Lucy and Her Scottish Laird (11 page)

“If you will excuse me, Lord Broxburn,” Lucy said before they’d gone more than two steps, “I believe I will go and check on my
aunt.”

“I’ll go with you, Lucy,” Lord Kildrum said. He turned to Broxburn. “We will bid you good night now, Broxburn. Thank you again for
your hospitality.”

Ian could not resist a parting glance as Lucy walked away, but Duncan’s harsh orders to a footman spurred him on to the sitting room.
“Here’s the key to my tower room, Malcolm,” he said quietly, placing the key in his friend’s hand. “I’ll deal with
Duncan and meet you over there shortly.”

He’d locked the tower room earlier in the day when he realized his father was likely to go looking for Scotch up there. And once his father was sober
he intended to talk him into changing his will back to what it was. Duncan was a wastrel. Duncan would have those properties sucked dry before the duke was
cold in his grave.

Entering the sitting room, he faced Malcolm, whose gaze searched for the rest of their company. “They are not coming.”

“Oh? It’s to be a party of two, then?”

“Not a party at all, Duncan.” Ian waited for the footman to set down the coffee tray and leave.

“I’ll take some brandy in mine,” Duncan said, and the footman looked to Ian for direction.

Ian shook his head. “There are no spirits to be had at Craigmuir Castle.”

“What? You cannot be serious.”

“As serious as death,” Ian retorted. “My father cannot withstand another bout of drinking. And as he is unable to regulate his own
behavior, the servants and I see to it.”

“
Regulate
? What are you on about?”

“The physician warned me that the duke will die if he imbibes again. Spirits are destroying his liver.”

“You mean Scotch? Alcohol?”

Ian nodded. “So we’ve disposed of it all.”

Duncan stood with his hands on his hips, looking out the glass door to the garden while Ian sat down.

“Sit down, Duncan.”

As he took a seat, his mouth curved into a roguish smile. “Miss Stillwater is a fetching lass.”

“Do not even think about it, Duncan. She is of a respectable family, and not some loose woman—”

“You wound me, Cousin,” Duncan said, lighting a cheroot. “My intentions are wholly honorable. Lord Kildrum is quite flush in the pockets,
is he not?”

“You are considering courting her?” Ian said with a laugh.

“Why shouldn’t I? I’ll need a wife with a dowry. Surely Kildrum would not mind his niece marrying the nephew of a duke.”

“You are too young to wed,” Ian retorted, disturbed by the thought of Lucy Stillwater paired with Duncan in any way.

“I am five and twenty. Not so very much younger than you.”

And yet he behaved as though he were a raw adolescent just out of school. Perhaps he could change that. “Your income is a direct result of our
production at Craigmuir Way. I am going to build another kiln, and I need you to supervise production at the existing one.”

“What about Ferguson?” Duncan protested. “Or MacAdams?”

“MacAdams is getting old,” Ian replied. “Have you seen him lately? He is nearly crippled with arthritis. I will not send him down to
Craigmuir Way to perform the duties you are perfectly capable of.”

“Well a steward needs to—”

“Needs to what, Duncan? Earn his keep?”

Duncan blew out a cloud of blue smoke.

“MacAdams has been managing your income and the Brodie estate ever since your father died, and he has served my father long and well. But I am going
to retire him,” Ian said. “Ferguson has been learning…he knows everything about the estates and will become my steward. He will see that
you receive your quarterly allowance.”

“So—”

“In the meantime, you are going to assume responsibility for production of the bricks and tiles that were ordered during my trip to Selkirk.”

“You must be—”

“Joking? Mad? I assure you I am neither,” Ian said. “If you would like to continue receiving an allowance from Craigmuir, I suggest you
learn everything there is to know about the business down in Craigmuir Way.”

“What do you mean, if I would like to continue…Are you suggesting you will have your father cut me off if I do not agree to this?”

Ian crossed his arms over his chest.

“This is preposterous. I am a gentleman.”

“A gentleman who overspends routinely,” Ian said. Hell would freeze over before Ian allowed his cousin to inherit
any
estate. Duncan
had no sense. He would run it into the ground.

Ian would not put it past Duncan to have plied the duke with spirits and then manipulated him into changing his will.

As soon as his father was lucid, Ian was going to speak to him about the new will. Among other things.

Lucy sent Sinclair away to rest. She said she would stay with her aunt until the maid had a chance to stretch her legs or take forty winks. It didn’t
matter how long the maid took – Lucy was too restless to sleep.

There had been tension between Broxburn and his cousin at supper, but worse was Mr. Munro’s frank appraisal of her person. She was unaccustomed to
being leered at, and he’d made her uncomfortable. At least Broxburn had done what he could to divert his cousin from his blatant impertinence. In
spite of the man’s beautifully tailored clothes and nicely barbered hair, he was hardly the polished gentleman he appeared to be.

Aunt Arden roused once, and Lucy gave her a few sips of water. Then she went back to sleep, and Lucy paced.

She wondered how long it would be before Dr. Henderson said Arden was well enough to travel. She hoped it would be soon. It was difficult watching her aunt
suffering in a strange bed. Surely her aunt would fare better in her own house.

Lucy had never cared for being away from home. Even during her Seasons in London, with her mother and sisters there, she’d wished to return to
Stillwater House in the country. She’d missed her frequent encounters with Joshua and their discussions on antiquities, among other things.

Oh, wouldn’t he be enthralled with Craigmuir Castle! And she could hardly wait to tell him about Glencory and the Viking stronghold she’d seen
there.

The clear sky was visible through the window, and Lucy went over to gaze at the stars. They were just the same as the ones she could see at home, and she
chided herself for being homesick. In a few months she would return to Berkshire, and all would go back to normal.

She was about to turn away when she noticed a light in the easternmost tower. It wavered slightly, and she could see a shadow.

The ghost. It had to be, for who else would be wandering over there at this hour? Presumably, Lord Broxburn was still in the small parlor with his cousin
and Lord Kindale.

Sinclair chose that moment to return, and Lucy retreated to her own room, but only to retrieve her shawl. She wrapped it around her shoulders and went
downstairs.

All was dark, but she made her way down to the great hall. She heard voices coming from the dining room, so she left the keep through the main door.

She was not afraid to face the ghost. In fact, she hoped it would happen!

If Aileen’s story of her encounter could be believed, and Lucy had no reason to think otherwise, then she had nothing to fear. The ghost was elusive
and did not pose a threat to her. And if she saw the ancient spirit, how she would love to write to her sisters and tell them of the experience.

But not Joshua. He wouldn’t believe her, anyway.

Under the starlit sky, she hurried across the courtyard to the stairs leading to the tower. She reached the top, then walked along the parapet to the door
of the tower. Finding it unlocked, she entered. She stood listening for a moment, but no sounds came from within.

She climbed the steps with only the faint light of the stars through the narrow windows to guide her.

For the first time, she considered this might possibly be a foolish errand. She was sure-footed but could not really see the condition of the steps. And if
she made it all the way to the top – what then? Was it possible to sneak up on a ghost? Wouldn’t the spirit flitter away if Lucy intruded?

She had to find out.

She stepped carefully, eventually coming to the end of the staircase at the top of the tower. She stepped onto the landing and listened again.

A groan. She was sure she heard it, a low sound that was barely human.

She reached for the latch, lowered it and pushed the door open. It moved silently, on its hinges, and Lucy peered inside.

The room was fairly small, but for the most part resembled any other – she saw a desk and chairs, and there were two bookcases in her line of vision.
They were filled not only with books, but objects she could not quite make out in the weak light.

She pushed the door further and saw a pair of eyes staring into hers.

 Ian almost laughed aloud at the expression of abject shock in Lucy’s eyes.

“Who were you expecting?”

Looking utterly charming in an ivory shawl and the same gown she’d worn at supper, she touched her throat and looked about the room.

Ian rose from the sofa, smiling. He was inordinately glad that Malcolm had left half an hour ago. It meant he had Lucy all to himself.

Which was the last thing he should want. It was wholly improper for her to be alone with him. Yet who would ever know, besides the two of them?

Even worse – nothing was going right at Craigmuir. The estate was in a shambles and his father was ill, not to mention a lying, womanizing…It
was not an ideal situation into which he ought to bring a bride.

A bride?

He’d considered courting Lady Kathryn Hay, but realized now it would have been a half-hearted effort. She was beautiful as only a Scotswoman could
be, with fiery red hair and a blushing complexion.

But he hadn’t felt attracted to her, not the way he was toward Lucy.

All this when he shouldn’t even like her. Besides, she would be gone and out of his sphere once she left for Edinburgh.

Still, he supposed he could go up to town once the work was underway in Craigmuir Way, and wrangle invitations to the same events she attended. He was,
after all, Craigmuir’s heir, and no one could prove otherwise.

“It’s s-so late,” she said. “I thought perhaps…the gh-ghost?”

“You’ve come to the right place, then. Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

“This is the room where Béatrice and her lover had their clandestine meetings. Where they met their deaths, too.”

She looked around. “But it is so…it looks like my father’s study.”

“I suppose you could call it my artifact room,” he said. He only had one small lamp burning, and he did not light another. He liked the
intimacy the low lighting provided.

She looked around, her eyes full of wonder. “Is that an actual suit of armor?”

He nodded. “Go ahead. You can touch it.”

The minute he said so, he realized he wanted her to touch
him
. Not the armor.

She walked to the other side of the room, and her awe felt gratifying. “This is magnificent – completely intact. Where did you find it?”

“In an old storage room under the armory.”

“Did you find anything else there?”

She seemed to share the same kind of excitement that rippled through him whenever he discovered another artifact from the past. He pointed to the weapon
hanging over the fireplace. “That sword.”

“Is that a claymore?”

“Why, yes,” he said. “I should have known you’d recognize it.” She’d already demonstrated her knowledge of Scottish
history.

She nodded and he moved close enough to smell her subtle scent – lilacs – and tried to remember why he should not like her. Why he should not
pull the pins from her hair and allow it to fall about her shoulders.

“Is this a clock?” She picked up a leather timepiece that dated from the 1300s.

“Yes. I don’t know whom it belonged to, though,” he said. His hands itched to touch her. “That’s true of most of the
artifacts I’ve found.”

“Is that what all these are?” She gestured toward the items he’d placed on the shelves. “Artifacts?”

“That they are.” He gave in to the urge to touch her. Spying a hairpin at the top of her thick mass of hair, he lifted it out.

She reached up as her hair started to fall. “What…?” The word was but a whisper on her breath, and her eyes met his as he slid his hand
into the glossy hair at her nape.

“It’s like silk,” he said. He thought he felt her tremble a little.

He might be trembling, himself.

He took the hand she’d raised and lowered it to his shoulder, then dipped his head and touched her mouth with his own.

It was a simple kiss, a mere brushing of lips that was utterly forbidden, utterly delicious. And he wanted more.

He pulled her close and deepened the kiss. She allowed it, allowed their mouths to meld together. And when she gasped a little, he swept his tongue into
her mouth.

Nothing had ever felt like this. His body quaked with awareness of her. She was soft and so feminine she made him groan with need.

He cupped her jaw and spread kisses from her ear to her throat, relishing her uneven breathing, and her tight grip on his shoulders. Her head dropped back
to give him better access, and he started working on those seductive white buttons of her bodice, pressing his mouth to every inch of skin he exposed. His
lips met the swell of her breast above her chemise and his body craved more.

He slipped her gown and chemise off her shoulders as he kissed her mouth. Then his hands slid up to her breasts. She trembled when he cupped their
fullness, and he savored the soft moan she made when he touched their peaks with his thumbs. He felt her knees give way and suddenly, she placed her hands
over his and looked up at him with confusion. Her lips trembled.

“No, I…” She turned away from him with a sound of distress, pulling her gown and chemise back over her shoulders. She grabbed her shawl
and went for the door, stumbling as she hurried away from him. He reached to help her, but she put up a fending hand and fled.