Claimed by the Laird

by Nicola Cornick

  When he reached the relative privacy of the gardeners’ cottages he took from his pocket the letter that Galloway had passed to him after dinner.

  “From the Duchess of Strathspey herself,” Galloway had said, with a mixture of respect and disapproval, as though Lucas should have been far too lowly for a duchess to take notice of him.

  Lucas let himself inside and unfolded the letter to read. He did not light a lamp; instead, he tilted it to catch the last flare of twilight.

  “Lucas,” his aunt had written in her forthright manner.

  What on earth is going on? I have written you a glowing reference—naturally—but would appreciate some sort of explanation of your new interest in horticulture. Have you lost all your money? Are you really working as an under gardener to the Duke of Forres? Could you not do better than that? Please try to remember you are my nephew—and a prince, for that matter—and aim a little higher.

  She had signed off with her usual strong black flourish.

  Lucas grinned. He had known that his aunt would not let him down. He knew she was no snob, either. And he did owe her an explanation.

  He took out a pencil from his pocket and scrawled back:

  Thank you, ma’am. I am in your debt, as always. Business brings me to Kilmory, but I find it more useful for the time being to keep that business a secret, hence the role of gardener. I can only hope that I do not inadvertently kill off the entire ducal flower garden in the process.

  He signed it and placed it under the chipped enamel jug on the dresser. Tomorrow he would contrive an errand to Kilmory Village and find a carter to take it to Strathspey. He did not want to send it from the castle. That was too dangerous.

  He went through to the inner of the cottage’s two rooms and threw himself down on the narrow iron bedstead. His aunt was no fool; she had known of Peter’s death and she would work out quickly enough what he was doing at Kilmory. She would not approve. He doubted she would give him away, but no doubt like Jack Rutherford she would also think it a fool’s errand, that because of his grief he was unable to accept Peter’s death and let the matter go.

  The duchess would laugh to see him now, he thought as he stared up at the pallor of the whitewashed ceiling. His surroundings were neither princely nor palatial, two rooms, this one with a wooden chest and a heather-stuffed mattress and the other with a table, two chairs, a dresser and a few other sticks of furniture. Outside there was a stone sink for washing. It was a far cry indeed from his grandfather’s palace. Still, it was clean and dry. Someone had made nice curtains and matching patchwork cushions that sat rather daintily on the upright chairs. There were a couple of rag rugs on the flagstone floor. Lucas wondered who had gone to the trouble of furnishing the place, making it appear as though they cared enough for their servants to see them comfortable.

  He thought of Christina MacMorlan. He had promised Jack that he would not involve her in this business but that was before he had learned that she was already involved up to her neck. And she had something he needed. Information.

  He felt no stirring of conscience. Conscience was something that rarely troubled him. In general he was comfortable with the decisions he made and this was no exception.

  It would not hurt to take advantage of Lady Christina’s attraction to him. She had been all that was starchy and proper on the surface, but even so she had not been quite able to hide the fact that she was drawn to him. That was good; he would exploit that attraction to learn what he could. He would use her.

  He slept well that night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I SAY,” LADY Allegra MacMorlan drawled, propping herself against the stone window embrasure in the parlor and gazing out at the garden, “what an absolutely splendid view.”

  “Kilmory always looks beautiful on a summer morning,” Christina agreed, without looking up from the letters she was reading. Breakfast was over; there had only been four of them present. The duke had not yet risen for the day and Gertrude preferred to take breakfast in bed.

  Angus and Lachlan had already gone out to the stables with some plan of taking an early-morning ride. Christina hoped Lachlan would be able to stay in the saddle. He had drunk himself into a stupor the night before and had been bleary-eyed and unshaven at breakfast. His valet had resigned the previous week when Lachlan had thrown a jug of water at him, and since then there had been no one to attend him. Christina hated to see the way Lachlan was spiraling into despair, perennially angry, short of money, unhappy, but she did not know how to help him.

  “I’m not talking about the view of the sea,” Allegra said, half turning toward her and pointing a languid hand in the direction of the lilac walk. “I’m talking about this view.”

  With a sigh Christina laid the letters down in the breakfast crumbs and went to join her niece at the window. It was another crystal clear morning. The sky was a deep, cloudless blue, the distant sea a darker ribbon on the horizon. Following Allegra’s inclination of the head, Christina’s gaze drifted across the tall pines beyond the terrace, skipped over the obelisk sundial and came to rest on the naked torso of Lucas Ross as he reached up to prune the lilacs. His back, broad and muscular, was turned to them. The sun gleamed on his black hair.

  Christina gave a little gasp. “Oh, my goodness!”

  She watched the way Lucas reached up to cut the fading flowers away, wielding his shears, the muscles rippling in his wide shoulders. A pair of tattered trews clung to his lean hips. Below that his calves were bare, his feet thrust into worn boots.

  “Allegra!” She came to her senses, not before time. “Avert your gaze!”

  “Oh, I am averting it, Aunt Christina,” Allegra said demurely. She ran her fingers over the edge of the window embrasure whilst taking another peek at Lucas from beneath her eyelashes. “Mr. Ross is certainly a fine figure of a man.”

  “He should not be flaunting himself about the place,” Christina said crossly. She turned away and made an elaborate business of picking up her half-empty cup from the table and refilling it.

  “Perhaps you should make him tend the garden in full Forres livery,” Allegra said, giggling. She was as sweet and pink in the face as a full-blown rose. Christina felt a vicious wave of envy for her niece’s youth and prettiness, and a second later a pang of shame for her envy.

  “Suddenly the idea of running off with one of the servants takes on some appeal,” Allegra said. “Wouldn’t that annoy Mama? It is almost worth doing for that reason alone, although I confess Mr. Ross’s luscious looks are a tremendous incentive, as well.”

  “I doubt you would enjoy living on a gardener’s salary of twelve shillings a week,” Christina said shortly. She had not spoken to Allegra about her flirtatious banter with Lucas on the day he had arrived, hoping that her niece’s butterfly mind would have moved on to something else.

  “Romance so seldom survives the hard realism of economics,” Christina said. “You should think about that.”

  Allegra looked baffled. “Twelve shillings a week? I spent more than that on my last bonnet.”

  “Then you would bankrupt your husband before the ink was dry on your marriage lines,” Christina said. “Democracy in love may seem very appealing when it looks like that—” she nodded at Lucas’s figure “—but it would soon lose its gloss.”

  “You have not a drop of romance in your soul, Aunt Christina,” Allegra said. Her mouth drooped sulkily.

  “I’m a pragmatist,” Christina said. She stifled a smile. Allegra, her parents’ only child, had been spoiled and her every whim indulged. If she saw something she wanted, she saw no need to deny herself, and forbidding her something simply made her more obstinate. Pointing out the hard financial facts of a situation succeeded far better.

  “Well.” Allegra brightened. “At least the view is free. I shall take a walk in the gardens. It will be good for my health.” She whisked out of the room.

  Sighing, Christina went to fetch her parasol and shawl. Someone had to go out and tell Lucas to put som
e clothes on. It was indecorous for him to be seen in such a state of undress. With good fortune she should be able to find Mr. Hemmings and ask him to instruct his assistant in proper behavior. That way she would not need to go near a seminaked Lucas herself.

  Luck, however, was not on her side. Mr. Hemmings was not to be found in the hothouses or the potting sheds. Scanning the gardens, Christina could not see him along any of the walks. She was going to have to tackle Lucas Ross’s indecent appearance entirely on her own.

  Lucas had his back turned and did not appear to hear her footsteps on the gravel. He was humming beneath his breath as he worked, a folk song with a lilting cadence that did not sound Scottish. In his deep baritone it was very attractive. Christina paused for a moment, listening to the music, watching the grace and economy with which he worked and the sheen of the sun on his skin. When she realized that she had been staring for far longer than was appropriate, she cleared her throat. Lucas did not turn. He seemed lost in thought so she put out a hand and tentatively touched his bare arm. It felt warm and smooth. Her fingers seemed to tingle from the contact.

  Lucas spun around. “Lady Christina.”

  The front view, Christina thought, was even more spectacular than the back. His chest was broad and deep. His scruffy trews rode low on his hips, and a line of silky black hair led down from his navel. Christina’s throat turned dry. All manner of inappropriate images flashed through her head. She wanted to press her lips to the hot skin of his stomach, to trace the line of those hip bones down...

  Lucas sketched a bow and reached with what seemed unnecessary slowness for his shirt, shrugging it over his head.

  “I apologize that you found me shirtless,” he said. “It is already a hot day.”

  “I am glad that you realize that it is inappropriate for you to flaunt yourself in such a state of undress, Mr. Ross,” Christina said. She knew she sounded ridiculously pompous, but it was the only defense she could muster. “And I did not find you like this by accident. I saw you from the parlor window.”

  Lucas raised one dark brow. “So you saw me undressed and came especially to find me,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” Christina said. “No! My niece—” She broke off, feeling flustered. Already he was provoking her, twisting her meaning, making her say things she did not intend.

  “You appear to have very little idea of proper behavior, Mr. Ross,” she said. “It is most unseemly for you to remove your shirt even on a hot day. We have standards here at Kilmory and we expect our servants to adhere to them.” She stopped. Lucas had reached for the stone bottle that was standing on the wall beside him. Keeping his eyes on her face, he tilted it to his lips. Christina watched his throat move as he took a long swallow.

  “It is also unseemly,” Christina said, “to drink whilst I am speaking to you!”

  “I beg your pardon.” There was a spark of amusement in Lucas’s eyes now. “I should, of course, have offered it to you first.” He wiped the top of the bottle and held it out to her.

  “No, thank you,” Christina said, putting her hands behind her back.

  “You do not care for ale? It is very refreshing on a hot day.”

  Christina was feeling hot, too. Prickles of annoyance and awareness were running up and down her spine.

  “Mr. Ross,” she said. “I do believe you deliberately misunderstand me. Must I spell it out? It is not appropriate for you to go around half-naked. Nor is it appropriate for you to drink ale whilst I am addressing you. Or, indeed, any beverage,” she added hastily. “Finally, it is not your place to offer me a drink.”

  “Under no circumstances?” Lucas queried.

  “None!” Christina said.

  “Even if you were dying from thirst?”

  “The situation would not arise,” Christina snapped. “Mr. Ross, you are being deliberately provocative.”

  “I suppose that is forbidden, too,” Lucas said. He was holding the bottle loosely between his long brown fingers, watching her. She knew that her haughty manner amused him and also that it did not overawe him in the least. There was nothing deferential in the way he was looking at her. On the contrary, there was something so bold and challenging that she found she was trembling a little.

  “What are you waiting for?” she demanded, thoroughly ruffled.

  “I am waiting for you to dismiss me back to my work,” Lucas said. “I assumed that was the correct behavior.”

  “You are dismissed,” Christina said. Then, remembering that she had a question for him, “Oh, Mr. Ross—”

  Lucas had already picked up the shears and was resuming his work. The wind caught the voluminous folds of his shirt, plastering them against his chest. The effect was no less unsettling that the sight of his naked torso had been.

  “Lady Christina?” He stopped and looked at her quizzically. “How may I serve you?”

  “Where is Mr. Hemmings?” Christina asked, ignoring the way he had deliberately phrased the question to goad her. “I expected to find him in the hothouse. The fruit espaliers are his pride and joy.”

  “Mr. Hemmings has the gout,” Lucas said. “He is confined to his bed today.”

  “Poor man,” Christina said. She wondered why Mrs. Parmenter had not told her about the gardener’s worsening condition. She had not seen the housekeeper that morning but no doubt she would give her a full update later when they met to discuss the day’s menus.

  “I will take him some ice to relieve the swelling and some crocus extract,” she said.

  “Crocus?” Lucas cocked an eyebrow. “Mr. Hemmings will have a relapse if you dig up his bulbs.”

  Christina laughed. “The autumn crocus is sovereign against the gout. Thank you, Mr. Ross.” She turned to leave.

  “My lady—” Lucas touched her arm lightly, and she paused, very aware of him and the brand of his fingers against her skin.

  “I wonder if you might show me the plans for the duke’s grotto,” Lucas said. “Mr. Hemmings asked me to do some work on it, but he is unable to show me exactly what needs to be done. If you would be so kind...”

  Christina had no intention of being kind. There was no possible way she was going to be trapped in the drawing office with Lucas Ross. It was too small and he was too intimidating. She felt panicked at the mere thought.

  “You need to speak to my father,” Christina said. “Or perhaps Mr. Bevan, the land agent—”

  “Neither gentleman can see me until later in the day,” Lucas said. His voice fell. “Please, Lady Christina. I appreciate that you are busy. I need only five minutes of your time....”

  “I...” Christina was looking for words of refusal but they seemed strangely elusive.

  “Please.” Lucas smiled again, warm and engaging. Christina felt hot and confused.

  “Oh, very well,” she said reluctantly, reflecting that Lucas seemed able to persuade her to almost anything. “But I can only spare a moment, and I know very little about the plans.”

  A disquieting gleam came into Lucas’s eyes, and immediately she regretted agreeing. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

  He followed her along the path. Roses, weighed down with overnight rain, bowed across the gravel. Lucas held them aside for her with exemplary courtesy. She could not fault his manners now, and it felt strangely enjoyable to be treated with such care. Normally everyone assumed she could look after herself and so they never troubled to hold doors for her or give her their hand over stony ground. And, of course, she was eminently capable of taking care of herself but, oh, it was lovely for once to feel that someone was taking care of her. In fact, it was dangerously seductive, but she let the illusion wrap her about just this once.

  The drawing office was in a corner of the old courtyard. Here the original stables stood gaunt with roofs open to the sky and the timber beams exposed. Only the southern range had been repaired; it housed the carriage horses and Lachlan’s and Angus’s stallions.

  “Do you ride, ma’am?” Lucas inquired, pausing to stroke the nose of L
achlan’s bay as it stuck its head inquisitively over the door.

  “No,” Christina said. “I have no aptitude for riding. The estate is only small. I walk or take the pony trap.” She watched Lucas run a hand down the stallion’s neck. “You seem comfortable with horses, Mr. Ross. Have you worked with them?”

  “I rode as a child, ma’am,” Lucas said. His tone was short. His eyes were blank like a slammed door. Christina felt the unspoken rejection. He did not want to discuss his past. Well, that was fine. There was no reason why he should. Lucas’s hand fell to his side. In silence they crossed the yard, their footsteps loud on the cobbles. He held the door of the drawing office open for her to enter. The room smelled stale and airless, of dust and old books. The dim light, after the brightness outside, made Christina’s head swim a little. On the table a series of plans and maps of the gardens were pinned down beneath a long wooden ruler. Their edges fluttered gently in the breeze from the open door.

  “Mr. Bevan, the land agent, has a larger office inside the castle,” Christina said, “but he keeps all the current drawings here so that anyone working on the estate can consult them.” She left the door open so that the sunshine spilled over the flagstones. “You are welcome to come here anytime, Mr. Ross, to view my father’s designs for his Gothic garden.”

  “This is the plan for the grotto,” Lucas said. He was resting one hand on the table, leaning forward, studying the pencil drawings on the top of the pile.

  “Yes,” Christina said. She sighed. “My father has fanciful ideas for creating a series of interconnecting chambers with a cascade and fountain. The interior is to be lined with shells and decorated with statuary and the exterior will be draped with ivy.”