Lucy and Her Scottish Laird

by Margo Maguire

  Ian knew his peers might look askance upon Craigmuir’s business ventures. But the world was changing, and tenant rents were dwindling. The Broxburn and Craigmuir lairds had been running the brick and tile making business for a couple of centuries, and this laird was not about to stop.

  Especially now. If Henderson was correct, Ian’s father was not long for this earth. Perhaps Craigmuir himself sensed it, which could be the reason he had made such sweeping changes to his will.

  Ian would not much feel the loss of the properties named, except that those lands had been part of the Craigmuir estate for eons. Duncan squandered his allowance every quarter, and would likely lose any property belonging to his own family. Fortunately, none of the entailed properties were at risk, but Ian could not help but wonder why his father had decided to bequeath so much to his brother’s incompetent son.

  Duncan was three years younger than Ian, a handsome, spoiled, pompous rogue who’d become more of a pain in Ian’s arse than ever these past few years. Ian could think of only one reason his father would have added Duncan to his will. And it was ugly.

  Extremely ugly.

  The question was: would Craigmuir have done it? Would he have cuckolded his own brother and impregnated his brother’s wife?

  The thought of it turned Ian’s stomach, perhaps even more than the knowledge that his father had seduced a servant – his own mother. Who was to say his father hadn’t always been a womanizer? Duncan certainly didn’t have any qualms about cornering the maids when he visited Craigmuir Castle.

  To Ian’s way of thinking, it was a despicable practice, though he hadn’t thought about it much in the past. There were plenty of experienced widows and courtesans who welcomed the attentions of wealthy young men, so there was no reason to chase after the ones who were easy prey. Like his mother. Ian could not help but wonder if the woman would be alive today if she hadn’t borne him.

  He was disgusted at the thought of her being seduced against her will by the master of the house. Then again, he should not assume that had been the case. Perhaps she’d been an experienced lass who had hoped a liaison with the Duke of Craigmuir would improve her lot.

  Ian glanced toward Lucy Stillwater’s bedroom and imagined her getting into bed. She’d have taken off her wrapper, and he could not help but think of her sliding into bed in the thin chemise he’d caught sight of when he’d unbuttoned her gown and loosened her stays.

  Fortunately, she had not awakened while he’d done so, else there’d have been hell to pay. Of that he was sure.

  That little interlude had seemed a far more intimate moment than some of the actual lovemaking he’d experienced in the past. Lucy had been vulnerable – injured and exhausted. And Ian had taken care of her.

  He was too restless to sleep, so he left the upper gallery and went down the stairs and out to one of the ancient towers – his favorite place at Craigmuir. Crossing a small courtyard, he climbed the steps to the crenellated wall and entered the tower, lighting the lamp that was kept on a table in the entry.

  He climbed the stone steps, a narrow, circular affair, and when he reached the top, he entered a room that had been called La Chambre de Béatrice for centuries.

  Little was known of Béatrice, except that she had once been the Lady of Broxburn and had cuckolded her husband with one of his knights – Sir Alex. Her husband had killed her for it.

  Legend had it that there was another reason for the killing, though that reason had been lost to the ages.

  Ian had made Béatrice’s room his own over the years, modernizing and making it a comfortable retreat. He’d replaced the arrow loops with wide glass windows, had the rotted wooden floor removed, and had a new one installed and overlaid with a thick Ormolu carpet. The old fireplace and chimney had been rebuilt, and now there were shelves lining two of the walls. Alongside his books were many of the castle’s ancient artifacts that he’d found discarded in unused areas and rescued from oblivion.

  A couple of his friends had been in the tower – Kindale, of course. And Haddington. Both good friends since his school days.

  The moon was full, and the clouds cleared. As Ian looked out the window, he could just make out the reflection of light on the sea in the distance to the northeast. Farmland surrounded him, and he could see well-tilled fields below that were nearing harvest time. Without proper drainage, the farmers never would have enjoyed the kind of prosperity that flourished here. Even during the heavy rains, the fields had not flooded. But last year’s cold, dank summer had done its damage. The harvest had been poor all across Scotland.

  The tile business was going to thrive again, if Ian had anything to do with it. He had stayed away from Craigmuir for too long, unaware of his father’s decline until he’d heard from MacAdams, the duke’s steward. Now that Ian had taken stock of the situation, things at Craigmuir were going to change. He had a plan, and had already begun to implement it.

  Lucy Stillwater and her family’s plight were not going to distract him from his purpose.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  The rain finally stopped, and it turned warmer overnight. Lucy enjoyed a luxurious bath in her room the following morning, though she was plagued by thoughts of her dream. The hot water sliding over her skin did not help. She’d never experienced such wanton heat in her life, or such an intense physical longing.

  She shuddered. Now that day had dawned, Lucy felt sure she could dispel those distressing thoughts from her mind, these shameless feelings from her body. Dreams held no sway over reality, and the reality today was that her aunt lay severely injured in the next room. The reality was that she had always loved Joshua Parris, and that absurd dream was merely the result of the terrible trauma she’d suffered before falling into an exhausted sleep.

  Aileen, the red-haired maid, came in toward the end of Lucy’s bath and helped her to wash her hair, gently rinsing the blood away from the cut she’d sustained in the accident. She felt almost human after she dressed and put up her hair.

  Lady Kildrum was awake – in a manner of speaking – when Lucy entered her aunt and uncle’s room. Although Arden was speaking, she wasn’t making much sense, and she seemed to be in pain.

  “I’ve just given her some laudanum, Miss,” Sinclair said. “She should rest again soon.”

  Lucy nodded. “Why don’t you and Miles get some breakfast and then sleep awhile. I’ll stay with my aunt and uncle.”

  The two servants left, and Arden settled down to sleep again. Dr. Henderson had said that was the best thing for her, so Lucy did not worry. She sat down beside her uncle at the bedside.

  He was distraught, as well as battered and bruised. “’Tis all my fault. I ordered MacLean to drive on when we should have stopped and taken shelter.”

  “You could not have known, Uncle.”

  “Aye, well, I should have.” He grimaced. “And now Arden is injured and MacLean is dead. I ought to be flogged.”

  Lucy took his hand in hers and said everything she could think of to assuage his guilt. He’d been injured, too, and a whipping would accomplish nothing. Besides, no one could have predicted that their carriage wheel would crack and toss them about like china dolls.

  She’d done as her uncle had asked and written his solicitor, instructing him to take on the arrangements for MacLean’s funeral, and sending a death benefit to his sister, the only family MacLean had. He’d been more than generous, though Lucy knew her uncle would never forgive himself. He was a man much like her father in that respect.

  A knock at the door brought Lucy to her feet. She opened it to Aileen, who came inside and placed a breakfast tray on a table. “Lord Broxburn instructed me to request your presence in the morning room, Miss,” she said.

  “Request?”

  “Yes, Miss,” she replied. “I am to remain here and watch over Lady Kildrum in your place.”

  “Go on, Lucy,” her uncle said. “We will manage while you’re gone.” He turned to the maid. “What is your name?”

>   “Aileen, my lord.”

  “Well, Aileen. Perhaps you would pour me some tea.”

  Lucy stood watching for a moment, unable to come up with an excuse to forego her appearance in the breakfast room. She did not know how she would face Broxburn after last night. She hoped he merely wished to know if there were any further arrangements needed for her aunt. Or when they would be leaving for Edinburgh.

  In the letter she’d written to her parents, she’d told them of the seriousness of Arden’s injuries and that they’d been instructed by the physician not to move her. She’d promised to write as soon as she knew anything more.

  She attempted to order her thoughts before meeting with the marquess, but Lucy became embarrassingly aware of her face heating at the thought of their highly improper conversation the night before.

  Something must be wrong with her – she must have hit her head harder than she thought, and damaged her brain in the accident. Else why would she dream of her host in this way? Admittedly, he was as handsome as any man she’d ever known, but he was no Joshua Parris.

  She cleared her mind of such nonsense and went down the staircase where she was greeted by the butler. “Good morning, Miss Stillwater. The marquess awaits you in the morning room. This way.”

  Lucy tried not to gape at the massive stone fireplace in the great hall. She’d seen the ruins of a few fine castles in Berkshire, but nothing as grand or as well preserved as Craigmuir Castle. Everywhere she looked brought a new vision of medieval splendor. Intricate tapestries, suits of armor on display, and furniture in good condition even though it must have been carved centuries ago. She could almost hear the voices of those who’d dwelled here in the distant past.

  She had not seen much of the keep when they’d approached it after the accident, but as she followed the butler through a narrow, stone-walled corridor, she realized it must be huge. They entered a wing that had certainly been built much more recently than the great hall and the bedrooms where she and her family slept, but was nowhere near modern. She reluctantly admitted that she loved Broxburn’s home.

  “Here we are, Miss,” the butler said, pushing open the door to a bright dining room.

  Lucy had only a moment to take in the details of the room before Lord Broxburn stood up from the table and greeted her. “Good morning, Miss Stillwater. You must be hungry.”

  She nodded as the butler pulled out a chair for her and poured her a cup of tea. All at once, footmen entered, carrying trays laden with food. It all smelled wonderful, but Lucy only took a bowl of porridge.

  Broxburn sat down in his own chair, the one adjacent to hers. His dark hair was thick and more than a bit unruly, touching the back of his collar and curling slightly. His strong, square jaw was clean-shaven today, unlike the day before, when he’d rescued her and her family from the broken carriage and the storm. Lucy had noticed his hands then, when he’d carried her aunt up the stairs with so little trouble. They were large and competent, with thick veins across their backs – quite rugged-looking, especially when compared to the delicate teacup he lifted to his mouth.

  “Dr. Henderson will be here soon to check on all of you,” he said. “How is your head?”

  “Better, I think.” They appeared to be in a truce. He hadn’t said anything about last night’s odd interlude, and she wasn’t thinking about him nuzzling the sensitive lobe of her ear.

  Oh, heavens, she was!

  She swallowed and looked down at her bowl. “My uncle is much improved, but my aunt is still in a great deal of pain. And she is not entirely…”

  “Entirely what?”

  Lucy did not know how to describe Arden’s disorientation. “She is not herself.”

  “Henderson said she was concussed. Could that be the reason for it?”

  “I don’t really know—”

  A door crashed open and a gentleman staggered through. He was tall and well-dressed, but there was an air of dishevelment about him. He was nearly identical to Lord Broxburn, down to the deep crease in his cheeks. Except for his graying hair and rheumy, bloodshot eyes, he could be mistaken for Broxburn – obviously his son. The duke muttered to himself as he yanked open cabinet doors and the drawers of the sideboard, leaving them hanging open. Lord Broxburn stood and faced him, but the older man turned to the butler. “Lockhart, ye wee bastard!”

  “Your Grace!” Lockhart protested.

  “Where’s m’ damned whiskey?”

  “Gone,” Broxburn said.

  The duke whirled around and jabbed a finger into his son’s chest. “Gone where?” he roared.

  “Your Grace, we have a guest.” Broxburn’s tone was cold and assertive. To Lucy, he sounded like a parent speaking to a wayward child.

  “What have ye done with it?”

  “Henderson said it’s killing you,” Broxburn said calmly. “So now it’s gone.”

  “Lockhart,” the duke said, “go down to the village and—”

  “No, Lockhart,” Broxburn said. “Stay where you are.”

  Lucy felt supremely uncomfortable having to witness such a personal family interchange. She glanced up at Lockhart for some guidance, but the man’s full attention was on Broxburn and his father.

  “I’ll find someone in this confounded house who will do my bidding!” the duke roared.

  But before he could storm off, a footman ushered Dr. Henderson into the room. Broxburn’s father stood still for a moment, looking befuddled. Then he roared again. “What in bloody hades are ye doing here?”

  Henderson seemed undaunted by the duke’s outburst, but his son’s color was high and his dark brows were furrowed in a prodigious frown. He seemed ready to lambaste the duke for his rudeness, but Henderson spoke first.

  “I’ve come to pay a call on your guests, Craigmuir. What are you doing here?” he said calmly. “You ought to be in bed.”

  “Enough!” Broxburn called out in frustration. “Henderson, have some tea and then go up to see your patients. Craigmuir, come with me.” He took hold of his father’s arm and drew him out of the dining room by force, as though he were a recalcitrant child.

  Lucy looked at Dr. Henderson. “Is he always that way?”

  “More often than not, these days.”

  Lucy glanced toward the door with a better understanding of the cause of Broxburn’s sour temperament.

  * * *

  Ian felt embarrassed even though he wasn’t the one who’d performed so despicably before Lucy Stillwater. At least Craigmuir finally settled down once he returned to his room. He seemed exhausted by his outburst, and Ian realized his father had likely been on a lengthy rampage in search of spirits even before his appearance in the morning room.

  Wouldn’t it be a mercy to just give him his whiskey?

  He looked at his father as he lay insensible on his bed. The valet covered him with a light woolen blanket, and Craigmuir did not awaken. He seemed to shine with an odd, unhealthy glow that Ian had not noticed before. Perhaps Henderson was right and Craigmuir would actually die if he imbibed again.

  Ian rubbed the back of his neck while he paced. If Craigmuir continued this behavior, Ian would be forced to lock him in his room. There were several brawny footmen in service at Craigmuir Castle, and they would be perfectly capable of taking care of the duke.

  But it was not a prospect Ian looked forward to.

  “My lord,” the valet said, “are you certain the duke cannot have just one wee dram when he awakens? Surely that will not hurt him, but calm him.”

  Ian stopped pacing for a moment. “No. Not even a dram.” He did not want his father to die. Craigmuir had been a good father to him. But there were questions…And he wanted to talk to him while he was sober and sensible and tell him exactly what Henderson had said.

  Then it would be his decision whether to kill himself or not.

  * * *

  Lucy returned to her aunt and uncle with Dr. Henderson. He examined them both, pronounced her uncle to be well on the mend, but said it was still too early to
move Lady Kildrum. He took his leave with instructions to send for him if her condition changed.

  “Lucy, you do not need to stay and watch over us. Arden is resting, and I will just stay here and read. Perhaps nap a wee bit.” Her uncle’s voice held the weight of sadness, and Lucy knew he would never get over his feelings of guilt for MacLean’s death. “You could probably use some air. Why don’t you take a walk now, while Arden is sleeping?”

  Her heart sank at the sadness in his voice, and she realized he wanted to be left alone. “All right, Uncle, if you’re sure.” He nodded and Lucy went to her room for her hat and gloves, and then started down the stairs. There was nothing to do but what her uncle suggested – go for a walk outside.

  She reached the great hall and saw Dr. Henderson exiting the castle when Mrs. MacRae stopped him at the door. “Dr. Henderson, will you look in on the duchess before you leave? She is quite poorly this morn.”

  Lucy understood what it was to have an ill mother. She’d worried terribly last spring when her mother had been unable to rise from her bed. Lady Stillwater been wracked by fever and aches, and she’d had difficulty breathing. Though her mother had improved a great deal in the past couple of months, Lucy still worried about her. She could easily imagine how Lord Broxburn felt, knowing his own mother was ailing. And his father was not well, either.

  Dr. Henderson turned around and followed Mrs. MacRae through the great hall, possibly to another wing of the castle. Lucy proceeded out the door, but did not go far as she became enchanted by the incredibly well-preserved medieval buildings. She had seen drawings and diagrams of medieval castles and knew quite a lot about them. It was an interest she shared with Joshua Parris, who was something of an expert on the ancient ruins near their home.

  Sometimes when they explored the crumbling structures, Lucy felt as though she could sense the lives that had been lived in them eons ago – she could almost hear their voices. They’d been human beings, just like her and Joshua, with joys and sorrows, victories and failures.