The Laird of Blackloch
Amy Rose Bennett
www.escapepublishing.com.au
The Laird of Blackloch
Amy Rose Bennett
Revenge might be sweet, but love is far sweeter …
Following the Battle of Culloden, Alexander MacIvor returns to his ancestral home, Blackloch Castle, only to find the Earl of Tay, chief of the rival Clan Campbell, has laid waste to everything he holds dear. In the face of such devastation, Alex seems doomed to live the life of a fugitive Jacobite… until a stroke of good luck allows him to escape the Highlands and begin again.
Years later, styling himself as a wealthy Englishman, Alexander reclaims his forfeited estate, becoming the new Laird of Blackloch. But it’s not nearly enough to quell his thirst for vengeance. Hell-bent on destroying Lord Tay, he single-mindedly sets about driving his nemesis to bankruptcy. When he learns the earl intends to marry the very beautiful English heiress, Miss Sarah Lambert, thus escaping penury, he devises a devious plan: kidnap Miss Lambert and ransom her to hasten Tay’s ruin.
When Sarah Lambert learns Lord Tay is not the man she thought he was during a masquerade ball in Edinburgh, she is devastated. Reeling from her discovery, things go from bad to worse when a mysterious yet charming guest by the name of Alexander Black turns out to be a true devil in disguise. Abducted and whisked way into the wild Highlands by Black, Sarah is imprisoned in a remote, island-bound tower. Refusing to be a pawn in Black’s diabolical plan for revenge, she determines that somehow, some way, she will regain her freedom. If only she could unlock Black’s secrets…
Living in such close quarters, Alexander quickly discovers the spirited Sarah is more than a match for him, and even the best laid plans can go awry when passion flares and the spark of love threatens to revive his long-dead heart. When the shadows of the past begin to gather, will Alexander and Sarah find their way forward… or will the threatening darkness destroy them both?
About the author
AMY ROSE BENNETT has wanted to be a writer for as long as she can remember. An avid reader with a particular love for historical romance, it seemed only natural to write stories in her favourite genre. She has a passion for creating emotion-packed—and sometimes a little racy—stories set in the Georgian and Regency periods. Of course, her strong-willed heroines and rakish heroes always find their happily ever after.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Escape and to Kate Cuthbert for your continued support. And a big thank you to my wonderful editor Belinda Holmes for helping my story to shine.
To my very own romantic hero, Richard. Your love, support, and unwavering belief in me mean the world to me. I love you, always
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing...
Prologue
Loch Arkaig, the Highlands, Scotland
July 1746
After stumbling through a hellish wilderness for months, Alexander Ewan MacIvor, Jacobite on the run and the last claimant to the attainted title, Baron Rannoch, felt his heart twitch with something akin to interest. Lying low in the cool green shadows of a Caledonian pine forest, a lichen-covered tree trunk and clump of bracken his only cover, he watched the group of braw Highlanders—Cameron men, by the look of their plaids—lug casket after heavy casket up the mossy slope below him. Seven wooden boxes in total.
He should be exercising extreme caution given the size of the party—a dozen men, all heavily armed with muskets, broad swords, dirks, and shovels—but burning curiosity urged him to inch closer and push a frond of bracken farther aside. Come hell or high water, he had to know what was in those chests.
Snatches of disjointed conversation and gruffly issued orders reached his ears. A mixture of Gaelic, French, and English thickened with a strong Scots burr not unlike his own. Greas ort! Hurry. No, dig here. The Lochiel. Louis d’or. Watch oot, ye daft prick. Mr Secretary ‘Traitor’ Murray, damn him to hell. Bloody Sassenachs. And then there was the sweet musical chink of coins when one man prised open a box and thrust his hand inside.
Alex’s heart kicked into a full gallop, hurtling against his ribs. Sweet Jesus. He’d stumbled across an absolute fortune. A king’s ransom. Or a prince’s…
Prince Charles Edward Stuart. The Young Pretender. What a foolish, selfish, trumped-up cock he’d turned out to be. A pathetic leader and a sorry excuse for a soldier. The memory of the slaughter that took place at Drummossie Moor at the hands of the Hanoverian troops and everything that happened afterwards at his home, Blackloch Castle, chilled Alexander to the marrow of his bones. Made him sick to the pit of his stomach. Even though almost three months had passed, nightmarish screams and the acrid smell of burning swirled through his mind. The raucous laughter and whoops of men—the Earl of Tay and his clansmen—rampaging and rutting.
His fingers curled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked.
It served the Young Pretender right if this was the lost Spanish gold that Alexander had once heard the Prince’s secretary, Murray of Broughton, complaining about because it hadn’t arrived when expected, along with other desperately needed supplies to sustain the Jacobite cause. A failed cause. The Prince didn’t deserve it, just as he no longer deserved Alex’s, or any Highlander’s loyalty.
But from whence the gold came or who it really belonged to, Alex didn’t much care right at this moment. The rays of the setting sun glinting off the waters of the loch suddenly penetrated the heavy gloom of the woods and glanced off the pile of coins in the Highlander’s hand, making them wink at him. Tempting him. Alex’s mouth almost watered. Long forgotten emotions—not happiness or hope but something darker and colder—stirred in his leaden heart. Determination perhaps. And the desire for vengeance.
Sweet, sweet vengeance.
At long last, fate had meted out a chance for him to reclaim a little of what he’d lost. He certainly didn’t think God was responsible. More likely the Devil.
Either way, he sure as hell wasn’t going to miss this precious opportunity to take charge of his destiny again. After all, he was only twenty-two. And when the time was right, that evil bastard, Malcolm Campbell, the Earl of Tay, would know his wrath.
Alex inched forward on his belly to get a better view and grimaced as his damaged thigh and shoulder protested. After Culloden, he hadn’t been able to dig out all of the shrapnel embedded within the muscles, but at least the wounds hadn’t turned purulent. He might be sufficiently able-bodied to best one, perhaps two men, but certainly not a dozen fighting-fit Highlanders armed to the teeth.
Logic dictated subterfuge and patience were his only real weapons.
When the men where fully engrossed in digging up the damp, dark earth and the gloaming had fully descended, Alexander silently retreated up the brae to the ridge and the isolated corrie beyond where he’d tethered his stoic horse.
It had been his custom for weeks to travel at night to avoid patrolling dragoons. But tonight he wasn’t going anywhere. When the moment came—perhaps tomorrow or the next night, when Cam
eron of Lochiel’s men were truly gone—he’d return to claim what he could.
***
In the end, Alex waited two nights before returning to the woods. With only a trowel, a tin mug and his hands, and barely any light save for the moonlight filtering through the pine canopy, it had taken him several hours to dig up one of the caskets. And then another few hours to transport the hefty bags of gold coin, thirty-five in total, to the upland cave he’d chosen as a hiding place. He’d made three trips to make it easier on his mount, so by the time he’d reburied the empty chest and covered it over with moss and spent bracken leaves, then returned to his mountain lair, the sun was beginning to rise.
After rinsing his filthy, torn hands in a tumbling burn, he took a long draft of the sweet Highland water. And for the first time in such a long time, he felt a small measure of satisfaction somewhere deep in his soul.
He was as rich as Solomon. But the gold he’d taken wasn’t just for him. He would use it to deliver justice to his clan and kin—all those who had been displaced, murdered and worse. His dead brothers-in-arms, the staff of Blackloch Castle, and all the Clan MacIvor tenants and families who’d lived upon the estate. His slaughtered parents, Lord and Lady Rannoch, his younger sister, and his sweetheart, Maggie Stewart. The first lass he’d kissed.
The lass he’d wanted to wed.
Oh God, what they’d done to the women he’d loved. Still loved… Hot tears scalded his eyes. He couldn’t bear it.
But bear it he must.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in both his aching heart and his wounded body, Alex rose from the rocky bank of the burn and gazed out over the beloved land he would soon be leaving: rugged mountain peaks, the dark still waters of Loch Arkaig, the rosy sky streaked with gold. With ready coin in his pockets for bribes, he was sure he could buy a passage to anywhere at all. Perhaps France. Or better still, the New World. The Americas or the Caribbean. It really didn’t matter.
As soon as he was able, and when the stars aligned, he would return, remade. His will would be like forged steel, honed to lethal sharpness. The Earl of Tay would be held to account for every foul act he’d committed. Indeed, he’d rue the day he was born.
Alex slid his hand into his pocket and retrieved the tattered blue ribbon holding together a tiny braid containing three locks of hair—one bright red, one black, and one brown—and he kissed it. He returned it to his coat then drew his dirk, relishing the hot sting as he made a shallow slice across his palm. The pain reminded him he was still alive even though he was all but dead inside. For a few moments he watched the blood drip into the stones and the icy water at his feet.
‘Nunquam obliviscar,’ he whispered. ‘I, Alexander Ewan MacIvor, will never forget what you did, Malcolm Campbell. And one day, you will pay.’
Chapter 1
Kenmuir House, Edinburgh, Scotland
Saint Valentine’s Day, February 1757
‘More champagne, my dear Miss Burns?’ Alex turned to his paid companion for the evening, a young woman named Nell, and offered her a glass along with his most charming smile.
The prostitute fluttered her eyelashes and murmured a coy ‘thank you’ in return, but it was all for show, of course. Not for a moment did he entertain the thought that she blushed beneath her scarlet half-mask and face powder; not when her ample bosom all but spilled from her red and gold brocade ball gown. Indeed, Alex imagined nothing much at all made a woman of her profession blush. He wasn’t even sure if Nell Burns was the lass’s true name, but then, it didn’t really matter.
He certainly couldn’t pass judgement, not when the world now knew him as Alexander Price, an indecently wealthy Englishman who hailed from Berwick. A ruthless man-of-business who received invitations to society’s best dinner parties and balls wherever he went, be that London, Glasgow, Edinburgh or even Jamaica. It seemed money could buy him just about anything he wanted: a new identity; a shipping concern and several logging companies; even his own forfeited estate and ruined castle. And at long last, Lord Tay’s demise.
Alex smiled behind his black domino mask. It wouldn’t be long before he hammered the last nail in the bastard’s coffin and consigned him to Hades. It had taken him over a decade to get to this point but the wait had been worth it. Success would be headier than the Marquess of Kenmuir’s very fine French champagne.
Nell touched the sleeve of his black velvet frockcoat and gave him a smile that was just as practiced as his. ‘Just say the word, sir, an’ I will seek out his lordship. You mentioned ’afore tha’ he is verra partial to fair-haired lasses.’ She tossed her guinea gold ringlets over her shoulder as if to emphasise her desirability.
‘Aye. He is.’ Alex scanned the throng gathered in Lord and Lady Kenmuir’s ballroom. Thanks to his height, he could still see Malcolm Campbell above the heads of the other guests; he was presently prancing about the dance floor with his sister, Damaris, the widowed Countess of Glenleven, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. A powdered peruke covered his dark red hair but his distinctive Medico della Peste mask and elaborate blood-red cape made him an easy mark. ‘Actually, see if you can claim Lord Tay’s attention when the minuet is over.’ He slid a key into Nell’s slim hand and added sotto voce, ‘Here’s the key to the private parlour you can use. As we’ve discussed, I trust you’ll be able to keep Tay busy for a good half hour or more. And remember to leave the curtains open.’
Nell’s eyes sparkled as brightly as the cut-glass crystal chandelier above the ballroom floor as she slipped the key between her plumped-up breasts. ‘Och aye, sir. It will be my pleasure.’
Alex inclined his head before returning to study his nemesis. The last time he’d spied Lord Tay, it had been over a year ago in London at a similar masked affair. He doubted Tay would recognise him after all this time—it was almost eleven years since they’d truly crossed paths—but it didn’t hurt to keep to the shadows. His network of spies kept him well informed. And carried out his dirty work when necessary. Why risk discovery when he was so close to achieving his goal? Ah, if you only knew what I have planned, Tay, you’d be shaking in your silk-covered pumps.
His blood practically hummed with anticipation.
The minuet at last drew to a close and the delectable Nell sashayed away, heading toward the dance floor. If she could keep the cur suitably occupied, he should have ample time to seek out his intended quarry for the night—Miss Sarah Lambert, a decidedly pretty, extremely wealthy English heiress.
Lord Tay’s betrothed.
But not for long. Not if Alex had his way.
Thanks to a well-mapped out and painstakingly executed campaign enacted over the best part of a decade, the Earl of Tay was on the brink of utter financial and social ruin. And there was no way on earth that Alex was going to let the man marry his way out of penury.
Alex circumnavigated the perimeter of the dance floor, heading for the main hall. He’d observed Miss Lambert exiting the ballroom a few minutes earlier but he didn’t think it would take long to locate her. Earlier in the evening, when he’d first laid eyes upon her, he’d discovered she was the sort of young woman who definitely stood out from the crowd.
Standing beside an arrogantly smiling Lord Tay at the head of the reception line, one small elegant hand resting on her affianced’s arm, he’d grudgingly conceded that Sarah Lambert was as exquisite as an English rose. Her rich satin gown, a confection of rose pink, cream and soft apricot, was the perfect foil for her pale gold hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. Even her gold half-mask couldn’t hide her glowing beauty. She appeared to be quite the catch.
What a pity she has such poor taste, Alex had thought. And clearly no scruples. But then, she wouldn’t be the first woman who’d prostituted herself for a title. Unless she was an innocent Tay had duped into marriage with false protestations of love and fidelity. That was definitely another possibility.
However, whether Miss Lambert had no taste, or was unscrupulous, or easily duped hardly mattered. What mattered was she was
a convenient pawn he could use to hasten Tay’s downfall. And considering the pair was due to wed in less than a month, the sooner he removed the heiress from the earl’s greedy grasp, the better.
***
Sarah wasn’t sure when she first noticed the mysterious man dressed in black, watching her. Perhaps it was when Malcolm had escorted Damaris out onto the ballroom floor for a minuet.
Movement and noise surrounded her: laughter and chatter and the elegant strains of the small orchestra filled the air; the swirl of opulent silks and satins and velvets, and the flash of jewels dazzled the eye as dancing couples floated by. But lingering in the shadows on the other side of the room was a tall, dark stranger. He stood perfectly still, his attention focused solely on her. She could almost feel the weight of his gaze like a physical, intimate touch upon her—or so she imagined—and her cheeks grew hot, first with embarrassment and then silent indignation. How rude. Where were his manners?
With a lift of her chin, she turned her head away and directed her gaze back to Malcolm and his sister. But it was all for naught; her eyes kept straying to the man in black. There was something inexplicably compelling about him. Even though he was some distance away, she could tell he was handsome beneath his black half-mask. Unlike many of the other gentlemen of the party, including Malcolm, he was sans peruke. His raven black hair was clubbed at the nape, revealing the sharp cut of his square jaw above the frothy white lace of his jabot. Aside from white silk stockings and a touch of white lace at his cuffs, everything else he wore, including his cloak, was as dark as midnight.
Who was he? And why was he so interested in her? Since her father’s passing six months ago, she’d been in mourning and hadn’t been out and about that much. And considering she had only been in Scotland since Hogmanay, she wasn’t all that well acquainted with Edinburgh’s polite society yet.
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