Taken by the Laird (15 page)

The hollow feeling in Brianna’s chest expanded. She would be a fool to stay any longer, to let herself become any more attached to him.

She’d almost forgotten how important it was to keep at least a small part of herself separate, never becoming too comfortable, too secure. Life at Killiedown had made her careless. She’d found security there, and permanence, never believing her social seasons in London would result in being forced to marry against her will.

A feeling of panic rose in her breast when she thought of the day when Hugh tired of her and sent her away. ’Twas a separation she did not think she could bear.

Turning to the window, she looked out, blinking away her foolish tears. She could not allow anything to cloud her vision of the road that lay before her. Somehow, she was going to find the strength to do what she must, which could only mean taking her leave of Glenloch.

She wiped her eyes when she saw a group of people walking through the snow toward the castle, from the
direction of Falkburn. The servants, she thought, or perhaps free traders, come to take Hugh’s brandy out of storage.

She had to go. She had to get away from Glenloch and Hugh before—

Brianna suddenly realized she could not make a clean break, for her money now rested at the bottom of the sea. She could not survive in Dundee without money. Nor could she stay.

She was going to have to ask Hugh to lend her some. Or perhaps he would pay her—just as he had the rest of the laborers—for her part in unloading the contraband.

Still, it would not be enough. She had to find lodgings in Dundee, or perhaps Perth, and somehow survive another two months. Work would not be easy to find, especially without references, and wearing her old boots and ill-fitting gowns. She leaned her forehead against the cold pane of glass. She was going to have to ask Hugh for a loan.

He was not in love with her. Hugh simply didn’t believe in it. But he could not ignore the niggling suspicion that he might be able to tolerate Bridget MacLaren indefinitely. He could actually foresee keeping her with him even when he returned to London, and not in separate residences, either. Hang society and what it would say about any arrangements he made with her.

Never before had he been so content with the lack of a valet and the other servants. Mrs. Ramsay had left plenty of food, and he and Bridget had managed to keep
the fires burning in the two rooms they used most—the library and his bedchamber.

He hardly recognized himself, looking forward to a simple outing with her, to listening to her laugh as they cavorted in the snow down near the beach. She brought back memories of the enjoyment he used to take in simple things. He looked forward to a clearing in the weather so that he could teach her to ride. He did not doubt she’d be a spirited horsewoman.

He was waiting near the scullery for her when Mrs. Ramsay arrived with Fiona and Ronan, and two young men with shovels, all stomping snow off their boots as they came inside. The invasion of these few servants into the quiet world he and Bridget had been sharing felt like the worst ballroom crush he’d ever experienced.

“Ach, Laird, ye survived the storm! I stewed over yer whereabouts—no’ that ’tis any concern o’ mine, but then MacTavish said he’d seen ye,” Mrs. Ramsay remarked as she put down her basket and instructed the others to place the ones they carried on the table, too. To Hugh, they seemed to have brought enough food to feed a large house party for a week. “I’m verra glad t’ see you well and sound,” the housekeeper added, going right to the stove to check its status.

“We’re fine,” he said.

She looked up sharply. “Miss Munro is still here?”

“Miss MacLaren,” he corrected her. “Aye.”

Mrs. Ramsay pursed her lips and went about starting the fires in the stoves. “If ye say so.”

“What?” Hugh asked, annoyed by the housekeeper’s patronizing tone. “What do you mean?”

“ ’Tis no’ Miss MacLaren ye’ve been entertaining here.”

What did
she
know? “Then pray tell me who she is,” he said, leaning against the table’s edge.

“The lass came here once maybe five years ago, with her aunt—Lady Claire Dougal.”

“You’re mistaken,” he said, although the mention of an aunt—of Claire Dougal in particular—sent a frisson of unease through him. Lady Claire was a daughter of Lord Drummond. Which would make Bridget…

Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. He had
not
deflowered the granddaughter of an earl. She would surely have mentioned…

Christ!

“Ach, well,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “If ye like to think so.”

“H
ow would you remember such a visit?” he scoffed halfheartedly.

“Who would forget such a face?” Mrs. Ramsay said. “She still has tha’ bonny dimple aside of her mouth, and those eyes. Never saw tha’ pale a blue, jus’ like Lady Claire’s.”

And her strikingly blond hair that grew nearly white at her nape and her temples. Places he’d kissed while he was inside her.

She’d lied to him. He’d known from the start that she was no peasant lass, but never had he considered the possibility that the granddaughter of a peer would be wandering down the coastal road alone, dressed as a young boy, with only a pathetic little dirk for protection.

He wondered if her family was, even now, bearing down on Glenloch, prepared to drag him to the altar with her. God knew he would be doing the same if it had been his daughter, found sequestered with a bachelor of questionable reputation.

He shoved his fingers through his hair and swore. It had been years since anyone had betrayed him to this extent. Amelia’s death had struck him the same way—the ultimate betrayal, a need to punish him for her unhappiness for the duration of his life.

And now he would be forced to wed the woman who’d been sharing his bed, apparently without qualms.

He stopped short. Perhaps not. She’d told him her only family was her aunt, who had recently died. He recalled everything Bridget had told him—about her employer’s husband, and her intent to go to Dundee. If that was a lie, too, then why had she been so fixed upon anonymity—even as far as taking a false name?

It could only mean that someone else was after her.

He went into the study and looked up at his father’s smirking portrait. “Aye,” he muttered. “You are right again. I’m a perfect idiot.”

Turning his back on the picture, he waited for her, holding on to the mantel as though it could somehow give him the solid stance he needed to confront her. But his knees felt surprisingly unsteady when he heard her come down the steps and into the room. She stopped abruptly, and he realized his rigid posture must have signaled something was wrong.

He turned slowly to face her.

He saw uncertainty in her eyes. She bit her lower lip, and Hugh felt an immediate, intense tightening of his groin. In spite of her lies, he still wanted her.

“I m-must speak to you, Hugh,” she finally said, her voice low and subdued.

He clenched his teeth and waited, aware that she
could not yet know what he’d been told about her. She came to him then, and put her hand on his forearm. “I…I cannot stay any longer.” Her throat moved as she swallowed thickly. “I saw the servants arriving. If they can get through, then I can, too. I…must leave.”

It was not what he expected.

“And go to Dundee?”

She nodded.

“Why, Bridget? Who is after you?” he asked, in spite of himself. He knew he should just let her go, get on with the investigation of his free-trade accounts, and be relieved to have escaped the marriage shackles that were sure to follow if anyone learned of their sexual liaison.

“I-I told you.”

“But it wasn’t true, was it?”

“What?” Brianna croaked. “How did you know?” Her heart sank at the realization that he somehow knew she was a bald-faced liar. She’d had no choice about leaving Glenloch, but not this way. She did not want Hugh to think badly of her, and yet he would.

“Mrs. Ramsay remembered you,” he said coldly.

Dismay filled her. She had never anticipated this turn. Tears clogged her eyes again and she turned away, unwilling to let him see them. She went to the window and put her hands on the sill, swallowing hard. “I did not think she would. It was years ago that I was here.”

“Then it’s true?” he said. “You’re Lord Drummond’s granddaughter?”

She nodded. “On my mother’s side. My father was Damien Munro, Viscount Stamford.”

“Who is after you, Bridget? Or is that really your name?”

She shuddered, remembering all the times she wished he’d called out her true name when they’d made love. Now he would think of Brianna Munro with disdain, as the woman who had blatantly deceived him. She turned to him. “ ’Tis Brianna. I’m sorry. I-I could not tell you.”

“Why?” His voice was low and dangerous. “Why could you not tell me the truth?”

“My guardian is my father’s heir—a distant cousin, many times removed. He has no liking for me, perhaps because I remind him of the years when he possessed no title. But he is a truly despicable man”—she turned to face him, her despair changing to righteous anger—“who has sold me in marriage to the most self-indulgent, debauched, disgusting libertine known to God or man. I refuse to wed him.”

Two spots of color dotted the arc of his cheeks as he listened to her litany of reasons. “And so you ran.”

“What else was I to do? Lord Stamford
owns
me. And if I’d told you my true circumstances, you’d have been compelled to take me back to him.”

Hugh scrubbed one hand over his face and made a low sound that reminded her of their lovemaking. Only this time, it was a growl of disparagement, and not pleasure, and her knees went weak with regret—but not for having run from Roddington. For the situation that had compelled her to lie.

“There will be no consequence to you, Laird Glenloch.” She braced her feet solidly on the floor, keeping her back straight. She might not have a great deal of height, but she had her pride. She had done what was necessary to survive. “I will leave today. Now.”

“You cannot. The roads are nowhere near clear.”

She moistened her lips and ignored the ache pushing up on her breastbone. “I’ll manage. No one but your housekeeper knows that Brianna Munro was here—and I’m sure you can convince her to remain silent if Lord Stamford comes looking for me.”

“Christ, Brianna, the man will be incensed,” he said, and Bree’s heart leaped at the sound of her name, and how it slid past his lips. His voice rumbled through her chest and expanded her heart with longing. If only she had felt safe in telling him the truth when she first arrived, perhaps everything would be different now. “Stamford will want blood if he finds you here.”

“I realize that. I never intended to stay…You know I tried to leave…” Her throat closed when she remembered her flight in the tub boat and his daring rescue.
Oh heavens, why did this have to be so difficult?

She bolstered her resolve, crossing her arms over her chest as though she were in complete control. “I’m ready to go…but for one thing. I need to ask you…”
God, how could she ask him?

“Ask me what?”

“For a loan,” she said in a rush of words.

He blew out a harsh breath, and Brianna forced herself to deny the yearning that he would open his arms and pull her into them. She knew better than to hope
for the warm, masculine strength and comfort she knew he could give. Yet she’d allowed herself to crave it. To crave
him.

She tipped up her chin, making her stance seem as sturdy and robust as she could. She’d never been a watering pot in her life, and yet one stupid tear coursed down her face, threatening to undermine everything her posture said. She brushed it away quickly. “You owe me payment for helping the other night—for unloading your tubs of brandy.”

“Is that so?”

“You know it is. I worked as hard as any of those night runners down in your cove.”

He did not reply, but after a moment’s hesitation, he went to his desk and opened a drawer, and took out a heavy metal box. Still without looking at her, he removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the box, then turned it toward her. “Take what you need.”

Inside was a large cache of money—notes as well as coin. Brianna felt incensed by his nonchalant yielding of the treasure within. As though he could not have cared less what she chose to do.

Glad that anger replaced her anguish, she turned on her heel and started for the door, but he beat her to it, taking her elbow in his hand and turning her to face him.

“What do you think you’ll be able to accomplish with no money and no resources?” he growled.

She yanked away. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Jesus, Brianna.” He shoved his fingers through his
hair, something she’d done ever so gently, countless times in the past few days. “A woman alone on a Scottish road? What can you possibly be thinking?”

“I’ve got my dirk.”

“And God knows how effective you are with it. You cannot go alone.”

She forced her voice to remain steady. “Look, just give me what you owe me and I’ll—”

He took her hand and drew her out of the study and dragged her into the corridor and up the staircase behind him. She tried to pull away, but he held fast until they reached his bedchamber and went inside.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Christ, can naught be easy with you?”

She put her hands on her hips and averted her eyes as he changed clothes, putting on heavier trews and a thick, knit waistcoat underneath his coat. He meant to take her himself.

Her relief was unfounded. She knew all he wanted was to be rid of her, not to be her devoted escort.

“What makes you think you can hide long enough for your guardian to forget about you?” he asked.

“I only need until February.” Her voice was unsteady, but she refused to allow tears to clog her throat again. She lowered her head and busied herself with the buttons of her jacket.

“What happens in February?”

“My birthday. I’ll come of age and then—”

“And then Stamford will have no sway.”

She nodded. “I’ll inherit Killiedown Manor—my aunt’s estate—and live there just as I did during our years together.”

He seemed to wince. “As a spinster.”

“I have as little interest in marrying as you do.”

He made another disparaging sound and took her across the hall to Amelia’s room. Without ceremony, he pushed open the door and went directly to one of her wardrobes. He took out a heavy woolen coat and dragged it over Bree’s shoulders, over the layers she already wore. A vertical line slashed between his brows as he pulled the collar together and started to fasten it under her chin.

“Please don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t let you walk all the way to Dundee alone with blisters on your feet from those abominable boots?”

In silence, she slid her arms through the sleeves of the heavy coat and let him fasten the too-long garment for her. At least his mood seemed to have changed from acute anger to mere exasperation. Bree allowed herself a moment to savor the brush of his fingers, likely the last time he would touch her.

“The carriage won’t make it through the snow, and I don’t have a sleigh,” he said. “And since I’ve only the one horse, we’ll ride together.”

A shiver started at the small of Brianna’s back at the thought of the close quarters they would share on the road to Dundee. “You can’t mean to take me all the way there.”

He stood still, gazing down at her mouth as if mem
orizing its taste and the way she’d responded to him. She wanted to rise up on her toes and kiss him, just to remind him.

“I don’t see that I have any choice.”

“Of course you have a choice.” She swallowed and forged ahead. “There’s no point in unnecessary chivalry, Hugh. I’ve been managing on my own for—”

A bright flicker distracted her, and Brianna turned to see the ghost taking shape behind Hugh in the space beside Amelia’s bed. “Look, it’s floating up the wall.”

Hugh took hold of Brianna’s hand and pulled her out of the room before the ghost actually took shape. “Time to get out of here.”

“ ’Tis harmless, and I think it wants to show us something.”

“I have no interest in delaying. We’re finished here,” he said, closing the door tightly. He seemed more irritated than afraid.

“It’s real, I’ll have you know,” Bree said. “And Amelia’s spirit never appears with the ghost, if that’s what worries you.” He ignored her words, pulling her alongside him, stopping short when Fiona made her appearance at the top of the stairs.

“Laird, the customs men are here!” she called out in a quiet voice.

“God damn it,” he said. “Wait here for me. Do not even think about leaving without me.”

Christ almighty, he did not need this! Not now.

Hugh followed the maid down the stairs and out the scullery door at the back of the castle, avoiding the area
where his brandy was stored as though it were infested with vermin.

Angus Kincaid and Berk Armstrong were walking in the snow on the beach with a crew of their men. The underlings were clearing snow with shovels, then Kincaid and Armstrong took the long poles they carried and shoved them deep into the sand of the beach. Looking for buried contraband.

“Armstrong!”

The man looked up at Hugh’s voice and started walking toward him.

“Laird, good day to ye.”

To hell with the greetings. “What are you doing here?”

“Weel, we got word again of another ship in the cove a couple of nights ago.”

“When would that have been? The night of the storm?”

“Aye, Laird.”

Hugh made a derogatory sound. “Is there a free trader in all the North Sea who would risk sailing on such a night?”

“We’ve heard of one,” said Kincaid, a small, unpleasant man with a full, graying beard that he’d trimmed to a sharp point at his chin. “A man called Benoit.”

“Benoit, you say? A Frenchman, I suppose?”

“Aye,” Kincaid said, sneering. “A daring fool, from all that’s said of him. Trades illegally up and down the coast from Aberdeen to St. Andrews.”

“And you think he’s buried his goods here? On my land?” Hugh demanded.

“ ’Tis always a possibility, Laird,” said Armstrong.

“Not likely, though, without my knowing of it.”

Kincaid gave Hugh a hard look, but Hugh returned it, hoping the men understood whom they were dealing with, and that any accusations would have serious consequences. “But go ahead and see what you can find.” He turned to leave them. “Let me know if anything turns up.”

“Ye can be sure we will, Laird,” said Kincaid.

‘Twas the worst possible timing. He could not leave Glenloch with Brianna Munro while the customs men poked around his property. He didn’t want them talking to Mrs. Ramsay or any of the other servants, not while a thousand tubs of uncut brandy stood stacked in half ankers in the secret room near the buttery. And yet he could not allow Miss Munro to stay.