“Weel, I wouldna know about that. But Sorcha thinks MacGowan fancies one of Pennycook’s daughters.”
“What?” Hugh asked, dismayed. His manager had to know better. Attention from any customs agent was not something to be encouraged.
“My wife’s mother is seldom wrong. The woman hears everything,” MacTavish said, scratching the back of his neck in bewilderment, “though I doona know how.”
‘Twas a chilling thought, though Hugh did not believe MacGowan would risk his own income by betraying the business to a customs agent. Perhaps he hoped to cull favor from the girl’s father with bribes. Many a customs agent was known to accept inducements to turn a blind eye. And Pennycook was not one of the agents who had come to Glenloch today to search in the sand for illegal goods.
“Armstrong told me someone reported seeing a cutter in Glenloch’s cove,” he said.
“Aye,” Tullis remarked. “Mayhap he’s just pokin’ where he thinks he might hit a vein.”
“Actually, he’s poking down at the beach even as we speak.”
A young woman came to refill their glasses as the Scots muttered quiet curses of alarm under their breath. She was a pretty lass with wispy blond hair who looked up at Hugh with a promising flirtation in her eyes.
He could have her if he chose. When he finished with these men, he could accept her invitation and make his way to one of the upper rooms of the house. There, they could engage in a lusty interlude that would leave him…
Dissatisfied?
No, it could not be. The lass was a likely enough bed partner and Hugh’s appetites were sufficiently healthy. He knew how to give as much pleasure as he took, and he prided himself on his stamina. If she was willing to give, then he was willing to take. But not today.
She leaned forward, and the bounty of her assets nearly overflowed the neckline of her gown. And yet Hugh felt not even the slightest stirring of desire.
He clenched his jaw and turned his attention to the matter of his brandy business. Once he got Brianna Munro away from Glenloch, he’d be free to return and sample the maiden’s charms.
“Could there be an informer in Falkburn?” he asked.
“Ye jest, Laird,” said Tullis. “With the pitiful harvest pulled in this autumn, no’ a one of us can afford to lose our free-tradin’ income.”
“MacGowan’s been bringing in his own crews to carry out the brandy,” said MacTavish.
“And he’s brought in batsmen from Stonehaven and Aberdeen,” Tullis added. “Real thugs they are, too.”
“Aye, a bad lot,” MacTavish added.
“We’ve never needed batsmen before,” said Hugh, disturbed by this news.
“Nae, and we still doona. Kincaid and his lot have never given us any serious attention.”
Word of Hugh’s presence in the public house must have spread, for soon a small crowd had gathered around him. As Tullis brought out a cask of brandy and began filling glasses, the men spoke of bad crops and the free-trade income they’d been counting on for their labors. They had no intrinsic right to Hugh’s profits, but for three generations, the brandy trade had been a necessary supplement to their income. Hugh had not begrudged them fair pay for their work, but his neglect felt far too much like his father’s disregard.
It would end now.
The men drank and told their tales of woe to their laird. Hugh kept up with the lot of them, drinking and half listening while he watched the barmaid tend tables. She was a sure thing. Her smiles were directed exclusively toward him, and he should have felt more than a mild interest. He should be roaring with lust at such a blatant invitation and take her to a private room even now, and have his way with her.
But Hugh’s body was not cooperating. Clearly he’d had too much to drink. His speech started to slur and the floor began to ripple under his feet. ’Twas past time he returned to Glenloch to deal with Brianna Munro, for the room was swimming before his eyes.
“Laird,” MacTavish said with a grin. “Are ye all right?”
“Fine. Jus’ fine,” Hugh said, pulling on his greatcoat with more awkwardness than he liked.
Taking MacTavish aside, he talked to him about distribution. “There’s something I’m still not clear on. MacGowan tells me there’s little profit to be made here in the Mearns.”
“Laird, I canna believe any Scotsman’s taste for brandy has faded in the past two or three years,” MacTavish replied. “All we know is what MacGowan tells us.”
“It used to be Falkburn men who carried our brandy out,” said Hugh. “Who were they?”
“Guthrie, Currie, and MacLaren,” he said, startling Hugh with the mention of the false name Brianna Munro had used. He staggered as the sudden image of her face…and her mouth…blazed through his brain. He turned to look at the barmaid, trying to dispel the memory of Brianna’s enticing feminine scent and the taste of her pink-tipped nipples. He tried to avoid thinking of the particular sound she made when he was inside her, just before her climax…
But he failed miserably.
She was such an audacious woman, Hugh could almost imagine her climbing into one of their wagons and driving the brandy herself to all the taverns across the Mearns. Her rough trews would tighten across her bottom as she pulled herself up, tempting him with the secrets of her luscious body.
When she looked down at him, her cheek would dimple with her intrepid smile, and she would pull her ugly hat down over her hair to obscure her femininity. As if that was even possible. He’d known she was a woman within seconds of encountering her.
Hugh let out a long breath and walked unsteadily to the door, his brain hazy and his gait wobbly. He had to find some way to eliminate his craving for Brianna Munro, and it wasn’t going to happen through drink. For the brandy he’d consumed that afternoon had only made it worse.
He made a disparaging sound and took hold of MacTavish’s arm. “Have th’ men prepare to get their horses and carts ready,” he said, his tongue thick with inebriation. “They can let down the brandy and take it ever’ place that used t’ buy from us.”
If it turned out to be a catastrophe, it could hardly be any worse than hosting a viscount’s very marriageable daughter alone at Glenloch.
It went against Brianna’s nature to sit idly, and she found it next to impossible to wait patiently for Hugh’s return.
To take her away.
Considering what he intended for her was almost as upsetting as it would be to return to Killiedown and wait for Lord Stamford to arrive. Hugh surely thought of himself as a gentleman, roué that he was, but Bree did not think he would take her back to her guardian as a gentleman ought to do. Given their circumstances, he would not want Lord Stamford to know they’d spent any time alone together.
But he would want her as far from Glenloch—and himself—as possible.
Dundee was still a likely destination, but as Brianna glanced out the window, she realized that it was getting late. Perhaps even too late to start out on a journey that was likely to take several hours, even when the roads were clear. It meant another night at Glenloch.
No doubt Hugh would want to leave first thing in the morning. Brianna could not imagine what he intended to do with her, once they arrived at their destination. He might find her a room somewhere and leave her there with enough money to survive. Or possibly pass her on to a friend or acquaintance and ask them to look after her.
Her temper flared at the thought of either option. Neither he nor any other man had the right to dictate what she would do once she left Glenloch. And if she wanted to leave without him, it was her own concern and none of his. She could go any time she wished, without waiting for permission from him or anyone else.
Still wearing the old, worn clothes she’d arrived in, she hastened down to the study where the old laird’s portrait glared down upon the room, and went to the desk. She pulled open the top drawer and looked down at the money box Hugh had shown her. She was well past the days when anyone could claim authority over her and shift her
from one household to another, ridding themselves of her when she became inconvenient.
The Laird of Glenloch owed her money. It was just a few shillings, to be sure, and not enough to survive on. But he’d offered her as much as she wanted. There was no reason that she shouldn’t take it now and go.
Except that her dratted conscience wouldn’t allow it. Tears of frustration burned the backs of her eyes and she rubbed them away, turning to the window to compose herself. The sea was fairly calm and the customs men were gone. There was nothing to keep her there, nothing but Hugh’s order…as well as her lack of transportation and the weather.
Movement in one of the windows caught Bree’s attention and she turned in time to catch sight of Hugh, walking his horse to the stable. He seemed unsteady on his feet, and since Brianna did not know where he’d been all day, she felt a twinge of worry, of concern that something was seriously amiss.
The servants were already gone for the day, so there was no one to see to him. No one to deal with whatever was wrong with Hugh. Brianna pulled up her collar and held her coat tightly around her. She made her way to the door closest to the stable and stepped outside. The MacTavish boys had shoveled paths earlier in the day, so she followed one of them across the expansive bailey until she reached the stable doors.
It was nearly dusk, which contributed to the deep darkness inside. Brianna stood still for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust. “Laird Glenloch?”
She heard a crash.
“Hugh?” she called, running forward.
He groaned, and she almost tripped over him on the straw-strewn ground. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked as she crouched down beside him and reached for him.
“Ever’thing’s wrong.” He sounded odd.
“Where does it hurt?”
He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest. “Here.”
Panic welled in Brianna’s chest at the possibility of a serious injury. “Let me get a lamp so I can see,” she cried.
She started to rise, but he would not release her hand. Instead, he pulled her sprawling down onto him.
“This can’t be good—What are you doing?” she demanded as he slid one arm around her and trapped her against him.
She pushed against his chest, but he was much stronger, even in his incapacity. “Come to me, lass.”
“What? You are not hurt?”
“I want you, Miss Munro.” His speech was slurred.
“You’re drunk!”
“Verily. Come ’ere.”
Tears gathered in her eyes as she straddled him and felt his potent arousal. He did not really want her. “Twas only the liquor muddling his brain and doing his talking, for he’d been quite clear about his contempt for her.
“No. You need to get off this cold floor and into the—”
He moved suddenly, coming up to capture her lips with his own, and she was powerless to resist. She felt a tear course down her cheek as she opened for him and felt his tongue seeking hers. This changed naught, for as soon as he was sober again, he would remember that he wanted her gone.
Which was exactly what Brianna wanted. She had always meant for her time at Glenloch, and everything that had passed between her and Hugh, to be temporary. Less than temporary. But as he kissed her as though the world would crumble if he could not get closer to her, she melted against him.
He broke the kiss and started nuzzling her neck, pulling the edges of her coat apart to kiss her throat. Shifting her position, he slid lower and pulled her shirt out of her trews, then took her breasts in his hands. “Ah, God,” he murmured.
And Bree was powerless to do anything but let him touch her, let him draw her into the sensual haze he created. It was just this last time, she told herself. Tomorrow she would go, and never look back.
He took one of her nipples into his mouth and sucked, drawing a cry of pleasure from her. Bree lowered herself down and skimmed her fingers to the fastenings of his trews. She opened them and drew him out, savoring the steely heat of his erection. He felt like part of her already, but Bree wanted him inside her, wanted to feel the pleasure that hard length could give her.
Hugh tried to disrobe her, but failed miserably. Brianna did it herself, glad of his thick coat beneath them and the straw insulation on the ground. She hardly noticed the cold air that whirled up, under her coat.
She shivered, and he cupped her buttocks in his warm hands, plunging deeply into her. “Yes,” he said quietly, shuddering as he started moving in a way that assured pleasure for both of them.
Brianna’s breath caught, but she tamped down the weight of emotion that rose up in her chest. Keeping control was the only way to protect herself from the anguish of leaving.
She moved with him, oblivious to her own sighs of sweet satisfaction while he teased and tormented her with the ebb and flow of his body. Their pace quickened, and she quivered with the intensity of their joining. She let her mind go empty of everything but the contact between them, the bond she would never again share.
Hugh’s head was pounding. He opened his eyes a crack, and the light coming in through the windows blistered his eyeballs. What the hell was wrong? He turned slightly and saw a mussed blond head right beside him.
Jesus, what had he done?
Not gotten Brianna Munro out of his life, obviously. Good God.
At the very moment he had customs men breathing down his neck and the presence of Brianna Munro jeopardizing his carefree life, he’d been sufficiently lackwitted to spend his afternoon dipping much too deeply into Tullis’s brandy. For God’s sake, he’d become ape-drunk instead of returning to the castle and spiriting Brianna away.
He vaguely remembered his inauspicious return, riding into the stable and half falling from his horse. Brianna must have seen him wobbling. She’d gone out to help him, and he’d actually pulled her down to the floor of the stable with him. Even in a stupor, he’d wanted her. What a bungling fool he’d been.
Thoroughly disgusted with his reckless, barbaric behavior—his actions dramatically undermining his true intentions—Hugh slipped out of the bed and stood stock-still while a vicious wave of nausea passed. He went to the washstand and bathed his face in the cool water, then braced his hands on the wooden stand at either side of the basin.
What a disaster.
The bed creaked and he steadfastly avoided looking in that direction. Some of yesterday’s anger returned, and he cultivated it as he picked up a towel and dried his face. She’d known he wanted to be rid of her and yet she allowed—
Christ, he’d taken her on the stable floor.
He heard her slide to the edge of the bed and sit up. “I’ll be ready to go as soon as I’m dressed.”
He did not turn to her or even reply to her statement. Remaining at the washstand, he listened to her gather her things and leave the room.
Only then did he allow himself a shaky sigh. Brianna Munro was not the one who’d been foxed when he returned from Falkburn. Dash it all, she could have—should have—stopped his advances, could have left him to his own devices in the stable and returned to the castle without him.
He muttered another curse and dragged on some clothes. The inside of his head felt as though a band of crazed tinkers were pounding furiously to get out. He could barely remember what had happened with Brianna, so of course he didn’t know if MacTavish and the Falkburn men had come into the castle and prepared his brandy for shipment as planned. He tamped down another burst of nausea at the thought of the potent liquor, and realized he did not know exactly where he was going to take Brianna.
Dundee was where she’d wanted to go, and he tried to remember whether he had any connections there…decent people who would take her in and keep their mouths shut. There had to be someone. Or perhaps in Kirkaldy.
He pulled on his boots and left his bedchamber, just as Brianna came out of the nursery. She said naught, and kept her eyes down as they met at the top of the stairs. He went to take her arm, but she avoided his touch.
<
br /> He grumbled under his breath as they descended to the landing and stopped when they heard voices and stomping feet just inside the main entrance. Hugh looked across the expanse of the main entry, and wished someone would just pull out a pistol and shoot him. Or that Glenloch’s ghost would come and drag him away to the netherworld so feared by the servants.
For coming into his own private refuge were Viscount Stamford and the Marquess of Roddington, who stood suddenly still when they caught sight of the woman beside him.
Chapter 12
A guilty conscience self accuses.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
Hugh did not think his emotions could have become any more raw, but when he saw Stamford standing there, he felt as though he’d fallen headfirst into a black pit of doom. There was no possible way to avoid the man now. And by the expression on his face, Hugh knew he’d already caught sight of his ward.
An appalling thought shuddered through his mind, and he spoke to Brianna under his breath. “I’ll be damned. Do not tell me Roddington is your fiancé.”
Brianna did not answer him, and when he looked down at her, she seemed to have shrunk into her coat and hat as though it might be an effective manner in which to hide from her guardian and the mangy blackguard who stood beside him.
Dash it, he hated seeing her appear so vulnerable, hated knowing that Roddington must have committed—and been caught at—some reprehensible act that compelled him to marry her.
“Bloody hell,” said Stamford, his face a mask of raw surprise. “If it ain’t the prime article herself!”
“Eh? What?” Roddington asked, tossing his hat to Mrs. Ramsay.
“Your little bloody whore,” Stamford said, holding his gaze on Brianna. “Surprised the chit isn’t up at Killiedown, hiding behind the Dougal woman’s skirts.”
Hugh’s hand fisted in her sleeve at Stamford’s words. “Go back upstairs,” he said to her.
She hesitated, and he could feel her indecision, radiating off her like a wave. He hoped she was not considering trying to run away now. “I’ll deal with this.”
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