If You Give A Girl A Viscount

CHAPTER TWENTY

Something terrible had happened—and was still happening—at the stables. Cassandra lay sprawled on the ground, either dead, injured, or in a faint. A freshly ridden horse stood calmly below a tree, its reins tethered around a branch, while two men fought fiercely near her prone figure.

Daisy’s heart stopped. All she could see was Cassandra.

My sister, she thought, and Papa’s daughter.

“Stop it!” she shrieked at the men, not even aware of who they were. “Don’t you see she needs help?”

She rushed forward to Cassandra’s side. Luckily, her lips were pink, although her cheeks were pale, and she was breathing. Quickly, Daisy scanned her face, her neck, and her shoulders, relieved to see no visible injuries—yet.

She leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Cassandra,” she breathed.

Cassandra’s eyes fluttered open. “Daisy,” she whispered.

“Are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere?”

Cassandra closed her eyes. “I—I fainted, is all. I’ll be all right.”

Daisy squeezed her hand, and Cassandra squeezed back.

Tears pricked Daisy’s eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She needed to be strong, and there were still two ridiculous men involved in a vicious fight that continued unabated not many feet away.

“Back off,” Daisy ordered them. Of course, the dunderheads ignored her. “I said, back off! You’re too near the lady!”

Still, they continued hitting and pushing each other. As she stared blindly at them, their faces came into sudden focus.

Mr. King was one of the men. He was an expert pugilist, it appeared. He hit the other man in the jaw and sent him sprawling. While the man on the ground groaned, Mr. King stood still for a moment, gasping for air.

“Stop it, please, you two,” Daisy said.

“Y-yes, please stop.” Cassandra’s voice was a mere whisper.

Mr. King said nothing.

The man on the ground rose to his feet, swaying. He pointed down the mountain. “Get out,” he said to Mr. King in guttural tones. “And never come back. If you stay, I’ll kill you.”

Daisy gasped. And not just at his strong words and vehement manner.

It was Mr. Beebs.

Oh, God, Mr. Beebs—the white-haired overseer of the Keep, back a day early!

Mr. King wiped his brow with the back of his arm. “Who are you to speak to me so? You vile rat. The lady and I were merely—”

“Don’t you dare mention the lady and yourself in one breath,” Mr. Beebs said in a low, threatening tone. “Get out, I say. Get out before I call the constable. You’re trespassing on private property. And you’ve assaulted a lady.”

“I didn’t assault the lady. A kiss between two consenting adults is not an assault.”

“Not an assault?” Mr. Beebs’s voice was menacing. “I know what I saw. The lady wasn’t at all interested in your so-called kiss!” His chest heaved. “Now do I have to take a whip to you to get you to depart?” He stumbled to the stable door, opened it, and retrieved a whip.

Mr. King spat on the ground. “What insanity is this?” He looked at Daisy.

She merely stared back, shocked at how twisted his features were.

“You said she was fit for a peer’s bed,” Mr. King sputtered. “Or the bed of someone rich and powerful. I took you at your word.”

Daisy felt her face flame red. “I—I was wicked to say that. I wish I never had. I didn’t know you’d—”

Cassandra moaned.

“Don’t engage him, Miss Montgomery,” Mr. Beebs snarled. “He’s got no excuse for his behavior. He’s a cur.” He snapped the whip in the air. It made a wicked, impressive sound.

Perhaps there was more to Mr. Beebs than Daisy had supposed.

Mr. King backed up a step.

Perdita rushed in and stopped short then, panting for breath. “What’s wrong with my sister?” she yelled in her fiercest Highlander voice, which made even Daisy tremble.

“She’ll be fine,” Daisy assured her. “Please get me a fresh bucket of water and a rag. And bring out several men who can carry her to a soft bed.”

“I can carry her myself. And I will clean her wounds myself.” Perdita picked her sister up with ease. “Aye, you’ll be all right,” she said softly.

“Thank you, sister,” Cassandra whispered.

As Perdita lumbered toward the Keep with Cassandra dangling from her arms, Mr. King stared after them. “Wait a minute. I recognize her—him. That was the son of a son of a Highland chief. And he was wearing a gown.” He turned to stare at Daisy.

She took a deep breath. “Her name is Perdita, and she’s more a warrior than you’ll ever be.”

Mr. King narrowed his eyes at her but said nothing.

And no wonder. Mr. Beebs hovered nearby, whip at the ready. “Pack up your things and go,” he commanded the American. “You can travel by the midnight sun.”

Mr. King felt his bloodied lip, looking first at Mr. Beebs, then at Daisy.

“Huh,” is all he said. There was disgust in his tone, as well as some hubris gone terribly wrong.

Daisy knew what that huh meant. She knew very well, indeed.

Mr. King walked away, slowly. And when he was out of reach of the whip, he turned. “Don’t expect a farthing from any of the bird-watchers,” he said. “And none from the anglers, either. I’ll be sure to let them all know they’ve been duped. Highlander, indeed.” He gave a bitter laugh. “This whole week has been a joke, hasn’t it? What else did you invent to lure rich visitors up here, Miss Montgomery? The avid hunters, the cheery cooks, the bright, happy village … was all that a put-on, as well?”

“No,” she insisted. “The residents of Glen Dewey may have fallen on hard times, but—”

“There is no Highland magic,” Mr. King said flatly, and disappeared into the garden leading up to the back of the castle.

Daisy could hear the distant rumble of footsteps and voices, people descending the steps of the Keep and talking in hushed tones.

Her heart sank. The villagers were leaving. The ceilidh was no more.