Taken by the Laird (17 page)

Thoroughly disgusted with his reckless, barbaric behavior—his actions dramatically undermining his true intentions—Hugh slipped out of the bed and stood stock-still while a vicious wave of nausea passed. He went to the washstand and bathed his face in the cool water, then braced his hands on the wooden stand at either side of the basin.

What a disaster.

The bed creaked and he steadfastly avoided looking in that direction. Some of yesterday’s anger returned, and he cultivated it as he picked up a towel and dried his face. She’d known he wanted to be rid of her and yet she allowed—

Christ, he’d taken her on the stable floor.

He heard her slide to the edge of the bed and sit up. “I’ll be ready to go as soon as I’m dressed.”

He did not turn to her or even reply to her statement. Remaining at the washstand, he listened to her gather her things and leave the room.

Only then did he allow himself a shaky sigh. Brianna Munro was not the one who’d been foxed when he returned from Falkburn. Dash it all, she could have—
should have
—stopped his advances, could have left him to his own devices in the stable and returned to the castle without him.

He muttered another curse and dragged on some clothes. The inside of his head felt as though a band of crazed tinkers were pounding furiously to get out. He could barely remember what had happened with Brianna, so of course he didn’t know if MacTavish and the Falkburn men had come into the castle and prepared his brandy for shipment as planned. He tamped down another burst of nausea at the thought of the potent liquor, and realized he did not know exactly where he was going to take Brianna.

Dundee was where she’d wanted to go, and he tried to remember whether he had any connections there…decent people who would take her in and keep their mouths shut. There had to be someone. Or perhaps in Kirkaldy.

He pulled on his boots and left his bedchamber, just as Brianna came out of the nursery. She said naught, and kept her eyes down as they met at the top of the stairs. He went to take her arm, but she avoided his touch.

He grumbled under his breath as they descended to the landing and stopped when they heard voices and stomping feet just inside the main entrance. Hugh looked across the expanse of the main entry, and wished someone would just pull out a pistol and shoot him. Or that Glenloch’s ghost would come and drag him away to the netherworld so feared by the servants.

For coming into his own private refuge were Viscount Stamford and the Marquess of Roddington, who stood suddenly still when they caught sight of the woman beside him.

H
ugh did not think his emotions could have become any more raw, but when he saw Stamford standing there, he felt as though he’d fallen headfirst into a black pit of doom. There was no possible way to avoid the man now. And by the expression on his face, Hugh knew he’d already caught sight of his ward.

An appalling thought shuddered through his mind, and he spoke to Brianna under his breath. “I’ll be damned. Do not tell me Roddington is your fiancé.”

Brianna did not answer him, and when he looked down at her, she seemed to have shrunk into her coat and hat as though it might be an effective manner in which to hide from her guardian and the mangy blackguard who stood beside him.

Dash it, he hated seeing her appear so vulnerable, hated knowing that Roddington must have committed—and been caught at—some reprehensible act that compelled him to marry her.

“Bloody hell,” said Stamford, his face a mask of raw surprise. “If it ain’t the prime article herself!”

“Eh? What?” Roddington asked, tossing his hat to Mrs. Ramsay.

“Your little bloody whore,” Stamford said, holding his gaze on Brianna. “Surprised the chit isn’t up at Killiedown, hiding behind the Dougal woman’s skirts.”

Hugh’s hand fisted in her sleeve at Stamford’s words. “Go back upstairs,” he said to her.

She hesitated, and he could feel her indecision, radiating off her like a wave. He hoped she was not considering trying to run away now. “I’ll deal with this.”

She finally complied, and when she was halfway up the steps, Hugh started toward Stamford and Roddington. If only he had taken Brianna away the day before, rather than delaying in Falkburn and allowing himself to become inebriated, he would not be facing this mess today.

Now he was trapped.

“Newbury,” said Stamford. “I see you are…
in possession
of my ward.”

Roddington said naught, but the smirk on his face spoke volumes. Hugh considered his best strategy, but telling Stamford Brianna had just arrived at Glenloch—implying they had not spent any solitary time together—meant he would be throwing her to the worst kind of wolf in all of Britain, a man just like Jasper. In any case, they were unlikely to believe such a story, given the condition of the roads.

“How did you manage to travel in this?” he asked.

“We were not far. Heading for Killiedown Manor,
but got delayed in Johnshaven,” Stamford replied, removing his gloves as they met midway. “But there is some urgency to our search for Miss Munro.”

Hugh crossed his arms over his chest and kept his face expressionless as he tried to figure some way to keep Brianna from Roddington for two measly months. If he could just spirit her away somewhere…

The roads being what they were, that was going to prove difficult, if not impossible. Stamford and Roddington might have managed to get from Johnshaven to Glenloch, but it couldn’t have been easy. Which meant that Stamford was desperate.

“What’s the urgency?” he asked.

“The little cow is meant to marry Roddington,” he said with indignation. “She humiliated us all by absconding on the morning of the wedding.”

Hugh suppressed a grudging smile. “Absconding?”

“She ran away in the dark of night,” said Stamford.

As she was wont to do, Hugh mused with a contradictorily admiring disapproval. She was nothing if not daring. “Are you saying she never arrived at the church?”

Stamford let out a low, condemnatory sound, but did not answer, leading Hugh to believe that that was exactly what had happened. Brianna had managed to escape Stamford’s house and leave London before anyone knew she’d gone. He didn’t know whether to congratulate her or throttle her. London was a seriously dangerous place after dark, especially for an unescorted woman.

Roddington moved to the fireplace in the drawing
room as though he were an honored guest in Glenloch’s hall, with no interest in the dull conversation that would determine Brianna’s fate. Hugh had not seen him since Jasper’s death, nearly three years before.

It had been jarring to see the indolent bastard at the graveside, one of the few who’d attended the funeral. No other members of Jasper’s contemptible Cerberus Club had attended, and Hugh had wondered about Roddington’s presence there. The marquess had never cared about anything but his own pleasures, his own plots and games. It made little sense for the bastard to have bothered attending services for a man whose own son would have preferred to avoid them.

Yet it should not have surprised Hugh to see Roddington there. The man had been hand in glove with Jasper in those days, closer even than old school chums, despite their age difference. They’d belonged to a despicable club whose members engaged in a level of debauchery that made Hugh cringe even now, not that he was any sort of prig. But he had an aversion to activities that took advantage of those who could not fend for themselves. Jasper had made great sport of that.

The thought of what Roddington might have done to Brianna to result in their engagement turned Hugh’s stomach, and he would have liked nothing better than to toss the two rascals out on their arses. But that was no solution to the problem.

Hugh followed Stamford into the drawing room where Roddington already stood warming his arse by the fire. The man was little more than ten years older than Hugh, but he had aged badly since Hugh had seen
him last. He looked closer to fifty than forty, a decidedly sad dog. ’Twas no wonder Brianna had absented herself from the church and run, even if she did not know about her fiancé’s involvement with the Cerberus Club. Frowning, he wondered how her aunt’s death had figured into her flight.

‘Twas likely Brianna, bold as she was, had gone to Lady Claire for her protection, because she would be powerless to stand up against Stamford and Roddington alone. Hugh clenched his teeth together. Stamford would have bullied her, and Roddington would have—

Christ, if the bastard had touched her—

“You’ve had a pretty time of it, eh, Christie?” Roddington asked, using Hugh’s surname rather than his title.

He stepped away from the fire and Hugh scowled, his mood turning deadly. “What do you mean?”

“All alone with the curvy little Munro doxy,” he taunted. But Hugh was going to keep his anger in check, no matter what the marquess said, no matter what he suspected the brute must have done.

“I want an accounting, Newbury,” Stamford demanded. “And so does Roddington—the, er, injured party.”

“Lud,” Roddington muttered, turning to glower at the viscount. “I’m out of it now, Stamford. Soiled goods and all that. Don’t have to marry the chit now.”

“
What?
We’ve come all the—” Stamford threw his hands up in the air, then turned and shot an angry glare at Hugh. “ ’Tis
your
doing, Newbury! And
you
will wed her!”

A lethal rage simmered just below Hugh’s deceptively calm surface, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “You are deranged, Stamford.”

Who was this flea-minted viscount to demand anything—much less Hugh’s freedom? Hugh had no intention of becoming shackled in any way, to anyone. He could not possibly be held responsible for his actions with a woman who claimed she had no connections, who’d actually needed his protection…

Hugh berated himself for allowing lust to cloud his judgment, seducing a virgin who would hardly know what was happening to her until it was too late. Christ, she’d been an innocent, his father’s typical victim of choice, someone who didn’t have the experience necessary to understand the consequences of her actions.

It was a small comfort that he hadn’t tied her in leather bindings against her will, or fed her any opium to make her compliant, the way Jasper and his cronies had been known to do.

But it did not alter the fact that he had made love to a viscount’s virgin daughter.

Hugh did not remember ever feeling so furious or so powerless. He wanted to throttle Stamford for what he’d planned for Brianna, and then wring his neck for even suggesting that Hugh recant his bachelor’s vow.

“Send someone for the vicar,” Stamford said, his voice low and resolute.

“You give no orders here, Viscount,” Hugh said in a deprecating tone, intentionally citing Stamford’s lower rank. “Nor are we in England.”

“What? Oh. Yes, well, this may be Scotland, but if
you refuse to wed the gel, you’ll never be able to show your face in London, boy,” Stamford said. “Your reputation will be in shreds.”

No more than Brianna’s.

Hugh’s blood turned to a roiling cauldron of disgust. The walls seemed to close in, and it felt as though the air was being sucked out of the room. Between the nausea and his aching head, he could hardly breathe. He was too preoccupied by his fury to notice Roddington stepping away, wandering in what seemed to be an aimless manner to the other side of the room.

No man would ever wed Brianna if Stamford let it be known that she had spent days and nights alone with him—with a man of his reputation—at Glenloch. She might think she wanted to remain unmarried, only to retire alone to Killiedown, but she was young. Her hopes and aspirations would surely change, as would her need for a man’s attentions.

For Hugh knew that Brianna Munro was not a woman who could ever be content with a solitary, celibate life.

Society was not about to accept a “ruined” woman into its midst. The ton would be absolutely correct in assuming that she’d been intimate with him, and it would destroy her life. Her friends would shun her, and she would never again be invited into respectable homes. Her future would be bleak.

He jabbed his fingers through his hair and turned away from Stamford, catching sight of Roddington starting up the staircase.

“Hold, Roddington, if you value your life!”
Hugh turned back to Stamford, the only possible decision
made. “Go down to Inverbervie and take rooms there for the night. Miss Munro and I will wed on the morrow. Here at Glenloch. Noon.”

“What about the aunt?” said Stamford. “You’ll need to send someone for her.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hugh said without offering any further explanation. The fewer questions and even fewer answers, the better.

Hugh stood fast in the main entryway and watched as the two reprobates gathered their coats, gloves, and hats, and left the castle. Then he went down to the corridor near the scullery, where he jammed his own arms through the sleeves of his greatcoat and slammed out one of the rear doors of the building. He headed for the stable, to the scene of yesterday’s drunken blunder.

Brianna’s knees gave out, and she sat right down on the floor at the top of the stairs. If Roddington’s approach on the first step of the staircase had not been enough to stun her, Hugh’s words had done it. In one breath, he’d both thwarted Roddington from coming after her and committed himself to marrying her.

She felt light-headed and shaky, even as indignation coursed through her. Who had given Hugh Christie leave to decide her fate? He had not asked her opinion or her preferences, making the decision as though she was naught but a speck of dust on the banister.

Feeling as wobbly as a new colt, she rose to her feet and stood, her thoughts flying madly. She had no intention of acquiescing to their demands—to
any
of them. Laird Glenloch was just as overbearing and unreason
able as Stamford. He was a man, which caused him to believe he had the right to dictate every aspect of her life.
How dare he?

She descended the stairs and went to his study. The money box still sat in the drawer where she left it when she’d gone out to him in the stable the day before. When he’d staggered in, Brianna hadn’t considered the possibility that he was drunk, or that he would ravish her willing body in the stable. He’d been insatiable, even after they’d returned to the castle, finally collapsing only a few hours before dawn.

He’d bedded her again, even after learning who she was. He should have stayed sober and taken her to Dundee instead!

She estimated what she would need for food and a modest lodging for two months in Perth. Going to Dundee was just inviting Laird Glenloch to come and find her, and she did not want to see him ever again, not when his intention was to trap them in a marriage they would both abhor.

Her chin trembled, but now was no time for tears. She’d learned long ago how to protect her heart, how to wall off her emotions. Laird Glenloch didn’t want her any more than Bernard Malham had. Less, even, by the sound of his grudging commitment to marry her.

She did not belong at Castle Glenloch any more than she had fit in at Stamford House. Killiedown was the only place Bree had ever been able to call home. Claire had suspended her own exciting travels to create a life there for Brianna. Together, they’d built up the farm and their breeding program. Killiedown’s draft horses were
unequaled in all of Britain. She and Claire had been completely happy.

And yet Claire had sent her to London for three seasons.

You deserve a chance for a husband and your own family to love,
Claire had said the night before their departure for that first London season. But Brianna had dismissed her words, certain her aunt had been mistaken. Claire had been perfectly content without a husband—

But had she?

Brianna wondered if Claire would have wed her free-trading captain if he’d asked. She considered the possibility that her aunt would have preferred a husband in her bed to a lover she visited occasionally in Aberdeen, a man she’d had to keep secret from her niece and all her tenants.

Brianna sat down in Hugh’s chair. Dropping her chin to her chest in misery, she tried to understand what was so bloody brilliant about having a husband. And yet she knew, somehow. A husband should be the man who warmed not only her bed…he should warm her heart and her soul. A husband would provide companionship, and children, and a clear sense of belonging. To someone.
With
someone.

It was possible that Claire’s own experience had been the reason she’d insisted that Bree go to London. Perhaps she regretted her own lack of a mate, and wanted to be sure that Brianna did not suffer the same lack.