Page 8 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“This is none of your affair,” the man said stiffly. “Nothing more than a lovers’ tiff. It is regrettable that Lord Malmsey had to interfere in the matter but, as we all know, there is nothing he would not do for his own pleasure.”

“Well, if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black,” Lady Cordelia piped up. “You just wanted my dowry and title, Enoch, the same as all the others.”

“That is not true!” he replied. “I have loved you since—”

“You have loved my father’s rank and power,” she shot back, her voice trembling with emotion. “You have never heeded my wishes, never listened to me, only droned on and on about all the things I ought not to do and attached yourself to me at every opportunity. We were friends once, Enoch, which is the only reason I let you do so, and now I see my folly in not having given you the set down you so richly deserved. Go away, Mr Goodfellow, I shall not marry you.”

“Then whom shall you marry?” he demanded.

Muir noted the coldness in the man’s eyes and did not doubt the lady’s estimation of his character.

“For you are quite ruined. No one will have you now. Gossip will spread and tell tales of the fact you spent all that time with me alone, and then with Lord Malmsey. You’re fit for no one, Delia. Goodness, there won’t be a respectable man in England who would—”

Muir grabbed Goodfellow about the throat with his free hand and backed him up against the bedroom wall.

“Shut yer fat gob,” Muir growled, having heard quite enough to have a decided opinion on what kind of man he was dealing with. “There will be nae gossip, do ye hear me? Nae a word of this will pass yer lips, or else I’ll have the closing of them and ye will eat nowt but soup for the rest of yer days.”

Mr Goodfellow turned a sickly shade somewhere between green and white, but he held Muir’s gaze defiantly. “I don’t need to breathe a word. You think news of Lord Malmsey’s murder won’t travel like wildfire, and that the cause of the fight was Lady Cordelia here? She’s ruined no matter what I say, and her only choice is to marry me.”

“I’m afraid I must beg to differ,” Muir said, enraged, both by the man’s arrogance and at being put in a position where he must sacrifice his own future for the sake of honour. “Lady Cordelia?” he said, not taking his eyes from Mr Goodfellow.

“Yes?”

“It’s nae much of a proposal, but I’m afraid yer out of options. Skinny malinky longlegs here is right, damn him. Yer certainly ruined, but if ye’ll have me, I’ll wed ye myself.”

There was a stunned silence as she digested this.

“You w-would do that?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper, though he thought he heard the relief behind the words and was hardly surprised by it.

Muir sighed inwardly, for he wished more than anything to tell the lass that he would not, but he was no villain, he knew what his honour demanded. He could not in all conscience leave the girl in the hands of such a piece of work as Mr Goodfellow.

“Aye, I just said so, did I nae?” he said, unable to keep the terse note from his voice.

“Don’t be a fool, Delia,” Mr Goodfellow said, his voice rasping somewhat from the hold Muir still had on his throat. “You don’t know this man from Adam. He’s a heathen and will probably beat you and ach—”

Muir tightened his grip. “I have never raised my hand to a woman in my life and I never shall, ye miserable bastard.”

“Yes, Mr Anderson,” came the sudden reply from the bed. “Yes, I shall marry you.”

“Right, then,” Muir said, reaching around and opening the door before shoving Mr Goodfellow out of it with some force. Goodfellow staggered back, hitting the opposite wall before he fell on his arse. “Yer nae welcome here, so I suggest ye leave afore I stop feeling so peaceable.”

“Or what? You’ll murder me, like you did Lord Malmsey?” the fellow sneered.

Muir took a step towards him, and the fellow ran like the rat he was, scurrying down the stairs, and if he knew what was good for him, far away from Muir.

Standing at the top of the stairs, Muir watched for a moment before he looked down at his hands and saw the dried blood there. Malmsey’s blood. His stomach dropped. The words slung at him were true enough, he supposed, though it had not been his intention. He’d had no choice, he knew that, and he was not about to beat himself up over the demise of such a villain. Malmsey would have murdered him without a second thought. All the same, his belly roiled. Swallowing down his nausea, Muir was about to turn away when the innkeeper appeared again.

“Sir,” he said, somewhat apologetically. “Lord Malmsey is dead.”

“Aye,” Muir replied, his tone even. “Quicker than I expected, but I reckoned as much.”

“Everyone here will speak for you,” the fellow said hastily. “There’re over forty witnesses who will tell anyone who wants to listen that you did nothing wrong. Malmsey was well known here and reviled, too. He’s left a fair few bastards and ruined girls in the surrounding villages. There’s none who will mourn him and that’s a fact. I promise you, there’s no need to fear reprisals.”

“I thank ye,” Muir replied, grateful but knowing just what this would do to his reputation, coming so swiftly on the heels of Lord Richmond’s murder. “Would ye be so good as to send up a bite to eat and a pot of tea for the lady? She’s had a trying day by anyone’s measure.”

“Her husband?” the man said in confusion.

Muir strode down the stairs and took out his purse, pressing a gold sovereign into the man’s hand. “Ye dinnae know me, but I’m Muir Anderson, my father is the Earl of Morven and so ye may take my word for what has passed. The lady was kidnapped, first by that little shite, and then Malmsey figured out what had happened and sought to take advantage of the situation. The lady is to be my wife, and I’ll have no shame or scandal attached to her name, d'ye ken my meaning, sir?”