Lucy and Her Scottish Laird

by Margo Maguire

  There had to be another solution.

  He spent another hour fishing, but had little luck, probably due to his inattention. He decided to pack it up and head down to the hamlet to see how the tile production was progressing.

  * * *

  “Go out and get some air, Lucy,” Archie said.

  “No, I—”

  “Arden is being well cared for, and you are looking pale,” her uncle interjected. “A walk will do you good.”

  Lucy glanced at her aunt, then back to her uncle. She’d heard from Broxburn himself that he would be “away” for a day or two, so there was no chance of encountering him, especially if he was staying cloistered with his father, as Aileen had said. “All right. I won’t be long.”

  She could walk out to the hunting cottage on the estate and explore that historical treasure without interference from the marquess. Lucy just wished her aunt would improve so they could make their escape to Edinburgh. Once there, the time would pass, December would come, and she could return home. After Eleanor’s recent marriage to Beckworth, Joshua had barely had the opportunity to think about becoming more than a friend to Lucy. But she was sure he had begun to notice her as something more than a friend. And just then, she’d had to leave Berkshire.

  She didn’t care what Emily had said about Joshua and Jane Parker. Going into Reading for an ice at Philburt’s meant less than nothing. Numerous times Joshua had invited Lucy to go exploring through one ruined old building or another. Surely that meant something. Surely he was working up to more than just a casual friendship.

  It was very pleasant outside, so Lucy took only her hat and gloves with her as she left the castle and headed for the path to the cottage. She focused her thoughts on Joshua and the life they would lead in Berkshire. He had inherited his father’s estate, Long Willow Place, and he was a prosperous gentleman farmer.

  He was fair of face, and his red-gold hair…Hmm. Lucy did not remember it being as thick or as wavy as Broxburn’s glossy raven mane. Nor did she believe his arms and shoulders were anywhere near as broad or muscular as Broxburn’s, but she could not be sure, since she hadn’t seen him in rolled shirtsleeves since they were children.

  Oh, good heavens, she admonished herself. She forced her thoughts into good order, fully intending to enjoy the sunny day with a clear heart and mind.

  She took a brisk walk to the gatehouse and down to the path that led to the cottage. It was a beautiful day for walking, and as Lucy approached the cottage, she decided to walk farther, out to the grotto near the place where she’d seen the amorous couple in their heated embrace.

  There was no one near the grotto when Lucy arrived. She walked around the stone structure, then stepped inside. The building was small, with just enough room for three or four people to stand inside. At one time, there might have been glass in an arched window opening on one end of the grotto, but there were only worn down stones framing it now.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and thought of the people who’d come here to…do what? Pray? Store grain or other produce? Trade goods? There were no markings to give her any clue. The floor was made of stone worn smooth by the ages, and there was a dilapidated stone bench protruding from the wall under the arched window. Or maybe it was a low altar.

  The grotto must have been a favorite trysting place in years gone by, Lucy thought. And she quickly scolded herself for having such a wayward idea. What would she know of trysting? In all the years she’d gone exploring ancient standing stones and castle ruins with Joshua, they’d never shared even the slightest peck of a kiss. Lucy could not remember a time when he’d even touched her, other than to keep her from tripping on a hidden doorstep or some other kind of hazard.

  And yet she’d been at Craigmuir Castle for only three days, and Broxburn had kissed her soundly three times, even seducing her out of her clothes. She hardly knew what to think of it.

  Or rather, she knew exactly what to think of it. And it was appalling.

  Why was it so impossible to resist him, when she knew quite well that he was not the man for her? When she should be thinking of ways to make her aunt more comfortable, she could only think of Broxburn’s skilled hands upon her breasts…and elsewhere. When her memories of Joshua and home should be consoling her, she could only recall the taste of Broxburn’s lips, and the exquisite sensations caused by his touch.

  A shiver of pure physical desire skittered over her, and she knew she had to distract herself. But when she turned to the clearing, her thoughts turned to the young couple she’d seen there. They had not made use of the grotto, even though they would have enjoyed more privacy, which – from their state of undress – Lucy would have thought it a more prudent location for their tryst.

  Her body flushed with heat when she thought of the half-naked couple. Or, at least the woman was half naked. The man had only…Dear lord, it looked as though he’d had his trews off and was…

  She took a deep breath and swallowed. It was crass and wholly improper to even think of such—

  “Miss Stillwater.”

  Oh, no. It could not be Broxburn, intruding on her most private thoughts. She whirled around to face him. “Y-You said you were going to be away.”

  He dropped his satchel to the ground and came to her without a word. He cupped her jaw with his hand, then slid it to the back of her head. Lucy closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

  “Lucy.”

  She felt his other hand slip around her waist and pull her close. Then he lowered his head and took her mouth in a searing kiss.

  The kiss was no light brushing of lips, but a meeting of flesh that quickly intensified as her body melted into his. His heat enveloped her, his scent tantalized her. His mouth was warm, his lips soft and pliable.

  The familiar, exquisitely pleasant ache formed in her lower body, and it seemed the only way to soothe it was to press even closer to him. When she moved to do so, he broke away and pulled her deeper into the grotto.

  Dazed, Lucy did not resist. She noticed nothing of her surroundings, only the pounding of her heart and the heat of Broxburn’s hard body when he pressed it against hers.

  When he held her shoulders in his hands and looked into her eyes, Lucy felt he could see clear down to her soul. Never before had she felt such a deep connection with anyone.

  He resumed their kiss, making a low sound in his throat as his lips met hers. Lucy trembled when his hands slipped down her back and lower, dragging her body into closer contact with his.

  He overwhelmed her senses with his mouth, his touch, his very size. She felt the pressure of his long, hard arousal at the crux of her legs while his tongue invaded her mouth. He tasted male, if that was possible, and so very potent he made her dizzy.

  Some instinct made her yearn for the sensation of his naked skin against hers, but they were wearing altogether too much clothing to allow it. So she slid her hands beneath his jacket to get as close as possible. But he captured one of her hands and placed it on the front of his trews.

  She forgot to breathe. Touching him was as incredible as being touched, and she wanted more. She wanted every long inch of him in her hand.

  He inhaled sharply, breaking their kiss. “Oh yes, just like that.”

  “I want to touch you.”

  He took her mouth again, and then he was unfastening the buttons on the front fall of his trews. All at once she held him in her hand, and felt him shudder.

  He was hard as iron, but sheathed in warm, sensitive skin. She stroked him gently at first, then encircled him with her whole hand. He groaned and started kissing an amazingly sensitive spot on her neck while he unfastened the front of her gown. A moment later, she felt his hands on her breasts. His mouth followed, and then Lucy was in heaven.

  Every nerve in her body hummed. Her blood tingled in her veins and her bones seemed to melt under his sensual onslaught. Her nipples were exquisitely attached to all her womanly parts, and a sudden burst of pleasure caused her knees to buckle. She hardly noticed when
Broxburn eased her down to the bench.

  He raised his head and gazed into her eyes. “Sassenach. Gesu. We…” He licked his lips. “I…”

  Lucy swallowed and watched him fasten his trews as he stood up and backed away. She took a shaky breath. What had she – they – done?

  She tried to remember why this was wrong. So very wrong.

  She blinked, and Joshua’s face suddenly came to mind.

  She had done the unthinkable – succumbed to her attraction for Broxburn, despite the fact that he wasn’t the one she wanted. Scotland was not what she wanted. Not at all.

  She let out a shuddering breath.

  When Lucy glanced at Broxburn’s face, she saw that his eyes still smoldered with heat, and he was clenching his jaw, the muscles flexing as he swallowed. Every inch of Lucy’s skin felt as if it were on fire, and her body still tingled with arousal. Tears welled in her eyes.

  Broxburn hesitated for an instant, then made a quick turn and walked away, picking up his satchel from the door of the grotto as he left. And Lucy covered her face with her hands and wept.

  Chapter Seventeen

  * * *

  Ian made a quick dash into the woods on his way to the hamlet. He left his fishing gear in the hollow of an old oak tree and took the long way around in an attempt to burn off the impossible desire he felt for Lucy Stillwater.

  He ran until his lungs burned and his legs began to feel like porridge. It was unfair to prey on Lucy’s innocence. No doubt her Berkshire suitor had never done more than kiss her gloved hand. Of course she’d succumbed to Ian’s sensual attentions. She did not know any better.

  But lord, she was the most responsive lover he’d ever had. She’d come to climax when he’d merely suckled her breast. He could not imagine the intensity of her reaction if he actually laid her down and made love to her properly.

  Properly? That was a word for married couples, and she’d made it clear she was in love with a man she’d left at home. She’d made it clear she was anxious to leave Craigmuir – to leave Scotland.

  Ian stopped just outside the village, bending over with his hand on his hips to catch his breath. Lucy must be as shocked by his advances as by her response to him.

  She was the daughter of a baron, the niece of an earl. A man did not go trifling with the likes of Miss Stillwater. Oh, no – a man trifled with servants like his father had done. As Duncan was wont to do.

  The men of Ian’s family were not an admirable lot if those two were any indication. And now Ian was following their lead. Lucy might not be a serving lass, but her present circumstances made her just as vulnerable.

  He knew he had no choice now. He might not be able to leave Craigmuir, as he’d told Lucy and her family, but he could stay away from her. And if he happened to encounter her, surely he could restrain himself. He wanted to be a better man than his heredity suggested.

  The new kiln was under construction on the far side of the village, and men were already forming long rows of clay drainage tiles that would be baked once they dried underneath the shelter.

  “Laird, have ye come to see our progress?” Angus Guthrie asked. He’d been overseer of the brickworks as long as Ian could remember. When Ian was a lad, he and his father had come down to the brickworks occasionally, so he knew Angus well. On those occasions, he and his father would make the rounds of the village, taking gifts to young mothers just out of childbed, and baskets of food from the castle to the sick and dying.

  Later, he’d learned that it was usually the laird’s wife who did the visiting, but the duchess had never been up to the task. At least, not in Ian’s memory.

  “Aye, Angus,” Ian said, looking over the new kiln. “It looks good. Big enough to accommodate our new orders.”

  Guthrie grinned. Ian now knew how badly production and incomes had dwindled over the past year or two due to his father’s lack of attention. Even MacAdams had been unable to spur the duke into action. The new work was more than welcome to everyone in Craigmuir Way.

  Now, if only Ian could find a way to pay them before winter set in.

  * * *

  Lucy sat next to her Aunt Arden, castigating herself for that episode in the grotto. She knew better than to detour far from the rooms her family occupied when there was a chance she would encounter Broxburn again.

  “I think your aunt’s fever is down,” Sinclair said. The maid pressed her hand to Arden’s forehead, then her cheek. “Yes, I am sure of it.”

  That was a relief. The sooner Arden was better, the sooner they could leave.

  Arden opened her eyes. “Lucy?”

  Lucy took Arden’s hand in hers. “Yes, Aunt. I’m here.”

  “Where are we? Where is Archie?”

  “Uncle stepped out for a moment,” Lucy said. “He’ll be back soon. Here, take a sip of water.”

  She and Sinclair propped her up enough so that she could drink, then helped her to lie back down.

  “How do you feel?”

  “We are still here in that awful Duchess Craigmuir’s home, aren’t we?” Arden asked.

  Lucy nodded. “Yes, we’re at Craigmuir Castle.”

  “I wish to leave. Immediately.”

  Lucy could not agree more. “Yes, Aunt. As soon as you are able.”

  Arden closed her eyes. Lucy did not think her aunt was ready to leave today, but perhaps tomorrow she could manage it if they drove slowly so as not to jostle her in the carriage.

  Lucy remained with her aunt all afternoon, though she found the room too confining. Her skin felt confining after those stolen moments in the grotto. But she did not dare leave. Her feelings were muddled enough without adding yet another lustful encounter to confuse her further.

  She would never have believed she possessed such a wanton character. All her life she’d been responsible and prudent. Her only real passion – besides her family – was her study of history and antiquities. Yet now she felt the most acute desire for more of Broxburn’s kisses, more of those intensely decadent sensations he aroused in her.

  She felt as though she needed one of those cool cloths Sinclair had been putting on Arden’s forehead. For the mere thought of Broxburn caused a flash of heat that centered in her womb and arced to her most private parts and the tips of her breasts. As though they were all connected by some shared nerve.

  She knew they were. Ever since those moments in the ghillie’s cottage, she’d felt echoes of the pleasure he’d caused in all the most sensitive parts of her body.

  She crossed her legs to assuage the arousal, but it was no use. Pacing did not help, either. Broxburn’s scent lingered, but whether it was only in her mind or actually on her clothes, she did not know. Even thinking of the way his body pressed against hers brought waves of heat through her. And his touch…

  It was obvious she could not go on this way. They had to leave on the morrow. Arden just had to be ready to travel.

  Mrs. MacRae came into the room to see if Lady Kildrum needed anything. “No, I do not think so, Mrs. MacRae,” Lucy said. “But I do have a favor to ask.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would it be possible for my uncle and I to dine here tonight? In my aunt’s room?”

  Mrs. MacRae smiled kindly. “Of course. I will see to it, Miss Stillwater.”

  Lucy breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. She’d felt tense before, but didn’t realize exactly how tense. But now she knew she would not see Lord Broxburn, even by accident. She could relax.

  Arden fell back asleep and Lucy went to her own room to read. She’d have loved to find some documentation on the history of Craigmuir Castle – especially its ghost – but she was not willing to risk running into Lord Broxburn to find it.

  She settled on the Lathom book she’d started the night of the accident. That way, she had no need to leave the safe haven of her own room. Not unless Arden needed her.

  * * *

  Ian had one of the grooms saddle his horse for a ride out to Haddington. It was clear that he could not stay at
the castle, else he would be tempted to seek out Lucy.

  He circled around Craigmuir Way and headed out to Haddington. The beautiful afternoon had turned dreary, and heavy clouds threatened rain. He did not mind – the weather matched his mood perfectly.

  He had a great deal to think about, from his family’s fortunes, to the duke’s reputation. His father would soon be known as the Drunken Duke, just as Ian was likely to become known one day as the Pauper Duke.

  Rain started to fall just as he handed his horse off to a groom and entered Haddington’s public house. He took a glass of whiskey from Bruce Drummond, the proprietor of the house, and sat down at a vacant table near the back. He could see the entire place from where he sat, though he saw nothing of interest.

  He finished his glass and caught the eye of the barman, who brought him another. And another. Ian figured he’d have stopped at two, or even three, if Malcolm had been there, and now he feared he was becoming a drunken sot like his father.

  The room tilted and swayed, and he realized he should have stopped at two drinks. He was unaccustomed to more. He noticed Nessa MacClure descending the staircase to his right, pushing her blond hair back into her cap as she stepped down. Her cheeks were rosy and she smiled broadly when she saw him. “M’Laird!”

  “Good afternoon.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded slurred.

  She put her hands on his table and leaned forward, displaying the bounty barely held back beneath her blouse. “Ye look to be in need of… something, Laird.”

  “Aye. You are right about that.” He looked outside the window and saw that the rain was coming down in torrents. It was just as bad as the day the Kildrum carriage had overturned, and he knew he was not going to ride back to Broxburn in it. Besides, he was more than likely to fall off his horse in his present state. He would take a room. He’d told Lucy he’d be away, and he meant to be.

  “I can see to it for ye, Laird,” she said suggestively.