Taken by the Laird (18 page)

It hurt Brianna to think it might be true, and that she might have missed signs of her aunt’s restlessness. It
seemed so very clear that Claire had given up her lover in Greece, and now Brianna realized her aunt had limited her contact with the sea captain to make sure her niece was content at Killiedown.

Would it be a mistake for Brianna to do the same thing, just to keep her independence at Killiedown? Marriage to Hugh would not provide any of the warmth or companionship Claire had wanted for her. It would be a marriage of
inconvenient
convenience, for she knew his thoughts on marrying again. He did not want another wife.

She stood abruptly and tried to decide what to do. Traveling to Perth on snow-covered roads would be arduous, and Brianna did not believe she could get there—or hide somewhere en route—before Hugh discovered she was gone and came after her. He’d stated his intention to marry her, and she did not believe he would easily renege on his word.

With the portrait of Hugh’s father at her back, Brianna had the most disconcerting feeling that he was looking directly at her. Wondering if Hugh had ever felt this eerie sensation, Bree turned slowly toward him, and faced the old laird’s harsh visage.

His gaze was nothing like his son’s, the lines about his mouth and eyes self-indulgent at the least, with a hint of wickedness in them. “You do not frighten me, Laird,” she whispered. “Not even with your leather strips and the whip you kept in the master’s bedchamber.”

She turned her back on the portrait and fixed her gaze on the window where she’d seen Hugh the day before.

He was there now, coming out of the stable on horseback. He was tall and formidable in his seat—so different from the way he’d looked the day before—his shoulders broad, his greatcoat spread out behind him. A shudder of pure physical awareness shot through Brianna as she watched him. His eyes were shaded by his hat, but she had the distinct feeling he could see her through the window.

He turned abruptly, handling the gelding with mastery and care as he kicked his heels and plodded through the snow in the direction of Falkburn, no doubt to get drunk again.

T
here was no need for Hugh to make the hour-long ride to Stonehaven for a lawyer to draw up a marriage certificate. MacGowan handled all the rest of Glenloch’s business, and the man was perfectly capable of making a document that Hugh and Brianna could sign when it was done.

He rode up to MacGowan’s cottage and quickly gained entry.

“Laird, I hope all is well,” the man said as Hugh entered. “The brandy—”

“I took care of it, MacGowan. I’m here on an entirely different matter.” Hugh did not remove his coat, but told the man what he wanted, then turned his back to the window of the parlor while MacGowan wrote the marriage lines according to his wishes. There would be no reading of banns, no special license. Here in Scotland, they only needed witnesses to their declaration. Mrs. Ramsay and her son-in-law, Niall MacTavish, would do.

He and Brianna would exchange vows at noon the fol
lowing day, which would give Stamford and Roddington enough time to arrive and witness the marriage’s validity. Fortunately, there were far fewer formalities and much less fanfare than he’d have had to endure in England. A veritable leg-shackling was easy enough to accomplish north of the border. Once done, he would send the two reprobates on their way, far from Glenloch. And with luck, they would never cross his path again.

“Laird,” MacGowan said as he waited for the ink to dry, “I thought ye’d vowed nev—” He took note of Hugh’s obdurate expression and changed his tack. “Will ye be stayin’ at Glenloch fer the winter, then?”

“I haven’t decided.” There was no point in letting MacGowan in on his plans, especially when those plans included finding out how the man was cheating him.

When the document was ready, MacGowan rolled it and tied it with a simple piece of string. Hugh clenched his teeth and eyed the thing, his fate sealed.

He led his horse down the short path to Falkburn, then stopped at MacTavish’s cottage. The door opened on his arrival, and Niall stepped outside. “Laird,” he said. “We missed seein’ ye last night, down in the buttery.”

“Er, too much brandy at Tullis’s.”

MacTavish gave a rueful grin. “Aye. I’m feelin’ fair jug-bitten m’self.”

“Is the brandy set to be transported?”

“No’ yet, Laird. We let down maybe half.”

Hugh nodded. “We can finish it tonight.” He didn’t want to keep so much brandy about, especially with Kincaid so interested in probing the area.

“Aye, Laird,” he replied. “We’ll be there.

“One last thing, MacTavish. I’d like you to come up to Glenloch tomorrow morning.”

“Laird?”

“To witness my wedding.”

Turning abruptly to mount his horse, Hugh took no notice of MacTavish’s astonished expression. And since he’d dealt with his reasons for coming into Falkburn, he had no reason to delay his return to Glenloch—and his future wife—any further. He muttered a silent curse at the way his body reacted to the thought of her, and his vivid memory of the way her smooth skin slid against his. He should be thinking about throttling her, not bedding her.

Brianna could not escape the sensation of being trapped. She’d run from one objectionable marriage only to land in another.

And yet ’twas not quite the same situation. Hugh was not at all repulsive, as Roddington was. The thought of his touch, of sharing his bed, of bearing his children, did not make her freeze up with distaste. It heated her from the inside out, in spite of his obvious displeasure in the situation.

Bree took satisfaction that her marriage to Hugh would not benefit Stamford in the way he’d intended to profit from a liaison with Roddington’s family. Far from it. Brianna doubted there would ever be any courtesy from Hugh toward Stamford, although her guardian would not realize that yet. No doubt he believed Hugh was much like himself and most every other man of the
ton, who could be intimidated and then manipulated.

But Brianna had little doubt that Hugh was unlike anyone with whom Stamford had ever dealt.

It was little comfort, though. His opposition to marriage had not changed, yet he would soon be bound to Brianna in a way he’d never intended.

Nor had she. But she knew it was inevitable.

She’d given up on her thoughts of taking some of his money and running away again. Retreating to the nursery that felt like her own sanctuary, she hooked her thumbs into her trews and started pacing. Her fate was unavoidable, but she had no intention of presenting herself as a pathetic, unappealing bride. She was going to show Laird Glenloch—show them all—that the soon-to-be Lady Glenloch was no longer anyone’s poor relation.

Ignoring the filmy wisp that hovered near the door of her room, she marched down the hall to Amelia’s bedchamber, carrying a lamp with her. She opened the door and stepped inside, finding the room nearly as cold as the temperature must be outside.

Ignoring the chill as well as the wisp of a ghost that was now hovering near the bed, Brianna went to Amelia’s wardrobe and started going through the clothes she’d overlooked before. She remembered seeing gowns for every season, each one more elaborate than the next. In the drawers were lace chemises and delicate hosiery. Bree found gloves and hair ornaments and jars of fine cosmetics.

She picked a gown of gros de Naples in azure blue, with white fur trim bordering the deep neckline and
cuffs. A scalloped flounce of white fur danced a few inches from the skirt’s hem, and tiny, pearl buttons marched in two decorative rows from the center of the neckline to either side of her waist, bracketing her breasts.

The second wardrobe held shoes and outerwear. Coats and pelisses lay on the shelves, each folded neatly, with tissue paper and rose-scented sachets among the folds, just as though Amelia would soon return.

Brianna was loath to dismiss the woman or her woes, but after tomorrow, there would be only one Lady Glenloch present in Hugh’s mind and memory.

She tried some of Amelia’s shoes, but none fit her well enough to wear. Admitting defeat on that front, she borrowed the prettiest chemise, the finest stockings she’d ever seen, and a pair of garters, then left the room and went in search of a competent needlewoman. Or two.

‘Twas nearly noon, and Hugh had not seen Brianna since the previous day, when he’d declared his intent to wed her. He knew she was still in the castle, for she’d been closeted with Mrs. Ramsay and one of the maids all the past evening, and again through the morn.

The marriage document lay upon a highly polished table in the library, safe inside Hugh’s richly tooled leather portfolio, but he avoided looking at it. Soon enough, the time would come when he’d be compelled to sign it.

“Laird, I’ve been told yer lady kept my wife’s mother and Fiona busy up here after dark last night,” said Niall
MacTavish, standing next to Hugh in the library, his hat off, and wearing his best coat. “ ’Tis a wonder they stayed to prepare the lady’s gown, what wi’ the Glenloch Ghost about.”

The library was one of the few formal rooms in which Hugh’s father’s portrait did not stare out at him with those malicious eyes.

He and Brianna could have exchanged vows anywhere, even at the stable, or down by the tub boats on the beach. But this room had always been Hugh’s haven at Glenloch. His father had eschewed the books here, making it the perfect retreat. And it was the location where Hugh and Brianna had shared the most intense sensual experience of his life. ’Twould help him to keep in mind the prime advantage of marriage to Brianna Munro.

“Aye. I was as surprised as you,” he said to Niall.

“Sorcha said yer lady insisted on being prepared as a proper bride. She convinced them they had naught to fear from the ghost.”

Hugh did not bother to disabuse Niall or any of the servants about the ghost, for it had always served Glenloch well to have tales of the ghost widely believed. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared straight ahead, hardly able to believe this was happening to him. He’d done everything in his power to avoid remarriage, and yet here he stood, obligated by one of the most debauched Englishmen and his toadying cohort to yet another arranged marriage.

He had not wanted a marriage of any sort, arranged or otherwise. But at least this way, Roddington would
never have Brianna. Stamford was a fool and a bastard for promising Brianna to the marquess, and Hugh barely suppressed a shudder at the thought of that debauched scoundrel touching her.

Hugh heard voices at the main entrance and knew Stamford had arrived. “MacTavish, would you go and ask Mrs. Ramsay to see what’s keeping the bride? You might as well bring Stamford and Roddington back to the library with you when you return.”

As Niall MacTavish left the room, Hugh rubbed one hand over his freshly shaven face. He smoothed back his hair, straightened his neck cloth, then his waistcoat and coat. Feeling more restless—Christ, more
nervous
—than he had in years, he stepped out of the library to see for himself what was delaying Brianna.

At that moment, his bride started down the stairs with Sorcha Ramsay and one of the housemaids following close behind her.

Hugh’s breath caught at the sight of her, an enchantress from some made-up tale. She wore a gown of ice blue, with an enticing neckline accented by a trimming of soft, white fur. Cunning little buttons progressed from the cleft between her breasts down to her waist, creating what would surely make a very interesting opening. Later.

She’d done something simple and elegant to her hair, and a faint sparkle flashed from some tiny ornaments she’d placed strategically in her pale locks. Her skin was flawless, her lips moist and pink, and a few curling wisps of her hair touched her ears and the nape of her neck. Hugh felt a tightening in his groin at the thought
of pressing his lips to those places. Of tasting her.

She descended the staircase regally, barely looking at him as she arrived at the foot of the staircase and placed her hand on his, to venture into the library beside him. Mrs. Ramsay and her son-in-law followed them, and soon everyone was assembled in the library. Stamford and Ramsay took seats near the chess table, while MacTavish came to stand beside Hugh.

Just as Hugh was about to begin, Malcolm MacGowan arrived, uninvited and unannounced.

“Laird.” The estate manager came to the doorway, carrying the free-trade ledger. Hugh stifled his annoyance and opened his own leather-bound portfolio, removing the thick sheaf of vellum on which the manager had written Hugh’s vows.

“Come in then,” Hugh said to MacGowan. “Just another witness.”

Hugh returned to Brianna and faced her. He’d read the simple words often enough last night while pondering his fate, so he was able to speak them without referring to the vellum. In simple terms, he took her as his wife and gave himself as her husband. He made no additional promises.

When it was Brianna’s turn, she started to speak, but stopped to clear her throat. Then she looked up at him, and the bottom fell out of Hugh’s stomach. Her eyes were twin mirrors of his own feelings at the moment—betrayal and hurt, resignation and a hint of defiance. When she spoke, her voice was clear, and loud enough for all to hear.

“I, Brianna Elizabeth Munro, take you, Hugh
Dùghlas Christie, as my husband.” Her throat and neck were unadorned, but she could not have looked more dignified or noble. Her bare skin was exquisite, and he knew how soft it felt beneath his rough hands. She looked up at him, but turned her gaze slightly, to some point past his shoulder, as she spoke, as though she could not bear to face him.

She moistened her lips and continued. “Before God and these witnesses I vow to take you as my husband with all your faults and all your strengths, as I offer myself to you as wife, with my own imperfections as well as my skills…” She took a deep breath, as though she needed some fortification to say the words. “…from…from this day forward.”

His knees went rubbery when he listened to her short speech, so much more profound than his own, and spoken without reference to any notes. He swallowed hard at the magnitude of her vow.

He knew better than most that there was no guarantee of happiness or satisfaction, and he wondered if Brianna Munro’s indomitable spirit could withstand the truth of his inadequacy. This marriage would fail, too, for he did not know how to give a wife the kind of attention she craved. Worst of all, he would never give her children, never give her true contentment.

All were silent for a moment. Not a sound broke the stillness of the room until the fire cracked and sparked loudly. Then Hugh remembered the ring.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out the golden circle of alternating diamonds and garnets he’d found among his mother’s possessions when she died.
He’d never seen fit to give it to Amelia, but he wanted Brianna to wear it.

He took her hand in his and slid it onto her finger, then lifted her hand and pressed his lips to its back. “A gift for you, wife.”

She took a shuddering breath and blinked back tears, still not looking at him. They were tears of regret, most likely, but she whispered a polite thanks while Roddington muttered a few deprecating words that were just barely audible in the quiet room.

Hugh spoke. “You’ve worn out your welcome, Roddington.”

“I’m just as glad to be rid of the chit,” he drawled, stretching his legs out before him, “but you ought to try to avoid losing another wife the way you lost—”

“Shut up, Roddington,” Stamford rasped, aware that Hugh could very well call him out for such a remark.

Hugh chose to ignore it, for the day was bad enough without adding violence to it. He walked to the desk and took a pen and bottle of ink from a drawer. Sliding it across the desk to Mrs. Ramsay, he handed the pen to MacTavish. The two witnesses affixed their rough signatures to the document, then Brianna and Hugh signed, and all the legalities were met.

Hugh carefully placed it, along with the sheaf with his own vows, into the leather brief.

It was done. He was a husband again.

Brianna did not delude herself into thinking Hugh cared anything for her beyond his enjoyment of her in bed. His eyes had darkened at Roddington’s words, but
fortunately, he had not acted upon them. For her emotions already seemed to be teetering on the edge of a bleak abyss, and she didn’t think she could bear one more ordeal.