Lucy and Her Scottish Laird (4 page)

“Is there a doctor nearby?” Lucy asked, fearful for her aunt’s recovery.

“Lord Broxburn – the duke’s son – has already sent someone to fetch him.”

“Lord—?” Lucy swallowed hard. “Oh.” She realized Lord Broxburn was the man who’d rescued them. And this was his home.

She cringed inside, but knew she had no choice but to impose upon his hospitality, if it was his to give. Hadn’t her aunt spoken of a duchess? Lord
Broxburn was certainly not a duke, or they’d be addressing him as “His Grace.”

Lucy decided she would not allow herself to feel uncomfortable here. Broxburn had done what any halfway decent man would have done. And she knew he was
barely half way decent.

She and her uncle followed him into the huge stone keep, a massive building surrounded by courtyards and outbuildings and a high curtain wall. In other
circumstances, Lucy would have been enthralled. Now, all she could do was worry about her aunt and uncle.

Broxburn carried Arden up a wide stone staircase and then down a narrow corridor where a pretty, red-haired maid waited beside an open door, ready to
assist. Inside the room, he placed Arden on a large bed.

“I will stay with my wife,” her uncle said.

“Of course, Lord Kildrum. Whatever suits you,” Broxburn replied. “The physician should arrive shortly.”

Lucy could hardly gather her wits. As annoying as her aunt could be, she did not wish her ill. The sight of her listless, injured body horrified her.

Broxburn took her arm as the maid entered the room to tend to Arden. “If you will come with me, Miss Stillwater, we will see to that cut on your
head.”

“No, I prefer to stay with my aunt and uncle.” She was their family, the only one to see to their well-being.

“Very well, then.” He turned to speak to the footman who’d accompanied them upstairs. “Bowie, bring another basin of water and some
clean cloths.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Broxburn had her sit down in a plush chair near the fireplace. He took out a handkerchief and leaned over her to dab at her forehead. When the handkerchief
came away bloody, Lucy suddenly felt faint.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Broxburn said, crouching before her. “You are made of tougher stuff than that, little Sassanach.”

“You make it very difficult to muster any gratitude for your actions today. Although I suppose I must thank you.”

He laughed quietly.

Lucy turned to look at her aunt, lying motionless on the bed as the maid unlaced her shoes and removed them. Her uncle was typically quiet, though he
seemed to be in shock. Lucy swallowed back a pang of dread. They had to recover. They just had to.

 The footman returned, and Broxburn wetted a cloth in the basin. He pressed it gently to the wound on her head. Lucy closed her eyes and imagined it
was Joshua seeing so tenderly to her injury.

Except that Joshua’s face did not come to mind. She saw the darkly lashed eyes of Lord Broxburn and the mocking quirk of his mouth. His scent was all
around her, an earthy aroma that was altogether male, altogether stirring.

Her eyes flew open and she returned to earth. Nothing about Broxburn was pleasant. It was Joshua she yearned for, but trying to imagine him would not bring
him here, no matter how much she longed for him. She was stuck for the time being with a cad turned Samaritan when he had no choice in the matter.

“I thought you might fall unconscious for a moment,” Ian said to Miss Stillwater. She’d been quiet for some time prior to thanking him.

“Of course not,” she retorted. “This is barely a scratch.”

Ian would venture to differ if he didn’t know she would snap his head off. The gash on her head was swollen and purple and needed stitching. But he
was not going to be the one to tell her. Perhaps Dr. Henderson could be persuaded to give his opinion after he looked at Lady Kildrum.

He and Miss Stillwater both turned at the sound of a groan from the bed. It was Lady Kildrum.

“Arden?” her husband asked, taking her hand.

She winced and cried out, but did not regain consciousness.

“Perhaps ’tis best not to touch her, my lord,” the maid, Aileen, said. “She could have injuries we cannot see.”

Miss Stillwater jumped up and went to her aunt’s side. “Will she wake?” she asked.

Aileen gave a worried shake of her head. Miss Stillwater knelt by her aunt’s side and spoke quietly to her. “You are safe now, Aunt Arden. We
were in a carriage accident, but you are safe here.”

Lady Arden turned her head slightly toward Lucy’s voice. “Hurts,” she whispered without opening her eyes. “To breathe.”

“The doctor is coming, Aunt. You are going to be all right.”

She turned back toward Ian with a stark look of worry on her face. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone in such anguish, but she shuttered her
eyes so quickly, he thought he must be mistaken.

“Archie? Where is Archie?” Lady Kildrum asked, her eyes fluttering open.

“Here. Right beside you, pet,” Lord Kildrum said softly. He touched his wife’s face gingerly. “We’ll take good care of
you.”

Ian left the room. Such sentimental blatherskite made his skin crawl. He knew of no other couples that behaved in this manner, certainly not his parents.
If anything, they barely tolerated each other. Why the duchess had not moved away to one of the other Craigmuir estates, he did not understand.

If his parents’ marriage had been the love match it was purported to be, why had his father had sought the bed of an Irish mistress? Ian supposed he
could not fault the duchess for feeling so betrayed.

The duke wanted Ian to marry, but the thought of marriage chilled him now. Prior to being summoned to Craigmuir Castle, he’d considered going up to
Edinburgh and making the social rounds with an eye to finding a suitable mate. But that was out of the question now, at least until he came to terms with
who he was. He could not fathom any well-bred lady who would want to marry a bastard.

Not that he intended to tell a prospective wife, or anyone else, of his ignoble beginnings.

Ian knew his father had taken to drinking, but he’d had no idea how excessively. He hadn’t been aware that the Craigmuir tile and brickwork
business that supported his family and his tenants was failing. Or that his father could barely hold a conversation because of his drunkenness.

But now he knew.

He also knew that his cousin, Duncan, had been staying at the castle for several days prior to Ian’s arrival, spending much of his time in the
company of the duke. No doubt he’d been up to no good.

Ian went downstairs where Ferguson apprised Lockhart, the butler, of the situation with Lord Kildrum’s family. Then he handed Ian the thick leather
portfolio they had taken on the road to Selkirk, containing his father’s sealed legal documents, as well as several new orders for the drainage tiles
that they hoped would revive business and income for the families that lived on Craigmuir lands.

Agriculture had improved significantly during the past generation, a direct result of the tile drainage systems Ian’s father and grandfather had put
in place, but last year’s harvest had been disastrous, all across Scotland. The summer had been cold and wet, and the crops had suffered.

Ian had seen an opportunity to sell drainage tiles to farmers over the past few days on their route to and from Selkirk. As a result, the Craigmuir kiln
was going to be very busy in the coming weeks.

Judging by the condition of this year’s harvest, those farmers would not be able to pay for their tiles for at least another year. Ian was not sure
he had enough capital to keep the Craigmuir estates – as well as his own – running for that length of time, and he didn’t know how he was
going to pay the tile men at Craigmuir Way. He might have to try raising some money from investors in Edinburgh or Perth, which was not a particularly
desirable option. But one he would have to consider.

“My lord,” Lockhart said, “Dr. Henderson should be here shortly.”

“Very good. What about the damaged carriage?”

Ferguson gave him a nod. “The wheelwright should be on his way up to fix the wheel. Once there’s a wheel on it, the carriage can be brought
here for further repairs. In the meantime, I’ve sent a buggy out for Lord Kildrum’s servants, and a wagon for the driver’s body.”

“Thank you, Ferguson,” Ian said. He turned to the butler. “Do you know where my father is, Lockhart?”

“In the library, my lord.”

Ian walked through the great stone hall and out through a narrow passageway that led to the library. The castle was an ancient fortress built by his
ancestors some thirty generations ago. In recent centuries, two huge wings on the north and south walls had been added to the original keep. Now the
residence was immense, but there were areas in need of repair.

The library was one of the original rooms of the keep, located not far from the great hall. Its door was closed, but Ian pushed through and went inside.

The library had always been Ian’s favorite place in the castle. It was in the library that he’d been able to hide from his mother, or rather
– the duchess – while his father conducted business with his steward. There was where Ian had escaped his nurse, the harshest woman in all the
borderlands, second only to the duchess.

Fortunately, his early education had taken place in this room, usually in the presence of his father, else the duchess would have made certain his lessons
were punctuated by a switch to his backside on a daily basis, at least.

He gave out a mirthless chuckle. Now he understood why she hated him so. And why his father had had to protect him.

Drizzly light came through the mullioned windows on one side of the room. The other three walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. The room
smelled ancient and intriguing – like home to Ian.

His father sat in a chair near the windows with his head on the desk next to an empty decanter of Scotch. He had been emptying quite a fair number of
bottles of late.

Ian dropped the portfolio on the desk. “Father.”

The duke did not react until Ian put his hand on his shoulder. “Your Grace.”

“Huh? What is it?”

“Father, there was a carriage accident on the Edinburgh road,” he said. “Lord Kildrum and his family. There were injuries, so I brought
them here.”

His father gave a quiet, drunken snuffle as though it was of no consequence to him, having guests in the house, or that his old friend had been hurt.
“Lockhart will deal with them.”

“Dr. Henderson is on his way.”

The duke waved him off, as though he were as insignificant as a fly.

Which Ian knew was true. A bastard had no rights as a son or heir. But it seemed the duke and duchess had substantiated the fiction of his birth very well.
There was no going back now.

“So you will not go up and personally offer your hospitality to Kildrum and his wife?”

His father barely grunted.

Ian wondered how long the duke could continue these bouts of drinking to the point of unconsciousness, and why he’d decided to drown himself in
liquor in recent weeks. It’s not as though anything in his life had changed.

Or had it? Was there something else his father was keeping from him? Or had his revelation of Ian’s bastardy been enough to cause him to seek
oblivion in drink? His steward, Alastair MacAdams, had not mentioned anything other than a precipitous decline in income from the tenants and the
Brickworks. Perhaps it was something personal…far more personal.

Ian placed the portfolio on the desk. “What is in these papers I took to your solicitor in Selkirk, Father?”

The duke made an incomprehensible noise.

“Craigmuir,” he said more firmly. “The papers I took to Mr. Drummond in Selkirk. What were they?” Ian had taken them to Drummond
& Son as a favor to his father, and since they were fastened with the duke’s seal, he had not examined them.

But as he gazed down at his drunken father, he realized the duke was hardly competent in his current condition. Ian needed to take charge of the
estate’s affairs.

The duke looked up at Ian now, his cheeks slack, his eyes rheumy. Everyone had always said how lucky Ian was to be the very image of his handsome father.
But Ian wasn’t quite sure he wanted that honor now. “You did no’ break the seal?”

Ian crossed his arms over his chest. His father knew very well he had not. It had never been in his nature to pry into private affairs. Until now.

“It is my new will,” the duke said.

“Good Christ, Craigmuir,” Ian said. “Open it.”

The bedroom door was open and a white-haired, slightly stooped gentleman came inside with the butler. “Are you the doctor?” Lucy asked.

“Henderson,” he replied with a nod. “I understand there was an accident.”

“Yes. My aunt and uncle…”

The doctor examined her aunt first, then her uncle. “And now you, Miss.”

“No, no – I’m fine. Just a scratch on my head.” Lucy went to her aunt’s side and took her hand. “When can we take her
home? We are anxious to leave.”

“For Edinburgh?” Dr. Henderson shook his head. “She cannot be moved. She is concussed and her arm is fractured. Call in her maid and get
her undressed. I will have to stabilize her arm in some splints so she cannot move it.”

That is the last thing a Berkshire doctor would do. Lucy must have looked at Henderson quizzically, because he replied with an explanation. “Scottish
doctors are more ‘men of all trades’ – unlike your physicians to the south.” He looked at the top of her head. “I daresay
your wound will heal without being sewn.”

“Will my aunt be all right?”

“We’ll know in time,” he said.

She suddenly noticed that Lord Broxburn was standing in the doorway, his expression thunderous. Lucy wondered what had set him off this time.

No. She did not wonder. The man could go hang for all she cared. She turned to her uncle while the doctor examined him. “I shall write my father and
let him know what happened. Is there anyone in Edinburgh I should notify for you, Uncle?”