Taken by the Laird (2 page)

“Who came with you?”

“N-no one.” He felt the subtle roll of her throat as she
swallowed. She was small-boned and soft, and he felt a distinct stirring in the lower region of his body with the press of his chest against her breasts.

He refocused his thoughts. “Who are you?”

“Sir, you have me at your mercy. Please let me go. I’ve done naught but come in out of the cold and damp.”

There was a breathless panic in her voice, and Hugh wished he could see her face and features more clearly. “ ’Tis clear you are a fugitive—”

“But not from the law!”

“No? What then? An angry husband?”

“Of course not!” she cried vehemently.

“Then who?”

“ ’Tis not your concern!”

“Ah, but it is,” he said tightly. “I am laird here, and ’tis my house in which you trespass so cavalierly!”

She squirmed, and he stifled a groan when her pelvis pressed up against his groin. They could hardly remain there on the cold floor indefinitely. He had a far better idea for this audacious lass in her men’s clothes.

“You are Laird Glenloch?” she croaked. “The Earl of Newbury?”

“Do not say we know each other.” He did not think he could stand to face another conniving female.

“Not exactly. I am…” She swallowed again. “What are you doing here?”

“I own the place,” he said. “Remember?”

“Yes, but…” She sighed resignedly. “Let me up, please.”

“As soon as you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

She stared up at him, hesitant, reluctant to speak.

“I’m waiting, lass.”

“I am Br-Bridget. Bridget MacLaren,” she said.

Her name did not stir a memory. But that was hardly surprising. If she was local, Hugh would not be likely to know her, for he had not spent any time at Glenloch in recent years. And, ever since Amelia’s death, he made a general practice of casting a wide berth around society’s doings. So Bridget MacLaren could be unfamiliar on that front, too. One would think the widower of a suicide, and a man who most assuredly deserved his reputation for fast living, would not be a prime catch. But alas…a goodly number of young, marriageable ladies in London, as well as a few whose prime had passed them by, still set their sights upon him.

Hugh judged that that did not seem to be the case here. He could think of no proper young lady who would go about in public wearing men’s clothing, much less wielding a wicked knife as though she knew how to use it. And yet she was no raw Scottish lass…

Hugh lowered his head, dipping down toward this woman who excited him with her dirk and her unconventional clothes. Whoever Bridget MacLaren was, she was not at all commonplace. Her features were only slightly visible in the thickening shadows, but he could see that she kept her eyes upon his as he moved, bringing his mouth within an inch of hers.

“What are you doing here, Miss MacLaren, so far from Stonehaven?”

“Muchalls.”

“Ah, yes. What are you doing so far from Muchalls,”
he said, unable to catch her up. He wondered why was she so well-prepared to defend herself with that dirk, if not expecting trouble. Perhaps she was involved in the theft of his goods. If that was true, Hugh knew better than to hope she would admit it outright.

She stiffened at their little interchange, giving rise to more questions. “ rather too personal to say. I…I just stopped here to get out of the storm. But I…”

Reluctantly, Hugh eased his hold on Miss MacLaren and located her knife. Taking it in hand, he slid off her and reached for the candle he’d set on the floor nearby.

“But you…what?” Hugh lit the candle, observing her closely as she came to her feet. He’d been right about her build—she was not very tall, the top of her head only reaching the bottom of his chin. Her eyes, when she looked up at him, seemed translucent, the impossible blue of the Aegean Sea. Her skin was fair and her features nearly perfect, down to a slight dent in her delicately pointed chin. This one would draw attention in the finest London drawing rooms. But as he had never heard of her, she could not have been inside many of those.

“…
but
I will find shelter elsewhere if—”

“You are dressed as a lad. Why? And what are you doing abroad without an escort?”

She turned away and pulled off her hat, letting a fall of pale blond hair cascade down her back. She slid one of her hands through the long waves, and scratched her head vigorously. “I am en route to Dundee.”

“Alone,” he said, wondering if it could possibly be so simple. She was soaking wet, and he wanted to believe
she had truly entered the castle merely to get warm and dry. But he was no fool. There had to be more to it.

“Yes. Why not? I am perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

Perhaps that was true, until she’d been confronted by a full-sized male who took exception to her. “Is that entirely proper, Miss MacLaren? Who are your connections? Your family?”

“I have no fam—”

She stopped abruptly when a strange sound—like the rustling of dried leaves—fluttered round their heads. Hugh was accustomed to all the odd noises in the castle, caused by shifting stone and old timber beams. But it startled the lass. She ducked and looked about her. “What was that?” she asked in a hushed tone.

Hugh decided not to regale her with all the blather about the Glenloch Ghost. He was not sure what she was up to, so he did not want to frighten her off just yet. At the same time, he had no interest in being caught alone with a gently bred woman. She might have denied having any family, but something about her words did not ring true. And if she had some familial connections she did not wish to mention, they would surely have expectations he had no intention of meeting.

Alternately, if she was involved in the theft of his valuable French brandy, then he wanted to keep her close. At least until he determined her methods and who her accomplices were.

“ ’Tis naught,” he said of Glenloch’s legendary harbinger of trouble. “A trick of the room. ’Tis always catching the sounds of the wind and rain.”

With her nerves already on edge, Brianna looked up to the shadowy ceiling and would have sworn she saw something move there. She shivered and pulled closer to Lord Newbury against the chill and the disquieting sensations that seemed to fill the room. He touched one hand to her lower back and Bree stiffened, unsure whether her unease was due to the odd presence she’d felt, or to Lord Newbury, Laird of Glenloch, himself.

She knew of him, of course. What young maiden of the ton did not? He was one of the men she and Lord Stamford’s daughters had been warned against—a widower who was a rake and a charmer and a seducer of the unwary. He was to be avoided at all costs, for he would prove the ruination of any maiden who fell in love with him. He had vowed never to wed again. Under any circumstances.

True to all Brianna had heard of him, he had almost kissed her. He had trapped her beneath him and lowered his head, his mouth nearly touching hers…Bree did not wish to think of how she might have reacted to his kiss. Like a wanton, she suspected, her body still humming with an acute awareness of him, of the potent masculinity she’d felt when he’d lain above her.

She’d seen him before, across one or two of the ton’s most fashionable ballrooms, though of course they had never been introduced. Brianna had nearly melted at the sight of the dangerous rake in formal attire, so dark and handsome, while he clearly had no place in a genteel setting. She remembered hearing tales of his pugilist matches—savage contests among men with little regard
for the niceties of polite society. In spite of all that, Brianna could not deny the reckless sizzle of awareness that coursed through her, even as he stood yards away from her, on the far side of the fashionable ballrooms where she’d seen him.

Up close, he was altogether too tall, with shoulders impossibly broad. His black hair was unkempt and overly long, his face ruggedly hewn with a day or two’s growth of whiskers. There was a crescent-shaped scar on his cheek, likely from his well-publicized exploits in the boxing ring. His touch and the gaze of his dark eyes unnerved her, but in a wholly different way than the effect the Marquess of Roddington had had on her. While Roddington had grabbed and squeezed, Newbury tantalized with barely a touch.

Brianna felt the need to flee again, but for a completely different reason this time.

“The castle seemed empty when I arrived,” she said, feeling only slightly guilty for her deception. She could not tell him her true name. When Lord Stamford came searching for her, as she knew he would, she wanted to leave no one in Kincardineshire speaking the name of Brianna Munro.

“Were you expecting to meet someone?” His voice rumbled through her, even more deeply than when he lay on top of her. “A lover, perhaps?”

“No! Of course not.” She intended to become as independent as her aunt Claire, to make a home for herself where she was not reliant upon anyone’s largesse. No longer would she be the poor relation, living on the fringes of her guardian’s family and subject to his
whims. Once she came of age and inherited Claire’s estate, she would be free of the machinations of that controlling, churlish man.

She would attend no more humiliating functions where young women were paraded before prospective husbands who stood back to evaluate and judge. As if they could learn anything important about her, just by looking.

Lord Newbury touched her chin and tipped it up, forcing her to look squarely at him. “Then what, may I ask once again, is a gentle lass doing, wandering about strange castles at this late hour, and in this weather?”

His cool fingertips sent shivers of impossible longing through her, for the elusive satisfaction of coming home. Of belonging somewhere. With someone.

Brianna suddenly remembered to breathe. The only place she’d ever belonged was Killiedown Manor with her aunt Claire. She pulled away and returned to the dark stairway to retrieve the bundle she’d dropped there.

“I didn’t know quite where I would end up after my day’s walk. I thought perhaps an inn.” And as soon as the rain let up, she was going to get away from Glenloch and find one.

“There are no inns down this way—nothing at Falkburn, at least,” Lord Newbury said, deflating her intentions. “Perhaps down at Inverbervie. Or Johnshaven.”

She heard the wind whip brutally around the ancient stones of the building and knew she could not face going out again. Yet she could hardly stay here alone
with a man of Lord Newbury’s reputation, a man who muddled her senses with just a touch.

“You say you have no family?”

“No. None,” she replied. And it was almost true. Arthur Crandall, Viscount Stamford, had been her father’s heir, but he was so far removed he could hardly even be called a cousin. And his wife and daughters…Brianna shivered, the coldness of the Crandall women every bit as harsh as the bitter weather outside.

Newbury clenched his jaw and frowned, and Bree recognized how unwelcome she was here. She’d seen the very same expression often enough on Crandall faces during her early years in her guardian’s household, and more recently when Claire managed to convince her to try a season or two in London.

As though Brianna cared about ensnaring a husband for herself. She wished Claire had relented and allowed her to come home after her first season and the fiasco with Bernard Malham, the young man who had proposed and then reneged when Lord Stamford disapproved of the match. But for some unfathomable reason, Claire had wanted Bree to stay on in London, to try again.

Brianna couldn’t quite understand why Lord Stamford had tolerated her presence in his house, even though the entire family had made it clear they had no liking for her. And now, it could not have been clearer that Newbury did not want her at Glenloch, either. She hefted her bundle and started back toward the stairs. “I’m sorry for troubling you, my lord. I’ll just—”

He stopped her. “What, go out into this storm?”

Bree raised her chin. “Well, yes. I do not care to put you out.” There had to be a stable or barn somewhere nearby, and he need never know if she decided to make use of it.

Once again, she started to leave, but Lord Newbury took her bundle from her shoulder. “What kind of gentleman would allow a lovely young lady to go out in this?”

What kind, indeed?
This time, she did not know how to read him. His tone was gracious enough, and he kept a perfectly polite smile upon his lips. But too much masculine power radiated from him for Brianna’s peace of mind. Those hooded eyes held the promise of something dark and forbidden, of warm caresses and pleasures unlike any she had ever known, even with Bernard, the man who’d once purported to love her.

Brianna swallowed as she listened to the wind howling around the walls of the castle, and thought of her aunt, who wouldn’t have thought twice about staying alone at Glenloch, whether its laird was a roué or the most trusted gentleman in Britain.

She decided she could deal with Laird Glenloch for one night. But Glenloch was not far enough away from Killiedown Manor, and it could not be a very long time before Viscount Stamford arrived here to look for her. Stamford was absolutely adamant that she marry George St. James, Marquess of Roddington. Brianna did not doubt the disturbing events in that secluded parlor had been orchestrated and calculated to force their marriage, for Lord Stamford was determined to forge a connection between himself and the most pow
erful peers of England. With his aspirations at stake, the viscount would spare no effort to find her.

Bree was having none of it. Roddington had behaved abominably, pure and simple, and she refused to tie herself to such an out-and-out rotter for the rest of her life. She did not care how wealthy he was or how much power his family wielded. Brianna had learned at a very young age that titles and wealth did not define a person’s worth. Besides, she did not need a man—a tyrant who would use their marriage lines as a license to rule her life.

For some reason, Lord Stamford had declined to allow Catherine or Susan Crandall to have that honor.

“There are more habitable rooms this way,” Newbury said, gesturing toward a long, dark passageway. “I daresay you’d like to get warm and dry.”