Taken by the Laird (12 page)

She returned to the bed and climbed in, leaving the shirt on. “The snow has gotten deep.”

“Aye. It was coming down hard by the time we finished last night.”

“No, I mean really deep. There must be nearly a foot on the ground now.”

He gathered her into his arms and nuzzled her neck. “So much the better. Mrs. Ramsay will stay at home today and I’ll have you all to myself, then.”

“I cannot stay,” she said.

“You are safe and warm here. And there isn’t a vengeful gentleman in the entire county who would be out today. Nor will you be, lass.”

“The roads will be buried,” she mused aloud, agreeing with him as he slid one of his legs between hers and settled in to sleep. “Twas as though all was settled between them as well. Brianna wondered how he thought she could possibly fit into his life. She’d supposedly run from a repugnant seducer, and yet replaced him immediately with Hugh. There was no logic in it, except possibly his belief that he was a more worthy—and more skilled—lover than the man from whom she’d run.

His skill was not something Bree would deny. She couldn’t imagine wanting any other man more than she desired the Laird of Glenloch, and she wondered how her aunt had felt when she’d had to leave her Greek lover.

Claire had never given any indication that she regretted her decision to return to England for Brianna, to take her to Killiedown Manor and raise her there, far from the pernicious Crandall family. And yet she’d
spent the following seven years living a celibate life, providing a perfect example of robust Scottish purity and fortitude. Of course she had never expressed any regret at changing her life for her niece.

Claire Dougal had been…

Bree’s progression of thoughts about her aunt came to an abrupt halt when she remembered Claire’s frequent trips to Aberdeen. Claire had explained away those visits in vague terms, saying she had business to attend to in the city. Brianna had been very young then and had assumed the trips related to Claire’s own free-trading interests, possibly meeting with her smuggling collaborator, Captain Benoit. But now that Bree understood the pleasures and the sheer comfort of sharing a man’s bed, she wondered if there was more to those meetings with Benoit. An intimate liaison was something Claire would have wanted to keep secret.

“Sleep, lass. You were out late last night and worked hard. You’ll need your rest for what I have in mind for later.”

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes and snuggled into his body, her thoughts racing, trying to recall the way Claire behaved each time she’d returned from Aberdeen. As though her muscles and bones were made of pudding? Had she smiled and gazed into thin air the way Bree found herself doing, now that she’d shared Hugh’s bed?

Yes.
Claire had been besotted with a lover.

And yet she had not married him. Her life at Killiedown had been enough.

Brianna wondered if Captain Benoit had learned of
Claire’s death, and whether he would mourn her. She could not believe her beautiful, vibrant aunt had been just one of many women on the coast of Scotland whom he’d wooed and bedded. Surely the French captain had cared for her, even if Claire would not wed him.

When it occurred to her that perhaps it was Benoit who had declined to marry, Brianna’s heart ached for her aunt.

She allowed herself to drift to sleep in Hugh’s arms, though her sorrowful thoughts kept her from resting peacefully.

H
ugh emptied the water and cleared away the bath from the scullery, feeling as though the pieces of his life were finally falling into place. His free-trading business was under control for the first time in ages, and he wasn’t dealing with the asinine rumors and innuendos that seemed to follow him in London, no matter what he did.

The scandal sheets had never mentioned his part in helping one of his old friends thwart a killer. There were no reports of his generous donations to the orphans’ charities sponsored by the elderly Lady Sutton, or his attendance at various intellectual gatherings in Town. As far as polite society was concerned, Hugh spent all his time and money on actresses, gambling hells, and pugilists’ matches. The gossip wasn’t even half true and he was glad to be away from it.

While Bridget dressed, he braved drifts of snow to go out to the stable, where he fed and watered his horse,
and surveyed the area where they had unloaded and carried his brandy to the castle.

The snow was as deep as Bridget said and had obscured all the footprints. There was no sign that any activity had occurred in the wee hours of the night. If any of the customs men arrived to visit the site, he would see no traces of the smuggling operation.

Once again, Hugh had made a count of the tubs that were brought ashore, and he intended to be present when MacGowan and his men diluted the brandy before carting it away for sale. He knew what he paid for each of the tubs, and they would be much more valuable after they were diluted and sold to the inns and taverns throughout the county. And yet his free-trade income had dropped in the past year by more than a third.

Whoever was cheating him could not be happy that Hugh was at Glenloch now, observing every stage of the process. MacGowan had not said or done anything untoward last night, but of course he would not. If he was the one, he would have to hope that Hugh would soon be on his way and business could resume the way it had done for the past three years.

Hugh returned to the castle, realizing he’d forgotten how agreeable a heavy, Scottish winter storm could be. There was food in his larder, wood or peat stacked beside every fireplace, and a beautiful, fiery woman to grace his bed.

She was trapped at Glenloch for now, but she’d stated quite clearly her intention to go. Hugh found he was loath to bid her farewell, and he knew he would have to
do some convincing to entice her to stay. His desire for her wasn’t nearly sated.

He found Bridget in the library, wearing her traveling clothes, obviously the only clothes she had. She’d already lit the lamps, and was starting a fire in the grate. It was the perfect place to spend the morning together.

He came up behind her and slid his hands around her waist. It would be some time before he tired of her. “Much as I enjoy looking at your delicious bottom in those trews,” he said, “I think there must be some gowns somewhere in the castle to replace the ones you lost…if you would prefer.”

She turned and looked up at him over her shoulder. “Oh aye. I would much prefer it. I know my attire is truly awful—”

“Ah, but you’re wrong,” he interjected. “You look luscious, now, but especially when you’re wearing naught.”

Her eyelashes fluttered down with embarrassment at his frank words, and he realized he must still tread lightly with this innocent governess. “You flatter me, Laird. I’m quite sure I—”

“Not at all.” He pushed her hair away from her neck and kissed her there. “Surely I was not the first man who ever showed a strong attraction to you. Your employer’s husband, for example.”

He felt her tremble, and he drew her back into his embrace. She was much better off here, with him. Her talents were wasted in the schoolroom.

“I-I never thought…”

“You have naught to fear from him here,” Hugh
said. He slipped his hands up her rib cage, brushing his thumbs against the lower curves of her breasts. “Do you not believe I can protect you?”

“No, I m-mean, yes. I am sure you can. Besides, who would travel in this weather?”

“The clothes are in my late wife’s bedchamber.”

She inhaled sharply. “Then perhaps I’ll just wear what I have. I would not wish to—”

“Do not concern yourself,” he said, stepping away. “Whatever is stored up there is only going to waste.”

He could see that she remained hesitant. “You don’t believe they’re tainted, do you? None of the servants would take them because of Amelia’s…cause of death.”

“No. I don’t believe they’re tainted. I just feel…very sorry for her. She must have been unbearably sad.”

“ ’Twas nothing she ever spoke of to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was not privy to her thoughts. Amelia and I spoke rarely.” He recalled the cold silences that always stretched between them. “She wasn’t expecting me when I arrived at Glenloch the night before her death. She was clearly not happy to see me, so I absented myself the next day with business in Falkburn. Only the servants and an old friend of my father happened to be here at Glenloch when she fell. I learned of it soon after it happened.”

Hugh walked to one of the bookcases. It was just like Amelia to spite herself in order to demonstrate what a dreadful husband he’d been. He had failed at pleasing her, in any way.

He felt Bridget’s questioning gaze, and took a book down from a shelf. He opened it to a random page and glanced over it as though their conversation carried little weight.

“It must have been terrible.”

Amelia could have lived in London while Hugh stayed at Newbury Court. Or she could have taken any one of his other houses while he remained in London. She had not needed to take her life to escape him.

“Aye,” Hugh said, eager to change the subject. “Did you see anything here that struck your fancy?”

“Books?”

“Aye. Does not a governess enjoy books? Or did I mistake you, and you are—
were
—a lady’s maid?”

“I saw nothing suitable for young children,” she said, avoiding the question altogether as she sat down at the chess table. When she started to rearrange a number of the pieces, he saw that they’d been placed incorrectly on the board. Probably by one of the maids after dusting.

“You play?”

She nodded. “A little.”

“Shall we have a game?” he asked.

She smiled and his blood thickened.

“I’ll see if I can figure out how to make tea and get us some breakfast,” he said, “while you go up and find something to wear. Her bedchamber is across from the one you and I shared last night.”

It was nigh impossible to keep up her lie! More than once, Brianna had nearly slipped, because she’d gone too far with her deceptions. She knew now that
if she’d told Hugh her situation at the very start, he’d have helped her. But it was much too late for that. Now she was stuck having to perpetuate the falsehoods she’d told. She did not think he would be very forgiving if she told him the truth now.

And she would not blame him for being angry with her.

Little had she known what would happen when she’d detoured from the road to Dundee. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone at Glenloch, much less the laird himself, which was her only excuse for lying so grievously. She’d been completely unprepared for him.

And now she was his mistress.

The enormity of what she’d done gave her pause. First, to have jilted Lord Roddington—a duke’s son and heir—at the altar. Now this.

Her life had been transformed into something unrecognizable. She never should have agreed to go to London with the Crandalls for the winter. If she’d stayed with Claire, Bree might have been able to nurse her back to good health. Right now, they could have been sitting together in Killiedown’s small parlor, reading or discussing the bloodlines of their herd.

But Claire was gone, and so was Brianna’s life as she knew it.

Perhaps worst of all was her relief that she could not leave Glenloch just yet. She should be trying to figure a way to get to Dundee as fast as possible, and yet she found herself eagerly anticipating the hours she and Hugh would be spending alone. Held captive by the
snow, no servants would intrude on them, nor would Lord Stamford arrive to shatter the peace.

Brianna did not want Hugh to suffer any ill consequences because of her actions. She didn’t know how much trouble Stamford or Roddington could cause him, but when her guardian arrived, Bree needed to be far away from Glenloch. Even though her liaison with Hugh would make her an unsuitable marchioness for Roddington, Brianna would not put Hugh into the middle of the mess she’d made.

No doubt Lord Roddington would be incensed to learn his fiancée had been intimate with another man, but not because he cared anything for her. She’d found him to be a pompous, preening, self-important skirt chaser, and knew his pride would be badly stung. Bree did not want to think about consequences to the man who had trespassed on what Roddington would see as his property.

With any luck at all, she would be far from Glenloch when Lord Stamford arrived, and tales of a lass named Bridget MacLaren would mean naught to him.

Bree left Hugh and went up to Amelia’s bedchamber. She stepped inside and stood still in the cold, silent room, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, sensing an overarching loneliness. Not even a fire in the grate or lit candles would make this room cheerful and bright, and Brianna did not care to stay there any longer than absolutely necessary.

The first of the two wardrobes was stuck shut with three years of disuse. With a forceful yank, Bri
anna managed to pull it open. She reached inside and sorted through the clothing that lay folded neatly on the shelves, and chose a simple green muslin morning gown with long, contrasting white sleeves. Holding it up against her, Bree saw that it laced up the back, so no matter what her difference in size from Amelia, Bree could make the bodice fit. But the length was sure to be a problem, for Brianna was nowhere near as tall as Amelia had been.

She took a chemise from a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, then borrowed Amelia’s brush and the two combs she found on the dressing table. She glanced at the dead woman’s shoes and saw that they were much too large. Resigned to wearing the battered and ill-fitting boots she’d bought from Killiedown’s groom, she hurried out of the room.

Bree stopped short when she noticed a faintly shimmering form hovering near the door of Hugh’s bedchamber.

“What?” She looked down at the items she carried, feeling suddenly guilty for having taken them. “I shouldn’t, I suppose, but…”

The figure disappeared, leaving Bree feeling vaguely unsettled and annoyed. “What else should Laird Glenloch do with these clothes?” she asked no one. “The servants won’t take them.”

Still muttering to herself, she went exploring, in search of a needle and thread to alter the length of the gown. She eventually found what she needed and returned to Hugh’s bedchamber to make quick work of the hem.

Hugh was just about to go looking for Bridget when she finally appeared in the library. She wore a gown he could not recall having seen on his wife, which was not very surprising, since she avoided his company whenever possible, and he spent a lot of time at his clubs. He concentrated on Bridget, rather than the sharp twinge of guilt that threatened to destroy his mood.

She’d done something to her hair. It was smooth now, but not exactly flat, and she’d arranged it in an intricate style of twists at the back of her head. Soft, wheat-yellow tendrils curled near her ears and at her nape, at just the places where he liked to kiss her. She looked as regal as a duchess, only far more accessible.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” she said, going right to the teapot he’d placed on a table in front of the sofa. “The gown was too long for me. I’d have tripped on the hem if I hadn’t shortened it.”

“Oh aye. Amelia was nearly as tall as me. I’d forgotten.” It was true. He could hardly picture her anymore, and he thought of her as little as possible. He watched as Bridget sat down and poured, her surprisingly strong hands performing the task with grace.

“Thank you for putting it that way,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I am much too short,” she remarked. “I’ve been faulted for my lack of height on enough occasions to know it’s true.”

He came around and sat beside her on the sofa, disturbed at the thought of such a petty criticism against
her. “You are not short at all.” He lifted her chin with his finger and looked into her eyes. “You fit me well, don’t you agree?”

Deep pink flushed her high cheekbones and she looked away. “If you say so, Laird.”

“Aye,” he said quietly, letting his finger drop to the modest neckline of her gown. He ran it lightly across her collarbone. “You are perfect.” He’d said it before, and he meant it. Perfectly beautiful, perfect in bed, perfectly unattached.

She gave a short laugh. “Oh, hardly.”

“You don’t believe that you please me?” he asked, moving his hand to her waist. If she was a pure erotic fantasy in her trews and tunic, she was equally alluring dressed in this feminine confection of green and white. “Whoever you are, you fascinate me.”

He saw uncertainty in her eyes. “Whoever I am?”

“Aye. In whatever guise you choose to appear, I want you, lass. Fiercely.”

He touched his mouth to hers and kissed her lightly, belying the immense arousal he felt. He needed to draw back, else he would take her back to bed before she had a chance to break her fast.

“You’re not Scots, are you?”

She turned her attention to the table and the tray of oatcakes and dried fruit he’d brought in. “No. I was born in England, but my mother was Scots.”

“But you’ve lived here. I can hear it in your words,” he said, subtly seeking whatever information he could glean from her.

She nodded. “I spent my early years in England with my parents. But after my father died, I was sent up to Edinburgh.”

“Where you awaited your aunt to return from Greece?”

She shook her head. “No. I was too young to remember her then. And, in any event, I wouldn’t have known she was coming for me.”

He supposed not. “How did you fare in Edinburgh?”