Taken by the Laird (16 page)

What he ought to do was see that she was returned to her guardian, Viscount Stamford, but he knew the man. And a more fawning, parsimonious mushroom was not to be found within or without the echelons of society. The man dangled after every peer of consequence, hoping to gain influence just by association. Hugh could not imagine Brianna at his mercy.

Brianna sat on the edge of the bed of the nursery, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She thought of running, but Hugh would have been after her before she could make it a half mile down the road. Not that he was so set on keeping her. She would not delude herself about that. But she knew he would take it amiss if she left when he’d told her to stay and wait for him.

She shivered with a sudden sense of cold, and looked up to see the ghost hovering nearby. “If you’ve a suggestion about what I should do, then out with it.”

The apparition did naught but float there, just above the floor, its shape only vaguely human.

“What is it, then?” she demanded, not even sure what she was seeing. Hugh denied the existence of the ghost, and no one else had ever seen it. Perhaps her anger and frustration were making her see things. Perhaps she was going mad. “What do you want to show me?” she asked, exasperated.

The filmy consistency of the ghost seemed to ripple in place, and Bree lost all patience. “I cannot read your mind. I don’t know what you want!”

Nor did she care. She did not want to know. She just needed to get away from the discontented spirit, away from Glenloch and the ache in her heart, and the knowledge that she would never feel for another man what she felt for Hugh.

She started for the door to make her escape, but stopped when she felt the cold prickle of unease on the back of her neck. It was the oddest feeling, as though Glenloch’s phantom had actually slipped its icy fingers around the back of her neck. If this was all some kind of illusion, then she did not understand reality.

Brianna swallowed and turned in resignation. “What do you want from me?”

The room looked exactly the same as it had on her first night at Glenloch, except for the plaid blanket from the kelper’s croft that was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Brianna knew it must have been a child’s room at
one time, else the furniture would have been larger and there would have been hangings on the walls similar to those she’d seen in other parts of the castle.

The filmy light still shimmered in the center of the room.

Brianna stepped back inside and looked around, since her illusion clearly wanted to show her something. She opened the small wardrobe, worried that she might discover another whip or some other indication of Hugh’s bleak childhood. She took a breath of relief when she found it empty. There was nothing on the shelves, and the drawers were empty.

“What now?”

The writing desk was empty, too, but for an additional half-burned candle in the middle drawer. Bree shut it, but heard the rustle of paper inside as she did so.

“Is this it? Is this what you want me to see?”

She unbuttoned Amelia’s heavy coat and tossed it onto the bed. Turning back to the drawer, she pulled it open again and removed it all the way. She placed it on the desk and reached into the empty space, pulling out the crumpled foolscap she found there.

It was a child’s drawing of a sailing ship, so detailed that it even showed a map of the African coastline along its right edge. Bree could not understand why the ghost wanted her to find it.

She sat on the bed and looked down at the smoothed-out picture in her hands. Hugh must have drawn it years ago, during one of his visits at Glenloch with his father. He’d barely mentioned his mother, only telling Bree that she’d called him Glenloch.

“Glenloch,” she said quietly, the word sounded very cold when applied to the man whose bed she’d shared. Bree could never call him that. To her, he would always be Hugh, the brave hero who’d come to her rescue at sea, the generous lover who’d given her untold pleasure in his bed.

She dropped the drawing onto the bed and stood. Was this what the ghost had wanted? For Brianna to slow her thoughts and curb her anger long enough to think about the man with whom she’d spent the last several days?

“I’ve done naught
but
think about him, Ghost!”

Bree admitted his anger was justified. She’d lied to him and put him in an untenable position. The only thing she could do to prevent even more trouble was to disappear. She could get away from Glenloch before Lord Stamford learned that they’d spent days alone together.

For if her guardian did not find her here, he would have no grounds to force Hugh to wed her.

She wondered if there was a way to get around Hugh and leave without him. He might be occupied for some time with the customs men. But he had his horse, she reminded herself, and could make much faster time than Bree would be able to do on foot. Perhaps she could hide somewhere on Glenloch property, and when he left the estate to find her, she could flee in the opposite direction.

Brianna put a halt to her impulsive train of thought, for it was just as bad as the plan that had taken her out to
sea in the small tub boat. The weather was still brutally cold, and if she found herself caught in it, she might freeze to death. And she would deserve it this time.

She sat down hard on the bed and allowed herself to face the truth. She did not really want to escape. In fact, Brianna almost wished she had agreed to stay at Glenloch with Hugh.

But he wouldn’t have asked her if he’d known who she was. Nor would he have taken her to his bed. Every aspect of their association would have been entirely different.

Yet Bree would not have changed anything, except for the misery she felt now, with her departure at hand. She’d tried to leave before, but that time, she hadn’t felt anything like the anguish that coursed through her now.

Her eyes lit once again on the crumpled picture of the sailboat lying on the bed. “It explains nothing,” she said aloud, even though she was alone.

As alone as Hugh must have felt, she supposed. He’d mentioned the holidays he’d spent with friends rather than with his family. And he’d grown up to marry in typical aristocratic fashion, to a woman with whom he’d shared no closeness. Likely they’d wed for family alliances rather than any liking for each other.

And yet…Had Hugh cared for his wife? He’d sworn off marriage after her death. Perhaps because it had devastated him, rather than freeing him. Brianna had not thought of that possibility before. He might have loved Amelia.

Bree had not mistaken the expression of deep emotion crossing his features, or the regret in his voice when he spoke of his late wife.

She picked up the picture. Taking it to the desk, she smoothed it out on the wooden surface and tamped down the pang of jealousy that twisted in her chest when she thought of what Hugh might have felt for his wife.

She had no right to any such feelings. But that did not keep her from having them.

Hugh went to the stable and saddled his horse with every confidence that Brianna Munro would not have the ballocks to leave Glenloch when he’d specifically told her to stay put. As much as he wanted to go right back up to his bedchamber and confront her with her lies, he needed to deal with Armstrong and Kincaid. He decided to make a show of disinterest, leaving the castle while the customs men poked about.

They would find naught, of course. And Mrs. Ramsay knew better than to give them admittance to any part of the castle other than the kitchens. As further insurance, she and the other servants had instructions to keep everyone away from the ruins, for these were said to be dangerous areas with walls and floors that might collapse at any time.

Such tales, along with rumors of a ghost, had always worked before. And the lairds of Glenloch had allowed the exterior of the castle to remain in its run-down condition in order to add authenticity to the claim.

He mounted his horse and rode down to the beach. “Make sure to have Mrs. Ramsay brew you some tea before you go on your way,” he said to the men.

“Aye, and thank ye, Laird!” Armstrong called out while Kincaid continued to scowl and stab at the ground.

Hugh’s mood was dark as he rode to MacGowan’s cottage. He’d known something was not quite right about Brianna Munro’s story, but he’d never guessed. Good God…the granddaughter of an earl. The daughter of a viscount.
Stamford’s
ward! He didn’t even want to consider who the jilted bridegroom might be. The man could call him out and be justified by it.

Brianna was doubly naïve if she really believed their liaison would cause no consequence to him. If Stamford ever got wind of it…He shuddered to think of it. Her guardian was one of the worst social climbers, exactly like Charlotte de Marche and the rest of her ilk, who would like nothing better than to entrap him in marriage. To his ward, in Stamford’s case.

Hugh had avoided such shackles assiduously for the past three years, and by God, he was going to steer clear of them now. He would just put the customs men off their suspicions of contraband at Glenloch by leaving the estate and heading toward his manager’s cottage. It was time he had a frank conversation with MacGowan, anyway.

He had been to the man’s house only twice or thrice in his life, for the custom had always been for the lairds of Glenloch to conduct estate business in the castle’s
study. MacGowan greeted him with surprise and admitted him to his front parlor, a comfortable sitting room that served as an office, with a tidy desk at one end.

MacGowan offered him a seat and a cup of tea, which Hugh declined.

“Laird, I’d have come up to the castle if I’d known ye needed t’ see me.”

“Kincaid and Armstrong are poking about the beach,” Hugh said without preamble. He was in no mood for niceties in light of…everything.

The manager paled. “The brandy is still up at the castle.”

Hugh nodded, very much aware that the weather had prevented removal of the liquor.

“And it has yet to be let down.”

“Tonight would seem to be a good time,” said Hugh. “The sooner the better.”

MacGowan frowned. “I’m no’ sure of that, Laird. Mr. Kincaid’s customs office is in an uproar over the sightings of Benoit’s ships.”

“You’re saying Kincaid will send riders all the way down to Glenloch even when the roads are barely passable?”

“They’re passable enough on horseback.”

Hugh had found that to be true, though he still hoped the customs office would not bother sending riders out after dark. “None of them showed up the other night when we took in the last shipment.”

“Ach, weel, mayhap because I did what I could to lead Armstrong astray when ye sent him here for shelter.”

Hugh raised a brow.

“I told him we’d heard rumors of a smuggler’s ship seen down closer to Inverbervie.”

“Well done, MacGowan,” Hugh said, watching the man carefully for signs of deception.

“I’m thinkin’ we might want to wait awhile before we dilute this shipment and get it out to market,” MacGowan replied carefully.

“I’ll consider it. In the meantime, perhaps you can tell me why my free-trading income has been dropping steadily these past couple of years.”

“Laird?”

“I’d like a look at your balance sheets, MacGowan. You’ve got them here, haven’t you?”

“Of course.”

He had not shaved, so there was a thick growth of red whiskers on his neck. Even so, Hugh noticed his throat reddening as he swallowed thickly. Guiltily?

The man took out a large, bound ledger and set it on the table between them. He opened it to the first page. “Here ’tis. Every shipment since your grandfather started the trade.”

Hugh turned the pages until he came to his father’s tenure and saw the partners he’d brought in to expand their business. Of those investors, only Roddington was left, and Hugh wanted to know why. There were other operations Roddington would be better suited to, with partners who did not despise him.

“Times are difficult, Laird. A tub of brandy doesna fetch what it used to.”

Interesting. “In other words, we are no longer doubling our outlay, as we once did?” Hugh asked.

“Not here in the Mearns,” MacGowan said. His face was flushed with color, and he opened and closed his big fists as he moved nervously about the room. “I’ve had t’ find men t’ carry it as far south as Kirkaldy and Edinburgh. But even so, we’re down more than half.”

Hugh did a quick mental calculation. “You’ve been cutting Falkburn’s percentage?”

“Weel, aye.” MacGowan nodded. “T’ make up some o’ yer losses, I had t’ do it.”

“Who are these distributing men you’ve brought in?”

“They’ve mostly come from Stonehaven. The Falkburn men won’t do it.”

He closed MacGowan’s book and picked up his gloves. “I’ve decided to arrange for a crew to go up to Glenloch later today. MacTavish will let you know when the brandy is diluted and ready to be shipped.”

Feeling unsatisfied by the conversation, Hugh left the manager’s cottage and walked his horse down the road to the village to get more information. He encountered Niall MacTavish—Sorcha Ramsay’s son-in-law—shoveling a path near the vicarage.

“Hello, Laird. I was planning on comin’ up to see ye at Glenloch later. I’d like a word, if ye doona mind.”

“Let’s walk to Tullis’s place.”

“Aye, Laird.” MacTavish put up his shovel and they walked together through the snow-covered village. The paths between cottages had already been cleared, making it easy to reach the center of the small town. Hugh led the way to the public house, where MacTavish followed him inside. Together, they stepped up to the bar, where Osgar Tullis greeted him and drew two
glasses of ale from a cask, placing them on the scarred wooden surface of the bar.

MacTavish spoke. “I thought ye should know Guthrie saw Gordon Pennycook going into MacGowan’s cottage a bit over a week ago.”

T
he hairs on the back of Hugh’s neck prickled.

MacGowan hadn’t mentioned any such visit, even though Hugh had told him of the customs men exploring the sand around the castle. “You think Pennycook knows we’re free trading at Glenloch?”

“Weel, I wouldna know about that. But Sorcha thinks MacGowan fancies one of Pennycook’s daughters.”

“What?” Hugh asked, dismayed. His manager had to know better. Attention from any customs agent was not something to be encouraged.

“My wife’s mother is seldom wrong. The woman hears everything,” MacTavish said, scratching the back of his neck in bewilderment, “though I doona know how.”

‘Twas a chilling thought, though Hugh did not believe MacGowan would risk his own income by betraying the business to a customs agent. Perhaps he hoped to cull favor from the girl’s father with bribes. Many a customs agent was known to accept inducements to turn
a blind eye. And Pennycook was not one of the agents who had come to Glenloch today to search in the sand for illegal goods.

“Armstrong told me someone reported seeing a cutter in Glenloch’s cove,” he said.

“Aye,” Tullis remarked. “Mayhap he’s just pokin’ where he thinks he might hit a vein.”

“Actually, he’s poking down at the beach even as we speak.”

A young woman came to refill their glasses as the Scots muttered quiet curses of alarm under their breath. She was a pretty lass with wispy blond hair who looked up at Hugh with a promising flirtation in her eyes.

He could have her if he chose. When he finished with these men, he could accept her invitation and make his way to one of the upper rooms of the house. There, they could engage in a lusty interlude that would leave him…

Dissatisfied?

No, it could not be. The lass was a likely enough bed partner and Hugh’s appetites were sufficiently healthy. He knew how to give as much pleasure as he took, and he prided himself on his stamina. If she was willing to give, then he was willing to take. But not today.

She leaned forward, and the bounty of her assets nearly overflowed the neckline of her gown. And yet Hugh felt not even the slightest stirring of desire.

He clenched his jaw and turned his attention to the matter of his brandy business. Once he got Brianna Munro away from Glenloch, he’d be free to return and sample the maiden’s charms.

“Could there be an informer in Falkburn?” he asked.

“Ye jest, Laird,” said Tullis. “With the pitiful harvest pulled in this autumn, no’ a one of us can afford to lose our free-tradin’ income.”

“MacGowan’s been bringing in his own crews to carry out the brandy,” said MacTavish.

“And he’s brought in batsmen from Stonehaven and Aberdeen,” Tullis added. “Real thugs they are, too.”

“Aye, a bad lot,” MacTavish added.

“We’ve never needed batsmen before,” said Hugh, disturbed by this news.

“Nae, and we still doona. Kincaid and his lot have never given us any serious attention.”

Word of Hugh’s presence in the public house must have spread, for soon a small crowd had gathered around him. As Tullis brought out a cask of brandy and began filling glasses, the men spoke of bad crops and the free-trade income they’d been counting on for their labors. They had no intrinsic right to Hugh’s profits, but for three generations, the brandy trade had been a necessary supplement to their income. Hugh had not begrudged them fair pay for their work, but his neglect felt far too much like his father’s disregard.

It would end now.

The men drank and told their tales of woe to their laird. Hugh kept up with the lot of them, drinking and half listening while he watched the barmaid tend tables. She was a sure thing. Her smiles were directed exclusively toward him, and he should have felt more than a mild interest. He should be roaring with lust at such a
blatant invitation and take her to a private room even now, and have his way with her.

But Hugh’s body was not cooperating. Clearly he’d had too much to drink. His speech started to slur and the floor began to ripple under his feet. ’Twas past time he returned to Glenloch to deal with Brianna Munro, for the room was swimming before his eyes.

“Laird,” MacTavish said with a grin. “Are ye all right?”

“Fine. Jus’ fine,” Hugh said, pulling on his greatcoat with more awkwardness than he liked.

Taking MacTavish aside, he talked to him about distribution. “There’s something I’m still not clear on. MacGowan tells me there’s little profit to be made here in the Mearns.”

“Laird, I canna believe any Scotsman’s taste for brandy has faded in the past two or three years,” MacTavish replied. “All we know is what MacGowan tells us.”

“It used to be Falkburn men who carried our brandy out,” said Hugh. “Who were they?”

“Guthrie, Currie, and MacLaren,” he said, startling Hugh with the mention of the false name Brianna Munro had used. He staggered as the sudden image of her face…and her mouth…blazed through his brain. He turned to look at the barmaid, trying to dispel the memory of Brianna’s enticing feminine scent and the taste of her pink-tipped nipples. He tried to avoid thinking of the particular sound she made when he was inside her, just before her climax…

But he failed miserably.

She was such an audacious woman, Hugh could
almost imagine her climbing into one of their wagons and driving the brandy herself to all the taverns across the Mearns. Her rough trews would tighten across her bottom as she pulled herself up, tempting him with the secrets of her luscious body.

When she looked down at him, her cheek would dimple with her intrepid smile, and she would pull her ugly hat down over her hair to obscure her femininity. As if that was even possible. He’d known she was a woman within seconds of encountering her.

Hugh let out a long breath and walked unsteadily to the door, his brain hazy and his gait wobbly. He had to find some way to eliminate his craving for Brianna Munro, and it wasn’t going to happen through drink. For the brandy he’d consumed that afternoon had only made it worse.

He made a disparaging sound and took hold of MacTavish’s arm. “Have th’ men prepare to get their horses and carts ready,” he said, his tongue thick with inebriation. “They can let down the brandy and take it ever’ place that used t’ buy from us.”

If it turned out to be a catastrophe, it could hardly be any worse than hosting a viscount’s very marriageable daughter alone at Glenloch.

It went against Brianna’s nature to sit idly, and she found it next to impossible to wait patiently for Hugh’s return.

To take her away.

Considering what he intended for her was almost as upsetting as it would be to return to Killiedown and
wait for Lord Stamford to arrive. Hugh surely thought of himself as a gentleman, roué that he was, but Bree did not think he would take her back to her guardian as a gentleman ought to do. Given their circumstances, he would not want Lord Stamford to know they’d spent any time alone together.

But he would want her as far from Glenloch—and himself—as possible.

Dundee was still a likely destination, but as Brianna glanced out the window, she realized that it was getting late. Perhaps even too late to start out on a journey that was likely to take several hours, even when the roads were clear. It meant another night at Glenloch.

No doubt Hugh would want to leave first thing in the morning. Brianna could not imagine what he intended to do with her, once they arrived at their destination. He might find her a room somewhere and leave her there with enough money to survive. Or possibly pass her on to a friend or acquaintance and ask them to look after her.

Her temper flared at the thought of either option. Neither he nor any other man had the right to dictate what she would do once she left Glenloch. And if she wanted to leave without him, it was her own concern and none of his. She could go any time she wished, without waiting for permission from him or anyone else.

Still wearing the old, worn clothes she’d arrived in, she hastened down to the study where the old laird’s portrait glared down upon the room, and went to the desk. She pulled open the top drawer and looked down at the money box Hugh had shown her. She was well past the days when anyone could claim authority over
her and shift her from one household to another, ridding themselves of her when she became inconvenient.

The Laird of Glenloch owed her money. It was just a few shillings, to be sure, and not enough to survive on. But he’d offered her as much as she wanted. There was no reason that she shouldn’t take it now and go.

Except that her dratted conscience wouldn’t allow it. Tears of frustration burned the backs of her eyes and she rubbed them away, turning to the window to compose herself. The sea was fairly calm and the customs men were gone. There was nothing to keep her there, nothing but Hugh’s order…as well as her lack of transportation and the weather.

Movement in one of the windows caught Bree’s attention and she turned in time to catch sight of Hugh, walking his horse to the stable. He seemed unsteady on his feet, and since Brianna did not know where he’d been all day, she felt a twinge of worry, of concern that something was seriously amiss.

The servants were already gone for the day, so there was no one to see to him. No one to deal with whatever was wrong with Hugh. Brianna pulled up her collar and held her coat tightly around her. She made her way to the door closest to the stable and stepped outside. The MacTavish boys had shoveled paths earlier in the day, so she followed one of them across the expansive bailey until she reached the stable doors.

It was nearly dusk, which contributed to the deep darkness inside. Brianna stood still for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust. “Laird Glenloch?”

She heard a crash.

“Hugh?” she called, running forward.

He groaned, and she almost tripped over him on the straw-strewn ground. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked as she crouched down beside him and reached for him.

“Ever’thing’s wrong.” He sounded odd.

“Where does it hurt?”

He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest. “Here.”

Panic welled in Brianna’s chest at the possibility of a serious injury. “Let me get a lamp so I can see,” she cried.

She started to rise, but he would not release her hand. Instead, he pulled her sprawling down onto him.

“This can’t be good—What are you doing?” she demanded as he slid one arm around her and trapped her against him.

She pushed against his chest, but he was much stronger, even in his incapacity. “Come to me, lass.”

“What? You are not hurt?”

“I want you, Miss Munro.” His speech was slurred.

“You’re drunk!”

“Verily. Come ’ere.”

Tears gathered in her eyes as she straddled him and felt his potent arousal. He did not really want her. “Twas only the liquor muddling his brain and doing his talking, for he’d been quite clear about his contempt for her.

“No. You need to get off this cold floor and into the—”

He moved suddenly, coming up to capture her lips
with his own, and she was powerless to resist. She felt a tear course down her cheek as she opened for him and felt his tongue seeking hers. This changed naught, for as soon as he was sober again, he would remember that he wanted her gone.

Which was exactly what Brianna wanted. She had always meant for her time at Glenloch, and everything that had passed between her and Hugh, to be temporary. Less than temporary. But as he kissed her as though the world would crumble if he could not get closer to her, she melted against him.

He broke the kiss and started nuzzling her neck, pulling the edges of her coat apart to kiss her throat. Shifting her position, he slid lower and pulled her shirt out of her trews, then took her breasts in his hands. “Ah, God,” he murmured.

And Bree was powerless to do anything but let him touch her, let him draw her into the sensual haze he created. It was just this last time, she told herself. Tomorrow she would go, and never look back.

He took one of her nipples into his mouth and sucked, drawing a cry of pleasure from her. Bree lowered herself down and skimmed her fingers to the fastenings of his trews. She opened them and drew him out, savoring the steely heat of his erection. He felt like part of her already, but Bree wanted him inside her, wanted to feel the pleasure that hard length could give her.

Hugh tried to disrobe her, but failed miserably. Brianna did it herself, glad of his thick coat beneath them and the straw insulation on the ground. She hardly noticed the cold air that whirled up, under her coat.

She shivered, and he cupped her buttocks in his warm hands, plunging deeply into her. “Yes,” he said quietly, shuddering as he started moving in a way that assured pleasure for both of them.

Brianna’s breath caught, but she tamped down the weight of emotion that rose up in her chest. Keeping control was the only way to protect herself from the anguish of leaving.

She moved with him, oblivious to her own sighs of sweet satisfaction while he teased and tormented her with the ebb and flow of his body. Their pace quickened, and she quivered with the intensity of their joining. She let her mind go empty of everything but the contact between them, the bond she would never again share.

Hugh’s head was pounding. He opened his eyes a crack, and the light coming in through the windows blistered his eyeballs.
What the hell was wrong?
He turned slightly and saw a mussed blond head right beside him.

Jesus, what had he done?

Not gotten Brianna Munro out of his life, obviously.
Good God.

At the very moment he had customs men breathing down his neck and the presence of Brianna Munro jeopardizing his carefree life, he’d been sufficiently lackwitted to spend his afternoon dipping much too deeply into Tullis’s brandy. For God’s sake, he’d become ape-drunk instead of returning to the castle and spiriting Brianna away.

He vaguely remembered his inauspicious return, riding into the stable and half falling from his horse. Brianna must have seen him wobbling. She’d gone out to help him, and he’d actually pulled her down to the floor of the stable with him. Even in a stupor, he’d wanted her. What a bungling fool he’d been.