Lucy and Her Scottish Laird (9 page)

She walked farther along the path and caught sight of a man and woman lying together in a clearing up ahead.

The woman gave out a sultry laugh and rose to her feet. Lucy was shocked to see that she was only partially clothed. Her stays and chemise were in place,
but barely covering her. Her hair was in disarray about her shoulders, and her homespun bodice lay draped around her hips. As the man stood, he lifted the
bodice to her shoulders, somehow embracing her as he did. Amid kisses and other intimate behavior Lucy could not quite see, the man fastened his trews and
they managed to make the woman presentable.

The man lifted his lady in his arms and spun her around, their delight in each other palpable. He kissed her deeply, then took her hand and walked in the
direction Lucy had been going, into the woods on the other side.

Lucy realized she was holding her breath. Her skin tingled and her heart galloped in her chest. The same deep yearning she’d felt during her dream
came over her. A yearning for more than just a kiss.

She could almost feel Broxburn’s strong arms around her; feel the heat of his body and the desire on his lips. Lucy pressed her hands against her
breasts to quell the aching need there. Her entire body was aflame.

But it was because of the wrong man. Broxburn was not the one she wanted. He was not the one she’d loved for so many years.

She removed her hat and fanned her face. She had to leave Craigmuir Castle. Surely they could find a way to gently transport Arden to Edinburgh. They moved
injured men from the battlefield, didn’t they? And few of those victims would have had the ease of cushioned benches.

Lucy turned around and retraced her steps as images of the anonymous couple’s ardor echoed in her mind. There was no good reason for her to think of
Lord Broxburn just now, and yet it was his face and his scent that filled her mind and made her body burn. She forced away thoughts of him carrying her to
her bed, and of the dream kiss—

“No,” she muttered. “Broxburn is nothing more than a rude, obnoxious Scot.” And Lucy wanted as little as possible to do with him.

Except that he wasn’t really rude, and he had not been obnoxious, not since the accident.

Lucy marched on, moving past the path that led to his fishing stream. The less she saw of the man the better, and soon she would be on her way to Edinburgh
with her aunt and uncle.

She continued to the main drive, walking past the neglected cottage, and up to the castle. Somehow, she was going to convince her uncle that it would be
best to take her aunt home to Edinburgh. Obviously, Arden would recover quicker in her own bed, her own surroundings.

Lucy knew for certain that
she
had to get away from there, away from the man who managed to sensitize her skin just by being close. The man who
caused her lips to tingle and her body to burn, without the slightest touch.

She groaned inwardly. She really needed to get her thoughts in order. There wasn’t a man on earth who’d ever had such an effect, not even
Joshua, in spite of her love for him.

Lucy felt certain that once she was ensconced at her uncle’s home in Edinburgh, in her own bedroom, and with a normal routine, she would forget all
about Craigmuir Castle and the absurd dream. In the meantime, she would modulate her thoughts, and not allow ridiculous fancies to stray into them.

As she approached the castle gate, a carriage came up behind her. She stepped aside to allow it to pass, but it stopped beside her. Malcolm, Lord Kindale,
alighted, sending the carriage ahead without him.

Lucy masked her dismay. The last thing she wanted was to have to make polite conversation now, when her mind was racing and her body still humming with a
disturbing sensual restlessness.

“Miss Stillwater!” Kindale said, falling into step beside her. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you, my lord.” She realized her tone was sharp and not altogether friendly. But images of that amorous couple in the clearing continued
to haunt her. She softened her tone. “It is very good to see you. We did not have much chance to visit while we were at Glencory.”

“No, we did not. I trust all is well?”

“Not quite. My aunt and uncle had not planned on stopping before Edinburgh,” she said as they walked together into the castle courtyard.
“But we had an accident nearby, and my aunt was injured.”

He frowned. “I am quite sorry to hear that. I hope she is improving.”

Lucy shook her head. “Her recovery may take some time.” And hopefully it was going to take place in Edinburgh.

Kindale was pleasant enough, but Lucy sensed a melancholy about him now that had not been present when they’d met more than a year ago at a house
party in Berkshire.

“And the rest of your family? How do they fare?” he asked.

“Everyone is well, as far as I know. My brothers are returning home from abroad at the moment, to visit my mother who was ill last spring.”

He frowned, and Lucy quickly added, “She is much improved this summer.”

“I am very glad to hear it. How are your sisters? I recall you have several.”

“They are all well, and Caroline will make me an aunt in autumn.”

“My congratulations to her and her husband. Is uh—”

He stopped abruptly.

“My lord?”

“Ach, ’tis naught.”

But Lucy sensed it wasn’t just naught. She would like to have questioned him further, but sensed a deep reticence in him. She would not pry.

“Is Ian at home, then?” he finally asked.

“Ian? Oh yes, Lord Broxburn,” Lucy said. “He is, although I doubt he is at the castle just now.”

“Gone fishing, is he?”

Lucy gave a wry smile. Apparently Broxburn was predictable. “I believe so.”

Kindale slapped his thigh, his mood suddenly turning cheery. “Then I’m very happy I’ve arrived in time for supper. Broxburn’s cook
always does justice to his catch.”

Lucy smiled. “He seemed quite confident in his skills.”

“In his…?”

“Fishing, my lord. His fishing skills.”

“Oh, of course,” he said with a chuckle. “He is very good at many things. Have you met the duke and duchess?”

She nodded. “The duchess is ill, I understand.”

“She has been in poor health for some time, and much worse of late. And the duke?”

Lucy hesitated.

“No need to reply,” Kindale said. “I have known His Grace all my life, but ’tis only recently that he has taken to drinking
heavily. I know Ian is worried.”

From what Lucy had seen, Ian had cause to be worried. She had never seen anyone look so ill other than her poor grandmother on her deathbed. “Yes.
Lord Broxburn was quite beside himself this morning when his father demanded whiskey.”

“’Tis no wonder he went fishing,” Kindale mused. “He finds it relaxing.”

Just as her father did, Lucy realized.

They separated after entering the castle, and Lucy went up to look in on her aunt and uncle. Lord Kildrum seemed in much better health and spirits, but
Arden did not.

“’Tis the laudanum, Lucy,” her uncle said. He was sipping tea from a tray on a nearby table. “It keeps her insensible. Which, I
suppose, is better than allowing her to languish in pain.”

Lucy supposed he was right.

“Uncle, do you suppose we might move her tomorrow? Take her home?”

Kildrum stopped moving. “Tomorrow? Absolutely not.”

“But if we dose her well with laudanum and cushion her—”

“No, no, no. The physician was quite specific,” Kildrum said. “She is not to be moved.”

“I am sure we could make her comfortable.”

“No, my dear. The roads between here and Edinburgh are not good.”

“But—”

“No, no. We will not move her until the physician says it is safe to do so.”

Lucy felt the heat of panic. Heavens, she couldn’t. Stay here? At Lord Broxburn’s home?

Impossible.

Ian returned to the castle and went right to the kitchen where the cook and scullery maids gave due respect to his catch. The cook wiped her hands on her
apron and took the string of trout from him. “Ye’ll be havin’ a braw supper this eve, my lord.”

Ian knew it was true. If anyone could do justice to a few fat trout, it was Mrs. Kilgore. “Aye, but keep it simple tonight, Mrs. Kilgore. We’ll
dine informally.”

He headed to his bedroom to change, but was intercepted by Lockhart before he even reached the great hall. “Lord Kindale has stopped in for the
night, my lord,” the butler said. “I put him in the Wallace room, but he is in the garden sitting room just now.”

“Very good, Lockhart.” An excellent diversion from the enticing Miss Stillwater. It had taken all afternoon to put aside fanciful thoughts of
those long, sleek legs wrapped around him, but now that he was home, it was all he could think of. Those legs, and her saucy mouth.

In his room, he washed off the smell of fish and changed clothes. Then he went to find Kindale. His friend was standing outside the doors of the sitting
room, smoking a cheroot.

“Ian!” Kindale said, turning. “I hope I have not come at an inopportune time.”

“It is all inopportune here at Craigmuir,” Ian said sourly. “But you are always welcome. I thought you would be in Edinburgh by
now.”

Kindale stubbed out his cheroot in a container meant for that purpose beside the cobblestone path. “I should be.”

Ian walked to the chairs that had been set out for the summer in this isolated garden. He remembered the duchess objecting to Ian using this space, but his
father had overruled her. And now it seemed the duchess never left her room, so she would not even know.

He and Malcolm sat, just as a footman came out with a tray of coffee and set it on a small table between their two chairs. Ian poured.

“Why the delay – are you avoiding going home?”

Malcolm scrubbed a hand over his face. “Ach. I am being an idiot.”

“Miss Douglas is fully recovered, then?”

Malcolm nodded. “Mostly, yes.”

They sipped their coffee in companionable silence, Ian sensing that Malcolm did not care to speak of his upcoming nuptials. He knew Malcolm had pledged to
wed his late father’s ward, Elsbeth Douglas, who had come of age after her recent bout with typhus. There had been an outbreak in Edinburgh, and Miss
Douglas had succumbed in early spring. Malcolm had hurried home from the Lake District to see her through the illness, whatever the outcome might be.

He cast a sidelong glance at Malcolm. “If she does not suit you, Kindale—”

“No, she will make a…fine wife. And I did promise,” he said quickly. “Miss Douglas is without family, without a protector besides
me. We will marry.”

Ian gave a quick nod. “Of course.” He had met Miss Douglas, and she was lovely to look at, though rather vacuous in personality.

Ian believed there was something more that bothered Malcolm. He felt sure some untoward event had occurred at Lake Windermere, and it still troubled him.

“Miss Douglas is in Edinburgh?” he asked.

“Aye. I am on my way there, but thought I would stop here, since it was getting late.”

Ian nodded. It was only a few more hours ride by carriage to Edinburgh. Malcolm could have reached the city if he really wanted to. Apparently, he was in
no hurry.

“Did you acquire some business for your kilns?” Malcolm asked.

“Aye. Plenty. Ferguson will have to travel next week to measure the fields, but yes. Business will be good once again.” He did not mention the
difficulties he was going to have paying the men who made the tiles. He didn’t want Malcolm to feel obliged to help. At least, not yet.

They discussed a few safe subjects, and then Malcolm said, “Lady Kathryn Hay turned up at Glencory right after you left.”

Ian tugged his earlobe. He’d met Lord Auchengrey’s comely daughter on a few social occasions in Edinburgh, and had heard the gossip pairing the
two of them together.

“She is hunting you down, my friend.”

“That might have been an intriguing notion a month ago,” Ian said. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“But…?”

“Bloody hades, Malcolm,” Ian said. “My father is quickly killing himself. And the duchess…Our physician believes she will not live
out the year.”

He debated whether to tell Malcolm what he’d learned about his origins. He knew he could trust his old friend, but Ian wasn’t sure he was ready
to divulge his shocking news. Would Malcolm view him differently, knowing his true mother was not the highborn lady who lay ailing in her bedchamber in the
south wing of the castle?

“So you do not plan to court Lady Kathryn?”

“No.”

Now that he said it, Ian felt relieved. There was no question Kathryn Hay was a good candidate for marriage, but not the best choice for him. Perhaps he
just wasn’t ready to take a wife. Or possibly he had not found the right woman.

And then there was his dubious parentage.

“Well, that is news,” Malcolm said.

Ian took a deep breath. “Aye, I suppose it is.”

They sat quietly for a few moments before Malcolm spoke again. “I met Miss Stillwater at the castle gates on my way in.”

“An accident brought her to my doorstep.” He did not mention that the lass had been on his mind ever since he met her at Glencory, and his
preoccupation with her had only gotten more intense since her arrival here.

“I heard,” Malcolm said. “Will her aunt survive?”

Ian shrugged. “I hope so.”

“She is an agreeable person,” Malcolm said. “Miss Stillwater, that is.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Very likable, if I do say so,” Malcolm remarked. “Claymere and I met her some time ago, when the Duke of Beckworth was courting her
friend, Miss Easton.”

“Before Eleanor Easton jilted Beckworth?” If Ian had heard of it all the way up in Scotland, it had to have been the scandal of the season in
London.

Malcolm nodded, smiling. “Miss Stillwater came into a taproom where Claymere and I were waiting out a storm. She was with her friend, Miss Ivy
Barnett – now Lady Claymere.”

“That must have been amusing.” He liked Claymere’s wife, a feisty American who’d knocked the earl off his feet with her decidedly
un-English ways.