Taken by the Laird (3 page)

“I wouldn’t mind,” Bree said, but neither of them moved. She eyed him warily while he held up the candle to look at her.

Bree knew she was nothing special. Susan and Catherine Crandall had informed her of it often enough, so she knew Lord Newbury was not overcome by her beauty. More likely he could not believe she was female, especially in her stable groom’s get-up.

Feeling ridiculously lacking in attractive feminine charms, Bree pushed past him into the dark, chilly passageway ahead. She was well beyond worrying about her failings. In three seasons, she had received only one proposal, from Bernard Malham, the son of a Yorkshire baron. And when Lord Stamford had refused the match, Bernard had not tried to persuade her guardian of his
worth, nor had he fought for their love. It had become perfectly clear to Brianna that only one heart had been deeply engaged in the affair. ’Twas her own, and it had broken.

Subsequently, she’d had no real interest in the dandies and fops who had nothing better to do than show a pretty leg at every dance and cotillion she attended. She’d gone through the motions required of her during the subsequent two seasons, but at the end of the day, all she’d wanted was to return to Killiedown, alone. Back to raising the sturdiest draft horses in all of Scotland with Claire, her heart protected and safe from risk.

Brianna felt Newbury behind her, allowing her to lead the way through the dark passage.

“Right here,” he said, stopping her.

He put the candle down on the floor, then reached around her and touched the wall. Brianna heard a latch move, and a hidden door sprang open into a room that appeared similar to any conventional drawing room she might have visited in London.

But he did not move past her. He braced one hand against the wall beside her, blocking her way. “You have not yet explained why you are traveling alone, Miss MacLaren…in weather that would make a monk curse.”

She felt his breath upon her, warm and smelling faintly of spirits. She bit her lip, and his eyes dropped to her mouth, catching the action in his gaze.

His eyes glittered nearly black in the flickering light, and Brianna could feel the heat of his body through her damp coat.

He inched closer, and she felt none of the loathing she’d experienced when Roddington had done the same. On the contrary.

“I’m waiting, Miss MacLaren.”

Bree felt the throb of her pulse in her throat. No man would ever believe—many wouldn’t even condemn—what Roddington had done to her, grabbing her breast and shoving his hand up her skirt. But even if Newbury happened to be the rare man who would, there was no point in telling him of Roddington’s assault and the embarrassing scene that had ensued. He could do nothing.

“ ’Tis better if I do not say.”

“But there we disagree,” he said quietly. “If I am to harbor you in my house, I want some assurance that you are not a criminal.”

“Do I look like a lawbreaker, my lord?” Brianna asked, shocked that he could entertain such a supposition.

Keeping his eyes on hers, Laird Glenloch touched her collar, then slid his fingers down the front edge of her coat, sending chills of potent awareness to Brianna’s breast, tightening her nipples. She could barely breathe.

“I’ve never known a woman to wear men’s clothes.” His voice was low and intimate, his harmless words creating a reaction in her that was anything but innocent. He inched his fingers back up, halting just over her right breast. “ ’Twould be an effective disguise, but…”

“But?” she whispered.

“But the obvious,” he said, caressing the side of her
unfettered breast. Then he slid his hand down to her waist and around to her hip. He pulled her against him. “You are clearly a woman.”

“Oh,” she said on the wisp of a breath. The press of his hard body against hers caused a potent reaction. Her bones turned to sawdust and her blood became some strange effervescent liquid bubbling through her veins.

She inhaled sharply, denying his effect on her. Pushing past him into the room, Brianna headed for the fire, hoping a servant would soon arrive to relieve the untenable tension coiling inside her. But no one came, and Laird Glenloch closed the door to the passageway. It became just another ornately painted panel in the wall, completely undetectable.

Brianna was distracted from the strange wall arrangement by the rain lashing viciously at the windows and the steam coming off her clothes. Feeling unnerved and out of her element, she leaned slightly forward toward the fire, relishing the welcome sensation of the heat on her hands and face. She was going to ignore what had just passed between them. By all accounts, this man was a master seducer. He’d known exactly what he was doing when he touched her.

“You have my word that I am no criminal. I have a very good reason for wearing these clothes,” she said quietly, closing her eyes to savor the warmth of the fire. “But I cannot tell you.”

“Cannot? Or will not?”

Brianna looked around and saw him eyeing her backside. She quickly straightened and faced him. “’Tis the same.”

“’Tis hardly the same, Miss MacLaren.”

“But it is. For if you knew anything more about me, you would be in peril.”

“Why?” Hugh asked, unconcerned. He stood in the heart of a stone fortress with rooms and secret passages that could be made impervious to attack if they still lived in an age of knights and damsels in distress. But it was nearly 1830, and men were much more civilized these days.

The lass raised her head and continued. “Because my…my employer’s husband is…well, he…”

“What about him? Did he make unwelcome advances?”

She nodded, her cheeks coloring at the mention of it.

It was obvious she did not wish to say more, but Hugh pressed her for information. He could think of no household near Muchalls where she might have been employed. More likely she was really from Stonehaven as he’d previously thought, or even Aberdeen, where there was any number of wealthy families. “You are a lady’s maid, then? Or a governess?”

She hesitated for a fraction, then nodded again.

“For what family?”

“I cannot say, my lord.”

“You mean you will not.”

She shrugged. “It does not matter. I mean to make a fresh start. Far from—”

He waited for her to give something away, but she stopped herself before he could learn anything useful. “In Dundee?” he asked.

She swallowed, and his eyes were drawn to a small patch of her skin at her throat, exposed by the gap in her collar. He could almost taste her. “Yes. There are many fine houses there and I will surely be able to find employment.”

“Without references?”

His question seemed to take her aback, but when she turned to the fire, all Hugh could do was stand and gape at her delectable bottom as she bent forward once again to warm herself at the fire. The effect of male clothes on a comely female was altogether unexpected. Had Hugh realized what simple trews could do for a pair of feminine legs, he might have persuaded a mistress or two to give it a go.

Trews or no, he didn’t trust Miss MacLaren any more than he’d trust a pirate bearing a flag of truce. He felt fairly sure that her background could not be coarse. Her features were too refined, her hands much too soft to have hauled tubs of brandy from the beach, or hidden those crates in the secret passageways of the castle. But a gentlewoman, she was not. They did not wander the countryside alone.

She was hiding from someone, that much seemed clear. Perhaps her family had fallen on hard times and she had been forced into servitude. He understood that such women made excellent governesses, ladies’ companions, and even maids. And women in those positions were vulnerable to the advances of an unscrupulous master.

Yet it was clear she was holding back information. Hugh was not entirely sure her tale of a lecherous em
ployer was true, and he was not prepared to rule out the possibility that she had something to do with the embezzlement of his liquor. Perhaps she was a distributor of the brandy. A comely face and form would surely meet with a warm welcome at every inn and tavern across The Mearns where his liquor was sold. But even if that were so, Hugh could not credit her ability to steal any of his inventory without MacGowan knowing of it.

She seemed quite a capable sort, but not exactly the rough-and-ready type he would expect a free-trading woman to be. Her eyebrows were slightly darker than her hair, gently arching over her stunning eyes. Her lashes were also golden, the ends russet-tipped. Her skin was pure ivory and her body abundantly curved, even through her disguise. Hugh could easily understand how MacGowan might be swayed by her…And at the same time, he did not doubt that some wealthy Aberdeen gentleman might wish to lure her into his bed.

But whether she was a free trader or a runaway servant, there were no easy answers to his questions. He let out a deep breath and gave a slight bow. Whoever she was, he was not going to turn her out into the inclement night.

Keeping her with him felt more exciting than it should.

“Miss MacLaren, we will leave our conversation there while I go and find you a bedchamber.”

“Oh no! I…can stay with the…Are there no…” She glanced about the room, frowning. “My lord, have you no servants?”

Keeping his eyes upon her, he shook his head. Deciding to test her as much as inform her of the situation. Staying alone with a bachelor would surely give a proper lass pause.

“No. My servants never come up to the castle after dark.”

She swallowed visibly and gave him an equivocal answer. “I am sorry to be so much trouble.”

“ ’Tis no trouble at all,” he said, confirming her audacity, but learning nothing new about her.

T
he fire felt heavenly, but Brianna’s clothes were soaked through. She needed to get out of them and into something dry, but that was out of the question. The few things she’d put in her satchel would hardly be wearable after being exposed to the rain. Nothing was impermeable to such a downpour.

She doubted she would ever feel warm again, but staying at Glenloch was not a good idea. She knew it down to the soles of her shoes, yet she had no other choice. She could not leave at this late hour or in this weather. And the option of returning to Killiedown to wait for her birthday and her inheritance was out of the question.

Brianna felt a renewed pang of grief over the loss of her aunt, her only other ally in the world. If only she’d known Claire was ill, she’d have returned to the manor well before this. Her three dismal years in London should have been enough, without returning for a round of winter soirees.

Now she would never see Claire again.

The wind renewed its assault on the castle, and Brianna shivered with the cold. Her teeth had started to chatter, and water dripped from her sodden jacket. She couldn’t seem to get close enough to the fireplace.

At Killiedown, one of the servants would have already heated some bricks and put them into her bed to warm it. Her maid, the real Bridget MacLaren, would have helped her out of her wet things and rubbed her down with the softest woolen blankets this side of the River Dee. She would stoke the fire, and soon it would be toasty warm in her little bedchamber, and even cozier in her bed.

But Killiedown would never be the same without Claire. Bree took a shuddering breath and wiped away her tears. When Laird Glenloch returned to her, she needed to be in control of her wits. She could not allow her grief to cause her to err, for she sensed Glenloch’s laird could be a dangerous man.

Not that he would harm her. Once he’d known she was female, he’d relaxed his struggle against her. Which was exactly the problem. Brianna was particularly vulnerable to this practiced roué, staying alone with him in his abode. He knew how to tantalize a woman with a well-placed touch and a glance of sincere appreciation. Even while being questioned, Bree had felt safe and comfortable with him, as though naught could make him lose patience with her and her incomplete answers to his questions.

She knew she should not have lied about her identity and her station, but she could not risk the possibility that
he might alert Lord Stamford to her presence there.

Looking around, she wondered if he’d told the truth about his servants. An estate of Glenloch’s size did not run itself, so surely there must be others about. Yet she’d seen no signs of life through the windows as she approached the castle. There were no signs of industry anywhere, except that this room, possibly the great hall at one time, would put any London drawing room to shame. Its thick carpets and beautifully upholstered fabrics on the chairs and settees made it a lush and comfortable room. The walls had been painted with an elaborate, continuous mural, and modern portraits hung on every wall. There was not a speck of dust to be seen on any of the highly polished tables.

It was a relief to be able to spend the night there, but Brianna had to be careful of becoming too relaxed. Her chosen shelter was warm and inviting, and the thought of a cozy bed was nearly too much to contemplate. But perhaps she’d be better off contemplating the horse Lord Newbury must have stabled on the grounds, and whether she could steal it during the night and ride somewhere far away.

But horse thieving would make her a criminal, and Bree refused to be that. Bad enough that she’d become a runaway and a liar.

The sooner she left Glenloch, the better, though it would be foolish to do anything but wait out the rain and hope that it let up by morning. Brianna was no coward. She could deal with Laird Glenloch tonight, and then leave again early in the morn on her own two feet. Dundee was her destination, and it was a large
enough town that she should be able to remain there and evade Stamford until she reached her majority. Only two more months. Then she would be an independent woman.

Miss MacLaren could not possibly be acting without an accomplice, yet it seemed she’d arrived at the castle alone. Perhaps she’d intended to meet someone here, mistakenly believing the castle would be deserted. He wondered if she knew of the secret chamber that adjoined the buttery, the hidden area where his contraband brandy was stored.

Instinct caused him to dismiss his suspicions. He couldn’t believe she was capable of hauling heavy tubs of brandy, and he knew her hands weren’t tough enough to be driving a cart across the county in the harsh December weather. The explanation she’d given rang almost true, although Hugh sensed there was something more to it.

He figured he’d be able to discover the truth easily enough, and enjoy himself immensely as he did so.

His candle cast ominous shadows on the walls of the second-floor gallery. It was a long corridor, with cushioned benches and low tables comfortably arranged against the walls between the bedchamber doors. It was easy to believe that a ghost haunted these halls at night, and the very possibility of its appearance prevented the castle staff from living in.

Sometimes, Hugh felt nearly as skittish as the servants, avoiding the rooms the ghost was said to haunt. He shook his head in self-derision and proceeded to
the end of the main gallery. He pushed open the door to the last room, a small chamber that had been meant for a nursery.

But he and Amelia had never had children. Amelia had never shown the slightest hint of a pregnancy. And though she eschewed his physical attentions as often as possible, Hugh believed they’d had relations enough times during their five-year marriage to have accomplished at least one pregnancy. He might have concluded she’d been barren, but in subsequent years, none of his mistresses had conceived, either. He knew each one had used some device to prevent pregnancy, but such things were notoriously unreliable.

Not that he wanted any Newbury bastards running about. But at least one conception might have reassured him.

He was sterile, so he planned to content himself with his money and his amusements, for he had no intention of marrying again. It had been bad enough the first time, and since he would never sire an heir, another marriage would be pointless. When he went to his grave, the title and all his estates would go to Sir John Hartford, his second cousin, once removed.

Hugh liked the fellow, actually. John was an amiable sort who could not believe Hugh intended to abstain from taking another wife, and never failed to encourage him to reconsider. The irony caused Hugh to shake his head. For, if Hugh married, then John would remain a country gentleman, supporting his four daughters off his farm. It was a hardscrabble existence, and without the yearly stipend Hugh sent him, the family would
be in dire circumstances. John ought to be praying for Hugh’s early demise.

And yet the man did nothing of the sort. He was entirely content with his lot. He cared deeply for his wife, and took great joy in his children. It defied all logic, for Hugh knew how elusive such sentiments could be. Hugh’s own mother had absented herself from his presence for most of her life, and his own wife had never succumbed to feeling any gentle affection for him. The hell of it was that he had not required her undying love, but a bit of warmth would not have been amiss.

He entered the nursery and saw that the fire was laid and ready to be lit, and a stack of peat had been piled beside it. Hugh got down on one knee and reached into the fireplace. He lit the fire, then turned to assess the rest of the room. The window was shut tight against the storm, and the bed was piled with woolen blankets. Hugh could easily picture his puzzling intruder lying there, curled tight under the blanket against the bitter chill. Or better yet, lying with her heavenly bottom curled up against his lap after a bout of scorching loveplay.

She was a fiery maid, unlike his last few mistresses, who’d managed to grow dull and uninteresting inside a month of their intimate acquaintance. Hugh was certain that Bridget MacLaren would bring more than a bland, uninspired performance to the bedchamber. Such a woman would be wasted as a governess or lady’s companion. She belonged in bed, with an appreciative lover.

Quietly, Hugh returned to the drawing room and
found that she had not moved from her place by the fire and was still trying to warm herself in spite of her wet clothes. The thought of getting her out of them tantalized him. Whoever this petite, knife-wielding warrior might be, she was vastly appealing. Her pale hair was beginning to dry in soft curls around her face, casting an alluring, halo-like glow about her. The rest of the blond mass trailed down her back, a spill of curls and waves that Hugh’s fingers itched to touch. Her brown woolen coat concealed most of her curves, but he had felt them when they’d tussled at the top of the stairs. He knew her feminine assets were more than satisfactory.

Her brow was furrowed and her lips pursed as though she were deep in thought. He wondered if she was considering the brandy she intended to steal…or the rutting employer.

“You ought to take off those wet things. You’ll never get warm this way,” he said, startling her. Her head snapped up as she looked at him, her cheeks coloring with astonishment as well as indignation.

“If you think I’ll disrobe for you—”

“Of course not, Miss MacLaren. What do you take me for? I’ve got a fire going in one of the bedchambers. You can stay there for the night.”

“Oh. I…I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion.” Her blush charmed him and her reaction gave weight to her tale of a randy employer. “Thank you, my lord.”

“No offense taken,” he said, smiling as he turned away. He would never take advantage of an unwilling woman, but he did not doubt his ability to bring this
one around to his way of thinking. He reached down and picked up the bundle she’d carried with her, then led her up the stairs and down the long gallery to the nursery. There, he pushed open the door and allowed her to pass him.

“I daresay there are candles somewhere,” he said, setting her possessions on the hearth. Her eyes were really quite remarkable—an ethereal blue and altogether too cautious. Perhaps the employer had tried to force her to undress, hence the presence of a knife and her willingness to use it. Hugh decided to give her a few moments alone.

“Lord Newbury…”

“Laird Glenloch while in Scotland,” he corrected.

“Then I thank you, Laird.”

He gave a slight nod and left her, but not for long.

In the flickering light of the fire, Brianna peeled off her wet clothes. She pulled one of the blankets off the bed and wrapped it around her, then stepped close to the hearth and opened her bundle. It was where she carried her money, but there were also two plain gowns and a chemise, two pairs of stockings, and one pair of shoes all rolled together in the satchel, inside an oilskin tarp. Only the shoes and one stocking at the very center of the package were dry.

Brianna was not worried. With the blazing fire and plenty of peat on hand, everything should be dry by morning. She would be able to leave.

In the meantime, she would be snug and warm here. The room was small, possibly a child’s bedchamber,
with a low desk and a narrow bed. She took her money out of her shoe and hid it under the mattress, then laid out her wet clothes, arranging them carefully, for maximum exposure to the fire. As she spread them out, an odd light shimmered from above, as though someone had suddenly lit a lamp above the door. But when Brianna looked up, there was no light. She glanced back at the bed to see if she had truly concealed her coins, or if they were somehow reflecting the firelight off the wall. But there was nothing to account for the strange radiance.

Dismissing the odd occurrence, she returned to the task of arranging her clothes by the fire, but suddenly felt a prickle of awareness.
Someone was watching her!
She whirled around, expecting to see Laird Glenloch, but the door remained closed and the flickering light had returned and was starting to gather into a discernable shape. Brianna blinked her eyes, then rubbed them to be sure she was not seeing things.
The bright, filmy form of a person could not be hovering at the door!

And yet it seemed to beckon to her.

“What do you want?” Brianna whispered, feeling foolish and afraid all at once. Foolish because she could not possibly be talking to an apparition. Afraid because…what if it was real?

A knock at the door made Brianna jump. The figure disappeared as she yanked open the door, unnerved, forgetting that she was clad in just a thin, woolen blanket.

“You must be hungry after your long walk,” said Laird Glenloch. He carried a plate of food and a glass
of ale into the room and set it on the table beside the bed. Then he went to the writing table and opened the drawer. Drawing out two candles, he lit them both, leaving one on the table and placing the other next to the food.

Brianna clutched the blanket tightly, making sure the loose end was securely tucked under her arm. “My lord—”

“ ’Tis not much,” Newbury said, turning to look at her. “Just a cold sausage pie and some cheese that I bought when I stopped at Marykirk.” His gaze dropped to her shoulders and down to the upper curves of her breasts, and Brianna’s skin began to tingle. She remembered the way his body had felt pressed against hers when he’d nearly kissed her, and wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

He stepped closer, and Brianna found herself unable to move away.

“You are very beautiful, Miss MacLaren.”

His voice warmed her as much as the heat of his body. His deep tone was as rich as clotted cream, but far more dangerous. Bree could easily find herself leaning into his strong frame, seeking the comfort of his embrace.

But she knew better. She took an unsteady breath. “Laird Glenloch, you should not be here.”

“ ’Tis late to be concerned about propriety, Miss MacLaren.” He was so close she could smell his shaving soap, and see the reflection of the fire in his eyes. His jaw was ruggedly hewn, as though from a block of
granite, and the scar on his cheek reminded her that he was not quite civilized.