Taken by the Laird (14 page)

“Christ, you are a greedy wench,” he rasped, happy to give her whatever she demanded.

Hugh sucked her deeply, and let her tease him with her slow, tortuous movements, but suddenly he could take no more. He shifted positions, turning her so that she was beneath him. He plunged deeply, creating a perfect fit.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and cried out breathlessly, “More, Hugh!”

As deep as he went, he wanted—
needed
—to be closer. With his hands braced on the settee he kissed her deeply, battling her tongue with his own as he slid out of her wet heat, then back in. He moved hard and fast, listening to her harsh breathing, drawing out her pleasure as well as his own. She made him feel powerful, like a wild Pict warrior with painted skin and braided hair. Like a Glenloch ancestor who had worn armor and ridden an enormous destrier into battle. Hugh was the only one with the power to excite her this way, to draw every dram of pleasure from her, and relish what she offered him.

Every move, every slide of his flesh against hers caused her to tremble. Her breathing quickened when he increased his rhythm, and her warm sheath tightened
around him. He knew she was close. “Come for me, lass. Come apart.”

She made a breathy, exquisitely feminine sound that sliced directly through the center of his chest, and when she spasmed and reached her climax, he spilled his seed inside her, shaking as he came in unison with her.

And as he held her shuddering body against his own, he realized she had not answered his invitation to stay with him at Glenloch.

It must have been the wind that woke Brianna during the night. She rose from the bed and went to check the window, but it was closed tightly. Adding more peat to the fire, she was about to return to the bed when she noticed a light shining under the door. The ghost, no doubt. It had not been the wind at all, but the urgency that always seemed to emanate from Glenloch’s phantom.

She drew her chemise over her head and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders as she slipped her feet into her boots. A moment later, she stepped quietly into the hall, careful not to awaken Hugh.

“Why don’t you just come in and wake me?” Bree whispered, shivering in the cold corridor. “Or…can you
not
come into this room?”

Of course the ghost did not reply, but Brianna had a suspicion that must be it. If the servants did not fear seeing it below stairs, it likely meant that it never appeared down there. Perhaps it
could
not.

“Well”—she yawned—“ ’tis the middle of the night, I’ve got a blister on my heel, and I—”

The ghost flitted down the gallery, toward the corridor opposite the staircase. Its filmy light shifted, and beckoned for Brianna to follow it.

“What is it?”

It was cold away from the fire, and Brianna could easily return to Hugh’s bedchamber and warm herself against the heat of his body. But Glenloch’s ghost clearly had some purpose in mind. And Bree was curious.

She walked down the hall to the place where the glowing figure waited, watching as it made a change in its form, flattening to slip through the space beneath the closest door. Brianna followed, opening the door and looking inside.

It was dark, but for the faint light that shimmered off the ghost. Bree went inside and saw a table with a lamp on it. Locating a tinderbox on the mantel, she lit the lamp, then picked it up and looked around.

‘Twas a bedchamber, much larger than Hugh’s, with two adjoining doors. The bed was huge and looked as though it had been made for a king. Like Amelia’s, it was draped in a rich, dark brocade, its curtains tied at each of the four posts, as though waiting for its occupant to arrive and close them against the chill of the room. Obviously, it was the master’s bedchamber, and Brianna made note of the fact that Hugh had chosen not to use it. He didn’t want even that much similarity to his father.

There were two large wardrobes standing across from the bed, and a cheval mirror in the corner between them, tilted to accommodate a tall viewer. A man. Yet it
was carved in a more opulent style than anything Hugh used in his own bedchamber.

Brianna opened the first adjoining door and looked into what must be the valet’s quarters. There was a plain, narrow bed against the far wall, with a large chest at its foot. She saw nothing of interest there, so she withdrew and walked across to the door to the other adjoining room. Expecting to find the mistress’s chamber, she was puzzled to see the room devoid of furniture. The only furnishing inside was a dark rug on the floor in front of the fireplace.

“ ’Tis odd,” she said softly. Since every other room had been left with its furniture intact, this did not make any sense. She wondered if Hugh had ordered it stripped, or if it had always been empty. It should be the lady’s bedchamber. His mother’s perhaps. He had said little about her, and now she wondered…

Brianna returned to the master’s room and saw that the ghost was gone. There was no sign of any otherworldly light, and Bree could not help but wonder if she’d dreamed seeing it.

She hugged her shawl to her chest and glanced around again, trying to understand if there was some purpose to her visit here. Opening each of the wardrobes, she wrinkled her nose at the stale smell of the men’s clothes stored inside. It must have been some time since the old laird had used them, and she wondered how long Hugh’s father had been gone.

Probably not long, for his animosity seemed quite fresh.

Shivering, she returned the lamp to the table and started to extinguish it, but stopped short at the sight of several long strips of leather lying on the table, beside two large squares of black cloth. She pushed them apart with her fingers, curious about their purpose. Bindings and a blindfold?

“Is this a whip?” she breathed as her mind reeled. An empty bedchamber and a whip…She could think of only one thing it could signify.

Hugh had said he and his father had not gotten along, but he had not elaborated. If the old laird had used the whip on his son…She picked up the leather strips and saw that they were crinkled some distance from each end as though tied. They
must
be bindings.

Jasper Christie had tied his son—and perhaps others—to use that whip on them. He’d been a brute. ’Twas no wonder Hugh avoided looking at his father’s portraits. No matter how long the old laird had been dead, she doubted Hugh would ever forgive him for his brutality.

Feeling outraged on his behalf, she looked for other evidence of wrongdoing, finding nothing but shoes and more clothing. The room had been left to molder as it was, a testament to Hugh’s disdain for his father.

The coldness of the room went beyond a normal chill, and seeped into Brianna’s bones. A queer sensation penetrated her lower back, causing a bone-deep shiver. Extinguishing the lamp, she fled, feeling as though she was escaping something dreadful.

She hurried back to the bedchamber and let herself
inside, quickly shucking her boots and climbing back into the bed. Hugh rolled toward her and gathered her into his arms, drawing in a sharp breath.

“Have you packed yourself in snow, sweet?” he asked sleepily.

“No, I, er…just had to get up.”

“Come close. I’ll warm you.”

She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and let his warmth suffuse her as she embraced him, realizing it was small comfort against what must have been a miserable, horrific childhood.

Bridget was a puzzle to Hugh. She liked to read, but her choice of books surprised him. She did not favor the handful of novels he’d taken down from the library shelves for her, but chose a book on animal husbandry.

“Are you planning to take up farming?” he asked her when they retreated into his study.

“No, I just…My aunt had a farm and we…Well, it just interests me.”

“You’re blushing just as I must have done years ago, when I was caught with a book of naughty pictures given me by my school friends.” He drew her down to the sofa beside him, the place where he’d recently experienced the most amazing sex of his life. His reaction to the way she used her mouth on him had excited
her
, a powerful aphrodisiac in itself.

She laughed, and the sound went through him like warm honey mixed with fine Scottish whisky. “Tell me about school. Where did you go?”

“St. Paul’s in London.”

“And your friends got hold of naughty pictures?”

“Well, they were older, much more experienced.”

She frowned. “How much older?”

“Well, there was Tony Maddox, who was at least three years older than me, and Daniel Bryant who must be two years my elder.”

She laughed, and the dimple beside her mouth captivated him. He was already looking forward to tasting it again. “Ah, I see…they were much older men.”

“I was tall for my age. I don’t think they realized how much younger I was.”

“Ah. Are you still friendly with them? Or were they banished from your august presence for such an immoral infraction?”

He thought fondly of his old friends. “No, on the contrary. I spent a few holidays with Tony at his grandmother’s estate.”

“You did not go home?”

“God, no. Not if I could help it.”

He did not want to think about the subsequent years when he’d had no choice—after Tony had been lost on safari and his father had returned to England alone. He had spent many an hour trying to think of ways that he might sail to Africa himself to find Tony. But eventually, he’d had to give up and accept that his boyhood hero was dead.

He had gone to Daniel’s family home a few times, but most holidays he’d been subjected to Jasper’s harsh and cheerless control in London, or his mother’s wan indifference at Newbury Court. Sometimes he’d come
with his father to Glenloch if he had estate business to attend to.

“You do not use the master’s bedchamber.”

“No.” His tone did not invite any discussion, but Brianna surged forward in spite of it.

“I…happened to go inside it. The ghost—”

He rolled his eyes. “I told you—”

“I’ve seen it. ’Tis not just a legend.”

Hugh sighed, unwilling to argue. As long as she did not flee in fear as the servants did, then he would be free to enjoy her. To breathe in her sweet scent and dally with the hair at her nape.

“The ghost…it showed me a whip.”

Hugh’s hand stilled. God, he’d thought the servants would have burned everything they found in that room, for they’d loathed Jasper as much as Hugh had.

“Did he use it on you?”

“’Tis ancient history. My father was beneath contempt, and I rarely think of him anymore.”

“Only when you’re faced with one of his portraits.”

He rose suddenly, absolutely unwilling to speak of those days. “Tell me of the dirk you carry,” he said. “Would you have used it on me?”

“Only if I thought you were going to harm me. When you attacked me on that first day, I was afraid you were a vagrant.”

Relieved that she was willing to change the subject, he returned to her and took her hand, drawing her up from the sofa. He should teach her to use the knife properly, but at the same time, he didn’t care to think
of her leaving his protection and needing to know how to defend herself. Far worse would be the knowledge that she might find some trouble and have no way to protect herself.

“I did not find it too difficult to take it from you,” he said quietly, bending to touch his mouth to the sensitive corner of her jaw.

“Pray, don’t remind me,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll be on better guard next time I’m accosted in the dark.”

“I look forward to it,” he said.

“What? You plan to accost me?”

“Next chance I get,” he said. His mouth went dry and he realized it was true. He could barely refrain from taking her into his arms even now, just after making love to her there, on the sofa. It had been some of the most satisfying lovemaking they’d yet shared.

Since her introduction to the pleasures of the bedroom, she’d become insatiable, welcoming his touch and all his advances. He did not foresee a time when he would tire of this woman.

But he wanted a distraction now. Her curiosity about Jasper was still in her eyes, but he wanted no more talk about him.

“We might try to go out walking today,” he said, noting the bright sunlight shining through the library windows. She had not said she would stay with him, and with the clearing weather, she could leave today if she chose. He intended to convince her otherwise.

“On the beach?” she asked.

“Aye, if you like,” he replied, letting out the breath
he’d been holding. “Although the snow might still be too deep.”

“I’ll go get my coat,” she said.

Brianna collected it from Hugh’s bedchamber. She started for the door, stopping short when the sight through the window caught her attention. She could see the road from her vantage point. The sun shone brightly on it, and it struck her all at once that it might be passable now.

She sat down hard on the bed and pressed one hand to her chest, taking a tremulous breath.
What was she doing here?

Her one-night detour had turned into many. She’d allowed herself to be seduced by the most proficient rake of the ton. Worse, she was halfway to falling in love with him.

She had vowed never to marry. All she’d wanted was to return home to Claire and Killiedown, where she would never again be subject to the whims of another. Of a guardian who would deny her marriage to the man she loved, and force her to wed the disgusting ravisher of respectable young ladies whom Bree had taken pains to avoid through every season.

With Claire gone, Brianna lived for her independence, for the moment she would turn twenty-one, never to be reliant upon anyone again. A few days with a rakehell like Laird Glenloch had not changed that.

Yet she could not remember the last time she’d thought of the Killiedown stables or whether their horsemaster had seen fit to stay on in Claire’s absence.
Time seemed to have stopped at Glenloch while she and Hugh were blanketed in snow, insulated from the rest of the world.

Brianna knew it would not continue. Hugh might want her to stay with him for a few weeks, and she was oh so tempted. He drew her like a bee to honey, but he was not interested in permanence any more than she was. He’d let it be known to all and sundry that he intended to remain a bachelor, that one marriage and one unhappy wife had been enough for him.