Taken by the Laird (20 page)

Brianna considered whether any society husbands and wives were ever close. Lord Stamford and his wife were not, and during Brianna’s seasons in London, she’d heard of several illicit affaires being conducted between married men and widows, between adventurous wives and their paramours.

It was all exceedingly distasteful, and she did not care to be a part of any of it. Especially as the spurned wife.

Brianna’s stomach clenched. Had that been the reason for Amelia’s suicide? The thought of it chilled her. Had Hugh left his wife here at Glenloch for months on end, to wander these haunted halls all alone?

Feeling unsure what to do with herself and her dismal thoughts, Brianna went into the library and took a book from one of the shelves. She took it upstairs and went into the nursery, the only place—besides the library and Hugh’s bedchamber—where she felt comfortable. She supposed she ought to change out of her gown and into the plainer dress, but it was her wedding day, and even though her husband had not seen fit to stay with her and admire it, she was going to keep it on.

She built up the fire in the grate, then pulled a chair close to it. Unfolding the plaid blanket at the foot of the bed to wrap it around her shoulders, Brianna looked out the window that faced the sea.

It was calmer than it had been in days, the water almost smooth, and it reflected the deep, dark, gray hue of the sky. Brianna shivered at the sight of those frigid depths and pulled the plaid tight around her shoulders.
She remembered how cold that water was, and marveled that she had not killed herself as well as Hugh in her attempt to leave.

If only—

There was something in the water. It did not seem to be a boat, and when the clouds cleared slightly, she could see what it was.

A body.

H
ugh finished in the stable, but no matter how hard he worked, he couldn’t dispel his agitation. He felt as though he could unload one of Captain Benoit’s ships single-handed. Too bad they were not expecting another shipment in the near future.

He pulled on his jacket, and when he opened the stable door, he saw Brianna running frantically toward him, with the servants right behind her.

Hugh’s heart immediately jumped into his throat, but he quickly calmed himself. Brianna was all right, else she would not be running so determinedly.

“Hugh!”

He hurried out to meet her, taking her by the arms, noting that she wore their plaid blanket around her shoulders. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“There’s a”—she swallowed and caught her breath—“a body. In the cove. In the water. Drowned, I think.”

Immediately, he started for the beach. “Go back to the castle,” he called to her and the others.

But they ignored his order and followed him across the lawn and around to the sand. He started to run when he caught sight of something in the water. It did not look like a body from where he stood, and he sincerely hoped Brianna was wrong.

But when he came to the edge of the surf, he saw it. A man, floating facedown, about twenty feet out.

“Christ,” he muttered. Nothing like this had ever happened at Glenloch before, discounting Amelia’s death. And he did not need this now, not while more than a thousand gallons of undiluted, uncolored brandy was lying in tubs inside the castle.

His remaining tub boats were tied to a stake, and Hugh went to them, marveling that this was no less than the second occasion this winter that he’d had to get into one of these small skiffs. It was not one of his preferred activities.

He made no explanation, for what he was doing was obvious. And he tried to ignore the speculation he heard from the servants, who stood shivering in the cold as they wondered who the poor drowned sot was. They would soon know.

“Ronan, run into the stable and get me a length of rope,” he said, then dragged one of the boats to the water’s edge, glad that he was wearing his oldest boots.

“I hope ’tis no’ Artie Stewart,” said Fiona. “His poor wife—”

“Hush, Fiona. We doona know if ’tis Artie,” Mrs.
Ramsay admonished, but she was standing on her toes and craning her neck to try to see whoever was floating in the water.

Ronan returned with the rope, and Hugh sent him to Falkburn to fetch his father, as well as Malcolm MacGowan and a few more men. Then he pushed off into the water.

Brianna watched him jump into the boat and start paddling at a much more relaxed pace than when he’d come after her, to rescue her. If he had failed then, it might have been both of them floating in the cove.

When he reached the body, he moved with firm deliberation. Clearly, there was no reason for undue haste, nothing to be done for the person.

Hugh reached over the side of his boat and slid a circle of rope around the victim’s body. He then looped the opposite end around a clip in the boat, sat back down, and started rowing, dragging the body behind.

It took only a few moments for him to return to the shore, where he jumped from the boat and pulled it in as far as he could, though the weight of the body seemed to work against him.

“ ’Tis not a pretty sight,” he said to the women when he’d gotten the boat as far in as he could. He climbed back into the hull and went to the rear where the body still drifted, and pulled it closer to shore.

Holding on to the rope, he jumped out of the boat again and looked up at Bree. “In fact, ‘twould probably be best if you all went back to the castle.”

“Laird, ’tis likely one of our own,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “We’ll stay.”

“This fellow is not exactly one of our own,” he responded, pulling the body from the water. “ ’Tis Angus Kincaid.”

Brianna did not recognize the name, but she caught sight of the man’s tangled hair and his gray, bloated face just before she turned abruptly and walked a few steps away. Mr. Kincaid’s terrible fate was a bit too close to what might have happened to her, and she felt a surge of nausea at the thought of it.

“What d’ye think happened to him, Laird?” asked Mrs. Ramsay.

“By the look of that gash on his forehead, I’d guess he was given a good bash on the head and thrown into the water.”

Bree could not imagine who would do such a thing.

“Who is Mr. Kincaid?” she asked.

“He is the customs surveyor from Stonehaven,” Mrs. Ramsay replied.

“He was here a couple of days ago, inspecting the cove and the beach for signs of free trading,” Hugh said.

Brianna’s breath caught. “Do you think…Who would have done this to him?”

“He was not the most popular man in the Mearns,” said Mrs. Ramsay.

“Easy to understand why, having met him the other day,” Hugh remarked.

“Aye. He had a sour temperament, Laird, t’ be sure.”

Free traders would be inclined to do him harm, Brianna thought, especially if he was getting close to a valuable shipment. “Would one of those Stonehaven ruffians have done it?”

“ ’Tis possible,” said Hugh.

Brianna turned to face the water, keeping her eyes averted from the dead man while Hugh detached the rope from the tub boat. From the corner of her eyes, she could see him pulling the body onto the shore.

When he’d pulled the man far enough in to be sure he wouldn’t be sucked back into the surf, he came and took her by the arm. “You’re freezing out here. Come back inside.” He turned to the housekeeper and the others. “The rest of you, come, too. Nothing more can happen to Mr. Kincaid now.”

They went inside, all of them going directly to the kitchen, where it was warmest. Meal preparations were in progress, with pots boiling on the stove, bowls and plates on the table, and cupboard doors standing open. Brianna knew Mrs. Ramsay was in the midst of preparing a massive feast that was unlikely to be consumed tonight. As laird, Hugh would surely have some official duty with regard to Mr. Kincaid.

He let go of Brianna’s arm, and she shuddered and pulled the plaid more tightly around her.

“We’ll have to send someone to Stonehaven for the magistrate. And a coroner, I imagine,” Hugh said.

Mrs. Ramsay clucked her tongue and rubbed her hands together. “Laird, ’tis a world o’ trouble we doona need. Will a magistrate want t’ come out here to the castle, do ye think?”

Brianna glanced at Hugh. “There’s brandy in the storage room, isn’t there?”

“Aye. But we’re going to get it diluted and out of Glenloch as soon as possible.”

She heard Mrs. Ramsay’s sigh of relief.

“When MacTavish and the others get here, we’ll put Mr. Kincaid in the barn,” Hugh said, obviously making his plans as he spoke. “Then we can organize a gang from Falkburn to let down the liquor and get it out tonight. Perhaps ’twould be best if MacGowan and I took Mr. Kincaid into Stonehaven in the morning and had a talk with the magistrate.”

“Do you think Mr. Kincaid found anything?” Bree asked. “Is that why he was killed?”

“I don’t know,” Hugh replied. “He might have. Or he could have been killed merely because he was an ill-tempered little man who was digging into places where he should not.”

Everyone knew that free traders were not a particularly peaceful lot. If anyone got in their way, there could be trouble, with killings on both sides of the customs table. But news of any such altercations would surely have reached Glenloch.

“Aye, Laird. ’Tis a good plan,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “But your wedding supper…”

“Will have to wait,” he said as Mrs. Ramsay’s son-in-law arrived with another man. They came inside and warmed themselves in the kitchen before going out to collect Mr. Kincaid’s body.

“Where’s MacGowan?” Hugh asked.

“He went up t’ Stonehaven earlier today,” said Mac
Tavish. “I doubt he’ll return before the morn.”

Hugh frowned, clearly puzzled by the news. “What business has he in Stonehaven?”

MacTavish shook his head. “I doona know, Laird. Only tha’ he left just after ye and yer lady said yer vows.”

Hugh’s expression darkened and he left the kitchen with the other men, without bothering to speak privately to Brianna. But she knew he was thinking about those Stonehaven ruffians he’d mentioned earlier.

When he was gone, Bree felt adrift. Mr. Kincaid’s death was a terrible occurrence, but it had little to do with her. And now that she knew that the brandy was going out tonight, she would ask Hugh again in the morn to take her home to Killiedown Manor, since it was not far past Stonehaven.

Hugh started to leave, but his eyes alighted on the tub in which he and Brianna had bathed together. He felt his throat go dry as he recalled their incredibly sensuous encounter.

He’d told her they would share a bed tonight, and he meant it, especially now, as he thought of the worn plaid she wore draped around her shoulders. It was almost as though the threadbare blanket served as a reminder of the closeness they’d shared in the croft on the beach.

He wanted her in his arms, in spite of the noose that had been slowly choking him since Stamford’s arrival at the castle. He would deal with her request to return to Killiedown later. He had to get the brandy out as soon as possible, for there was every chance that the investi
gation into Kincaid’s death would bring the authorities to Glenloch.

Castle Glenloch had always remained above suspicion, but Hugh would never dismiss the possibility of someone looking toward the dilapidated-looking wing where the buttery was located. He knew he would need to use his status and every bit of influence he could muster to keep any magistrate away from Glenloch and Falkburn.

Kincaid’s death would surely be attributed to free traders in the area, and Hugh hoped he could direct the authorities toward a belief the man had been injured somehow, or even killed at sea and fallen overboard. It was an explanation that made complete sense.

The Stonehaven customs office did not usually run coastal patrols during inclement weather, but with the rumors of a smuggler’s ship in the Glenloch vicinity, Kincaid might have taken one out to investigate. And it was entirely possible that there
had
been a mishap on board his ship that resulted in his death. If that was the case, the authorities would already know about it and there would be no further investigation. Just a cursory inquest.

Hugh could only hope.

“Lady Glenloch, we’ll just finish here, and store everything for the morrow,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “No reason ye canna have yer wedding supper then.”

Brianna gave a nod and retreated to the library. She settled in to read, trying not to reflect on the irrevocable change that had occurred in her life today. Nor did she want to think about Hugh and his men moving
that poor man’s body into the barn. She had never met the customs man, but it was just one more violent death here at Glenloch.

Brianna wondered if people would start calling the place cursed. It was already haunted, whether Hugh wanted to believe it or not, and after Amelia’s terrible death and the discovery of Mr. Kincaid’s body in the cove, she could easily imagine that bizarre tales of untimely death would quickly spread.

It had been some time since she’d seen Glenloch’s ghost, and Bree began to wonder if she’d ever really been visited by the troubled spirit. According to Mrs. Ramsay and Fiona, no one else had ever laid eyes on it, and Bree knew the suspicious creaking and unearthly howls that were heard about the castle could easily be attributed to the wind. Or to the settling of the building’s old beams and timbers. Perhaps she’d been dreaming all those times that she’d seen the hazy light. Or her grief over losing Claire had made her imagine things.

And yet the ghost had led her to certain discoveries in Amelia’s room and the master’s bedchamber that she wouldn’t have seen otherwise. It
had
to be real.

Brianna finally turned her attention to the book in her lap, but her concentration was poor. Mrs. Ramsay came into the room with a tray, and Brianna realized it was already dark. She had not seen Hugh since he’d left to deal with Mr. Kincaid.

“I brought ye this, m’lady. Something to tide you o’er until the laird returns.” The housekeeper placed it on the table, and Brianna thanked her.

“I’ll see ye in the morn, then,” she said as she left.

Brianna was not much interested in the food, but she drank the tea and wondered if Hugh had gathered a crew to work on diluting the brandy. It would take some time to let down so many tubs, and she knew it was essential to get the brandy away from the castle as soon as possible.

Carrying a lamp from the library, she went to the drawing room and slid back the panel that led to the stairs down to the buttery. Quietly, she slipped inside and crept to the top of the steps. ’Twas well-lit at the bottom, so a thick blanket had been tacked across the grille to prevent any lamplight from escaping. She could hear movement and quiet voices down there.

They were definitely working.

Brianna might have participated in the unloading of this shipment, but she was quite sure Hugh would not appreciate her arrival now, into the midst of his activities. She retraced her steps back to the drawing room and closed the panel. When she turned, her gaze caught on the portrait of the old laird.

She decided that Hugh must resemble his mother, for he did not look at all like his sire. But besides the difference in their features, there was a strength in Hugh that Brianna did not detect in the portrait. The old laird’s expression was one of superiority and arrogance. And perhaps a hint of cruelty in his narrow eyes. She shuddered at the thought of the whip she’d found in the man’s bedchamber, and wondered if he had made a habit of using it on his only son.

If Brianna had planned on staying at Glenloch beyond the next day or two, she would have seen to it
that all these portraits of Hugh’s father were removed. He never looked up at the old man’s countenance, and there was no need for him to be constantly reminded of the cruelty and discord between them.

But she was not staying, and as Hugh had told her, he did not spend very much time here, anyway.