Taken by the Laird
Read Taken by the Laird Online
Authors: Margo Maguire
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
Margo Maguire
This book is dedicated to my scientist husband,
Mike, the best brainstorming partner a writer
could ever wish for…and also the guy who
subscribes to the scientific journal which carried
the article that inspired the Glenloch Ghost.
A slow burn began to spread in Viscount Stamford’s belly…
Trudging along the coastal road in the misty rain, Brianna…
The fire felt heavenly, but Brianna’s clothes were soaked through.
“The Glenloch Ghost?”
Hugh came out of his bedchamber and stopped cold at…
“I-I—”
Hugh laughed, enjoying the soft graze of her body against…
Hugh was loath to end their little adventure. As perilous…
Hugh emptied the water and cleared away the bath from…
They did not make it past the scullery the first…
“How would you remember such a visit?” he scoffed halfheartedly.
The hairs on the back of Hugh’s neck prickled.
Hugh did not think his emotions could have become any…
There was no need for Hugh to make the hour-long…
Hugh finished in the stable, but no matter how hard…
Magistrate Lachann Sinclair was a tall, blond fellow with fresh…
Hugh narrowed his eyes and went to her side. Taking…
His statement was met with silence.
The voices belonged to two men, and neither of them…
“You’ll never get away with this, MacGowan!”
“I had a letter from Falkburn yesterday,” Hugh said.
They that sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
St. George’s Church, London. December 1829.
A
slow burn began to spread in Viscount Stamford’s belly as he looked at the richly dressed crowd milling about the nave of the church. His wife should have arrived ten minutes ago with the damned bride. He could not imagine what was keeping her.
Arthur Crandall, Viscount Stamford, should be only minutes away from aligning himself irrevocably with the Marquess of Roddington and his powerful—and elderly—father, the Duke of Chalwyck.
It figured that his ward would cause some delay, the recalcitrant chit. She was a burr under his saddle, a pain in his arse. But she was far more comely than his own two daughters, a much more useful tool in his efforts to build the kind of alliances he had in mind. Brianna Munro was an attractive bit of chattel, far more suited
than Catherine or Susan to trap this extraordinarily wealthy, but lazy, gambling gadabout—
“Where is the chit, Stamford?” the groom drawled. “I agreed to wed her, not grow old standing at the back of St. George’s.”
Stamford ignored the marquess’s question and rubbed his bilious stomach through his waistcoat. “Who are all these people, Roddington?”
Roddington closed his cold, reptilian eyes and shrugged, his gesture a demonstration of complete ennui. “Merely a few of my intimates.”
Stamford grimaced at the sight of all those sycophants and hangers-on. Wastrels, all of them. He was quite familiar with Rotten Roddington’s disgraceful reputation, but the marquess would one day take his father’s place, and the daughter of a long-dead viscount could not be too choosy.
Nonetheless, Stamford’s skin crawled at Roddington’s proximity. The man was richly dressed, but did not cut the finest figure Stamford had ever seen. In fact, Stamford suspected the marquess wore a corset under his fine clothes, and perhaps even had his valet pour a concoction of walnut juice in his hair to keep it black. He was as vain as they came, and Stamford had to admit he was glad Roddington had never taken a fancy to his own two gels.
In any event, it had been an easy thing to put his winsome ward in Roddington’s path, and then wait for the lecherous marquess to make his move. When Roddington cornered Brianna alone in the library, Stamford had made sure there were witnesses to her ruination.
Now the marquess and his father would become so closely allied to Stamford, the viscount would wield more social and political power than a country squire’s son could ever have imagined. All those years of genteel poverty before inheriting Damien Munro’s title and estates…of being thought second-rate at school…
Now everyone would know whom they were dealing with.
“I’m growing impatient, Stamford,” said Roddington.
As was Stamford, and his stomach burned with irritability. As soon as this wedding was finished, he was going to have to pay a visit to the apothecary. At the same time, he hoped Roddington would make his irascible new wife pay for her inconvenient tardiness. He’d never cared for the brat. She was too independent and much too outspoken for a female, much like her dratted Scottish aunt.
But she had been useful in drawing potential suitors to the house, for neither Catherine nor Susan seemed to have the knack for it. Once Brianna’s beaux arrived at Stamford House, it was no great challenge to remove the Munro gel and push the young men toward his daughters. Not that any of them had “taken” to each other. ’Twas something the viscount would deal with later, once his alliance with Roddington was cemented.
“Calm yourself, Roddington.” Stamford reined in his own temper and opened the door of the church and looked out. “Likely some difficulty with a hem or a bonnet ribbon.”
Dash it all, where was his wife?
“She had better be biddable, Stamford. I will not have a shrew in my house.”
“Just keep her away from her aunt in Scotland,” Stamford replied. The two men went outside and stood looking down the street, Stamford with his hands on his hips, anxiously gazing through the misty rain. “Now, there’s a true virago from whose ungovernable influence I removed my ward three years ago.”
He did not bother to mention that he’d quite willingly given Brianna to her aunt Claire nearly a decade before, glad to be rid of the child who’d become his ward—his expense—upon her parents’ death. He’d brought her back to London for a season or two when his own daughters failed to attract the caliber of suitors their family deserved.
“You mean that Dougal woman, up around Stonehaven?” Roddington asked.
Stamford turned his gaze to Roddington. “Don’t tell me you know the old girl.”
Roddington leaned against the doorjamb and narrowed his eyes as he looked down the street. No one would ever know the man’s secrets, and Stamford could not help but shudder at the possibilities. “Bought some horses from her a few years back,” the marquess said. “Didn’t know she and your ward were connected.”
Stamford had no chance to reply when a carriage turned a corner to rush down St. George’s Street, stopping directly in front of the church. “About time,” he muttered. He approached the carriage just as his wife flung open the door and scuttled down the step without waiting for assistance.
“Stamford!” she cried in a panicked hush. “She’s gone!”
The heat in Stamford’s belly turned to fire. “Gone?” he said much more calmly than he felt.
“Yes, gone—Brianna!
Your ward!”
Lady Stamford was as indignant as she was angry, flummoxed. “She padded her bed to make it appear she was sleeping. But she was not sleeping!” His wife grabbed his arm. “She was not even in the house!”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course I am certain! We tore every room apart looking for her! She must have left last night.”
“Ridiculous. Who in her right mind would leave London in the dead of night?”
“A stubborn, headstrong Scot is who!”
Lady Stamford stiffened as Roddington stepped up to the viscount’s side.
“Is there a problem?” the marquess asked.
“Of course not,” Stamford snapped. “There
will
be a wedding today!”
Flee as fast as you will,
your fortune will be at your tail.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
The Mearns, Scotland. December 1829.
T
rudging along the coastal road in the misty rain, Brianna Munro felt as though she was walking on the edge of the world. As well it was. The rough waters of the North Sea crashed far below her on the left, and she could feel a storm coming. Heavy clouds had moved in from the east, bringing a bitter wind with them. Even if not for the late hour, it would soon be dark, and she was going to have to find shelter as she’d done the night before. Perhaps she should turn back to Stonehaven. There were inns there where she could stay until the storm passed, a much better refuge than an abandoned barn like the one in which she’d slept fitfully before starting out again this morn.
But Stonehaven was the second place her guardian
would look for her when he came searching. And she wanted to leave no trace of Brianna Munro.
She continued south, recalling the first time she’d traveled this road, but heading in the opposite direction, toward Killiedown Manor. Her aunt Claire had removed her from Lord Stamford’s negligent care nine years before, and they’d stopped at a rarely inhabited castle. The place was mostly ruins and belonged to some highborn Englishman with Scottish ties, a nobleman who had not been in residence at the time of her visit. Brianna thought the place must have already passed from that elderly laird to a descendant.
It was the way of life…birth and death, and both wrought with pain. Brianna forced aside the memory of the fresh, desolate grave at the edge of the cliff at Killiedown Manor, and the wild, crashing sea below it. The site had always been Claire’s favorite location on the manor…a fitting site for her earthly remains to spend eternity. Brianna wiped the tears from her face, the hot moisture that mingled with the cold mist that surrounded her.
There was no time to mourn, no time for regrets. Brianna’s situation was dire, and she would honor Claire’s memory by doing exactly what the older woman would have done. Bree had no choice but to act with boldness, defying every convention and pushing on, in spite of the fact that she’d lost the only person who’d ever stood up for her.
She kept moving south, wearing the clothes she’d bought from one of Killiedown’s young grooms. She’d done it on impulse after the funeral, and with more than
a little desperation, sure it was the only way to remain inconspicuous as she fled Claire’s estate. For if Lord Stamford found her, he would surely drag her back to London and force her into the marriage he’d orchestrated through means both underhanded and immoral.
Everything was so very wrong. Brianna had already disregarded convention, defied her legal guardian, and run away to her aunt’s home in Scotland. But on her arrival at Killiedown, she’d found Claire abed. Struggling for every breath. Dying.
It had hurt Bree to see her that way. Her vital, vibrant aunt had succumbed to a terrible ague that settled on her chest, robbing her of health. She had hardly been able to breathe by the time Brianna arrived at her bedside.
And Brianna would never forgive herself for allowing Lord Stamford to coerce her into staying in London for the winter. If only she’d known. If only Claire had sent word when she’d first become ill…
The cold, fine mist turned to rain, and Brianna shrank down into the oversized coat. The road veered slightly west, toward the village of Falkburn. But in such a cold mizzle, she would never make it there without succumbing to the same illness that had taken Claire’s life.
She shifted her bundle of belongings to her other shoulder and stepped off the road into a long, bleak drive that led east, to the sea. The ruins of Castle Glenloch’s ancient keep and its towers rose ominously in the mist, cold and unwelcoming, but Brianna knew it was her best hope for a quick, temporary refuge.
Brianna was certain she was unrecognizable, dressed as she was, in the old trews and tunic and coat, with her
hair tucked under a sloppy hat that did little to keep the rain from soaking her face and running down her neck. Stamford might question everyone who dwelled near or traveled between Killiedown Manor and Glenloch, but no one would have seen a lone female with fair skin and hair.
A female who was presently chilled to the bone.
Her shivering increased at the promise of a dry refuge out of the wind, but at the same time, she felt heartened by the deserted look of the place. If her luck held, no one need ever know she’d stopped there.
She plodded down the long drive between two tall rows of barren trees that gave little shelter from the wind. When the old castle loomed near, tall and majestic in spite of its decaying towers, Brianna saw no signs of inhabitancy. Which made it perfect.
She quickened her approach, hoping she would be able to find entry somewhere. The place was expansive, its old sections built of drab, gray stone, its back toward the sea. It was a dark and brooding place, but Brianna remembered hearing that parts of it had been made modern and habitable by some recent laird. Not that it mattered, for she would not stay long.
Hoping to remain unnoticed and anonymous, she did not intend to approach the imposing main entrance. An outside building would have to do if she could not find a way in, or if the castle turned out to be inhabited. But there was no light emanating from any of the windows, and she really wanted to find a small room inside, where she could build a fire and get herself warm.
The two tallest towers jutted up against the dark
ening sky. The one on her left was precariously tilted with age and decay, and though the other seemed more solid, it did not appear to be especially sound. Either one would have to do, as long as she could get inside. She hurried toward the ocean side of the building, to the low cliff on which the ancient towers stood.
Before long, she had managed to skirt around the dilapidated wall of the old bailey, and found herself standing at the base of the ancient north tower. There, she was not far above the sea-battered beach, where several small skiffs had been grounded and tied to posts in the sand. She hurried around the tower, looking for a door, not that she was going to find one unlocked. But a window might do, even if she had to break it.
With the sky darkening further to a deep, murky gray, she circled around the ancient tower, searching for an entry. But the walls of the room near its base must have collapsed eons ago, and any spaces where Bree might have crawled inside were hidden by brambles and wildly growing shrubs.
Besides, the thought of slipping was not appealing, for she might disturb something and cause the walls to give way completely. With even greater haste, she continued around the back of the castle, past doors and several windows that had been secured against illicit entry. She moved on toward the south tower and soon saw a promising opening that was nearly hidden by another dense thicket of brush.
These walls, too, seemed in poor condition, but when Bree saw a metal grate, positioned low in yet another disreputable-looking wall, her need to get out of the
wet overcame her caution. She tested the metal lattice with freezing fingers, and it came loose. Pulling it away, she quickly crawled inside, then turned and carefully replaced the grate behind her, worried that one of the crumbling walls might collapse on her at any time.
Although there was little light inside, it was a relief to get out of the freezing rain. Brianna shoved the bundle of essentials that she carried ahead of her, then stood up and searched the shadows for a candle.
She found none, and complete darkness was rapidly encroaching.
The room was small and empty, and not much warmer than the outdoors. But a surprisingly solid wooden staircase led to a tiny landing and a door at the top, giving hope that she might be able to get inside and find the kitchen or scullery, where she could stay warm and dry for the night. Brianna climbed the steps, instinctively staying as quiet as she could, even though the castle seemed deserted. At the top of the staircase, she lost her nerve, but only momentarily. She knew she could not stay all night in that dark, chilly room, wearing her wet clothes, so her only choice was to breach the castle proper. Drawing out the dirk she’d strapped to her leg before leaving Killiedown, Brianna pushed open the door.
Someone was cheating Hugh Christie and the disagreeable partner he’d inherited from his father. To date, Hugh had taken the losses himself, unwilling to involve his London investor, a man Hugh preferred to avoid. But it could not go on any longer. He’d come to Glenloch to
find out who was stealing his smuggled French brandy and selling it out from under him.
Besides, the situation in London had become sticky, and Hugh had no intention of surrendering his bachelorhood. Not to Charlotte de Marche, the conniving spinster who’d thought to ensnare him; not to anyone. Far more cunning adversaries than Miss de Marche had sought to trap him into marriage, and Hugh had learned his painful lesson then. He’d married Lady Amelia Norquist. What a disaster that had been.
No one in Falkburn knew he’d arrived at Glenloch, not even his estate manager, Malcolm MacGowan. He’d notified no one of his intention of coming to the castle, so he was not expected there. Not that anyone would have come up from Falkburn at dark. The servants came only during daylight hours, and none—not even his indomitable housekeeper, Sorcha Ramsay—would stay through the night. Not with tales of Glenloch’s ancient ghost floating about, rattling chains and frightening people.
Legend told of a benign, filmy creature that made its appearance especially when trouble was afoot. As a child, Hugh believed he might have crossed its path a few times, but he knew better now. Tales of the ghost were just stories told and perpetuated in order to keep intruders away from the castle and its frequent caches of smuggled goods.
Even so, Hugh didn’t care for the possibility that his late wife might have joined Glenloch’s legendary Scottish bogle and was now haunting Glenloch’s old halls.
It was three years since Amelia had killed herself at
Castle Glenloch, and all and sundry knew Hugh avoided the place as though it were cursed. As well it might be. Hugh and Amelia had never been happy there.
Hell, he’d never been able to make her happy anywhere.
But their incompatibility in marriage had naught to do with anything now. Amelia had been dead a long time, and Hugh’s only interest in Glenloch was to learn why his free-trading profits had been diminishing every year since her death. There was only one possible explanation. Someone was pilfering his goods. And Hugh was going to see for himself who was doing it, and how.
He left the remodeled section of the castle and headed to the south wing and the ancient buttery, where his brandy came into the castle for storage before being diluted and shipped out. He followed an old, secret passageway, dark and silent but for the candle he carried and the quiet brush of his own footsteps. The air grew chilly as he moved farther away from the fire in the drawing room, but at least he would not need to go out into the wind and wet. The walls and roof in the old wings of Glenloch were intact, but just barely, making it an unlikely storage place. To Hugh’s knowledge, customs agents had never broached the buttery in search of contraband.
Hugh did not expect to hear anything but his own breath as he approached the door, but when something moved stealthily on the stairs, he stopped still.
Dousing his candle, he moved to one side of the door, flattening his body against the wall. He held his breath
as he waited in the dark, careful not to make any sound that might frighten the intruder away. He intended to make short work of this prowler, and likely gain the information he needed. He never expected it to be as easy as this.
The faint rasp of the door latch fairly screamed in Hugh’s ears, and he braced himself for a physical confrontation. The door opened silently and a darker shadow emerged from it. He remained motionless as the fellow took a step into the room.
Hugh quickly lunged, and heard a grunt when he grabbed the intruder and wrestled him to the ground. The man struggled, and Hugh realized he was small…a lad, perhaps. He did not want to hurt him—at least, not yet—so he loosened his hold.
The boy made a sudden move, scissoring his legs round Hugh’s hips, and quickly sprang up over him, leaning down, pressing his full weight against Hugh’s chest. Hugh then felt the cold steel of a knife against his throat.
The intruder spoke. “Do not move, you…”
The lad was either very young, or…“You’re a woman!”
“And who might
you
be?” she demanded.
“I’m the man who regrets going easy on you,” he rasped. “Do you mind putting that thing away?”
“I
do
mind.” Her breath was shaky and her hand unsteady. She was frightened, as well she ought to be, for she had to know she was no match for a man of his size or strength.
Hugh took care not to move suddenly—for she
did
hold the knife—and slowly inched his hand up to the level of his chest. “I’ll do you no harm.”
“Exactly.”
“What have you against me, lass?” Besides a delectably soft feminine bottom, pressed against his groin.
“Y-you do not belong here!”
“But
you
do?” He took advantage of the uncertainty he heard in her voice and made a swift move, knocking the knife away as he rolled her to the floor. And then she was under him. He managed to gather both her hands in his, holding them securely above her head.
“Let me up, you oaf!” she cried, not at all uncertain now.
“Not until you give me some answers.”
“I cannot breathe!”
He eased his weight off her somewhat, but held on to those ferocious hands of hers. No point in letting her get hold of the knife again. “What are you doing here?”
“I came in to get out of the rain,” she said grudgingly. She was definitely soaked. He could smell the wind and rain on her, and the hint of warm, feminine skin. Her speech was refined, with barely a trace of Scots in her words, and her hands were smooth. Both signs were indicative of a gently bred woman.
“Where are you from?”
“Up away near Muchalls.” He heard the lie in her words. She sounded more English than Scots.