Brianna touched the wall, then slid her hand down the same path the ghost’s light had taken, stopping when her fingers met the rough side of the table.
She pushed the table aside and looked down at the floor. There was nothing. She started to move the table back, but caught sight of something that had caught on the rough edge of the table. She reached down and came up with a long gold chain with a locket attached.
She knew of married ladies who wore miniatures of their husbands or children in their lockets. Bree snapped it open, expecting to see a small picture of Laird Glenloch, but it was another man altogether. Brianna did not recognize him, but it was obviously not Laird Glenloch.
Perhaps it was a portrait of her father or a brother.
Or a paramour.
Brianna closed the locket in her hand and glanced about the room, looking for the ghost, for some explanation of what she held in her hand. But Bree had been left alone to wonder if the phantom’s intent was to indicate something about Lady Glenloch’s affections.
Feeling distinctly troubled, she quickly replaced the chain exactly where she found it and shoved the dressing table back against the wall. “Whatever she might have done, the woman is dead,” Bree admonished the ghost, who must be hovering somewhere nearby. “ ’Tis not right to intrude on her privacy.” Though Brianna could not imagine a wife who would cuckold Laird Glenloch.
He did not seem to be a brute, nor was he unkind. If Bree had been his wife—
She gathered the front of her shawl in her fist. She intended never to find herself in such a position, ever. There would be no marriage to Roddington or to anyone else. After Bernard’s defection, she had decided to spend her life as Claire had done—as an independent woman, free to travel, or to raise her horses as she pleased. She might go to Greece and spend a few years there, in the village where Claire had lived before coming to London to take Brianna away from Lord Stamford.
Or maybe she’d go to France on an extended trip and see about buying some new stallions to improve the Killiedown stock.
Feeling like an intruder in the dead woman’s room, Brianna exited, closing the door behind her. Where Lady Glenloch had placed her affections had naught to do with her, though Brianna wished she could be as immune to Laird Glenloch as his wife seemed to have been.
Brianna returned to her room and wondered how she was going to manage to avoid the laird’s advances this evening, after the servants had all gone. She had never been so susceptible to any other man, not even Bernard Malham. And her reaction to him was bothersome. She could not allow herself to succumb.
“If you can help me,” she whispered, hoping the ghost might be hovering somewhere nearby, “now would be a good time.” For she knew the power of Laird Glenloch’s touch, of his kiss.
But there was no reply, no strange flicker of light anywhere in sight. Brianna was on her own in this, and she could not leave until the weather cleared.
She collected her dry clothes into the oilcloth, being careful to place her money securely in the center of it. She’d brought enough to keep her in decent lodgings at Dundee for more than two months, and pay for a few extras, besides. Such as transportation back to Killiedown when it was time to go home. And perhaps a lawyer to help her claim her inheritance.
In the meantime, she could not allow herself to yield to Laird Glenloch’s seductive charms. She knew ’twas unwise to spend time alone with such a gazetted rake, but there were no other options, not while the brutal weather persisted.
She turned her thoughts to the horses at Killiedown, rather than the sensation of Glenloch’s strong hands on her shoulders, sliding down her arms. She managed to avoid shivering at the memory of his breath in her ear, stirring her as no man had ever done.
She considered the breed of horses Claire had developed over the past eight years, teaching Brianna everything she knew. Bree had loved their life up north of Stonehaven, and still could not understand Claire’s insistence that Brianna go to London to find a husband. It had been a pointless exercise after Bernard’s abandonment, and Bree had wanted nothing more than to return home.
Now Claire was dead, and Brianna found herself in a perilous predicament here at Castle Glenloch. It would be even worse at Killiedown Manor, for Lord Stamford would surely go looking for her there. Fortunately, Bree had all she needed to survive in Dundee for two months, and when she was twenty-one, she could return to Claire’s estate and resume the life she wanted.
But she had to get to Dundee first.
With a sigh of frustration, Brianna recognized there was nothing she could do about it now but wait for an opportune moment. If only the clouds would break, she could slip away unnoticed. Since they did not, she decided to go down to the library as she’d told Laird Glenloch she would do. Far better for him to find her there, rather than coming into her bedchamber again.
The library was smaller than she’d expected, with three walls lined from the floor to the ceiling with shelves full of books. A chess table was set with figures wrought of pale oak and dark mahogany, and there were two comfortable chairs with accompanying ottomans arranged on opposite sides of the fireplace. Directly in front of the fire was a long, lushly cushioned sofa.
But Bree did not feel like sitting. She lit the lamps and tended the fire, making the room warm and bright enough to stay, then looked through the window once again, in hopes that the rain had cleared. She knew Laird Glenloch did not intend to relent in his seduction, not if their encounter before breakfast was any indication.
Too restless to sit down and read, Brianna paced before the fire, her mind racing. Her skin felt hot and flushed, her young muscles anxious to move, to flee. She had to do something. She glanced out the window and looked at the sea beyond the cliff, and wondered how long she would need to resist the enthralling laird before she could make her escape.
Chapter 4
If you dinna see the bottom, dinna wade.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
Hugh came out of his bedchamber and stopped cold at the sight of Amelia’s bedchamber door, standing slightly ajar. It was always kept closed, and yet—
He would not be surprised to find his late wife haunting the place. It would be just like Amelia to try to plague him in her distinctly disapproving yet passive manner. She’d never voiced her unhappiness or her disappointment in him, but neither had she failed to display her discontent in her eyes, every time she looked at him. Which was not often.
Not even when he bedded her.
She’d preferred to suffer in silence, wordlessly blaming him for all that was wrong with her marriage, her life.
Well, hell’s bells, he blamed himself for that. He’d berated his inability to please her in bed, or to give her children. He was no stranger to criticism. His own father had denigrated him often enough—and included a few brutal beatings, besides—that Hugh refused to give anyone that kind of power over him ever again. He kept everyone, save his two oldest friends, at arm’s length.
He didn’t need anyone’s approval, nor did he need the bad memories engendered by the sight of Amelia’s open bedchamber. Taking hold of the door latch, he started to pull it closed. But he stopped and ducked his head inside the room for a quick look around. Shrouded in shadows, it was just the same as he remembered. Feminine fabrics and furnishings abounded, giving an aura of sensuous femininity.
Amelia had worn the same mantle of womanly sensuality. She’d dressed to please her admirers and smiled beguilingly. But once Hugh had married her, she’d turned as cold and unresponsive as one of Mrs. Ramsay’s kippers.
Amelia’s appeal had been a sham. Her feminine frailties and dainty sensibilities had all been for show. To bear children, a woman must be willing to conceive. Yet she’d had no taste for their marriage bed. Marital relations had occurred seldom between them, perhaps once a month during their five-year marriage. There’d been no fire between them, not even at the start. Hugh had convinced himself that that would change once he bedded her and they learned the pleasures
of the bedchamber together. But she’d felt no fundamental attraction to him.
He jerked the door closed and shut Amelia out of his mind just as forcefully. There was a beautiful, intriguing woman awaiting him in his library, one who responded quite nicely to him, and he intended to woo her and bed her before much more time passed.
Descending the stairs on his way to the library, he heard voices near the main entrance of the castle. He detoured from his route and saw Mrs. Ramsay greeting Berk Armstrong, Stonehaven’s official customs collector. Of all the Stonehaven customs officers, Armstrong was the least of Hugh’s worries. He could be easily sidetracked.
Armstrong came inside, stomping his wet shoes on the rug in the entranceway just as Hugh reached the bottom of the stairs.
“What brings you all the way down to Glenloch in this weather?” Hugh asked, concerned by the man’s appearance just now, when there were five hundred tubs of undiluted brandy in his cellar.
“Ach, Laird,” said Armstrong, looking up at Hugh. “Mr. Kincaid got wind of a cutter putting in near yer cove two nights ago. A cutter bearing two guns. I came down to see about it.”
“I wouldn’t know, Armstrong,” said Hugh, extending his arm in the direction of the kitchen. “I only arrived last night.”
“In this muck?” the man asked as he allowed himself to be led toward the warmth and welcoming cooking aromas near the back of the castle. Hugh felt confident that the collector would never go near the old towers, not when they appeared to be one good breeze away from a full collapse.
“Aye, ’tis Scotland in December, eh?” Hugh wondered who in Falkburn would have mentioned Benoit’s ship and betrayed their operation, for it profited everyone there. “Are you sure, Armstrong? Surely the weather would have discouraged any such vessel from plying our coast.”
“Weel, no. We are no’ sure.” He laughed amicably. “But our surveyor, Mr. Kincaid, doesna like us to sit idle at Stonehaven. He’s got Pennycook running up to Muchalls, and me down here. There’s always something to investigate.”
“I see,” said Hugh, somewhat relieved. He had never met Mr. Kincaid, but the man sounded at least somewhat more competent than his subordinates. It would do to be wary of him.
“It might be a wild-goose chase, Laird, but when I saw the light in your windows, I thought I’d stop to warm m’self before going on to the village. If anyone saw anything, I’ll find him in Falkburn, I expect.”
“Quite possibly,” said Hugh, going along with the man to the kitchen, annoyed by the delay in rejoining Bridget MacLaren. “But first you must refresh yourself. Tea, if you please, Mrs. Ramsay.”
The housekeeper stood working alongside two maids, cleaning up after they’d prepared dishes that looked to Hugh as though they would last several days, at least. It seemed she was preparing for the possibility that the road from Falkburn would be an impassable mess upon the morrow. Hugh admitted she might be right, if the icy rain continued.
Hugh gestured for the customs man to take a seat on a bench at the old, scarred oak table, nestled in a corner of the big kitchen. “Oh, aye. And thank ye, but I’ll just stay a few moments before I continue on my way, Laird.”
“ ’Tis no problem, Armstrong. You know you are welcome any day.” ’Twas not entirely true, but Hugh would say naught to arouse the man’s suspicions, not when there would be a good twenty men from Falkburn coming in tonight to let down the brandy and carry it away for distribution on the ponies MacGowan borrowed from farmers nearby.
Hugh was going to have to get word to MacGowan, for he had no intention of allowing Armstrong to stay at Glenloch tonight if the weather prevented his return to Stonehaven. MacGowan would have to host him at his own cottage and let Niall MacTavish handle the brandy shipment.
In any case, Hugh knew exactly how much liquor was hidden in the secret chamber. He did not need MacGowan’s accounting skills for this batch.
“Thank ye, Laird,” said Armstrong. “Eh, perhaps your servants saw the cutter.”
“Feel free to ask them,” Hugh replied, confident of the answer the man would get. He refused to believe that any of his servants would ever turn informer. They had too much to lose.
While Armstrong questioned Mrs. Ramsay and the others, Hugh drank his tea, outwardly calm, but inwardly anticipating his next encounter with Miss MacLaren. The dolt who’d tried to seduce her hadn’t known what he was about, else he’d have succeeded in getting her into his bed. She was ripe for the picking, if her responses to him were any indication. She’d had an attack of principles, but Hugh did not doubt that he could overcome those.
She wanted him. He hardened at the thought of tasting her again. Of pulling a taut, rosy nipple into his mouth while he fondled her delectable backside. He sipped tea with Armstrong as the household staff prepared to leave the castle. Soon, he and the delectable Miss MacLaren would be alone.
“Ah, the rain has stopped,” said the customs officer. “I’d best be on my way before it starts up again.”
“I’ll walk you out, Armstrong,” Hugh said. “And why don’t you plan to stay at MacGowan’s cottage if the weather turns too evil for you to ride back to Stonehaven. I’ll send him notice.”
“That’s very good of ye, Laird.”
“Mrs. Ramsay, would you see to it, please?”
“Aye, Laird. I’ll take it m’self since we’re finished here and we’ll be leaving presently.”
Hugh was glad of the housekeeper’s reply. He drew Armstrong away to the door where the man had entered, and saw him out. The weather was definitely clearer, but would not stay that way. It was still gray and cold. Not the kind of night one would want to be abroad.
The break in the clouds was exactly what Brianna was waiting for. It might last a couple of hours, enough time to get to Inverbervie if she hurried, away from Laird Glenloch and temptation. Her vague inkling that Glenloch’s ghost wanted to show her something was no reason to stay, and she had one very good reason to get away.
Her weakness with regard to Laird Glenloch’s advances.
Hurrying back to her room, she changed clothes, then quickly tied up the oilcloth. She met no one on her way back downstairs, and found the drawing room empty. Creeping quietly inside, she went straight to the wall panel that led to the hidden passageway, in order to avoid alerting anyone to her departure. She found the latch, and slipped out of the drawing room.
She’d forgotten to bring a lamp or even a candle, but managed to make her way carefully through the shadows to the stairs. She climbed down to the small room where she’d entered, and went down on her knees. Pushing out the grate, she crawled through it, getting her hands and knees muddy and wet. She brushed them off as best she could and moved through the overgrown shrubs, finally jumping off the shallow ledge that faced the beach.
Common sense would dictate that she return to the road and proceed south from there, but with every day that passed came the greater likelihood that Lord Stamford would come after her, traveling that very same road. And Brianna did not know what to expect from Laird Glenloch, although she thought there was a good chance he would come looking for her, too. The attraction that raged between them would not easily be extinguished.
It was the true reason Bree had to leave now, for she had no power to resist his advances. He made her feel lovely and wanted, and yet she was perfectly aware that his pretty talk and sweet caresses were pure blatherskite. The man knew how to charm a woman, how to fascinate her with his kisses and intimate touches, making her lose all sense of self-preservation…of decency.
The castle had been built on uneven land, with various levels and differing degrees of disrepair. She felt fortunate not to have caused the collapse of the dilapidated southern tower with her tampering of the grate and her scrambling through it. When she emerged on the beach, her eyes were drawn to the north tower, which was in even worse shape.
She had a distinctly disquieting impression that the parapet of that dilapidated tower was the site from which Lady Glenloch had ju
mped.
Stumbling in her haste to get away, she noticed a rocky path that led down to the beach. No one would find her if she walked the shoreline. She could follow the beach for some distance, and when it became impassable, there would surely be some other way to continue south, even if she had to return to the road.
She headed down the path and soon landed on a wide expanse of wet beach that was scattered with formations of large black rock. The three small boats she’d seen earlier were still in place and secured against the winter weather. She started past them, but stopped suddenly when it occurred to her that she might borrow one of them.
She looked out into the cove and saw that the sea was calm enough to navigate, especially if she stayed close to the shore. Sea travel would be much faster than walking, and she might actually make it all the way to Montrose.
Brianna and Claire often used the same kind of skiff to get from Killiedown to Stonehaven, so she was familiar with the craft. But Bree did not relish the possibility of being out at sea if the rain returned, or if the sea became rough.
She eyed the boats and then looked back up at the castle. The cove was visible from many of the windows, but as soon as she cleared the point that jutted out to the south, she would pass unseen. Down to Montrose, or even as far as Arbroath. Did she dare?
Her situation was dire enough to warrant the risk. She chewed on one nail and thought about her choices. Lord Stamford would have even more difficulty tracing her if she traveled by water, and she surely needed to get away from Glenloch and its laird. He was an indulgence she could not afford, a diversion from the safe, circumspect path she’d chosen.
Taken By the Laird Page 7