A shiver started at the small of Brianna’s back at the thought of the close quarters they would share on the road to Dundee. “You can’t mean to take me all the way there.”
He stood still, gazing down at her mouth as if memorizing its taste and the way she’d responded to him. She wanted to rise up on her toes and kiss him, just to remind him.
“I don’t see that I have any choice.”
“Of course you have a choice.” She swallowed and forged ahead. “There’s no point in unnecessary chivalry, Hugh. I’ve been managing on my own for—”
A bright flicker distracted her, and Brianna turned to see the ghost taking shape behind Hugh in the space beside Amelia’s bed. “Look, it’s floating up the wall.”
Hugh took hold of Brianna’s hand and pulled her out of the room before the ghost actually took shape. “Time to get out of here.”
“ ’Tis harmless, and I think it wants to show us something.”
“I have no interest in delaying. We’re finished here,” he said, closing the door tightly. He seemed more irritated than afraid.
“It’s real, I’ll have you know,” Bree said. “And Amelia’s spirit never appears with the ghost, if that’s what worries you.” He ignored her words, pulling her alongside him, stopping short when Fiona made her appearance at the top of the stairs.
“Laird, the customs men are here!” she called out in a quiet voice.
“God damn it,” he said. “Wait here for me. Do not even think about leaving without me.”
Christ almighty, he did not need this! Not now.
Hugh followed the maid down the stairs and out the scullery door at the back of the castle, avoiding the area where his brandy was stored as though it were infested with vermin.
Angus Kincaid and Berk Armstrong were walking in the snow on the beach with a crew of their men. The underlings were clearing snow with shovels, then Kincaid and Armstrong took the long poles they carried and shoved them deep into the sand of the beach. Looking for buried contraband.
“Armstrong!”
The man looked up at Hugh’s voice and started walking toward him.
“Laird, good day to ye.”
To hell with the greetings. “What are you doing here?”
“Weel, we got word again of another ship in the cove a couple of nights ago.”
“When would that have been? The night of the storm?”
“Aye, Laird.”
Hugh made a derogatory sound. “Is there a free trader in all the North Sea who would risk sailing on such a night?”
“We’ve heard of one,” said Kincaid, a small, unpleasant man with a full, graying beard that he’d trimmed to a sharp point at his chin. “A man called Benoit.”
“Benoit, you say? A Frenchman, I suppose?”
“Aye,” Kincaid said, sneering. “A daring fool, from all that’s said of him. Trades illegally up and down the coast from Aberdeen to St. Andrews.”
“And you think he’s buried his goods here? On my land?” Hugh demanded.
“ ’Tis always a possibility, Laird,” said Armstrong.
“Not likely, though, without my knowing of it.”
Kincaid gave Hugh a hard look, but Hugh returned it, hoping the men understood whom they were dealing with, and that any accusations would have serious consequences. “But go ahead and see what you can find.” He turned to leave them. “Let me know if anything turns up.”
“Ye can be sure we will, Laird,” said Kincaid.
‘Twas the worst possible timing. He could not leave Glenloch with Brianna Munro while the customs men poked around his property. He didn’t want them talking to Mrs. Ramsay or any of the other servants, not while a thousand tubs of uncut brandy stood stacked in half ankers in the secret room near the buttery. And yet he could not allow Miss Munro to stay.
What he ought to do was see that she was returned to her guardian, Viscount Stamford, but he knew the man. And a more fawning, parsimonious mushroom was not to be found within or without the echelons of society. The man dangled after every peer of consequence, hoping to gain influence just by association. Hugh could not imagine Brianna at his mercy.
Brianna sat on the edge of the bed of the nursery, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She thought of running, but Hugh would have been after her before she could make it a half mile down the road. Not that he was so set on keeping her. She would not delude herself about that. But she knew he would take it amiss if she left when he’d told her to stay and wait for him.
She shivered with a sudden sense of cold, and looked up to see the ghost hovering nearby. “If you’ve a suggestion about what I should do, then out with it.”
The apparition did naught but float there, just above the floor, its shape only vaguely human.
“What is it, then?” she demanded, not even sure what she was seeing. Hugh denied the existence of the ghost, and no one else had ever seen it. Perhaps her anger and frustration were making her see things. Perhaps she was going mad. “What do you want to show me?” she asked, exasperated.
The filmy consistency of the ghost seemed to ripple in place, and Bree lost all patience. “I cannot read your mind. I don’t know what you want!”
Nor did she care. She did not want to know. She just needed to get away from the discontented spirit, away from Glenloch and the ache in her heart, and the knowledge that she would never feel for another man what she felt for Hugh.
She started for the door to make her escape, but stopped when she felt the cold prickle of unease on the back of her neck. It was the oddest feeling, as though Glenloch’s phantom had actually slipped its icy fingers around the back of her neck. If this was all some kind of illusion, then she did not understand reality.
Brianna swallowed and turned in resignation. “What do you want from me?”
The room looked exactly the same as it had on her first night at Glenloch, except for the plaid blanket from the kelper’s croft that was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Brianna knew it must have been a child’s room at one time, else the furniture would have been larger and there would have been hangings on the walls similar to those she’d seen in other parts of the castle.
The filmy light still shimmered in the center of the room.
Brianna stepped back inside and looked around, since her illusion clearly wanted to show her something. She opened the small wardrobe, worried that she might discover another whip or some other indication of Hugh’s bleak childhood. She took a breath of relief when she found it empty. There was nothing on the shelves, and the drawers were empty.
“What now?”
The writing desk was empty, too, but for an additional half-burned candle in the middle drawer. Bree shut it, but heard the rustle of paper inside as she did so.
“Is this it? Is this what you want me to see?”
She unbuttoned Amelia’s heavy coat and tossed it onto the bed. Turning back to the drawer, she pulled it open again and removed it all the way. She placed it on the desk and reached into the empty space, pulling out the crumpled foolscap she found there.
It was a child’s drawing of a sailing ship, so detailed that it even showed a map of the African coastline along its right edge. Bree could not understand why the ghost wanted her to find it.
She sat on the bed and looked down at the smoothed-out picture in her hands. Hugh must have drawn it years ago, during one of his visits at Glenloch with his father. He’d barely mentioned his mother, only telling Bree that she’d called him Glenloch.
“Glenloch,” she said quietly, the word sounded very cold when applied to the man whose bed she’d shared. Bree could never call him that. To her, he would always be Hugh, the brave hero who’d come to her rescue at sea, the generous lover who’d given her untold pleasure in his bed.
She dropped the drawing onto the bed and stood. Was this what the ghost had wanted? For Brianna to slow her thoughts and curb her anger long enough to think about the man with whom she’d spent the last several days?
“I’ve done naught but think about him, Ghost!”
Bree admitted his anger was justified. She’d lied to him and put him in an untenable position. The only thing she could do to prevent even more trouble was to disappear. She could get away from Glenloch before Lord Stamford learned that they’d spent days alone together.
For if her guardian did not find her here, he would have no grounds to force Hugh to wed her.
She wondered if there was a way to get around Hugh and leave without him. He might be occupied for some time with the customs men. But he had his horse, she reminded herself, and could make much faster time than Bree would be able to do on foot. Perhaps she could hide somewhere on Glenloch property, and when he left the estate to find her, she could flee in the opposite direction.
Brianna put a halt to her impulsive train of thought, for it was just as bad as the plan that had taken her out to sea in the small tub boat. The weather was still brutally cold, and if she found herself caught in it, she might freeze to death. And she would deserve it this time.
She sat down hard on the bed and allowed herself to face the truth. She did not really want to escape. In fact, Brianna almost wished she had agreed to stay at Glenloch with Hugh.
But he wouldn’t have asked her if he’d known who she was. Nor would he have taken her to his bed. Every aspect of their association would have been entirely different.
Yet Bree would not have changed anything, except for the misery she felt now, with her departure at hand. She’d tried to leave before, but that time, she hadn’t felt anything like the anguish that coursed through her now.
Her eyes lit once again on the crumpled picture of the sailboat lying on the bed. “It explains nothing,” she said aloud, even though she was alone.
As alone as Hugh must have felt, she supposed. He’d mentioned the holidays he’d spent with friends rather than with his family. And he’d grown up to marry in typical aristocratic fashion, to a woman with whom he’d shared no closeness. Likely they’d wed for family alliances rather than any liking for each other.
And yet…Had Hugh cared for his wife? He’d sworn off marriage after her death. Perhaps because it had devastated him, rather than freeing him. Brianna had not thought of that possibility before. He might have loved Amelia.
Bree had not mistaken the expression of deep emotion crossing his features, or the regret in his voice when he spoke of his late wife.
She picked up the picture. Taking it to the desk, she smoothed it out on the wooden surface and tamped down the pang of jealousy that twisted in her chest when she thought of what Hugh might have felt for his wife.
She had no right to any such feelings. But that did not keep her from having them.
Hugh went to the stable and saddled his horse with every confidence that Brianna Munro would not have the ballocks to leave Glenloch when he’d specifically told her to stay put. As much as he wanted to go right back up to his bedchamber and confront her with her lies, he needed to deal with Armstrong and Kincaid. He decided to make a show of disinterest, leaving the castle while the customs men poked about.
They would find naught, of course. And Mrs. Ramsay knew better than to give them admittance to any part of the castle other than the kitchens. As further insurance, she and the other servants had instructions to keep everyone away from the ruins, for these were said to be dangerous areas with walls and floors that might collapse at any time.
Such tales, along with rumors of a ghost, had always worked before. And the lairds of Glenloch had allowed the exterior of the castle to remain in its run-down condition in order to add authenticity to the claim.
He mounted his horse and rode down to the beach. “Make sure to have Mrs. Ramsay brew you some tea before you go on your way,” he said to the men.
“Aye, and thank ye, Laird!” Armstrong called out while Kincaid continued to scowl and stab at the ground.
Hugh’s mood was dark as he rode to MacGowan’s cottage. He’d known something was not quite right about Brianna Munro’s story, but he’d never guessed. Good God…the granddaughter of an earl. The daughter of a viscount. Stamford’s ward! He didn’t even want to consider who the jilted bridegroom might be. The man could call him out and be justified by it.
Brianna was doubly naïve if she really believed their liaison would cause no consequence to him. If Stamford ever got wind of it…He shuddered to think of it. Her guardian was one of the worst social climbers, exactly like Charlotte de Marche and the rest of her ilk, who would like nothing better than to entrap him in marriage. To his ward, in Stamford’s case.
Hugh had avoided such shackles assiduously for the past three years, and by God, he was going to steer clear of them now. He would just put the customs men off their suspicions of contraband at Glenloch by leaving the estate and heading toward his manager’s cottage. It was time he had a frank conversation with MacGowan, anyway.
He had been to the man’s house only twice or thrice in his life, for the custom had always been for the lairds of Glenloch to conduct estate business in the castle’s study. MacGowan greeted him with surprise and admitted him to his front parlor, a comfortable sitting room that served as an office, with a tidy desk at one end.
MacGowan offered him a seat and a cup of tea, which Hugh declined.
“Laird, I’d have come up to the castle if I’d known ye needed t’ see me.”
“Kincaid and Armstrong are poking about the beach,” Hugh said without preamble. He was in no mood for niceties in light of…everything.
The manager paled. “The brandy is still up at the castle.”
Hugh nodded, very much aware that the weather had prevented removal of the liquor.
“And it has yet to be let down.”
“Tonight would seem to be a good time,” said Hugh. “The sooner the better.”
MacGowan frowned. “I’m no’ sure of that, Laird. Mr. Kincaid’s customs office is in an uproar over the sightings of Benoit’s ships.”
“You’re saying Kincaid will send riders all the way down to Glenloch even when the roads are barely passable?”
“They’re passable enough on horseback.”
Hugh had found that to be true, though he still hoped the customs office would not bother sending riders out after dark. “None of them showed up the other night when we took in the last shipment.”
“Ach, weel, mayhap because I did what I could to lead Armstrong astray when ye sent him here for shelter.”
Hugh raised a brow.
“I told him we’d heard rumors of a smuggler’s ship seen down closer to Inverbervie.”
“Well done, MacGowan,” Hugh said, watching the man carefully for signs of deception.
“I’m thinkin’ we might want to wait awhile before we dilute this shipment and get it out to market,” MacGowan replied carefully.
“I’ll consider it. In the meantime, perhaps you can tell me why my free-trading income has been dropping steadily these past couple of years.”
“Laird?”
“I’d like a look at your balance sheets, MacGowan. You’ve got them here, haven’t you?”
“Of course.”
He had not shaved, so there was a thick growth of red whiskers on his neck. Even so, Hugh noticed his throat reddening as he swallowed thickly. Guiltily?
The man took out a large, bound ledger and set it on the table between them. He opened it to the first page. “Here ’tis. Every shipment since your grandfather started the trade.”
Hugh turned the pages until he came to his father’s tenure and saw the partners he’d brought in to expand their business. Of those investors, only Roddington was left, and Hugh wanted to know why. There were other operations Roddington would be better suited to, with partners who did not despise him.
“Times are difficult, Laird. A tub of brandy doesna fetch what it used to.”
Interesting. “In other words, we are no longer doubling our outlay, as we once did?” Hugh asked.
“Not here in the Mearns,” MacGowan sa
id. His face was flushed with color, and he opened and closed his big fists as he moved nervously about the room. “I’ve had t’ find men t’ carry it as far south as Kirkaldy and Edinburgh. But even so, we’re down more than half.”
Hugh did a quick mental calculation. “You’ve been cutting Falkburn’s percentage?”
“Weel, aye.” MacGowan nodded. “T’ make up some o’ yer losses, I had t’ do it.”
“Who are these distributing men you’ve brought in?”
“They’ve mostly come from Stonehaven. The Falkburn men won’t do it.”
He closed MacGowan’s book and picked up his gloves. “I’ve decided to arrange for a crew to go up to Glenloch later today. MacTavish will let you know when the brandy is diluted and ready to be shipped.”
Feeling unsatisfied by the conversation, Hugh left the manager’s cottage and walked his horse down the road to the village to get more information. He encountered Niall MacTavish—Sorcha Ramsay’s son-in-law—shoveling a path near the vicarage.
“Hello, Laird. I was planning on comin’ up to see ye at Glenloch later. I’d like a word, if ye doona mind.”
“Let’s walk to Tullis’s place.”
“Aye, Laird.” MacTavish put up his shovel and they walked together through the snow-covered village. The paths between cottages had already been cleared, making it easy to reach the center of the small town. Hugh led the way to the public house, where MacTavish followed him inside. Together, they stepped up to the bar, where Osgar Tullis greeted him and drew two glasses of ale from a cask, placing them on the scarred wooden surface of the bar.
MacTavish spoke. “I thought ye should know Guthrie saw Gordon Pennycook going into MacGowan’s cottage a bit over a week ago.”
Chapter 11
Fresh fish and unwelcome visitors, stink before they are three days auld.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
The hairs on the back of Hugh’s neck prickled.
MacGowan hadn’t mentioned any such visit, even though Hugh had told him of the customs men exploring the sand around the castle. “You think Pennycook knows we’re free trading at Glenloch?”
Taken By the Laird Page 16