Lady Auchengrey spoke sharply to her daughter. “Miss Stillwater’s whereabouts is not our concern.”
“I am very sorry to hear about your father, Broxburn,” Lord Auchengrey said. “If there is anything…”
“There is nothing, but thank you,” Ian replied. “The doctor is on his way.” In spite of his concern for his father, he could not help but notice the gleam of speculation in Lady Auchengrey’s eyes when she looked at him. Was it because she assumed the duke would not survive, which meant that Ian would soon become the Duke of Craigmuir? And yet Kathryn could not have seemed less interested in him. Her focus seemed to center on Lucy—
An odd thought struck Ian at that moment, but he shook it away. Kathryn was like a child, anxious to meet new friends, and more comfortable in the presence of her own gender. She was nowhere near ready to take a husband.
“Ah, here is Dr. Henderson,” Lockhart said as the physician’s gig pulled in through the gate.
“We will bid you farewell for now, Broxburn,” Auchengrey said, “and hope that all turns out well for your family.”
Ian turned to his guests. “Thank you.”
“And please accept my apology for disturbing you at this delicate time,” Auchengrey added.
As soon as the earl and his family exited the castle, Ian said goodbye to Malcolm.
“You will send word if there is anything—?”
Ian gave him a quick nod. “Of course.”
Malcolm left with Auchengrey, and Ian was left alone in the great hall as the carriage drove away. He quickly headed back to his father’s wing of the castle.
He wondered how Lady Kildrum fared and whether Lucy would be staying another night or two. Nothing would please him more – except, perhaps, his father’s miraculous recovery, as unlikely as that might be.
He entered the duke’s room where all was strangely quiet. He had a moment’s panic when he saw his father lying still upon the bright white of his bed sheets.
Ian looked at Crenshaw, who shrugged. “He is quiet now,” the valet whispered.
Craigmuir took a deep, shuddering breath and Ian realized he’d been holding his own, expecting his father’s to be his last. But the duke suddenly opened his eyes.
“Broxburn,” he said, reaching for Ian. “Son.” His hands were shaking.
“I am here.”
His father had not called him son in more than a decade. Ian guessed they’d been closer than most fathers and sons, perhaps because the duke had come so close to having no offspring of his own.
“Give me your hand.”
Ian extended his hand and the duke took it. “Take care of the Craigmuir heritage. Do not make the same—”
Dr. Henderson stepped into the room, interrupting whatever the duke was about to say. He approached the bed. “No longer raving, I see. Was there a seizure?”
“Seizure?”
“A fit. It sometimes happens in cases like these,” Henderson said.
Crenshaw shook his head. “No, sir. Just a few…loud ravings.”
Which Ian had seen.
The duke was shaky and seemed disoriented, and Ian wondered if his father would ever become lucid enough to answer the questions that had plagued Ian since learning of his parentage. Or whether he could believe those answers.
* * *
Lady Kildrum’s maid placed another cool, wet cloth upon the older woman’s forehead while Lucy’s uncle paced. Arden was definitely pale and feverish. The situation reminded Lucy of her mother’s illness last spring, when they’d been uncertain of her survival. A fever like this was an unpredictable thing.
As unpredictable as a midnight walk through the halls of a haunted castle.
Those moments in the library with Broxburn had been worse than their previous encounters because she’d known how very potent his kiss was. She’d known better than to let him get that close to her, and yet she had. She’d relished those moments.
This was just impossible. She loved Joshua Parris, and even though Lord Broxburn appealed to her in a certain way…No, no, no – that was not right. He was too…
Lucy swallowed. He threatened everything she’d always felt for Joshua. Could her feelings have been wrong?
“As soon as Arden’s fever breaks, I am taking her home,” Uncle Archie said. “She needs her own house, her own bed.”
Thank God! “Yes, Uncle.”
But it meant they would be staying at Craigmuir Castle for at least another night, maybe more. Lucy had to avoid Lord Broxburn for the duration. She was not about to get lost in his arms again.
She went into her own room and sat down at her writing table. After penning a quick note to her parents, informing them of her aunt’s condition and their plans to leave Craigmuir as soon as possible, she began what was to be a long letter to Joshua. There was no better way to rededicate herself to her one true love.
She wrote the salutation, but stopped. Lucy’s friends and family often complimented her on the quality of her letters. But as she spelled out Joshua’s name, she could think of nothing to say beyond a few lines about Arden’s injuries and subsequent fever. Her powers of description failed her when she tried to give him an adequate picture of Craigmuir Castle, and she realized that anything she might say about her encounter with the ghost would seem…well, Joshua would think her quite mad.
And what to say about Lord Broxburn? That he made every one of her nerves tingle with arousal? That his kiss was beyond anything she could have imagined? That the press of his body against hers ignited an intense yearning for more?
Of course not.
She could not write to Joshua when Broxburn loomed so predominantly in her mind.
Lucy could not put her thoughts in order when Broxburn occupied so many of them. So she decided to try turning her attention to the ghost. She knew she had not imagined seeing it – and a shiver shuddered through her at the memory of its appearance in her room.
It had wanted something from her, and had led her toward the library. Lucy could not imagine why, unless she’d intended that Lucy encounter Broxburn.
She focused on the ghost itself. It had been a wisp of bluish smoke, just as Aileen had described, but its – her – features were clearly discernible, as were her clothes. Lucy could only assume it was Béatrice who’d appeared to her in all her medieval finery. She was beautiful, with delicate features and long, flowing hair. Lucy could only imagine what her life had been like, married to the old Craigmuir laird when she was in love with another man.
No doubt it had been an arranged marriage, with Béatrice arriving in Scotland from France – Scotland’s old ally – and living among strangers. She’d have been young, too, and it was unlikely anyone would have taken her preferences into account.
Lucy thought perhaps an additional night at Craigmuir Castle would not be so bad. Lady Béatrice might appear again and lead her – uninterrupted – to whatever it was that she’d wanted to show her.
Lucy could not imagine what it might be. Surely not Broxburn. Béatrice had led her toward the library, but that might not have been her destination. Craigmuir Castle was huge, with additions that had been built seemingly without rhyme or reason. She looked around her bedroom. She was reasonably certain this room was one of the original rooms of the keep, considering its place on the floor above the great hall.
There were staircases at odd landings – like the one leading to the solar, near what Lucy believed were the duke’s chambers, and others leading to places she had not felt right about exploring. At least, not without Lord Broxburn’s permission. And if she asked for it, she was certain he would want to accompany her.
She pressed one hand against her heart. Spending time alone with Broxburn was the last thing she should want.
She did not understand her affinity toward him. He was nothing at all like Joshua, yet Lucy could barely dispel the man from her thoughts. It was terribly maddening to have so little control.
Lucy squeezed the bridge of her nose. It was time for her
to focus.
She dipped her pen in the ink and forced herself to write. Craigmuir Castle was incredible, and when she set her mind to it, she was able to describe every detail, leaving out any discussion of Lord Broxburn and Béatrice the ghost.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
Ferguson was on his way to Selkirk with the document that would revert the duke’s will to what it had been before his ill-advised amendments. Dr. Henderson had visited, and made it clear to Ian that his father’s condition was quite precarious. If he had as much as a sip of liquor, he would likely succumb to failure of the liver, from which he would not recover.
“Some physicians would recommend bleeding your father, but I am going to try giving him a small amount of laudanum every few hours. I believe it might do better in getting him past the delirium,” Henderson said. He showed Ian and Crenshaw how much to give, and how often.
The duke’s delirium made it impossible for Ian to talk to him about anything of substance, so he knew he would be unable to get any answers about his Irish mother. Nor could he ask about the ghost that Lucy believed she had seen last night.
Ian had heard tales of ghostly apparitions all his life, but he’d seen only a few ethereal wisps of light out of the corner of his eye that could have been anything. Possibly Béatrice and Sir Alex, but more likely a trick of the light.
Lucy Stillwater did not strike Ian as a fanciful woman, but for her to be the only one, other than a few frightened servants…well, that was something.
Henderson stayed long enough to observe the duke until his tremors subsided. Then Ian followed him out of the room. “Will the laudanum—”
“Cure him? No. But this is a dangerous period for your father. I hope the laudanum might help him through it.”
“Might?”
Henderson nodded gravely. “There is not much we can do, though this phenomenon with heavy drinkers is being studied by some physicians in London. They have had some success with laudanum.”
“To stop the shaking?”
“Aye. And the hallucinations. They’re calling it delirium tremens, and they’ve found that opium can sometimes help the patient through the worst of his withdrawal.”
“So that’s what this is? Withdrawal from alcohol?”
Henderson nodded. “’Tis as bad as any disease I’ve seen, and if he gets past this, it will be a struggle to keep him sober from now on.”
Ian did not know what to say. He’d never thought of repeated drunkenness as a disease.
Henderson changed the subject. “I understand Lady Kildrum has taken a turn.”
“I believe she developed a fever during the night,” Ian replied. “I hope you will recommend they remain here for another couple of days, at least.”
Ian ignored Henderson’s speculative gaze. “No, do not make anything of it,” he said. He turned to gesture back in the direction of his father’s bedchamber. “They are pleasant company in light of all this.”
“Why, yes, of course. I understand.”
Ian owed the doctor no explanation for his request.
Henderson started down the corridor. “I know the way, my lord.”
Ian did not answer, but continued alongside the doctor as he made his way to Lady Kildrum’s room. When they arrived, Henderson knocked quietly and was admitted by the countess’s maid.
Lucy was sitting on a low, cushioned stool next to her aunt’s bed, dabbing the older woman’s forehead with a damp cloth. Lord Kildrum’s hands were clasped behind his back, and he was pacing the length of the room.
“What have we here?” Henderson asked. He went directly to the bedside, and Lucy moved out of his way.
She saw Ian, but immediately turned her gaze away. Embarrassed, he guessed, by the color that infused her cheeks.
He was far from embarrassed. He wanted more. A good deal more.
“When did the fever start?” Henderson asked.
“After midnight, sir,” the maid replied.
Ian realized it must have been right about the time he’d been kissing Lucy in the library. He knew he should quell his desire for this woman. What he needed to do – and soon – was to go up to Edinburgh and find some investors with enough sterling to invest in Craigmuir’s tile business. Ian needed to pay the men at the brickworks, or the coming winter would be even worse than the last.
“I want to take her home. Now. Today,” Kildrum said.
Henderson shook his head. “You risk her health in doing so, sir.”
Kildrum knelt by his wife’s side, taking her uninjured hand in his. Ian looked at Lucy.
She remained outwardly composed, although when she slid a hand up to her throat and swallowed, he realized her discomfiture. He had to make her feel at ease at Craigmuir, he supposed, or else she would encourage her uncle to take Lady Kildrum and go, in spite of the doctor’s advice.
Possibly the only way to do that was for him to absent himself.
“Please feel free to stay as long as necessary, Kildrum,” he said. “I will be away all of today and most of tomorrow…” He did not plan on going anywhere, but perhaps if Lucy believed she would not encounter him, she would not voice any opposition to staying.
“I do thank you, Broxburn,” Kildrum said. “I find myself in a conundrum.”
Henderson shook his head. “Give your wife the chance to heal, my lord. Do not precipitate a worsening of her condition.”
“My uncle thinks she will recover better in her own bed, in her own house.”
“Under most circumstances that would be true,” Henderson replied, shaking his head. “But not in this situation…”
Ian stepped out of the room and went back to his father’s bedchamber. He would stay with him and keep out of Lucy’s way.
* * *
Lucy did not know what to think. Her uncle had decided to keep Arden at Craigmuir another day, but at least Lord Broxburn would be away. She would not have to worry about running into him somewhere in the castle.
Even now, her whole body responded in a completely improper manner at the thought of him. It was puzzling, and perhaps a bit frightening. If only her sister, Meg, were here, Lucy would have someone to confide in, someone to help her sort out her feelings.
Because they badly needed sorting.
Lucy could have been on her way to Edinburgh this morning if only her aunt had not relapsed. She knew it was petty and small to be thinking of herself at a time like this, but staying here at—
“Miss?” Aileen said, interrupting Lucy’s impossible train of thought. “I’ll stay with Lady Kildrum if you’d like to go down for breakfast.”
“Is, uh…”
“Yes, Miss?”
“Is Lord Broxburn there?”
“Oh, no, Miss. His father, the duke, took a turn last night,” the maid replied. “He is much worse today, so the marquess is staying with him for now.”
Lucy frowned. Was that what Broxburn meant when he said he’d be away? That he would be attending his father?
Aileen placed a fresh pan of water on the table and sat down beside Arden. She looked up at Lucy, encouraging her to go. “We will be fine here,” she said. “Mrs. MacRae said I was to do naught but help Sinclair care for Lady Kildrum. So here I am.”
“Thank you, Aileen. I know my uncle appreciates it."
Lucy collected Archie and went downstairs. She made sure he ate something, and they both drank a cup of tea.
“I thought she was on the mend, Lucy.”
“I know, Uncle,” Lucy replied. “And she will be better soon.”
“I just want to take her home.”
“We will. Soon.”
* * *
Ian wished Malcolm had stayed. He would have appreciated his friend’s company because as it was, there was nothing to do but pace outside his father’s door. And that was going to drive him mad.
He had a quick word with Crenshaw and then headed down to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Kilgore to pack him a lunch. Then he collected his fishing gear and
left the castle.
Ian could not have asked for better weather. The sun was high and there was a warm breeze.
Unfortunately, his father was struggling for his life.
He left through the castle gate and took the path that led past the old ghillie cottage where the memory of Lucy’s passionate response came back to haunt him.
He shook his head to clear it and continued down the footpath until he got to his fishing spot. Even there, he was reminded of Lucy sitting on the log, dangling her feet in the water. What a picture she’d made.
He focused his thoughts on fastening one of his flies on the end of his line, and casting it into the stream. It was certainly a great day for fishing, and Ian intended to take enough back to the castle for everyone.
He just wished he did not have to think while he fished, but everything – from Duncan’s behavior to his father’s condition – weighed on his mind. So, of course, did Lucy Stillwater.
She was in love with a man in Berkshire. Except she did not kiss like she was in love with him. Ian had to admit that she’d kissed like a novice that first time in the cottage. But she’d improved.
Gesu, she had improved.
And he had taken advantage where he shouldn’t. By God, where was his brain?
Normally, a few hours of fishing helped to clear Ian’s mind, and he made a concerted effort at marshaling his thoughts away from Lucy Stillwater’s kiss and the pure feminine softness of her body.
He had to raise money, and had to do it quickly. He was fairly sure MacAdams would advise against selling off any property, but Ian could think of no other way to pay his workers unless he recruited some investors. Which was the last thing he wanted. Investors would want reports. They’d want to have some say in how Ian ran the business, though they knew nothing about it.
At least Duncan was out of the equation now. Ian and Ferguson would manage all of the Craigmuir properties – including Brodie House – and continue giving Duncan and his mother their quarterly allowance.
But only if he could find the money to do so. He supposed he could borrow from Malcolm, but he’d heard enough stories to know that borrowing from friends was a path to avoid.
Lucy and Her Scottish Laird Page 14