“This isn’t some bloody game, Ciaran—”
The young lady cut him off. “Quiet, Lachlan. You’re as bad as he is, and it looks as if you’ve made a grand mess of this. No doubt it was that black scowl of yours that started it all.”
Lachlan jerked his chin toward Hyacinth. “I wasn’t scowling until she accused me of murder.”
The young lady dismissed this with a wave of her pretty fingers. “Certainly you were scowling. You always do.”
Hyacinth stared at the lady, amazed. She had the loveliest voice—feminine, but slightly husky, with a pleasant lilt and a smooth, low-timbered quality to it. To hear her was rather like listening to music, yet for all its sweetness, the entire room fell silent when she spoke.
“My name is Isla Ramsey.” She offered the company a polite curtsey, then straightened, and tossed a disgusted look toward the two men behind her. “As much as I might wish to disown them at the moment, these two scoundrels are my brothers, Lachlan and Ciaran Ramsey. I beg your pardon, Lord and Lady Huntington, for bursting upon you so rudely.”
“Well, I…that is, thank you, Miss Ramsey.” Iris looked as if she were at a loss as to what to think, but she managed to give Miss Ramsey a gracious nod. Finn said nothing, but stood frozen, staring at Isla Ramsey as if she were a ghost just risen from the grave.
If Miss Ramsey noticed Finn’s pointed stare, she chose to ignore it. “My brothers had a bit of a set to the night before last. Ciaran had the worst of it, and he was, ah…a triflemessyby the time it was over. I’m afraid this lady,” she nodded toward Hyacinth, who sat speechless on the settee. “She must have seen them brawling, and assumed the worst.”
Lachlan glanced at Hyacinth, scorn written plainly on his face. “A few blows, and a few drops of blood, nothing more. Who could mistake such a minor scuffle for a murder?”
Isla Ramsey turned on her brother, her lips pinched into a stern line. “Why, an English lady who’s not accustomed to seeing two thick-headed ruffians pummel each other, of course. For goodness’s sake, Lachlan. You must see how it would have looked to her. Ciaran was unconscious by the time you’d finished with him.”
“Not from my fists. The bottle of whiskey he drank was what finished him. Christ, he was so far in his cups he accused some lordling of cheating at cards. I dragged him out to the yard to keep a bullet from landing between his eyes.”
Lady Chase gasped, but before she could say a single word, a hearty laugh rang out, and every head in the room turned toward the fireplace, where Ciaran Ramsey was wiping tears of merriment from his eyes. “Really, it’s too delicious this lady happened to be at the Horse and Groom Inn the night before last. Jesus, what are the odds?”
Lachlan Ramsay didn’t seem to find it nearly as amusing as his brother did. He jerked his head toward Hyacinth and snapped, “Enough, Ciaran. Introduce yourself to her so she can see you’re still breathing.”
“With pleasure.” Ciaran Ramsey strolled across the room and stopped in front of the settee. He bowed to Lady Chase, then turned to Hyacinth, captured the tips of her fingers in his enormous hand, and dropped a chaste kiss on the back of her glove. “How do you do, miss? Allow me to offer my appreciation for your concern over my murder.”
Lachlan Ramsey raised an eyebrow at Hyacinth, his face hard. “Is this your dead man?”
Hyacinth swallowed. “Yes.”
“I thought so. Not so dead after all, is he?” He could have said it as a jest, an attempt to break the tension, but there wasn’t a trace of humor in his voice, or a hint of softness in his face.
Hyacinth lowered her gaze to her lap, her cheeks burning with shame. “No. I—it seems you were right after all. I did make a mistake. I beg your pardon, Mr. Ramsey.”
He grunted. “It’s too late for apologies. The entire ballroom heard you. My family is ruined, thanks to your hysteria.”
“Watch yourself, Ramsey—”
“Why, howdareyou—”
“She’snothysterical, only a trifle nervous—”
Lady Chase, Iris, Violet and Lord Dare all leapt at once to Hyacinth’s defense, but Isla Ramsey, turning to her brother with a scowl as black as his own, drowned out their protests. “Shame on you, Lachlan Ramsey! None of this is her fault. If you and Ciaran hadn’t been brawling, this never would have happened.”
“And we did warn you not to scowl, Lach,” Ciaran Ramsey added. “The English get nervous when they see a man your size with a scowl on his face.”
Isla turned and jabbed her finger into Ciaran’s chest. “You may as well wipe that smirk off your face at once, sir, because this isyourfault, as well. Goodness knows when you and Lachlan brawl you come close enough to killing each other.”
Hyacinth stared at this forbidding creature with awe. She looked like an ocean tempest, with her fiery blue eyes and the midnight blue skirts of her riding habit swirling around her ankles. She was a tiny, slender thing, no more threatening than a woodland sprite, with her narrow, delicate face and cloud of dark hair, and yet there she stood, her hands on her hips, scolding her enormous, wild-looking brothers, either of whom could crush her under a boot heel in a single step.
She’s not afraid.
What would it be like, not to be afraid? To feel words tumble off the edge of your tongue without a stammer, and without a single moment’s hesitation?
“That’s enough, Isla.”
Lachlan’s harsh tone was enough to make Hyacinth shrink back, but Isla Ramsey dismissed his warning with a toss of her head, and turned to Hyacinth. “I beg your pardon for my brother’s behavior, miss, ah…miss…”
