Page 6 of The Rebellious Countess
She remembered her sisters and the pain they had known when each of their parents died. She refused to bring even moretragedy to her family, and tried the dress shop next with a little less force, then the fripperies store, and finally the baker. Each one took one look at her and sent her right back out the door without aby your leave. Even the workers had kept their heads down as if she were insignificant.
She should be grateful for the burnt biscuit the baker had thrown in her direction as if she were a dog. She certainly clung to it just as greedily, slipping it into the pocket of her gown to eat after she was safe.
Lost, with her head throbbing and nowhere to turn, she spun in circles in the middle of the street looking for any route of escape from this nightmare. Until a man on a horse nearly ran her over. Stumbling backward across the cobbled stone, she fell on her backside and cowered as his horse snorted hot breath in her face. The cursing rider shook what appeared to be three fists in her direction as he trotted down the street and out of sight.
There were no gentlemen in France.
For all she knew there were no gentlemen outside of Scotland. She certainly hadn’t met any during her season in London, and her husband—he was the worst of them all. She looked up to see Hag leaning against the door jamb of the tavern wearing an inscrutable stare. Máira jumped to her feet as a group of unsavory men approached her. The look on their faces was anything but friendly as they smiled and once more tried to educate her into the less savory aspects of the French language.
“Messieurs, c'est parti pour une soirée de divertissement,” a woman yelled, and the men looked toward the tavern. Once more she ran when opportunity arose. Her head pounded with every wobbly step she took. Máira glanced over her shoulder to see Hag still in conversation with the sailors, that engaging smile somehow luring them inside without any promise of sexual wares. But it was the sailors coming ashore that made her turn toward an alley next to a closed fish market to hide. The stenchof dead fish permeated the air, and she gagged as she slumped against the wall, out of sight.
A cat gnawed on a fish head, and her stomach turned once more at the noises the feline made in its rush to consume dinner before something or someone took it away. Would life ever be easy again? She swore if she made it back to Caerlaverock, she would never look twice at another man as long as she lived. Other than her nephew, of course. A tear ran down her face as she looked up to the darkening sky and thought of her sisters at home spoiling the future Duke of Ross as they gathered in the library.
A violent quake of nausea nearly knocked her on her arse, and she decided to sit before she fell over from the waves of dizziness. Her body then began to shake uncontrollably. Whether it was from cold, fear, shock or the injury to her head she wasn’t certain. She needed a plan. Now.
Except she couldn’t think. The ringing in her ears hadn’t subsided and the drumming of pain to her injured head was beginning to grow louder than ever. She turned and found a drier spot to sit, crawled over and wrapped her arms around her knees. She gasped in pain when she tried to rest her head on her forearms and then turned her head sideways and closed her eyes to quell the nausea threatening to take over once more. Pain radiated throughout her body, and all she could do was close her eyes.
She would rest. Let her head stop hurting and her shoulder stop smarting and her stomach calm. Just close her eyes and let the darkness shroud her with visions of a happier time and place. Just a few minutes rest, and she would find a safe place to spend the night.
A loud crack startled her awake. A horse whinnied and Máira blinked several times before realizing she had been asleep, her face resting on her hands as she lay on the hardest bed of her life.She looked up to find an orange tabby cat looking down upon her.
“Meow.”
She blinked again but the cat was still there. She wasn’t dreaming but her head felt as if she’d been kicked by a cow. When had an orange tabby shown up in the barn?
She reached for the feline, but it scurried away, exposing her surroundings. An alley. No.Thealley. No. No. No.
She was home. In Scotland. In the barn where they had horses and kittens. She was not lying in a stinky alley in France. God, the smell. Was that coming from her? It couldn’t be, it was awful.
Slowly sitting up, nausea threatened and she touched her head where it hurt most. A fig-sized knot was in the middle of her forehead. Taking in her surroundings, she tried to remember why she was there. Something had happened that sent her running. Broken crates and tipped-over barrels littered the area. Next to her sat an empty barrel that smelled distinctly of fish waste. Hadn’t that been full?
If it had, that meant someone had been here, and she hadn’t noticed.
Oh. Oh. Fear threatened and she recognized the terror wanting to take control. She checked her person to make sure no one had done the unthinkable. Nothing felt off or different, other than her entire existence. It was the one spot of luck in the entire nightmare. Her head hurt, along with her shoulder and knees, and everything else, but it was her heart that felt bruised and battered.
And her pride. She’d been a fool of the first order. Falling for the first blackguard to speak prettily to her. Misery threatened to take over, until she remembered her sister’s final goodbye.“Remember you are one of the Blair sisters, and we bow to no one, unless we choose to show them deference.”
She would not bend to fear and despair, certainly not to her bawbaggin’ husband. A smile threatened and she surveyed her surroundings. She had at least learned some colorful alliterations to toss his way.
The sun would soon be rising—she looked toward the entrance of the alley to gauge the position of the sun. It couldn’t be. How could it be setting again, it wasn’t possible. It had already set by the time she’d closed her eyes last night. There was no way she’d slept through an entire night and most of the day. Yet the sky was telling her otherwise. Her body was screaming the truth. She hurt everywhere, not just her forehead, and her bladder was talking loud and clear.
The rumble of a cart traveling down the road captured her attention. She needed help and that may be her only opportunity to get—somewhere. She slowly rose to her feet, lest more nausea overtake her, and leaned on the stone building for support. The whistling cart driver grew closer, the melodic tune causing her chest to squeeze with recognition as she stood. Except the closer the wagon got, the more the song caused her back to stiffened. She peered out of the alleyway to watch the cart driven by a farmer stop in front of The Happy Hag.
It couldn’t be.
It wasn’t possible.
He was a pirate, not a farmer.
Yet he’d been an earl before he was a pirate.
Her Scottish blood began to simmer. The mettle of her ancestors wronged by backstabbing, licentious English bastards was rising to a call so deeply ingrained in her soul, she wanted to fight. It didn’t matter her mother was English, she was a Scottish bastard through and through as far as the ton was concerned. One of thescandalous sisters. Even Iseabail’s marriage to a duke hadn’t been able to stop the label from spreading. Máira’s good-for-nothing husband had just added to her family’s ruination by making her a walking, talking scandal of the worst kind.
ItwasEllison. There was no doubt. It didn’t matter that he wore clothes she didn’t recognize, or that a hat sat low over his brow hiding most of his features. It didn’t matter that the sun was going down and the only light in town was coming from the windows of The Happy Hag. It didn’t matter that she’d somehow slept the night and day away probably due to the bump on her head.
She knew it was Ellison by the tune he whistled and poetical way he performed it. He’d whistled that same tune the night of their wedding. How she remembered that she wasn’t certain, but it was him, of that there was no doubt.
He could whistle like no one she’d ever heard in her life. Melodic, and sorrowful, his song spoke of love found and lost. It spoke to her soul, and she wanted to punch those sinful lips for making her feel anything but hatred.
