Taken by the Laird (11 page)

Three Falkburn women came through the grate and scooted into the buttery. They positioned themselves to receive the containers of brandy when they were handed in, but as they took their places, one of them suddenly noticed Hugh. She took in a sharp breath and curtsied, and the other two followed suit.

“Laird, we didna know ye were here!”

“Just lending a hand is all,” he said, feigning innocence. And ignorance.

“MacTavish is about to give the signal, Laird,” said MacGowan, making his way through the grate.

Hugh followed the manger outside. “I’ll go down to the beach with you, MacGowan.”

“Just like the old days when ye were a lad, eh?” said Murdoch when they were all clear of the castle.

“Exactly,” said Hugh. But there wasn’t going to be any pilfering this time.

At least fifty people had gathered on the beach below the castle, able-bodied men and women from Falkburn. Hugh took a glance up at the tunnel lantern shining from the parapet of the south tower above them, then he looked toward the sea. The cutter gave no signal back, but Hugh knew Benoit would be sending stout boats to
shore, now laden with the liquor for which MacGowan had already paid with Hugh’s gold.

The weather was cold, and the clouds thicker than ever. A light flurry of snow drifted down as they worked quietly and efficiently, carrying the full tubs of brandy to the castle, passing them through the grate to the women who waited inside. They had a rotating system, carrying the tubs carefully in turn to the secret room where they stacked them.

It was years since Hugh had participated in this aspect of the trade—not since his father was alive and had stood watching from the south parapet with his debauched partner, the Marquess of Roddington. The two had quickly tired of the common tableaux and returned to their depraved amusements.

Later, Jasper had derided Hugh for joining the peasants in their labor, but Hugh had kept silent. Far better for him to show the townspeople that he knew and understood every aspect of their free-trade process, than to join two of the most contemptible peers of the realm in their diversions. Hugh hadn’t even stayed at the castle that night. He’d made the hour-long ride to Stonehaven and spent the night at an inn rather than pass a night under the same roof as his father.

After Jasper’s death, Hugh had wrought dramatic changes in every one of his estates, and the servants no longer had any reason to fear their lord. He’d striven for fairness in all his dealings, and avoided Roddington at all cost, which was the main reason Hugh been making up for their losses instead of speaking to him of the problem. The less contact he had with Rotten Rodding
ton, the better, though ’twas high time he severed their partnership once and for all.

Lookouts were posted in strategic places along the road and at the edge of the castle, but as the night progressed, Hugh did not think any of the customs agents would appear tonight. Armstrong had braved the rain the day before, and he would likely have no interest in risking being caught in another storm. And since Armstrong had already checked on the rumor of a cutter in the cove, neither Kincaid nor Pennycook would have any reason to venture out from Stonehaven in the cold. Hugh believed there would be no surprises tonight.

Bree woke alone, in need of the water closet. She tossed back the covers and slid out of bed naked, wondering where Hugh had gone. She dreaded going into the cold corridor, so she looked for the greatcoat he had dropped when they’d come up to his bedchamber, but it was gone, too. Likely he had used it to keep warm while he took care of his own needs.

Remnants of the meal they’d shared were growing stale on a plate beside the bed, and the fire had burned low.

Never having taken a lover before, Bree did not know what the etiquette of the situation required. Should she wait until he returned? Pick up the plate and carry it down to the scullery and retrieve her clothes?

Since it went against the grain to sit and wait for something to happen, Brianna pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, then went
to the door. From there, she took only a moment in the water closet, and when she returned to the hall, a shimmering glow drew her attention. The ghost appeared as a vaguely feminine form, and as before, Bree felt no fear. Instead, she felt drawn to the young woman whose spirit walked the castle.

Hugh denied its existence, and it suddenly occurred to Brianna that this might not be the ancient specter at all. Perhaps it was Amelia’s troubled spirit that haunted these halls now. Since everyone who came into the castle gave the ghost a wide berth, and no one seemed to have seen it, how would they know if it was their old familiar bogle?

She followed the translucent form to the end of the gallery, into the room where she’d slept her first night at Glenloch. The ghost gestured toward the window, and Bree stepped up to it and looked out. A light snow was falling, and the half moon cast an eerily brilliant light on the clouds surrounding it and the water below.

There was a ship in Glenloch’s cove, and Brianna could see shadowy figures on the beach. “Smugglers!” she whispered, and realized Hugh must know about it. That’s where he must be.

Bree turned toward the ghost, but it was gone.

The bitter cold in the hall suddenly seeped into her bones, and she hurried down to the scullery where they’d left her clothes. Dressing quickly, she pulled on her boots and hat, and found her way outside, hoping she could blend in with the free traders below. Her aunt had participated in a profitable operation from Kil
liedown, importing tea and spirits. Bree knew how it worked, that as many hands as possible would make short work of the shipment.

The thought of seeing Hugh now, of working beside him, excited her. She wanted to stand with him among the others, knowing more about him than anyone else, even though she was perfectly aware that the intimacies they’d shared were merely expressions of a strong physical attraction. It was no different than what passed between a man and his mistress. Bree had no claim to the avowed bachelor, nor did she want one. She craved her freedom.

Nonetheless, she was determined to enjoy and relish the closeness and sense of well-being she felt with him, even if it was temporary.

For tonight, she was content to stay at Glenloch.

Laborers from Falkburn carried pairs of tubs—half ankers that held about four gallons each—to a point beyond the beach where the castle rose up from a short, rocky ledge. There, each pair was lifted up to the ledge where they were received by yet another group of Falkburn workers who conveyed them, one man to the next, until they reached the grate to the buttery. At that point, someone slid them inside, and the women in the buttery carried them to the secret chamber where they stacked them.

It was quiet, dark work, for each one knew ’twas important to avoid drawing unwanted attention to their efforts. Hugh felt invigorated by his exertions, and more at ease than he’d felt in many a year. Working in the
cold and dark, he could not recall why he’d ever thought he preferred to stay away from Glenloch in favor of his aimless pursuits in London.

His mistresses’ talents paled compared to the adventure of sharing Bridget MacLaren’s bed, and the allure of his boxing matches and gaming clubs had no hold over him here. His few days at Glenloch had been filled with more exhilaration than he’d felt…perhaps ever.

Anticipating his return to his warm bed and the soft, sweet body of his lover, he worked with nimble energy alongside the others until the silence was broken by MacGowan’s harsh whisper. “You there!”

He had grabbed a newcomer, a lad by the looks—

Good Christ, it was Bridget!

Hugh put down the tubs he’d hauled from the quay and scrambled up the beach to intercept his estate agent before he could do her any damage. “Leave her be,” he said.

“But Laird, I doona know who—”

“I know her.”

Bridget skipped down to him smiling broadly, and the earth seemed to open up at Hugh’s feet, threatening to swallow him whole. The impact of her presence, of her beautiful, beaming face, was more vitalizing than it should be.

She placed her hand upon his arm, and the heat of her touch shot through him in spite of the barrier of his greatcoat. “I’ve come to help.”

He drew her aside. “Bridget, sweet, you don’t have to—”

“Aye, I do.” She went up on her toes and whispered
in his ear. “ ’Tis dull and lonely in that big bed without you.”

He swallowed and shoved away the erotic thoughts that could only distract him from the task at hand. “Come, then.”

They went down to the water together and he rejoined his gang.

Bridget took a set of tubs from the quay and carefully lifted the straps over her shoulders, positioning one tub against her back and one to rest against her chest.

“You are no stranger to this,” Hugh said, marveling that she was strong enough to carry the weight of those gallons.

“No,” she said, keeping her voice down as every competent smuggler would do. “My aunt…She used to run tea, among other goods.”

“Up near Muchalls.” It should not have surprised him, for Bridget had called her unconventional. She was following her aunt’s example—taking him for her lover, involving herself in his free-trade dealings. He wondered again about Bridget’s background and wished he’d gotten more details. He felt a pang of wariness at the realization that he still knew hardly anything about her.

“Aye,” Bridget replied, saying no more, and Hugh did not ask her. But he would later. They worked together, side-by-side while Hugh counted the minutes before he could to take her back to bed. By his calculations, they’d transported only a couple hundred pair of tubs, and there would be many more before they were finished. Bridget worked tirelessly, her eyes frequently meeting
his as they worked, flirting with him, distracting him with the promise of intimate delights to come.

Hugh could not let arousal interfere with his observations. He kept an eye on MacGowan as well as every other member of the crew who worked on the beach, unable to dismiss the suspicion that MacGowan was the swindler. The only question was why the man would risk it.

MacGowan was well-paid, and had to know that if Hugh ever caught on to what he was doing, he’d be sacked. He would lose his income from the brandy trade as well as his post as estate manager. He would be left with naught.

Hugh had not given the man any indication that he knew something was amiss. Perhaps MacGowan believed Hugh would continue to neglect Glenloch and the free trading indefinitely and he could go on reaping his illicit profits.

It continued to snow—just a few big flakes that melted when they landed, but they lent a pale, watery light to the beach. Hugh looked at Bridget, bundled in her dark woolen coat, with her hat pulled low on her head, and deemed himself very fortunate that he’d decided to come to Scotland just at this moment. Otherwise, he’d have missed the experience of wrestling her to the floor on the night he’d arrived. He wouldn’t have felt the exhilaration of pulling her out of her sinking skiff and taking her away to the kelper’s cottage. He would never have felt the fierce anger or the wild excitement of making love to her all through the night.

Instead, she might have been well on her way to
Dundee by now. Or her employer’s husband could have found her.

He felt a deep wave of possessiveness. She belonged to him, at least for the time being. No other man was going to touch her while she was under his protection.

There was an eerie stillness to the morning. Brianna lay on her side in Hugh’s snug bed without moving, her back against his chest, his hand cupping her breast. She could feel his heartbeat and his deep, regular breaths blowing the hair next to her ear.

She felt a misplaced sense of contentment, of being at peace, at home. She braced herself against the sure knowledge that she had to leave. Now, before she got in any deeper. And before he learned her true identity.

A man like Hugh would not turn her over to Stamford or Roddington. He would be angry, for certain. And he would walk away, cold and betrayed. Brianna did not think she could face his abandonment. She needed to leave Glenloch first, before he learned of her deception and withdrew.

She eased out of the bed, somehow managing not to disturb him. Quietly drawing her shirt over her head, she went to the window and moved the thick curtain a fraction of an inch to look out on the quiet morning. It was still snowing, but more heavily now than when they’d gone to bed, hours before. It blanketed the ground, and muted every normal sound that Bree was accustomed to hearing.

Looking over the different levels of roof and eaves,
Bree saw that they were covered with at least eight inches of the stuff. The road, which should have been visible from the window, was nonexistent.

It was impassable. She could not leave.

Even though Brianna felt a keen sense of relief to know that no one could travel in this weather, she also knew that no good could come of her staying at Glenloch.

She’d been concerned about the servants finding her in his bed, but there were no sounds from below, no permeating aroma of breakfast cooking. Of course the servants had not ventured from their homes in Falkburn. They were likely closed up in their own small crofts and cottages, taking care of their animals and trying to keep warm as they waited for the snow to abate before digging themselves out.

Letting the curtain fall back, Bree turned to the bed and saw that Hugh was just barely awake, his dark eyes watching her. She felt her entire body blush at his perusal, aware that she could not possibly compare to his fancy women in London—to the beautiful opera dancers and courtesans with whom his name was so often associated in the scandal sheets.

“Come back to bed,” he said, his voice a deep, sensual rasp that sent shivers of desire down Brianna’s back. She felt wholly naked before him, even though she wore a shirt that covered all her essential parts. But her feet and legs were bare, and she did not even want to consider what a mess her hair must be. She was exactly the disaster Susan and Catherine Crandall claimed she was.