Taken By the Laird

by Margo Maguire

  And yet ’twas not quite the same situation. Hugh was not at all repulsive, as Roddington was. The thought of his touch, of sharing his bed, of bearing his children, did not make her freeze up with distaste. It heated her from the inside out, in spite of his obvious displeasure in the situation.

  Bree took satisfaction that her marriage to Hugh would not benefit Stamford in the way he’d intended to profit from a liaison with Roddington’s family. Far from it. Brianna doubted there would ever be any courtesy from Hugh toward Stamford, although her guardian would not realize that yet. No doubt he believed Hugh was much like himself and most every other man of the ton, who could be intimidated and then manipulated.

  But Brianna had little doubt that Hugh was unlike anyone with whom Stamford had ever dealt.

  It was little comfort, though. His opposition to marriage had not changed, yet he would soon be bound to Brianna in a way he’d never intended.

  Nor had she. But she knew it was inevitable.

  She’d given up on her thoughts of taking some of his money and running away again. Retreating to the nursery that felt like her own sanctuary, she hooked her thumbs into her trews and started pacing. Her fate was unavoidable, but she had no intention of presenting herself as a pathetic, unappealing bride. She was going to show Laird Glenloch—show them all—that the soon-to-be Lady Glenloch was no longer anyone’s poor relation.

  Ignoring the filmy wisp that hovered near the door of her room, she marched down the hall to Amelia’s bedchamber, carrying a lamp with her. She opened the door and stepped inside, finding the room nearly as cold as the temperature must be outside.

  Ignoring the chill as well as the wisp of a ghost that was now hovering near the bed, Brianna went to Amelia’s wardrobe and started going through the clothes she’d overlooked before. She remembered seeing gowns for every season, each one more elaborate than the next. In the drawers were lace chemises and delicate hosiery. Bree found gloves and hair ornaments and jars of fine cosmetics.

  She picked a gown of gros de Naples in azure blue, with white fur trim bordering the deep neckline and cuffs. A scalloped flounce of white fur danced a few inches from the skirt’s hem, and tiny, pearl buttons marched in two decorative rows from the center of the neckline to either side of her waist, bracketing her breasts.

  The second wardrobe held shoes and outerwear. Coats and pelisses lay on the shelves, each folded neatly, with tissue paper and rose-scented sachets among the folds, just as though Amelia would soon return.

  Brianna was loath to dismiss the woman or her woes, but after tomorrow, there would be only one Lady Glenloch present in Hugh’s mind and memory.

  She tried some of Amelia’s shoes, but none fit her well enough to wear. Admitting defeat on that front, she borrowed the prettiest chemise, the finest stockings she’d ever seen, and a pair of garters, then left the room and went in search of a competent needlewoman. Or two.

  ‘Twas nearly noon, and Hugh had not seen Brianna since the previous day, when he’d declared his intent to wed her. He knew she was still in the castle, for she’d been closeted with Mrs. Ramsay and one of the maids all the past evening, and again through the morn.

  The marriage document lay upon a highly polished table in the library, safe inside Hugh’s richly tooled leather portfolio, but he avoided looking at it. Soon enough, the time would come when he’d be compelled to sign it.

  “Laird, I’ve been told yer lady kept my wife’s mother and Fiona busy up here after dark last night,” said Niall MacTavish, standing next to Hugh in the library, his hat off, and wearing his best coat. “ ’Tis a wonder they stayed to prepare the lady’s gown, what wi’ the Glenloch Ghost about.”

  The library was one of the few formal rooms in which Hugh’s father’s portrait did not stare out at him with those malicious eyes.

  He and Brianna could have exchanged vows anywhere, even at the stable, or down by the tub boats on the beach. But this room had always been Hugh’s haven at Glenloch. His father had eschewed the books here, making it the perfect retreat. And it was the location where Hugh and Brianna had shared the most intense sensual experience of his life. ’Twould help him to keep in mind the prime advantage of marriage to Brianna Munro.

  “Aye. I was as surprised as you,” he said to Niall.

  “Sorcha said yer lady insisted on being prepared as a proper bride. She convinced them they had naught to fear from the ghost.”

  Hugh did not bother to disabuse Niall or any of the servants about the ghost, for it had always served Glenloch well to have tales of the ghost widely believed. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared straight ahead, hardly able to believe this was happening to him. He’d done everything in his power to avoid remarriage, and yet here he stood, obligated by one of the most debauched Englishmen and his toadying cohort to yet another arranged marriage.

  He had not wanted a marriage of any sort, arranged or otherwise. But at least this way, Roddington would never have Brianna. Stamford was a fool and a bastard for promising Brianna to the marquess, and Hugh barely suppressed a shudder at the thought of that debauched scoundrel touching her.

  Hugh heard voices at the main entrance and knew Stamford had arrived. “MacTavish, would you go and ask Mrs. Ramsay to see what’s keeping the bride? You might as well bring Stamford and Roddington back to the library with you when you return.”

  As Niall MacTavish left the room, Hugh rubbed one hand over his freshly shaven face. He smoothed back his hair, straightened his neck cloth, then his waistcoat and coat. Feeling more restless—Christ, more nervous—than he had in years, he stepped out of the library to see for himself what was delaying Brianna.

  At that moment, his bride started down the stairs with Sorcha Ramsay and one of the housemaids following close behind her.

  Hugh’s breath caught at the sight of her, an enchantress from some made-up tale. She wore a gown of ice blue, with an enticing neckline accented by a trimming of soft, white fur. Cunning little buttons progressed from the cleft between her breasts down to her waist, creating what would surely make a very interesting opening. Later.

  She’d done something simple and elegant to her hair, and a faint sparkle flashed from some tiny ornaments she’d placed strategically in her pale locks. Her skin was flawless, her lips moist and pink, and a few curling wisps of her hair touched her ears and the nape of her neck. Hugh felt a tightening in his groin at the thought of pressing his lips to those places. Of tasting her.

  She descended the staircase regally, barely looking at him as she arrived at the foot of the staircase and placed her hand on his, to venture into the library beside him. Mrs. Ramsay and her son-in-law followed them, and soon everyone was assembled in the library. Stamford and Ramsay took seats near the chess table, while MacTavish came to stand beside Hugh.

  Just as Hugh was about to begin, Malcolm MacGowan arrived, uninvited and unannounced.

  “Laird.” The estate manager came to the doorway, carrying the free-trade ledger. Hugh stifled his annoyance and opened his own leather-bound portfolio, removing the thick sheaf of vellum on which the manager had written Hugh’s vows.

  “Come in then,” Hugh said to MacGowan. “Just another witness.”

  Hugh returned to Brianna and faced her. He’d read the simple words often enough last night while pondering his fate, so he was able to speak them without referring to the vellum. In simple terms, he took her as his wife and gave himself as her husband. He made no additional promises.

  When it was Brianna’s turn, she started to speak, but stopped to clear her throat. Then she looked up at him, and the bottom fell out of Hugh’s stomach. Her eyes were twin mirrors of his own feelings at the moment—betrayal and hurt, resignation and a hint of defiance. When she spoke, her voice was clear, and loud enough for all to hear.

  “I, Brianna Elizabeth Munro, take you, Hugh Dùghlas Christie, as my husband.” Her throat and neck were unadorned, but she could not have looked more dignified or noble. Her bare skin was exquisite, and he k
new how soft it felt beneath his rough hands. She looked up at him, but turned her gaze slightly, to some point past his shoulder, as she spoke, as though she could not bear to face him.

  She moistened her lips and continued. “Before God and these witnesses I vow to take you as my husband with all your faults and all your strengths, as I offer myself to you as wife, with my own imperfections as well as my skills…” She took a deep breath, as though she needed some fortification to say the words. “…from…from this day forward.”

  His knees went rubbery when he listened to her short speech, so much more profound than his own, and spoken without reference to any notes. He swallowed hard at the magnitude of her vow.

  He knew better than most that there was no guarantee of happiness or satisfaction, and he wondered if Brianna Munro’s indomitable spirit could withstand the truth of his inadequacy. This marriage would fail, too, for he did not know how to give a wife the kind of attention she craved. Worst of all, he would never give her children, never give her true contentment.

  All were silent for a moment. Not a sound broke the stillness of the room until the fire cracked and sparked loudly. Then Hugh remembered the ring.

  He reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out the golden circle of alternating diamonds and garnets he’d found among his mother’s possessions when she died. He’d never seen fit to give it to Amelia, but he wanted Brianna to wear it.

  He took her hand in his and slid it onto her finger, then lifted her hand and pressed his lips to its back. “A gift for you, wife.”

  She took a shuddering breath and blinked back tears, still not looking at him. They were tears of regret, most likely, but she whispered a polite thanks while Roddington muttered a few deprecating words that were just barely audible in the quiet room.

  Hugh spoke. “You’ve worn out your welcome, Roddington.”

  “I’m just as glad to be rid of the chit,” he drawled, stretching his legs out before him, “but you ought to try to avoid losing another wife the way you lost—”

  “Shut up, Roddington,” Stamford rasped, aware that Hugh could very well call him out for such a remark.

  Hugh chose to ignore it, for the day was bad enough without adding violence to it. He walked to the desk and took a pen and bottle of ink from a drawer. Sliding it across the desk to Mrs. Ramsay, he handed the pen to MacTavish. The two witnesses affixed their rough signatures to the document, then Brianna and Hugh signed, and all the legalities were met.

  Hugh carefully placed it, along with the sheaf with his own vows, into the leather brief.

  It was done. He was a husband again.

  Brianna did not delude herself into thinking Hugh cared anything for her beyond his enjoyment of her in bed. His eyes had darkened at Roddington’s words, but fortunately, he had not acted upon them. For her emotions already seemed to be teetering on the edge of a bleak abyss, and she didn’t think she could bear one more ordeal.

  Twirling the stunning ring Hugh had given her around her finger, Bree knew she had just become his possession. She had given up her right to an independent life, her right to her inheritance. By law, Hugh would become owner and master of Killiedown Manor. Nothing belonged to a wife, unless some special provision was made by her father or guardian. She was quite sure Lord Stamford had done no such thing.

  It was a struggle for Brianna to stay on her feet and keep a mask of neutrality on her face while Hugh ushered her guardian and former fiancé out of the room. From what she could hear, he was practically tossing them out of the castle, promising to do the marquess some damage if he ever returned.

  “M’lady, my good wishes to ye,” Mr. MacTavish said warmly with a quick bow.

  She felt no such warmth from the other man—the beefy estate manager who’d been so rough with her the night they’d unloaded Hugh’s brandy shipment. Brianna doubted he’d have added his own good wishes had MacTavish not done so before leaving. But they were boorish, at best.

  “Ach, lass, ye look fashed,” said Mrs. Ramsay, who’d not only removed her ubiquitous apron, she’d combed her hair and worn a very good dress for the occasion. Two things that had not changed were her stern features and her authoritative manner. “Come and sit here while I get you a draught of something to restore ye.”

  Brianna allowed herself to be led by Mrs. Ramsay’s steady hand to the sofa near the fire, while Mr. MacTavish poured her a glass of brandy. “I’m sure the laird will return shortly,” he said, “and then ye’ll feel better.”

  Perhaps, but Brianna doubted it.

  “Drink up lass, er…m’lady,” said Mrs. Ramsay.

  She took a sip, and the liquor burned her tongue and all the way down her throat. She told herself that the tears that filled her eyes were merely due to the strong brandy she was unaccustomed to drinking. She blinked them away and found herself perusing every corner of the room, all the places where Hugh had made love to her.

  And she wondered how long Castle Glenloch would be her home.

  Hugh’s free-trading business might keep him in Scotland until spring. But then what? Would he expect her to remain at Glenloch after he tired of her and returned to his usual pursuits in London?

  A sickening weight settled in the pit of her stomach at the thought of Hugh resuming his roguish life in town. If she believed every bit of gossip she’d ever heard about him, he had a mistress or two down in London who would be awaiting his return.

  “The ring you wear belonged to the laird’s mother,” said Mrs. Ramsay when they were alone.

  Brianna curbed her glum thoughts and looked up at the housekeeper. “Did you know her well?”

  “She didna spend much time at Glenloch,” the woman replied with a brief shake of her head. “Like the rest of us, she didna like hearin’ the ghost.”

  “What of Laird Glenloch’s wife?” she asked, addressing the question she had burned to ask as they’d worked on her wedding dress. “Did you know her?”

  The woman’s brows creased together and she clasped her hands at her waist. “No, m’lady. I doona think anyone really knew her. She was a quiet one. Kept to herself.”

  Brianna wanted to ask for details about Amelia and the day she’d jumped to her death, but it seemed much too awkward to speak of, and the housekeeper did not seem inclined to discuss it. “ ’Tis very sad.”

  “Aye,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Thank you, no,” Bree replied as she stood. She felt steadier now, and went to the table where her marriage lines lay inside a beautiful leather folder. Opening it, she looked at the words that bound her to Hugh and to Glenloch, and at the signatures that made it all legal in Scotland. ’Twas final.

  Startled at the sound of Hugh’s voice right behind her, she whirled around to face him.

  “We might have avoided all this had you been honest with me from the start,” he said.

  The anger she’d anticipated and managed to avoid all the previous day was clear in his tone.

  “You are not the only one who is trapped, Laird Glenloch.”

  He gazed at her, his eyes so dark, his cheeks slightly flushed, and yet the scar on his cheek seemed blanched white. “Just so. But I made a perfectly unsatisfactory spouse the first time around.” He reached behind her and closed the portfolio. “Do not expect any improvement this time.”

  He took the documents and strode out of the room.

  If he were in London, Hugh would have gone to his sporting club and challenged someone to a boxing match. Striking out in the ring would be the only way to rid himself of the wild-eyed frustration that permeated every pore of his body. Naught but a colossal beating—either given or taken—could dispel the degree of dissatisfaction he felt.

  And the fear.

  He walked up to his bedchamber and placed the portfolio inside a drawer in his wardrobe, underneath his clean shirts. He did not want to look at it for a very long time, if ever again. So much for his vow of permanent bachelorhood. He was married now to Brianna Munro, and
naught could change that. He’d become responsible for her, just as he’d been responsible for Amelia.

  He did not see how this could work out well for either of them.

  He changed out of the clothes he’d worn during their brief but all-too-final marriage ceremony, and left the room. Amelia’s door was ajar again, and he stepped across the hall to close it, deciding all at once that he was going to have it cleared out—Amelia’s furniture and all her belongings removed, once and for all.

  He pushed open the door and looked inside. A few of Amelia’s dresses lay in disarray upon the bed, likely from Brianna’s search for something she could tailor to fit her. He wished she had chosen something less appealing than the azure confection she’d worn to say her vows. It would have made it far easier to despise her for ensnaring him in yet another marital debacle.

  To be fair, he could not really blame Brianna for their situation. She seemed to have as great an aversion to marriage as he did. And it was quite true that she’d tried to leave Glenloch the very day after she’d arrived. And they would have left for Dundee before Stamford’s and Roddington’s arrival had he not gotten himself half sprung in Falkburn instead.

  Hugh glanced around the room, reluctant to go inside, for if there was any restless spirit in Glenloch, ’twould reside there. But naught had happened the last time he’d gone in with Brianna, no rattling of windowpanes, no ghostly presence.

  He scrubbed one hand across his face and walked to the open wardrobe where most of Amelia’s clothing was still stacked neatly on its shelves. His marriage to his first wife had been just as inauspicious as his new one, arranged by their fathers when Amelia was only eighteen and he barely twenty. Hugh had been too young—and too naïve—to understand that her shyness and their differences in temperament would make them forever incompatible. Perhaps if they’d had children, things would have been different.

  This time he had known better, and yet he’d allowed it to happen all over again. He decided that Brianna would never use this room, this bedchamber where Amelia had spent so many hours avoiding him. In fact, he was going to have Mrs. Ramsay lock it and throw away the key.