Lucy and Her Scottish Laird (6 page)

All seemed to be quiet in the house as Lucy walked the short span to her aunt’s bedroom. She opened the door quietly and saw Sinclair sitting
silently next to the bed where her aunt and uncle rested peacefully. The maid got up from her chair and came to Lucy in the doorway.

“Miss Stillwater, you should be asleep.”

“I wanted to check on my aunt and uncle.”

“They are fine. Both sleeping.”

“Are you sure?”

Sinclair nodded. “I gave Lady Kildrum a small dose of laudanum a while ago when she cried out in pain. She’s comfortable now.”

“I can stay if you want to go to bed.”

“Oh no, Miss,” Sinclair said. “You were dead asleep when Lord Broxburn carried you to your bed. Miles and I were not in the accident, but
you were. You need your rest. Miles will take my place in a couple of hours.”

“But I—”

“I believe I am right in this, Miss,” Sinclair said firmly. “’Tis what your aunt would want.”

Lucy hesitated for a moment. “All right, then. If you’re sure…”

“Yes, Miss,” Sinclair said firmly. “Now, go. You’ve had quite a day.”

“Thank you for loosening my stays, Sinclair. I would not have been able to undress without you.”

“’Twas not I, Miss,” she said, turning back to Arden. “It must have been one of the castle maids. Aileen, perhaps.”

Lucy left her aunt and uncle’s room, but startled at the sight of a tall figure approaching her from the dark end of the corridor. The man
she’d seen in her dream moved quickly, taking hold of her elbow to steady her.

“All is well, little Sassanach?” he asked in a low tone.

Lucy could not find her voice, not when the sensation of being caressed by this man still resonated so deeply within her. She nodded.

“Shall I escort you back to your room, then?”

“Wh-what are you doing up?” she asked, but when he firmed his hold on her elbow, her breath caught.

“Are you interested in my sleeping habits, Miss Stillwater?”

Lucy felt her face heat. “Of course not. It’s just that it’s late.”

“Yes, it’s late.” He took the candle from her and opened her door, indicating that she should go in first.

It would be wrong – not to mention awkward – to argue, so Lucy went ahead and turned to take the candle from him. He evaded her, walking to the
bedside to put the candle on the stand.

His shirt was open at the collar, and he wore no coat. Lucy’s eyes were drawn from his chest to his mouth, to the sensual promise of her dream. She
felt her nipples tighten and wondered if his mouth was as warm and pliable as it had felt in her dream.

“Be careful, Miss Stillwater, or I might get the impression that you don’t entirely hate me.”

Miss Lucy Stillwater was a puzzle. She was a sharp-tongued harpy one moment, and a kind, concerned niece the next. Ian supposed he’d deserved her
cutting retorts at Glencory. He’d been atrociously rude to her at first meeting.

He grinned. He had yet to meet a Scotswoman who could hold a candle to this fiery English lass. Who would have thought he’d be so tempted by a
dark-haired vixen?

She was beautiful, and he was as drawn to this vulnerable side of her as he was to the fierce lass he’d met at Glencory.

His thoughts darkened. He had pressing matters weighing on his mind, and Miss Stillwater was a momentary distraction. The welfare of Craigmuir’s
tenants depended heavily upon whether or not Ian would figure out a way to pay them for making the tiles that had been ordered during his Selkirk trip. The
worst thing would be to act precipitously – until he knew exactly how dire the Craigmuir finances actually were.

Ian knew his peers might look askance upon Craigmuir’s business ventures. But the world was changing, and tenant rents were dwindling. The Broxburn
and Craigmuir lairds had been running the brick and tile making business for a couple of centuries, and this laird was not about to stop.

Especially now. If Henderson was correct, Ian’s father was not long for this earth. Perhaps Craigmuir himself sensed it, which could be the reason he
had made such sweeping changes to his will.

Ian would not much feel the loss of the properties named, except that those lands had been part of the Craigmuir estate for eons. Duncan squandered his
allowance every quarter, and would likely lose any property belonging to his own family. Fortunately, none of the entailed properties were at risk, but Ian
could not help but wonder why his father had decided to bequeath so much to his brother’s incompetent son.

Duncan was three years younger than Ian, a handsome, spoiled, pompous rogue who’d become more of a pain in Ian’s arse than ever these past few
years. Ian could think of only one reason his father would have added Duncan to his will. And it was ugly.

Extremely ugly.

The question was: would Craigmuir have done it? Would he have cuckolded his own brother and impregnated his brother’s wife?

The thought of it turned Ian’s stomach, perhaps even more than the knowledge that his father had seduced a servant – his own mother. Who was to
say his father hadn’t always been a womanizer? Duncan certainly didn’t have any qualms about cornering the maids when he visited Craigmuir
Castle.

To Ian’s way of thinking, it was a despicable practice, though he hadn’t thought about it much in the past. There were plenty of experienced
widows and courtesans who welcomed the attentions of wealthy young men, so there was no reason to chase after the ones who were easy prey. Like his mother.
Ian could not help but wonder if the woman would be alive today if she hadn’t borne him.

He was disgusted at the thought of her being seduced against her will by the master of the house. Then again, he should not assume that had been the case.
Perhaps she’d been an experienced lass who had hoped a liaison with the Duke of Craigmuir would improve her lot.

Ian glanced toward Lucy Stillwater’s bedroom and imagined her getting into bed. She’d have taken off her wrapper, and he could not help but
think of her sliding into bed in the thin chemise he’d caught sight of when he’d unbuttoned her gown and loosened her stays.

Fortunately, she had not awakened while he’d done so, else there’d have been hell to pay. Of that he was sure.

That little interlude had seemed a far more intimate moment than some of the actual lovemaking he’d experienced in the past. Lucy had been vulnerable
– injured and exhausted. And Ian had taken care of her.

He was too restless to sleep, so he left the upper gallery and went down the stairs and out to one of the ancient towers – his favorite place at
Craigmuir. Crossing a small courtyard, he climbed the steps to the crenellated wall and entered the tower, lighting the lamp that was kept on a table in
the entry.

He climbed the stone steps, a narrow, circular affair, and when he reached the top, he entered a room that had been called
La Chambre de Béatrice
for centuries.

Little was known of Béatrice, except that she had once been the Lady of Broxburn and had cuckolded her husband with one of his knights – Sir
Alex. Her husband had killed her for it.

Legend had it that there was another reason for the killing, though that reason had been lost to the ages.

Ian had made Béatrice’s room his own over the years, modernizing and making it a comfortable retreat. He’d replaced the arrow loops with
wide glass windows, had the rotted wooden floor removed, and had a new one installed and overlaid with a thick Ormolu carpet. The old fireplace and chimney
had been rebuilt, and now there were shelves lining two of the walls. Alongside his books were many of the castle’s ancient artifacts that he’d
found discarded in unused areas and rescued from oblivion.

A couple of his friends had been in the tower – Kindale, of course. And Haddington. Both good friends since his school days.

The moon was full, and the clouds cleared. As Ian looked out the window, he could just make out the reflection of light on the sea in the distance to the
northeast. Farmland surrounded him, and he could see well-tilled fields below that were nearing harvest time. Without proper drainage, the farmers never
would have enjoyed the kind of prosperity that flourished here. Even during the heavy rains, the fields had not flooded. But last year’s cold, dank
summer had done its damage. The harvest had been poor all across Scotland.

The tile business was going to thrive again, if Ian had anything to do with it. He had stayed away from Craigmuir for too long, unaware of his
father’s decline until he’d heard from MacAdams, the duke’s steward. Now that Ian had taken stock of the situation, things at Craigmuir
were going to change. He had a plan, and had already begun to implement it.

Lucy Stillwater and her family’s plight were not going to distract him from his purpose.

The rain finally stopped, and it turned warmer overnight. Lucy enjoyed a luxurious bath in her room the following morning, though she was plagued by
thoughts of her dream. The hot water sliding over her skin did not help. She’d never experienced such wanton heat in her life, or such an intense
physical longing.

She shuddered. Now that day had dawned, Lucy felt sure she could dispel those distressing thoughts from her mind, these shameless feelings from her body.
Dreams held no sway over reality, and the reality today was that her aunt lay severely injured in the next room. The reality was that she had always loved
Joshua Parris, and that absurd dream was merely the result of the terrible trauma she’d suffered before falling into an exhausted sleep.

Aileen, the red-haired maid, came in toward the end of Lucy’s bath and helped her to wash her hair, gently rinsing the blood away from the cut
she’d sustained in the accident. She felt almost human after she dressed and put up her hair.

Lady Kildrum was awake – in a manner of speaking – when Lucy entered her aunt and uncle’s room. Although Arden was speaking, she
wasn’t making much sense, and she seemed to be in pain.

“I’ve just given her some laudanum, Miss,” Sinclair said. “She should rest again soon.”

Lucy nodded. “Why don’t you and Miles get some breakfast and then sleep awhile. I’ll stay with my aunt and uncle.”

The two servants left, and Arden settled down to sleep again. Dr. Henderson had said that was the best thing for her, so Lucy did not worry. She sat down
beside her uncle at the bedside.

He was distraught, as well as battered and bruised. “’Tis all my fault. I ordered MacLean to drive on when we should have stopped and taken
shelter.”

“You could not have known, Uncle.”

“Aye, well, I should have.” He grimaced. “And now Arden is injured and MacLean is dead. I ought to be flogged.”

Lucy took his hand in hers and said everything she could think of to assuage his guilt. He’d been injured, too, and a whipping would accomplish
nothing. Besides, no one could have predicted that their carriage wheel would crack and toss them about like china dolls.

She’d done as her uncle had asked and written his solicitor, instructing him to take on the arrangements for MacLean’s funeral, and sending a
death benefit to his sister, the only family MacLean had. He’d been more than generous, though Lucy knew her uncle would never forgive himself. He
was a man much like her father in that respect.

A knock at the door brought Lucy to her feet. She opened it to Aileen, who came inside and placed a breakfast tray on a table. “Lord Broxburn
instructed me to request your presence in the morning room, Miss,” she said.

“Request?”

“Yes, Miss,” she replied. “I am to remain here and watch over Lady Kildrum in your place.”

“Go on, Lucy,” her uncle said. “We will manage while you’re gone.” He turned to the maid. “What is your name?”

“Aileen, my lord.”

“Well, Aileen. Perhaps you would pour me some tea.”

Lucy stood watching for a moment, unable to come up with an excuse to forego her appearance in the breakfast room. She did not know how she would face
Broxburn after last night. She hoped he merely wished to know if there were any further arrangements needed for her aunt. Or when they would be leaving for
Edinburgh.

In the letter she’d written to her parents, she’d told them of the seriousness of Arden’s injuries and that they’d been instructed
by the physician not to move her. She’d promised to write as soon as she knew anything more.

She attempted to order her thoughts before meeting with the marquess, but Lucy became embarrassingly aware of her face heating at the thought of their
highly improper conversation the night before.

Something must be wrong with her – she must have hit her head harder than she thought, and damaged her brain in the accident. Else why would she
dream of her host in this way? Admittedly, he was as handsome as any man she’d ever known, but he was no Joshua Parris.

She cleared her mind of such nonsense and went down the staircase where she was greeted by the butler. “Good morning, Miss Stillwater. The marquess
awaits you in the morning room. This way.”

Lucy tried not to gape at the massive stone fireplace in the great hall. She’d seen the ruins of a few fine castles in Berkshire, but nothing as
grand or as well preserved as Craigmuir Castle. Everywhere she looked brought a new vision of medieval splendor. Intricate tapestries, suits of armor on
display, and furniture in good condition even though it must have been carved centuries ago. She could almost hear the voices of those who’d dwelled
here in the distant past.

She had not seen much of the keep when they’d approached it after the accident, but as she followed the butler through a narrow, stone-walled
corridor, she realized it must be huge. They entered a wing that had certainly been built much more recently than the great hall and the bedrooms where she
and her family slept, but was nowhere near modern. She reluctantly admitted that she loved Broxburn’s home.

“Here we are, Miss,” the butler said, pushing open the door to a bright dining room.

Lucy had only a moment to take in the details of the room before Lord Broxburn stood up from the table and greeted her. “Good morning, Miss
Stillwater. You must be hungry.”