And Linnie was still paying the price for Arran’s misplaced faith in the Earl of Culross.
Yet now, it appeared he alone was wary—wary of the state in which his cousin Campbell had been returned to them, and of the startling revelation of a secret betrothal.
A lass of common origins, arriving on a crude wagon beside an unconscious Campbell.
Not that Campbell or any of the McQuoid-Smith brood were the uppity sort. They were hopeless romantics who believed love conquered all. Arran alone remained excluded from that number.
Granted, the tattered plaid cloak was where anything common about Miss Lucy LeBeau began and ended.
Surely Campbell would have said something to someone. Hell, to any of them.
This was the price of Arran’s keeping a distance from his family—he had no bloody clue whether Campbell had a mystery sweetheart tucked away somewhere.
Arran narrowed his eyes at the carved oak door the lady had disappeared behind and consulted his timepiece. Nearly an hour had passed.
What devoted, aggrieved betrothed failed to rush to her injured sweetheart’s side?
No. Something was not right about the young woman.
Footfalls sounded. Arran straightened as Dr. Earsley emerged.
He met the surgeon halfway down the corridor. “Have you gathered anything about Miss LeBeau’s connection to my cousin?”
The tall young doctor flattened his mouth into a tight line. “I can confirm Mr. Smith has not sustained serious injury.”
“That was not my question,” Arran said coolly. “Has she revealed anything further about how my cousin came to be in his current condition?”
“They were leaving an inn when the establishment’s sign detached from the building. She attempted to call out a warning, but it was too late. What she did manage,” Earsley said, his tone turning censorious, “was to prevent Mr. Smith from suffering further harm. She wears bruises from her efforts, but those will fade.”
Arran stilled.
The young woman had been injured. A detail he hadn’t expected—and didn’t quite know what to do with.
“Mr. Smith suffered a blow to the head. Based on her description, it is a worrisome injury.”
Arran’s stomach tightened. Preoccupied with questions regarding Miss LeBeau’s identity, he had failed to keep vigil outside Campbell’s chambers.
“Mr. Smith…?”
“When last I attended him, he was sleeping. Drifting in and out of consciousness, which is encouraging. Commonwith head wounds. Though, of course, head wounds remain unpredictable.”
There came a none-too-quiet stampede of a herd of which there could be no doubting.
Sure enough, his youngest sister, flanked by his other sister, Myrtle, and their cousin, Andromena, came leading the charge.
“What are you doing here, Arran?” Fleur demanded, her eyes all fire.
“I think that should be clear, Fleur,” he drawled.
“If the answer is anything other than to greet Miss LeBeau with a warm welcome that was absent earlier, then the answer is wrong,” Andromena said, her frown rivaling Dr. Earsley’s.
“Warmth for the woman who brought Campbell ba—ouf!” Arran winced at that dagger-like jab Fleur sent sliding into his side.
Fleur’s menacing glower intensified. “Let that be the end of your statement.”
“It was a quest—” At his faulty reply, Myrtle had already closed her eyes and began shaking her head.
“Tread very, very carefully.” Andromena made a slashing gesture across her throat, commanding him to silence.
