Taken by the Laird (25 page)

Sinclair might be infatuated with her, but Hugh knew the man couldn’t protect her.

“I mean, what happened to make Roddington agree to marry you? I used to know the damned bounder fairly well—far better than I ever cared to. So I know that something must have occurred—some incident—
that gave Stamford the leverage to make him marry you.” Hugh knew better than to ask this. He’d hated hearing about the baron who’d disappointed her, and knew that what he learned about Roddington’s actions was going to enrage him.

He kept to a prudent distance, staying near the doorway to ask the question, hoping the space between them would help him to keep his emotions in check. “Did he…Did he hurt you?”

She swallowed, and her brow furrowed slightly before answering. “Not seriously,” she finally replied.

“Not
seriously?
What did he do to you?”

She picked at one of her fingernails. “Hardly anything.”

“Brianna, what?” He found himself going to her in spite of his best intentions, and taking a seat beside her. “What did he do?”

She looked away. “Lord Stamford had taken us to a house party in Kensington. One evening after supper, he sent me to fetch one of his daughters from a parlor at the back of the house, but Catherine was not there.”

“I assume Roddington was.”

She nodded, and paused before continuing. “I thought only to be courteous and exchange greetings, then quickly take my leave. But he would not let me go. I am not sure how he did it, but he cornered me. He got around me somehow and shoved me back against a wall and…and…”

Her voice quavered, giving Hugh more than just a vague impetus to make the ride to Dundee right now, to
find the bastard, and to call him out. Better yet, to drag him into a boxing ring. Someone needed to interdict Rotten Roddington’s practice of seeking out the most innocent, vulnerable prey he could find, and teach him a lesson at the same time.

“Before I could stop him or even call for help, the marquess…He had one hand up my skirt and the other on my breast.”

Hugh saw red, but managed to keep a relatively calm, even voice. “Then I suppose someone came into the room and found you that way.
Compromised.
”

“Yes.
Ruined,
to use Lady Stamford’s word. She and two of her friends discovered us, and made such a fuss that half the party came running as though the house was afire. My guardian’s wife made it sound as though the marquess and I had had an assignation.” She looked up quickly, her features reflecting the anger and frustration she must have felt. “But nothing could have been farther from the truth! He squeezed me until I bruised…”

Hugh’s jaw tightened.

“And then he acted as if I were some sort of…of…”

She was too innocent to know the word she was looking for, and Hugh did not doubt that Stamford and his wife were every bit as guilty of putting her in Roddington’s path as the marquess had been for assaulting her. They’d sacrificed Brianna to their aspirations for a marital connection to the future Duke of Chalwyck, refusing the insignificant young man she’d loved.

“You are not that, Brianna,” he said quietly. “They victimized you, intentionally.”

She looked down at the edge of the thumbnail she’d torn away. “I know. But I should have known better.”

“How could you? Besides, you escaped their intrigues, did you not?”

“I could not marry him, Hugh. He is…” She shuddered. “There is something rather twisted about him. I had to flee, no matter what the consequences.”

And Hugh was ashamed to admit that he’d put her in exactly the same compromised situation her first night at Glenloch. ’Twas no wonder she’d run from him at her first opportunity.

Though he was not “twisted,” as Roddington was, Hugh feared he was not much better than the damned marquess.

They left the library and parted company awkwardly, with Brianna feeling relieved that they would not be leaving for Killiedown just yet, but puzzled by all that had gone unsaid.

Hugh left the castle to go into Falkburn to meet with Mr. MacTavish, and Brianna still could not shake the notion that he’d been jealous of Lachann Sinclair. And she sensed that he had not been pleased to learn that she’d fallen in love during her first season.

Feeling restless after the conversation in the library, Brianna went into his study and watched out the window as he came out of the stable, riding his gelding toward the Falkburn road. She wondered how long he’d
known Roddington, and whether the marquess would have become as loathsome a father as Hugh’s had been. She shuddered at the knowledge that she might have become mother to his offspring, and thanked God that she had escaped that fate.

The intimidating portrait of the old laird glared down at Bree from its place of honor on the wall. She wished that her husband would dispose of it and all the others like it, just as he’d expelled Roddington’s odious presence from their house.

But he would not speak of his father, and even tried to behave as though he was unaffected by all the pictures of the loathsome man. Turning her back on the portrait as Hugh always did, Brianna left the room and retrieved her coat, then went outside to look at the north tower again. The ghost had surely been trying to show her something, and Brianna could not give up trying to figure out what it was.

This time, she approached the building much more closely, climbing past the snowdrifts to look into the ruins. There was a hollow space inside the old pantry, but Brianna could barely see into it, for precious little light penetrated through the cracked walls. She backed away and skirted around the snow-covered shrubs, then went to the opposite side of the ancient room. Peeking in through a gap in the stone wall, she was finally able to discern some shadowy forms in the ruins, but could not see clearly enough to make out any of the objects inside. She doubted there was anything notable there.

Shivering with the cold, Bree retreated into the castle, wondering once again if the ghost’s intent had not really been to show her something specific. Perhaps it only meant to make her to stop and think, as she had done before, when she’d found Hugh’s drawing of the sailboat.

Bree hung up her coat and went upstairs. She stopped in the nursery to retrieve her shawl, but took the plaid blanket from the croft instead, folding it and draping it around her shoulders.

Then she went to Amelia’s room.

She had not thought there would be any reason to return there, for she had no use for any more of Amelia’s clothes. But the ghost had led Brianna there more than once. If Glenloch’s ghost wanted her to reflect upon something…What could it be?

Hugh’s jealousy during lunch?

He
had
been jealous. It was quite clear that he hadn’t enjoyed learning that Brianna had been sought-after in Stonehaven, or that her first love had been denied. She was not sure what it meant, but she felt an unexpected inkling of hope.

He might not want her to go at all.

It was worse than troubling to realize that she did not wish to leave, either. Not that she felt attached to Castle Glenloch. It was Hugh. She wanted to stay with her husband, wherever he might be.

Brianna felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. Perhaps Hugh had only been acting in a territorial manner with Lachann, as a stallion would do around
other males when his mate was near. It might have been a purely instinctual reaction. And yet she did not want to believe it. He cared for her more than he wanted to admit.

Perhaps his reticence was because of Amelia, Bree thought as she stepped into the woman’s room. It was entirely possible that Hugh had loved her, and she’d betrayed him with her suicide.

If Brianna’s heart could have dropped any further, it would have done so then. The pain of being moved from one home to another when she became the inconvenient poor relation paled compared to what Hugh must have felt at Amelia’s death. She remembered finding the locket that had been lost—or perhaps hidden—down the side of the dressing table. Slipping her hand into the narrow gap between the table and the wall, she drew it out, took the pendant in hand, and opened it.

She ran her thumb over the edges of the locket and the miniature of the young man, snagging it on a tiny catch at the bottom of the oval. The front of the pendant swung open. Behind it, Brianna found a small lock of hair. ’Twas the same light brown hair as the man in the picture.

She sat on the ornately sculpted chair in front of the dressing table and gazed down at the locket, wondering who the young man was, and how important he must have been to Amelia. A lock of hair gave every indication that he was more important than her husband.

It must be a significant find, since the ghost had shown it to Brianna. But Bree did not know what to make of the revelation, or what to do with it.

Hugh was relieved to be away from the castle. Away from Brianna and everything she made him feel. Life was so much simpler when he was not wasting his time comparing himself to Roddington, or worrying about her safety when he eventually left her at Killiedown. Alone, without protection.

Good Christ, could he even leave her there alone? If he allowed himself to face the truth, he would have to admit it was no longer what he wanted. Before he’d known who she was, he’d asked her to stay at Glenloch with him, at least for a while. Now he feared he might want Brianna to stay with him always.

Yet that was a disaster in the making. She would eventually hope for a real future with him, with all the trappings of an actual family. Births, christenings, ponies, school holidays. Hugh knew he would be no more successful in providing her with children than he’d been with Amelia.

Besides, she’d been quite clear about her desire to return to her aunt’s manor. Until their lunch with Sinclair, Hugh had not given much thought to the life Brianna must have led in Kincardineshire, of all the young men—besides Sinclair—who would have fallen in love with her. And he couldn’t even begin to think about the followers she’d attracted during her London seasons, or the man she’d loved and lost.

It was the ultimate irony that Hugh was bothered by her pining for a man who had not fought for her. Hell, it did more than bother him. It infuriated him. First, because the idiot had caused her sorrow, and second,
because Hugh hated knowing she’d loved someone else.

What a fool he was.

“Laird! Good day to ye,” called Osgar Tullis, who was sweeping the cobblestone walk in front of his public house.

Hugh dismounted and tied his horse at the post. “Send someone for MacTavish, will you, Tullis?”

“Aye, Laird.”

A very odd idea crossed Hugh’s mind as he went into the tavern, and he found himself unable to ignore it, even when MacTavish arrived. Tullis joined them at the table, and Hugh checked to see if MacGowan had been seen in the vicinity since his disappearance. If the innkeeper in Stonehaven was correct and he was en route to Dundee with Roddington, their coach would have passed nearby. Might even have stopped to allow a passenger to leave.

MacTavish shook his head. “I heard naught of him.”

“I saw no lights up in his cottage last night, Laird,” said Tullis.

It would have been reassuring to have some guarantee that the blackguard had gone all the way to Dundee. Just because there had been no sign of life at his cottage did not mean the man wasn’t lurking about somewhere.

“We’ll need to suspend our shipments for a while,” Hugh said. “Until after the inquiry, at least.”

“Aye, Laird. ’Tis our habit every year to quit until the weather clears, anyway,” said MacTavish. “Benoit
willna come into these waters again until late January, or even February, depending.”

“That’s good. And even then we might want to delay the trade for a while longer.”

“But the income…”

“I’ll make up the difference for now,” said Hugh. “And with the changes I’m considering, I believe there will soon be a more steady prosperity for all of Falkburn.”

“What are ye thinkin’, Laird?”

“A distillery.”

H
is statement was met with silence.

“Where is the best whisky in the world made?” he asked.

“Scotland, of course. But we’ve never—”

“Which does not mean we cannot begin,” Hugh said.

MacTavish leaned forward, his arms crossed on the table, while Tullis frowned prodigiously.

“We can do it legitimately. Pay the taxes.”

“Pay the taxes!” Tullis exclaimed, though he kept his incredulous voice down to a hush. “Laird, ye must know it goes against m’ Scottish blood to pay taxes to the English crown.”

“I understand, Tullis,” said Hugh. “But Kincaid’s murder turned our trade into a much more dangerous business than it’s ever been before. You must know that the crown will send someone to replace the surveyor, and we cannot hope the man will be as ineffective as Kincaid.”

“Aye, that’s true,” said MacTavish.

“A new man might even report Armstrong for incompetence and see to it that he’s replaced.”

“And what about Pennycook?” asked MacTavish. “If MacGowan’s been bribing him with our brandy for his daughter’s favors…”

“Speakin’ of it would land him in a world o’ trouble,” said Tullis.

“Yes, so I’m guessing he’ll keep quiet. Even so, Kincaid’s murder turned the magistrate’s eye toward Glenloch, in spite of Pennycook’s silence.”

“Because of MacGowan,” said Tullis. “He killed Kincaid.”

Hugh shrugged. He felt sure Roddington was involved somehow, but the marquess wouldn’t have been the one to smash Kincaid’s forehead in. It was more his style to have pushed the man into the sea. “Aye,” he said. “It seems likely.

A deep crease furrowed Tullis’s brow, but MacTavish appeared to be more receptive to the idea of abandoning Falkburn’s free trade.

“How would we do it?” he asked. “How would we start up a still…I mean, a legal distillery?”

“I haven’t worked out any details yet,” said Hugh with a distinct sensation of breaking with the past. A past that deserved to be broken. “But we’ve got a river full of good, rich water, and if every field is planted with barley this spring, we might be able to start when autumn comes.”

“ ’Tis surely a…
different
solution,” said MacTavish. “I canna say I ever looked forward to those late ship
ments down at the castle, when we could be caught at any time.”

“Not that there was much chance of it wi’ the lot who keep watch up in Stonehaven,” said Tullis.

“Aye, but as Laird Glenloch said,” MacTavish remarked, “tha’s likely to change. And no’ for the better, either.”

As they talked, the idea of a legitimate distillery took on a more solid shape in Hugh’s mind, as did his conviction that Glenloch’s smuggling days were over. “I remember hearing of a new kind of still…I’ll see what more I can learn about it.” And about the distilling process in general. He would need to engage architects and engineers to build the distillery, and a manager to oversee the entire process.

Someone refilled Hugh’s glass, and as he looked up into the smoky gray eyes of Tullis’s comely barmaid, he realized she’d been hovering about their table, but he hadn’t even noticed her presence.

Naught had changed about her. The lass’s body was still as lush and inviting as ever. She smiled prettily at him, but her mouth did not create the same havoc in his brain that his wife’s did, nor could her lusty eyes draw him into her arms the way Brianna’s could do.

His throat tightened, and he suddenly felt as though he could not breathe. The prettiest lass in Falkburn had no sway over him. He felt no stirring. No desire.

He knew as well as Brianna that their marriage had been a mistake. He should release her from her vows. Surely the scandal of divorce would be minimal in
Scotland, freeing her to wed someone else…Someone like Lachann Sinclair.

Hugh’s stomach burned at the thought of it.

“We can figure how much barley to plant,” he heard MacTavish say, but Hugh was barely able to focus on the subject at hand.

But one thing he did realize. He had to be daft even to consider committing himself to a project that would require his frequent presence in Glenloch—only a short ride from Killiedown Manor.

Brianna placed the pendant on the mantelpiece. She did not know how she was going to bring it to Hugh’s attention, only that she needed to do it. The ghost would not have shown it to her unless it was necessary.

Perhaps she would give it to him after she told him of her hope to remain with him at Glenloch, as his wife.

Her heart tripped in her chest at the thought of saying the words. She might very well have misread his signs of jealousy, and he was just as anxious to be rid of her as he’d been when they’d wed.

And yet she could not help but hope his attitude had changed, at least enough to give them a chance to forge a true marriage. She knew he must have gone out of his way to purchase the lovely shoes she now wore, and he had cared enough to arrange for a luxurious hot bath to be brought to the nursery for her that morn. They were small things, but signs of his true character, nonetheless. He was a kind and thoughtful man whose consideration went beyond the bedchamber, though Brianna had not
mistaken the intensity of his lovemaking in the library, or when he’d reached for her during the night.

The force of his passions had created a torrent of confusing emotions in Bree, and she’d been too cowardly to face them. But now she risked unguarding her heart, slowly and carefully, unveiling her feelings in layers.
And in so doing, she knew that she loved him.

Bree pressed one hand to her mouth and closed her eyes tightly against the flood of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. ’Twas frightening, this emotion that had caused naught but pain for her in the past. She’d lost every connection she’d ever made, and been turned out of every house that had grudgingly taken her in. She’d hoped for a friend who would be true to her, and prayed that Bernard Malham would take her with or without her dowry, all without success.

It was only the isolation of Killiedown and her aunt’s loyalty that had kept her heart safe.

And yet she was far beyond having a choice in the way she felt about Hugh. She wanted him, wanted to be his wife. She’d made a vow to take him with all his imperfections as well as his virtues. Bree understood now that she’d meant those words, though she had not been able to admit it, even to herself, on the day she’d spoken them.

With trepidation, she went up to the nursery and put on the gown she’d worn for their wedding, then pinned up her hair, using Amelia’s combs. She told herself repeatedly that this was no mistake, that she felt more for Hugh Christie than she had any other man—even Bernard.

The servants left at dark, and Brianna waited pa
tiently for Hugh to return and sup with her. But as it grew later and he did not appear, she lost all appetite for food. She started to feel unsure of her course, and had second thoughts about telling him how she felt. He had never contradicted her intention to return to Killiedown, and Brianna suspected he might very well be anxious for her to go.

She paced nervously in the library. The room that had felt so warm and inviting just the night before, so cozy and intimate, now felt cold and huge. And empty.

There was no good reason to remain there, dressed in her best gown and waiting anxiously, for it was clear that Hugh had found something far more engaging to do in Falkburn than to return home to her. She went up the steps, thinking she would return to the small nursery, but changed her mind when she reached the top of the stairs. She headed in the opposite direction, back to Amelia’s bedchamber.

Brianna pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and stepped inside the room as she considered the best way to approach her husband when he returned. Or whether to approach him at all. She felt a need to understand Hugh’s first marriage a little better before speaking to him of their own.

But no answers came to her.

She turned her attention to the furnishings in the cold bedchamber. ’Twas likely Amelia had spent her nights there, rather than in her husband’s bed. And if the miniature in her locket meant what Bree thought it did, then Amelia could not have been very welcoming when Hugh had come to her here.

Considering the possibility that Amelia might have hidden some correspondence that would shed light on her sorrow, Brianna went to the larger of the two wardrobes and slid her hands into the spaces between the folded clothes. Finding naught, she opened each of the drawers and searched inside, finding nothing but the usual stockings and smallclothes.

She closed the wardrobe and turned her back to it, leaning against it as she thought about Amelia’s profound unhappiness. She’d been separated from someone she cared for, a situation that was far too close to that which Brianna would soon suffer, if she did not manage to convince Hugh that they ought to stay together. She did not want to think of the empty days—months—she would have to endure at Killiedown Manor without him.

Feeling as lost as she’d ever been, she let her gaze drift aimlessly, finally alighting on the dressing table. She frowned, noticing something lopsided about it. A drawer.

‘Twas odd that she had not taken note of it before, but the table was carved very ornately, and the drawer seemed to be part of the façade, only it was slightly ajar now. She went to it and found an indentation, just below the top of the table. ’Twas in a concealed space where her fingers fit, just barely. She pulled it open and found naught but a few small sponges and a jar of water.

Brianna opened the jar and sniffed, drawing back at the acrid smell of vinegar. The discovery meant naught to her, and when she was startled by the sound of doors opening and closing downstairs, she left the room, anx
ious to see Hugh. To tell him how she felt, before she lost her courage.

She was just descending the stairs when he entered the hall, stopping abruptly when he saw her. They stood paralyzed in the moment, and then he turned his back to her and walked into the drawing room.

Brianna refused to acknowledge the snub, aware that their earlier parting had been uncomfortable. She followed him into the main room of the castle, watching as he poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter of brandy. He took one sip, then went to the portrait of Jasper Christie hanging beside the panel that led to the secret passageway. Hugh lifted it down, laying it flat on the floor.

To Brianna’s amazement, he stood on one end of the heavy frame and pulled up the other side, breaking the frame in half. He carried the whole thing to the fireplace and tossed it in, causing the existing fire to flare when it caught.

“Hugh?” she asked.

“ ’Tis time for a few changes,” he said.

“I see.” She watched him do the same to a smaller picture, then take his brandy in hand and leave the drawing room, going into the study to repeat the exercise.

“What brought this on?” she asked, following him to the dining room, where he tore down the portrait that hung there.

“Naught but a desire to break with the past.”

His words raised her sliver of hope to more of a shimmer. If he wanted to put the past behind him, then surely he was looking forward, toward a future together.

She opened her mouth to tell him of her wish to stay with him, but she’d anticipated a quieter, more romantic situation. Perhaps in his bedchamber as they undressed each other. Or when she straddled him, naked and needy. He would not deny her then.

But he was wholly occupied with destroying his father’s likenesses. “There are probably more portraits, and even a few landscapes stored in your attics,” she said. Perhaps they could go up and explore those rooms together in the soft, intimate lamplight.

“Those can all burn, too. These walls will remain empty until I can commission new paintings.”

“New paintings?” Her heart sank, for it seemed to be a hint that he intended to leave for London soon. Where else would he go for artwork?

“Aye. I’ve decided to end the free trade at Glenloch and begin a new venture.”

The discussion was not going at all as Brianna had planned, and her eyes filled with tears of frustration, not that he noticed. “What will you do?”

“Whisky.”

“I don’t understand. You just said you were going to end the smuggling.”

“We’re going to make it,” he said, taking a drink of his brandy as he walked into the library. “We’ll distill it ourselves. We’ll call it Glenloch whisky and sell it all over Britain.”

“Then you mean to…to stay?”

He did not look at her, but walked to the fireplace and set his drink on the mantel. In a very deliberate manner, he remained a few steps away from her, hardly
looking at her as he spoke. “That won’t be necessary. At least, not right away.”

Brianna felt her small rays of hope slipping away. “So you’re going to leave.”

He started to say something, but his gaze caught on Amelia’s locket, and he looked at it as though it were a venomous snake. “Where did this come from?”

“The ghost showed it to me.”

He looked at her with exasperation. “You know full well there is no ghost. We’ve only encouraged the tales about it to keep the curious away from the brandy.”

“You’re wrong. The ghost is real, and it led me into Amelia’s bedchamber. It showed me where the locket was hidden.”

“Aye. This was hers,” he said, his jaw clenching. “Where was it?”

“ ’Twas caught on a splinter on the side of her dressing table, next to the wall,” she said, her heart tumbling to her toes at the distance he’d put between them. “Open it.”

Gingerly, he picked it up, but his fingers were too big and he could not work the catch. Bree went to him and took it from his hand. As she worked the catch, she could not have been more aware of the way he avoided her touch, and she realized he’d come to some decision about them. Opposite to the one she’d reached.

Tamping down her anguish, she opened both parts of the locket, so that he could see the miniature, as well as the lock of hair.

He gazed at it for a long moment, then took it from her and closed his hand around it, snapping it shut.
“’Tis Simon Parker. A gentleman from town.”