Taken by the Laird (4 page)

“My actions tonight might not follow convention, my lord, but I assure you that I am otherwise a perfectly respectable lady.”

“
Lady
Bridget, is it, then?” he asked, moving closer. With one long finger, he touched the hair that curled at the side of her face.

“No,” she said quietly. “Plain Miss M-MacLaren.”

“Hardly plain, Bridget, but not too high-toned, I hope?” His thumb grazed her chin, then slid across her lower lip.

“No,” Bree whispered as his touch caused tiny shocks to course through her. “Not at all.”

“But you are in need of protection. Assistance.”

“No.” Brianna gave a slight shake of her head. “I will leave in the morning.”

“Perhaps I can convince you to stay awhile. Dundee can wait.”

“Laird, I only came to…”

His hands slid down her arms, warming her, yet raising chills of awareness. His touch stunned her senses and made her brain go limp.

“I o-only came here to—”

He drew her toward him, his head dipping down, his mouth brushing hers. Brianna should have moved away, should have gathered some kind of self-control, put a stop to his gentle assault. She should have shoved him as hard as she’d done to Roddington.

But when he pressed her flush against his body and
deepened their kiss, his gifted mouth coaxed hers open. Brianna’s heart tripped in her chest.

He tasted of brandy, and pure, scorching male.

Rationality deserted Brianna. She felt hot all over. Her nipples tightened and a raw sensation of pleasure pooled deep in her pelvis. The laird tipped her head slightly and sucked her tongue into his mouth, then skimmed his hands from her back to her sides, caressing the lower boundaries of her breasts with his thumbs, then cupping them fully. He made a low sound when he touched their tips, circling them with the pads of his thumbs, then lightly pulling the hardened pebbles between his fingers.

Barely aware of what she was doing, Brianna slid her hands up his chest and encircled his neck, slipping her fingers through the hair at his nape, surprised at the silky feel of it. She felt truly warm for the first time since leaving Killiedown, relaxed and secure for the first time in months.

Laird Glenloch inched her back toward the bed and stood before her, his hands inching around to her buttocks. Brianna felt the rasp of his waistcoat against her bare nipples and suddenly realized that her blanket was gone. Somehow, he’d managed to slide if off her, and now she stood fully naked before him, powerless—unwilling—to stop what he was doing.

His kisses were intoxicating, and his touch turned her knees to quivering reeds. She slid down onto the bed.

“That’s it, lass,” he said, caressing her, going down on one knee before her. “You were made for pleasure.”

Brianna took a shuddering breath as he moved between her legs. She should have felt scandalously exposed. Should have slapped his face and made a grab for the blanket that lay pooled on the floor nearby. But he leaned forward and laved one of her breasts with his tongue, and pure, carnal sensation washed over her. A small voice in the back of her mind told her to resist, but she could neither ignore nor overcome the tremendous need Glenloch aroused in her.

Yes she could.
She had not come this far to be seduced by a notorious rake. She reached behind her for one of the blankets on the bed and pulled it over her shoulders. Somehow she managed to close Laird Glenloch out, mortified by her behavior. “Laird, please. I am not a…a light-skirt.”

Brianna extricated herself from his grasp and came off the bed. She went directly to the fireplace, wrapping herself tightly against any further sensual onslaught. Her legs still felt weak, and there was a trembling awareness of him in every pore of her body. But she would not do this. She did not want a man in her life. Neither Roddington, nor Glenloch, nor anyone else who would use her and control her with little thought for her own well-being.

Hugh scrubbed one hand across his face. He had not intended for things to progress so far. He’d only planned to soften her to the point of admitting her true business at Castle Glenloch. And if she was innocent of interfering with his smuggling operation, there would be no harm in making a lady’s maid receptive to his advances.
But he’d lost control. And ended up walking out of her chamber sporting the most painful cockstand he could recall.

He dealt with it alone in a spectacularly unsatisfactory manner, then turned his attention to what he’d intended to do much earlier, when he’d first encountered the distracting, and oh so tempting, Bridget MacLaren. He returned to the secret door in the drawing room, determined to remove Bridget MacLaren from his thoughts, to eradicate her sweet taste from his lips and the weight of her breasts from his hands.

He muttered a low curse and worked the latch, then entered the passage leading to the stairs. Proceeding quickly down the steps, he arrived at the stone landing and checked the metal grate through which the brandy tubs were passed. ’Twas no doubt the way Bridget had entered. It was tight in the window frame, but the simple metal grille was not much of a barrier to the elements. She had not lied about the weather. It was hideous. Clearly, she had needed to find shelter somewhere, but it made no sense for her to be out walking alone, dressed as she was. She was entirely too intriguing.

Holding his lamp high, Hugh looked down at the stone floor. Wet tracks had pooled near the grate, but the footsteps proceeded directly to the stairs. It looked as though she had not attempted to find his secret cache.

Which meant naught. Perhaps she did not realize this was the place where the brandy was stored.

Castle Glenloch was the perfect place from which to run a smuggling operation. Riddled with secret doors and ancient passages, the towers looked as though they
might collapse under a good wind, deterring any customs officer from investigating. And rumors of the Glenloch Ghost kept away the curious.

Hugh turned to the far wall and ran his hands along the uneven stones, searching for the catch that would release the hidden door. He rarely had any need to open this door, so it took some time to find it. But finally, his fingers located the small latch, hidden in a hollowed-out stone just above his head. It was a lever recessed into the stone wall, attached to a strong spring. When he pulled it up, the catch released and the door fell ajar. He pulled it all the way out, then entered the room. Tubs and ankers of brandy were stacked high against the walls with just a narrow aisle between them to walk through.

It was quite cold inside. Hugh cupped his hands at his mouth and blew into them as he counted each container, then left the secret room. Satisfied that he had the information he needed to start his investigation, he had nothing more to do down there. The next step would be to talk to MacGowan.

Hugh climbed the steps and exited the cold buttery, returning to the warmth of the drawing room. He tended the fire and poured himself a glass of his fine brandy, keeping his back to the prominent portrait of his father. Paintings of Jasper Christie were scattered throughout the castle, and Hugh generally avoided the rooms in which the old earl’s dissipated visage looked down upon him from on high. Just as he’d done in life.

“Here’s to you, old sod,” Hugh said, raising his glass and tilting it irreverently in the direction of the portrait
behind him. “No doubt you’re enjoying this. Your incompetent son has failed once again, and allowed himself to be cheated, dolt that he is.”

Hugh took a seat in the chair nearest the fire and swallowed a draught of brandy, enjoying the burn at the back of his throat. He considered how the thief might be getting away with his brandy and how his losses must be affecting the free traders in Falkburn. While Hugh could afford a decrease in profits, his people could not, and he felt a pang of regret at leaving it so long. He should have come up to Glenloch and put things to rights much sooner.

But then he would not have encountered Bridget MacLaren. He wondered if she’d fallen asleep yet. She’d be lying naked in the bed, for it was quite obvious that everything she owned was soaked through.

His body reacted markedly with the thought of her, despite the release he’d just experienced. She was the most fascinating creature he’d encountered in many a long month, with her dirk and her men’s clothes. Her tale of running from a nobleman’s advances was perfectly believable, but Hugh was not yet ready to absolve her from taking part in the operation that was stealing his brandy. He decided he was very much going to enjoy finding out the truth of the matter.

Mortification still burned Brianna the following morn when she awoke. She wanted to deny that she’d engaged in such shameless behavior with the master of Glenloch, and that she’d enjoyed it. She wished she
could deny the sensual power Laird Glenloch wielded over her.

And yet she could not. She pressed her legs together to squeeze out the sensation of his touch, but it only made it worse. Her breasts still tingled where he’d nuzzled and sucked them, and her mouth felt swollen and bruised from his kisses.

Bernard’s tame kisses had never created such a maelstrom of sensations, and she wondered if that had been part of his appeal—he’d never caused her to lose control.

She turned over and jerked the blankets up, over her shoulders. Glenloch was just a man, a roué whose only skills were those of a master seducer, a gambler, a sporting pugilist. Not a single one of his traits was admirable. She could—she
would
—resist his advances until she could get away.

But it might be some hours before that happened, for it was still raining. Brianna heard it dribbling down the windowpane, along with the howl of a stiff wind that chilled her in spite of the warmth of her room and the soft down of her covers.

She could not face it just yet.

If only Claire still lived, Brianna would not be in this predicament. Her aunt had been a beautiful, vital woman who’d swooped down on Stamford House nine years before to rescue Bree from a miserable existence with her guardian. Claire had been abroad at the time Brianna had been orphaned, and unaware of her niece’s situation. But she’d rectified it the minute she returned,
flouting convention to take Stamford’s ward away to Killiedown.

And there they’d lived until Stamford’s demand that Bree join his family in London for her first season. Brianna never believed those seasons had been provided for her benefit, else Stamford would have allowed her to wed Bernard, for he was a perfectly acceptable young man.

As recent events proved, Stamford was only interested in making a close alliance with a powerful family. And who was more powerful than the man who would become the Duke of Chalwyck?

It was a marriage that would never happen. Bree would move heaven and earth to stay out of Stamford’s—and Rotten Roddington’s—clutches until she reached her majority and was able to make her own decisions.

Brianna could not remember her mother at all, and her father was just a vague memory. But she recalled each and every miserable moment she had spent in Stamford House. Her subsequent years at Killiedown had been sheer heaven, and Bree would have been content to stay there forever.

And yet Claire had insisted that she comply with Lord Stamford’s demand to return to London for a season. Brianna sensed that there was more to Claire’s agreement than the fact that Stamford was Bree’s legal guardian, and if he chose to press his cause, the law would have been on his side then, as it was now.

Claire had actually wanted Brianna to find herself
a husband and make a happy and suitable match, as her own parents had done. Which made absolutely no sense at all, for Claire herself had managed to form a perfectly satisfactory life, alone.

Brianna had gone to London under duress, feeling almost as lost she’d been in her early years. Somehow, she’d managed to persevere through that first season, puzzled and confused by the short-lived attentions of the young men of the ton who’d come to call on her, but then suddenly shifted their attentions to Lord Stamford’s daughters.

Then she’d met her handsome, attentive Bernard. Brianna had been certain he’d loved her as she had him. And yet he’d given her up so easily. Their stolen kisses had signified nothing.

That debacle had taught Brianna exactly where she belonged. At Killiedown with Claire. And now her aunt was gone. Brianna still could not credit that she’d lost her aunt so quickly, and that she was now mistress of Killiedown Manor. She was bereft of the one person she cared for most.

Bree curled into a ball and wept. She’d never imagined this day would come, when she would have to go on without her beloved aunt. Claire would have objected to Stamford’s disgraceful trap. She would have stood up for Brianna and defended her against such an outrageous trick. There never would have been any need for Bree to flee Killiedown and end up where she was.

She needed to get away from Glenloch before Lord Stamford made his way there, and equally important—
before there could be any more encounters in the dark with Laird Glenloch. Just the thought of his sinful caresses made her body flush in embarrassing places. No wonder he was known in polite circles as a libertine. And then there were the terrible rumors about his wife, conjecture that he’d made her so unhappy in her marriage that she’d ended her own life.

It was clear that Brianna would not make her escape from the castle by lying about and ruminating on her situation, so she dried her eyes and left the warm comfort of her bed. The clothes that were spread out by the fire were dry and warm, but for the coat she’d worn through the rain. It was made of a dense wool, so it was still damp and would need a few more hours by the fire to dry it.

Brianna debated about putting it on damp and slipping away from Glenloch, but when a sudden gust of wind drove the rain skittering across the window, she knew she could not face it. She would just have to deal with Laird Glenloch until the weather cleared.

She rearranged the coat so that it would dry evenly, then dressed in one of the two plain gowns she’d brought. She had neither a hairbrush nor hairpins, so she shook out her tangles as best she could, and simply tied her hair back with a narrow ribbon that she removed from the collar of her gown. Then she left the bedchamber in search of clean water to wash with, and some food with which to break her fast.