me the bright side. Some sage advice, perhaps?"

"A solution? To this mess?" Lyall said, shaking his head in wonder. "Even by yer standards, this is a pretty kettle and nae mistake. D'ye even like the lass? I could nae tell."

"I'm not sure myself either," Muir admitted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I swear, Lyall, I didnae do the thing lightly, but there seemed no other choice. Even looking at Goodfellow made my guts sour. I could nae hand the lassie over."

"She's a fetching little thing," Lyall remarked, watching Muir closely. "Lovely, in fact."

"Aye, she is that," he agreed, for it was hardly a secret.

Lady Delia was beautiful, that much was obvious. Even when he'd first seen her that fateful day, in the dirty, rumpled gown, with her hair a tangled mess, she had shone with an inner light, something good and true that could not be manufactured or got from a bottle. His feelings about her seemed to fluctuate wildly, though. Every time he looked at that bruise, it made his guts tighten with fury and he wanted to kill Malmsey all over again, and yet other times he resented her fiercely for forcing his hand into offering marriage.

"What's she like?"

"I hardly know," Muir admitted. "I spoke to her a handful of times over the past years and… well, she made me smile, laugh too, but she's a wee bit…."

"What?" Lyall demanded.

Muir hesitated, torn between loyalty to a woman who might well be his wife in a short space of time, and confiding in his brother. His brother won out, for Muir knew he'd never breathe a word of what was spoken to anyone. "Away with the faeries," he said, smiling at his brother's expression. "She's sweet and kind and gentle, I reckon, but I there's nae denying she's a wee bit eccentric."

"Well, that's perhaps nae a bad thing. Yer a bit of an odd one yerself, aye?"

Muir sent his brother an unloving look, but Lyall only laughed.

"Nae, don't eat me. I dinnae mean to insult ye, but ye have a sense of the ridiculous, do ye nae? Perhaps this lass is the same?"

Muir shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps it will work out fine and we'll live happily ever after," he said glumly.

"What about Rona Telfer?" Lyall asked him.

"Ach, I never gave her the slightest reason to suppose I would wed her," he said crossly, annoyed by the implication. "I widnae do that, Lyall."

"I ken that, and ye ken that, but does Rona?" Lyall asked, pressing the point. "She's been sweet on ye these past three years and more. I reckon the news yer to wed a pretty little Sassenach will nae be easy to swallow."

"I dinnae ken what that lass thinks, but she has nae hold on me, thank the lord. Faith, I'd rather marry one of my flock than find myself tied to her. Believe me, Delia wins over that choice any day of the week."

"Well, then," Lyall said, slapping him on the back. "There's yer bright side, aye?"

"Aye," Muir said glumly, not in the least bit comforted by the thought.