Taken by the Laird (5 page)

Brianna harbored a remote hope that the laird might have left the castle on some sort of estate business, for she had no idea how she was going to face him after the
intimacies she’d so mistakenly allowed. How could she expect him to believe her tale of unwanted advances by her employer’s husband when she’d allowed exactly the same from him—a complete stranger? ’Twas clear that he was everything she’d been warned against, and more.

The long gallery outside her bedchamber was dark and shadowy, with numerous closed doors and arched entrances to other corridors. Brianna went to the staircase and descended, arriving in a cavernous entryway. She looked around the open area to get her bearings and noticed the drawing room where she’d entered the night before. The sounds and smells of breakfast were to her left, and she headed in that direction, toward the delectable aromas of kippers frying in a skillet, and bread in the oven. She was so intent upon her goal, she ran straight into Laird Glenloch, who suddenly stepped out of a doorway in her path.

“Miss MacLaren,” he said, catching her shoulders to help her regain her balance. His eyes were dark and sensual, his faint smile reminding her of the scandalous interlude that passed between them last night.

He was darkly handsome in his simple country attire, all tweed and leather, with the scent of his shaving soap about him. He looked seasoned beyond his years, his features angular, marred only by the crescent-shaped scar high on his cheek. His physique was utterly male, and Brianna was hard-pressed to forget the power of his touch and the deep desire he had kindled within her.

She moistened her lips and took a deep breath of resolution, aware that the forbidden sensations he roused
in her could come to naught. “Good morning, Laird Glenloch.”

His fingers drifted from her shoulders down to the middle of her back. “Are you hungry?”

Brianna swallowed and tried to speak lightly. “Yes. Quite.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” he said, his voice low and dangerous to her peace of mind. His head dipped, and he caught her lips with his own.

Brianna drew back. “Laird…” she said breathlessly. “ ’Tis unseemly t-to…”

“To act upon our attraction to each other?” He pulled her closer and feathered kisses down the side of her jaw to her throat, and Brianna forced herself to deny the sizzle of arousal that burned deep within her feminine core.

“Please,” she said. “We cannot.”

A door opened and an older woman with fading red hair came through it, carrying a tray. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Laird,” she said, pushing past them as though barely noticing their presence.

The laird released Brianna and followed the woman into a dining chamber. He turned and held out a hand to her. “Join me for breakfast, will you, Miss MacLaren?”

“No, Laird. Just a small bite in the kitchen will suffice.”

“No—I insist.”

Brianna clasped her hands at her waist, aware that she would touch him at her own peril. Her senses were humming with too much awareness of the man, yet he seemed barely affected, indicating that Brianna should
go ahead, then following her through the door as though naught had just passed between them.

“Mrs. Ramsay, this is Miss Bridget MacLaren, who will be staying with us until the weather clears.”

“Aye, Laird,” the woman replied, her slight hesitation the only indication that she might remember Brianna from the one time she had visited Castle Glenloch with Claire several years before. But then Mrs. Ramsay gave a slight bob of her knees and the moment passed. “Let me know if there is aught ye need, miss.”

Brianna blushed deeply, aware that Mrs. Ramsay had witnessed the kiss in the hall. She must think her a strumpet.

Laird Glenloch gestured for Brianna to enter the dining chamber ahead of him. Feeling flustered and ill at ease, she did so, and found two places set at one end of a long, polished table. She was determined to ignore her qualms about continued contact with him, and the poor opinion of his housekeeper. Bree was nothing if not practical, and knew she would need sustenance for her continued journey. And once she left, she would never see the Ramsay woman again. Whatever she might think hardly mattered.

Brianna took a seat and waited for Glenloch to take his own. He did so, and handed her the platter laden with kippers, eggs, and thickly buttered toast.

“ ’Tis too wet to travel today,” said the laird.

“And cold as a stone,” said the housekeeper as she returned with a pot of tea, which she poured into each of their cups. When it was done, she left them alone in the dining room.

Perhaps Lord Stamford would not be traveling in such bitter weather. Brianna’s guardian was not one to sacrifice his comfort for any reason, but she knew he was quite anxious to accomplish the marriage he’d orchestrated. She tried to determine whether ’twould be safer to leave Glenloch or remain at the castle and risk further brazen advances from its laird.

During her three dull seasons in London, Bree had never met anyone like him. None of the swells who’d come calling could match this tall, dark nobleman with his seductive ways, not even Bernard Malham. Brianna could not help but wonder how she’d have felt if this laird had come to Stamford House to woo her as a legitimate suitor.

In spite of his scandalous ways, Lord Newbury—Laird Glenloch—was known to be a wealthy peer with more power and influence than most other noblemen in Britain. Perhaps Lord Stamford would have overlooked his faults, just as he’d overlooked Roddington’s, to achieve a promising marital alliance with him.

The laird was vastly attractive, and Bree suspected that if he’d come to call, Lady Stamford would have sent her away on some errand, just as she’d done every other time an attractive young suitor had come to the house. Her guardian and his wife never intended to give her a choice in the matter.

In truth, Lord Stamford had orchestrated her “ruination” with Roddington to ensure a match with his powerful family. Brianna could only imagine how angry he must have been when he realized that Brianna was not coming to the church for the wedding.

She did not care. Let Lord Stamford marry one of his own daughters to the old lecher.

She looked up and saw Glenloch gazing intently at her.

“You said you have no relations.”

“No. Only my aunt…who died recently.”

His brow creased, and Brianna realized she shouldn’t have mentioned it. Now he would probably ask questions she did not want to answer.

But he did not. “My sincere condolences,” he said. “Your aunt was your only connection? The only one you could turn to when your employer’s husband accosted you?”

Brianna had thought her tears had all been shed, but a fresh flood clogged her throat, and she could do nothing but nod.

“You were close.”

She nodded again and bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She did not wish to discuss her situation, and so picked up her fork and started to eat, even though her appetite had waned with the reminder of all she had lost.

The silence lengthened, and Bree grew uncomfortable under Glenloch’s scrutiny. “You are a long way from London, Laird,” she finally said.

“There is always business, Miss MacLaren,” he said gently, “at one estate or another.”

His hands were large and strong-looking, his fingers blunt-tipped with nails pared short. Brianna had felt their strength and their tenderness, and she wondered which reflected the true character of the man. Lord
Roddington’s hands had felt as soft as putty when he’d grabbed her hand and placed it on the front of his trews to prove his attraction to her.

Laird Glenloch had needed to do no such thing to demonstrate his desire.

“Are you cold, Miss MacLaren?” he asked, noting her shiver.

“Oh, uh…yes, I suppose so. I neglected to bring a shawl.”

“ ’Tis clear you packed in haste,” he said, and Brianna managed to refrain from looking down at her wrinkled dress. She knew she did not look particularly fashionable and hoped her attire supported the Banbury tale she’d told him. “Are you still disinclined to confide your troubles to me?”

Brianna bit her lip, aware that the less said, the better.

Glenloch gave a slight shake of his head. “We’ll leave it, then.” He turned toward the open door and called to the housekeeper, who returned to the dining room, wiping her hands upon her apron.

“Aye, Laird. What is it ye need?”

Brianna felt homesick as she witnessed the easy informality of Laird Glenloch’s house. It was just so at Killiedown Manor, with servants who had been part of the household for nearly a generation and a genuine affinity between them. Brianna had told Claire’s housekeeper that she would be back, to keep the fires burning, and she would return just as soon as she could—the day after she came of age.

Laird Glenloch spoke to Mrs. Ramsay. “Have some
one fetch a shawl among Lady Glenloch’s things and bring it down to Miss MacLaren.”

“Ye know we doona like to go up to that chamber, Laird,” the plain-speaking housekeeper replied.

“It will take but a moment,” he said. “Send a maid for it. Or one of your grandsons. Are they here?”

The woman made a low sound of discontent, then turned away and called for someone named Ronan.

“I don’t wish to put anyone to any trouble,” Bree said.

“The servants have been working around the Glenloch Ghost for many a year. Don’t worry about them,” he said with a grin.

“T
he Glenloch Ghost?”

“Aye,” Hugh replied flatly. If Bridget MacLaren hadn’t heard of it yet, she would soon encounter various tales of the phantom. Hugh had no control over the stories that were told all over the district, nor did he attempt to squelch them, for they served an important purpose. “ ’Tis said there’s a filmy apparition that haunts the halls and galleries here.”

“Then I did not imagine it.”

He decided her engaging speech must have been tempered by southern regions. London, if he was not mistaken. Perhaps her family had had the wherewithal to send her to school there.

In the light of day, her eyes were larger than they’d seemed before, and the palest blue. He could not seem to take his eyes from the delicate arches above them, or the small dimple at the side of her mouth when she spoke. Her hair was slightly disheveled, as though she’d just arisen from a lover’s bed, and—

Her words suddenly registered in his brain. “Imagine what?” he asked, his attention abruptly refocused. Dash it, he should never have left London so quickly. A visit to a former paramour might have taken the edge off his restlessness and helped to keep him from lusting so deeply after this woman.

“What did you see?”

“An odd light in my bedchamber, then a floating gray shape near the door. It seemed to take the form of a young woman.”

“You jest.”

“No, Laird. I assure you, I saw something.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, of course I was alone.”

“No, the ghost. Was it…” Good God, he could hardly believe he was questioning her about a myth. “Was it only one ghost, one figure?”

“I…I think so.”

He stood. “Are you certain?”

“I cannot be absolutely sure, but it seemed to be only one.”

Hugh felt reassured in spite of himself, knowing that Amelia’s distraught spirit had not joined the old phantom. ’Twas ridiculous, he knew, and he shook off the absurd notion. “Well, don’t worry. Our ghost has never hurt anyone in the centuries it’s haunted Glenloch.”

A young boy entered the room just then, carrying a woolen shawl in the deep russet color Amelia had favored. He brought it directly to Hugh, who put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him to look him over. “You’re Ronan?”

“Aye, Laird. Ronan MacTavish.”

“You were a mere bairn when I was here last.” It had been three years, and Hugh could hardly believe this grandson of Mrs. Ramsay had even been walking then. “How many more MacTavishes are there?”

“I’ve got two brothers younger than me, Laird, and two older as well. All but the youngest are here, somewhere.”

Hugh knew and trusted the lad’s father, who was familiar with every aspect of the brandy trade. He would have to talk to Niall MacTavish, soon.

“How old are you, lad?”

“Six years.” The boy puffed up his chest in a show of maturity.

Hugh gestured with the shawl the boy had retrieved. “And you’re not afraid of Glenloch’s ghost?”

“Nae, Laird. ’Tis only the lasses and old women who are scairt.”

Hugh laughed. The lad was thin but sturdy. In a few years he and his brothers would join their father in the free trading. Hugh gave him a satisfied nod. “Is your grandmother keeping you busy?”

“Aye, Laird. I’m to stack bricks of peat in all the rooms ye like t’ use.”

“Ach, is that all?” Hugh asked. “A fine, strapping lad as yourself should have much bigger tasks than that, eh?”

“I have more, Laird,” Ronan replied. “I’ll be sweeping the kitchen and back halls after me gran’s done wi’ the cookin’.”

“Then you’ll be earning this, too,” Hugh said. He
reached into his pocket and took out some coins, then handed them to the boy. “Give these to your mother.”

Ronan’s pale brown eyes lit up with excitement. “Thank ye, Laird. She’ll be verra grateful to ye.”

Hugh added another coin to the boy’s hand. “Here’s one to keep for yourself.”

The boy smiled broadly, and before he scampered off, calling to his grandmother, he gave Hugh another gleeful thanks.

Hugh turned his attention back to Miss MacLaren and found her eyeing him quizzically. “He belongs to one of Mrs. Ramsay’s daughters.”

“I see,” she said with a hint of bewildered admiration in her eyes, as though she could not quite credit that he could be kind or generous.

But times were difficult for Falkburn folk. The free trading eased their poverty, but even that was failing them now. Hugh’s father wouldn’t have given a moment’s thought to their troubles, but Hugh had promised himself at an early age to do exactly the opposite of what Jasper would do in any given situation.

He stood and went to Brianna’s chair. Draping the shawl over her shoulders, Hugh lifted her hair, allowing it to fall softly down her back. He lingered behind her, sliding his hands down her arms, thinking of all the ways he wanted her.

Later, when the servants had gone and they were alone together, he would finish what he’d begun the night before. There was no doubt she’d wanted him then. He’d not mistaken her ardor, and he looked forward to wooing her into his bed. An uncertain future in
Dundee could hardly compare with the arrangement he intended to offer her.

He was in need of a mistress, and a sweet governess or lady’s maid was exactly the kind of lover that suited him, even though she might not yet be aware of it. This one was passionate and responsive, and would be freshly uninhibited once she let go of her nervousness. He’d tasted her desire, and he knew she was wary. But he did not doubt that he could convince her to stay at Glenloch with him. He looked forward to the next few days of becoming intimately acquainted with beautiful Bridget.

Hugh had already concluded that she had no involvement in the theft of his brandy. Her grief at the mention of her aunt had been quite real, and her story of an aggressive employer rang true.

He was quite content to be the man who offered her comfort and solace.

“Who is the ghost, Laird?” Bridget asked. “Or…who
was
she?”

Hugh was hesitant to tell the story, but he finally repeated what he’d always heard. “According to legend, she was the wife of an ancient Glenloch free trader. An unwilling, unhappy wife.” A wife just like Amelia, no doubt. He put aside his suspicion that the ancient, legendary wife had also thrown herself from the parapet of the north tower to the ruins below.

“What does she want?”

Hugh shrugged and decided to tell her the truth. If she was going to stay with him at the castle, he did not
want her jumping at every creak and odd reflection of light. “ ’Tis only a legend. There is no ghost.”

Bridget shivered and drew the shawl tightly around her shoulders. “I saw it. Or something.”

“ ’Tis not possible.”

“I think it beckoned to me.”

“Well, don’t follow it,” Hugh said, humoring her. He lowered his head, placing his mouth close to her ear. “This morn, you should follow me.”

“Laird?”

“Through Glenloch. There is much to see in this ancient pile of stones.” A tour was just the thing to keep her occupied while Mrs. Ramsay and her staff performed their duties. As they wandered through the castle, he could seduce her slowly, tantalizing her with the promise of pleasures to come. His task was to convince her that she need not run off to Dundee to find employment, but stay with him at Castle Glenloch. Perhaps he would even take her to Newbury Court in the spring.

It was a perfect solution for both of them. He wanted her fiercely, and she needed his protection. Besides, he did not care to return to London any time soon. Life had become too complicated there. They could remain at Castle Glenloch, or visit one of his country houses where he and Bridget MacLaren could enjoy each other without interruption or interference.

“Laird,” said Mrs. Ramsay, intruding once again. “MacGowan is here fer ye.”

Hugh had known he would have only one night to learn what he could about his brandy before being dis
covered by the servants. As of last night, he knew exactly how many tubs of undiluted brandy lined the walls in the secret chamber in the buttery.

He straightened up from Bridget’s delectable scent and answered Mrs. Ramsay. “Send him to my study.” Then he spoke to Bridget. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see my estate manager, but I’ll come and find you in your chamber in an hour.”

“No! I mean, I’ll just meet you…here.”

“Afraid of me, Miss MacLaren?”

“Of course not,” she replied quickly. “ ’Tis only that I…”

“You plan on exploring on your own?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. If you’ve a library, I might find something to read.”

“Aye. Just next to the drawing room.” She was a woman interested in books. A governess, then. He hid a small smile at the thought of pleasures to come. With a governess. She was going to be far more interesting than the well-practiced courtesans of his acquaintance.

Hugh left the dining chamber and went to the study where estate business had always been conducted. There, he found Malcolm MacGowan, a tall, burly man with hands the size of shovels and a perpetually irritable expression on his face. Hugh wondered how he would comport himself in the ring and decided he’d be a formidable adversary.

MacGowan combed his bright coppery hair over a receding hairline and grew thick muttonchop whiskers, perhaps to compensate for the lack on his pate. He
was only five or six years older than Hugh’s own thirty years, but had never married. From his early morning discussion with Mrs. Ramsay, Hugh had learned the man harbored a secret infatuation with a Stonehaven lass. “The fool doesn’t know how lucky he is,” Hugh muttered as he entered his study. ’Twas far better to leave one’s emotions unattached and enjoy the moment with a willing lass.

“Laird,” MacGowan said, rising from his seat by the fire. “We didna know ye were coming.”

“Aye. It was an impulse. I left London rather abruptly.”

MacGowan frowned. “Woman trouble, then?”

“You might say so,” Hugh admitted, unsurprised that MacGowan knew of his reputation. The gossip sheets played fast and loose with his name so frequently that he was known for his supposed exploits all the way to Aberdeen.

The worst yet was what would soon be said about his encounter with Charlotte de Marche, although she’d brought it upon herself. Hugh had never expected her to corner him the way she’d done. He’d been polite, but not quite a gentleman, for that kind of fool would have allowed himself to be shackled as a result of the lady’s bold advances.

From here on, he was going to take pains to stay clear of the ladies of the ton. Not a one was trustworthy.

“We’ve a shipment stored and waiting for dilution and distribution,” MacGowan said.

“Ah?” Hugh remarked as though he did not already
know it. “ ’Tis well-hidden in the buttery, I trust?”

“Aye. ’Tis a large shipment, too. Ye’ll garner a tidy sum from it.”

Hugh tried to discern if there was any dissembling in MacGowan’s tone, any disappointment or annoyance in his manner. If MacGowan was the one responsible for Hugh’s losses, he could not be pleased to have him there, in the midst of an operation.

This shipment would go a long way toward compensating for the deficits Hugh had had to live with over the past three years. Rather than dealing with his insufferable partner, he’d made up the differences himself, and given a higher percentage of the take to the Falkburn folk. ’Twas long past time he put a stop to it. “When does it go out?”

“We were hoping last night,” said MacGowan. “And now tonight does no’ look good, either. No’ with more rain comin’.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Aye. It must be tomorrow, for another of Captain Benoit’s ships will be comin’ in late.”

Hugh considered the news, frowning at the inefficiency of it. “Then you’d best get the brandy that’s in the buttery diluted and out today, else where will you store the new shipment?”

“Mayhap in the barn, Laird? ’Tis winter and none o’ the customs agents are likely to rouse themselves to poke into every wee cranny along the coast this time o’ year.”

“No,” said Hugh. “They’re too unpredictable. I’d rather not risk Berk Armstrong or Angus Kincaid find
ing it. Or worse yet—Mr. Pennycook. Get it out tonight. Regardless of the weather.”

MacGowan nodded, though he was clearly not happy about it. His reaction only confirmed Hugh’s suspicions, for the manager was his primary suspect in the thieving. No one else had access to the money Hugh sent, as well as all the information—the dates and times, numbers and distribution.

“You’ve yet to say why you’ve come here, MacGowan,” said Hugh, for the man had already admitted he had not known of Hugh’s presence until his arrival at the castle.

“Oh…uh, just estate business,” the man replied. “I come up every few days t’ check on things.”

“Very good of you, especially on a day like this.”

“Weel, I always like t’ know if anyone’s been poking round the product.”

Hugh crossed his arms over his chest and looked at MacGowan. He knew it was sometimes best to stay silent and let the situation play out, a direct contradiction to his father’s ways. The old laird had been much more vocal, letting everyone know of his thoughts and plans…as well as his disdain. Hugh could not imagine the old man ever getting anything more than the most basic cooperation from those who worked for him.

Or from his son.

“I didna bring the books, since I didna know ye were here,” said MacGowan.

Hugh waited, ignoring the harsh visage of his father, glaring down upon him through the dark oil pigment of the painting that hung on the wall behind MacGowan.
Jasper would have browbeaten the manager until he’d heard what he wanted to hear. Not necessarily the truth.

But Hugh was a patient man, and he waited as MacGowan pulled on one of his muttonchops and started to pace before the fire. The estate manager had never been a calm man, and Hugh knew better than to ask him outright if he was cheating Hugh, the way his father would have done.

“I can look over the books any time,” Hugh said. “Our priority is to get the brandy let down, and out of the castle before tomorrow.”

Hugh could dismiss his estate manager out of hand, but he wanted proof. And he wanted the names of all who were involved, especially if they were Falkburn men—the very ones he’d been supporting these past three years.