Free A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals) by Kimberly Bell Page B

of the same argument, so she did the only sensible thing. She turned and started walking toward the portcullis. It would have been a formidable deterrent, but for the gaping hole rusted through its center.
    “Ye’ve lost yer damn mind,” Ewan grumbled, catching up with her.
    “Perhaps. But I’m also tired,” she said. She’d barely gotten to sleep before waking up to a knife at her throat, and they’d ridden through the night after that. Deidre was ready to advance on a brace of cannons with nothing but her wits if there was a bed at the end of it.
    “Ye dinnae have to do this. Ye should go back.”
    “You should go back,” she countered. “I suspect I have more experience dealing with the sort of men we’re like to find inside than you do.”
    Ewan’s brow furrowed. “Last night, when ye called to the lad . . . ye come from the traveling folk?”
    Damn it.
Sloppy, Deidre. Very sloppy
. She stopped walking.
    “And you think the one has something to do with the other?” she challenged.
    “No, I—”
    “I know about criminals because I grew up poor and alone, not because of who my people are. My mother was an honest woman. If you mean to say otherwise—”
    “Deidre. Christ.” Ewan lifted his hands in defense. “It was just a question. I dinnae have anything against yer folk.”
    “They’re good people.”
    “I’ve no reason to doubt ye.”
    Deidre searched his face for signs of a lie, but he seemed genuine. She nodded and started walking again. The sooner she had some rest, the sooner she’d start feeling like herself again.
    They made their way through the outer courtyard unchallenged. Broken pieces of furniture and old carts lay haphazardly around the edges. In many places the greenery had grown over them, making it appear as though the plants had gone on the attack and were now devouring them. When they reached the main doors, hanging slightly askew but still functional, they stopped.
    “Should we knock?” She asked.
    “Might as well,” Ewan answered. He pounded, rattling the doors on their hinges.
    Deidre kept an eye on their retreat. When the door eventually lurched open, revealing a disheveled man reeking of liquor and God knows what else, she realized she needn’t have bothered.
    Amateurs, indeed.
    “Aye? Whaddya want?” the slim man slurred. He might have been attractive if he had a bit more chin and a bit less overbite.
    “I am looking for the Earl of Broch Murdo,” Ewan told him in an authoritative tone that sent shivers over her skin.
    The slim man burped. “Well, ye’ve found him.”
    Ewan looked him over from head to toe, eyebrow raised.
    Deidre snickered.
    “Wot. Never seen an earl before?” The imposter noticed Deidre for the first time. “Well, hello there, lovely. Have ye come to see how the other half lives?”
    He reached for her, but Ewan caught his wrist. The Highlander twisted as he pushed his impersonator backward. Deidre followed them into the entranceway. Her eyes adjusted to the deep shadows as the musty, stale air assaulted her nostrils. There was an underlying rot that crept in beneath the general smell of mold and dust. Definitely worse than any hovel she and Tristan had stayed in.
    “Oi. Wot’s yer problem, guv?” the slim man squeaked.
    “My problem,” Ewan said through gritted teeth, “is that I am the Earl of Broch Murdo, and you will never—ever—attempt to touch her again.”
    He punctuated his words with twists until the man was up on his tiptoes grimacing.
    “Ewan, that’s unnecessary.”
    “Quite right, mate. Dinnae ken she was yers. Honest mistake.”
    Ewan held him against the wall a moment longer before letting him go.
    The fake Lord Broch Murdo rubbed his arm, checking to make sure his damage wasn’t permanent. “Yer really the earl?”
    “Aye,” Ewan growled.
    Deidre’s skin tingled. She would have to do something about that, but now wasn’t the time.
    The dark-haired man’s Scots accent fell away. “You do look like that