The Laird Of Blackloch (Highland Rogue)

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Even though the lighting by the doors to the terrace was muted, Sarah caught the flicker of a muscle in Black’s lean cheek. She was convinced more than ever that something was afoot.

  ‘He’s outside, isn’t he?’ Sarah pushed past Black and reached for the handle of the doors. But then Black placed his large hand over hers. A strange tingling sensation spread from Sarah’s fingers, up her arm, all the way to her chest, and her heart began to race. Heat rushed up her neck and washed over her face. But Black didn’t seem to notice her foolish reaction to his touch.

  ‘Miss Lambert…’ he murmured, his warm breath brushing her temple. Was there a tinge of regret lacing his tone? ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘Well I am. Unhand me, sir.’

  Black immediately released her and Sarah opened the door and marched out to the terrace.

  The biting cold stole her breath. The moon’s pale orb was partly obscured by a shredded veil of silver-grey clouds and Sarah stopped by the white marble balustrade, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the inky darkness. And then she felt something slide over her shoulders—a black wool cloak lined with silk that smelled like warm male and some kind of exotic scent or soap. A blend of sandalwood and citrus—bergamot or citron perhaps.

  ‘If you are going to come out here, at least wear something to protect you from the cold.’

  Sarah made a half-hearted attempt to shrug off the garment. It really was deliciously warm and her natural instinct was to wrap it around herself. ‘Mr Black, I hardly think it is appropriate—’

  ‘Just humour me, Miss Lambert. You may think me a rogue, but a gentleman would never let a woman catch her death.’

  ‘Very well.’ At her words, Black gently turned her around and fastened his cloak beneath her chin. His warm fingers brushed her jaw, making her shiver for a reason that had nothing to do with the cold; whether his intimate touch was by accident or design, Sarah wasn’t certain. She should rebuke him for his overfamiliarity but it seemed, for the moment, her tongue and lips wouldn’t work.

  ‘Shall we?’ Black offered her his arm and Sarah at last found her voice.

  ‘I’m neither an imbecile nor an invalid, Mr Black,’ she remarked in a clipped tone, annoyed at herself for almost succumbing to the blackguard’s charm. ‘I thank you for the loan of your cloak but pray, do not follow me. If Lord Tay is out here, I will find him.’

  She turned and stalked away, relieved that Black appeared to heed her request.

  At first glance the terrace seemed deserted, although there were so many deep shadows between the pools of light cast from the occasional uncurtained window, it was difficult to tell for certain. Marble statues—nymphs and satyrs and other mythical creatures—had been placed at regular intervals along the grey brick, ivy-clad walls and more than once, Sarah started when she mistook a statue for an actual person.

  Upon reaching the end of the terrace, Sarah discovered it continued around the corner of Kenmuir House. A denuded arbour and stone bench stood about halfway along and a set of stairs led down to a gravel path that appeared to wind back to the main garden. This was surely a fool’s errand but she should at least satisfy herself that Malcolm wasn’t out here taking the fresh air or conversing with a male acquaintance about some private matter of business. Pausing, she glanced back towards the doors leading to the supper room; Alexander Black was where she’d left him and he raised a hand in greeting when he saw her looking his way. Ignoring the urge to wave back, she turned the corner and approached the rectangle of golden light spilling from the first set of windows.

  Malcolm was nowhere in sight. Inwardly cursing herself for being so easily gulled by Black and his not so subtle intimations, Sarah was about to retrace her steps when something—a movement or perhaps it was a sound—made her stop and look through the window into the illuminated room beyond.

  And her heart stopped. For there, in the centre of a lavishly appointed private parlour, was Malcolm. But he wasn’t alone. The blonde woman in scarlet and gold brocade—the woman who’d she’d seen flirting with Alexander Black—was with him. At least Sarah thought it was the same woman; it was difficult to tell considering she was bent over the side of a silk-covered settee, head down with her voluminous skirts bunched up around her waist, her bare derrière and legs exposed. Malcolm, his mask still in place, was also in a state of dishabille; the fall of his satin breeches was undone and the slit in his smallclothes gaped open. His hands grasped the woman’s hips, holding her in place as he pumped his member in and out of her like a wild, rutting beast.

  Oh, God. Oh, dear God. Sarah stumbled backwards into the marble balustrade. The man she was supposed to marry, the man she was falling in love with, was fornicating with another woman.

  The depth of Malcolm’s betrayal struck her with sickening force and Sarah spun around and gripped the balustrade, willing herself not to cast up the contents of her stomach into the dead, frozen garden bed below the terrace. With a shaking hand, she pulled off her mask before tipping back her head to suck in great lungfuls of frigid air. It felt as though she couldn’t breathe. Like she was drowning. Her head began to spin and she closed her eyes, dropping her head forward again. A strange shuddering sound, somewhere between a low moan and a sob escaped her lips. Why would you do this, Malcolm? I don’t understand. I thought you cared for me…

  Dear Lord, what am I to do?

  ‘Miss Lambert. Here, sit down.’ Black was at her side, steering her toward the stone bench.

  Too weak to question or resist, her vision blurred by stinging tears, Sarah complied. Black’s arm curled around her heaving shoulders and she subsided against him. Without thinking, she curled a hand into the silk lapel of his velvet frockcoat and pressed her wet cheek into his wide chest, grateful for the comfort he offered. She couldn’t stop shivering.

  She wanted to close her eyes but every time she did, she saw Malcolm and the vile act he’d been engaged in. She had no idea what to do next. With her heart torn to shreds and her mind in whirling chaos, it hurt too much to think. Instead, she tried to focus on the sights and sounds of the night—the clouds scudding across the moon, the muted laughter and chatter emanating from the supper room, and the steady beat of Alexander Black’s heart beneath her ear.

  They sat that way for several minutes, until Black reached into his coat and pulled out something. She’d expected a kerchief but it was a small silver flask. It winked at her in the moonlight as he uncorked it.

  ‘You’ve had a terrible shock, Miss Lambert,’ he murmured, his tone low and filled with compassion. ‘I suggest you take a sip or two of this before we go back inside. Then I’ll help you find your aunt.’

  Sarah nodded and straightened. That sounded eminently sensible. She took the offered flask with trembling fingers and sniffed it. ‘What is it?’

  Black’s mouth curved into a soft smile. ‘Brandy. It will stop the shaking. But if it’s not to your taste…’

  ‘No, it’s quite all right.’ She really should stop being so suspicious of Black. After all, he was only trying to help. She closed her eyes and took a long sip, then coughed and gasped. The concoction tasted overly sweet yet bitter and nothing like any brandy she’d ever had before. ‘What… on earth… is that?’ Sarah’s vision swam and the world began to spin again. Horror gripped her heart as she tried but failed to wrench herself away from Black’s hold.

  ‘Just one more sip, sweeting,’ whispered Black as he pressed the flask to her lips and tipped more of the foul-tasting liquid into her mouth.

  Unable to summon the strength to move or even utter a murmur of protest, Sarah plummeted headlong into darkness.

  ***

  Alex sighed heavily as Sarah Lambert slumped in his arms. If his circumstances were different—if his history were different—he wouldn’t be doing any of this: drugging then kidnapping an apparently innocent young woman, and turning her against her affianced.

  Although, considering how readily Malcolm Campbell took the bait offered to him in the form of
Miss Nell Burns, perhaps he was actually saving Miss Lambert from making the worst mistake of her life. Did the lass know her prospective husband was not only faithless, but a rapist and murderer?

  He rather doubted it. Perhaps, in the future, she’d even thank him for what he was about to do.

  At least, that’s what Alex tried to tell himself as he pocketed his recorked flask then stood and carefully lifted Sarah, still clothed in his wool cloak, into his arms. She was surprisingly light and he had no trouble at all carrying her down the terrace stairs and along a short gravel path to a gate that led out to a narrow laneway between Kenmuir House and the neighbouring residence. One of his trusted staff members had forced the lock earlier in the evening.

  After closing the gate behind him with a small kick, Alex followed the lane to the end where his carriage waited. One of his footmen—plainly attired for the sake of subterfuge—opened the door and let down the step, and within moments, Alex and his hostage were safely inside. Once he’d settled Miss Lambert onto the blanket-lined bench, he rapped on the roof then took a seat next to her to ensure she wouldn’t fall when the carriage rolled forward.

  His own residence was only a short distance away, a bit further along the Royal Mile. All going well, he’d be back at Kenmuir House within the space of half an hour. And with any luck, he’d also return in time to witness Malcolm Campbell’s reaction to finding out his very wealthy fiancée had disappeared.

  Alex’s mouth curled into a grim smile. The next few hours were going to be entertaining indeed.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Where in Hades is Sarah? Why don’t either of you know? Miss Lambert, you’re her chaperon for Christ’s sake.’

  Malcolm scowled at Sarah’s maiden aunt as she cowered upon a settee with her face in her hands, before shooting a glance at his sister. Damaris stood by the private parlour’s small fireplace, watching her mask twirl at the end of its ribbons; she might be feigning boredom but Malcolm could tell she was vexed by the way she pursed her lips. No doubt, her irritation was related to the fact he was keeping her from pursuing her latest conquest, and not because Sarah was missing.

  Neither woman was immediately forthcoming with a response to his oft-asked questions, which didn’t really surprise him. They’d already recounted Sarah’s last known movements several times and he was still none the wiser. She clearly wasn’t in any of the places one might expect her to be—they’d all searched the ballroom, card room, supper room, ladies’ retiring room, the library, and even the terrace. And no one he’d discreetly questioned—their hosts, the footmen at the front door, nor any of the other staff at Kenmuir House—had seen Sarah leave.

  She’d all but vanished into thin air.

  ‘My lord,’ began Judith Lambert in a thin, quavering voice. ‘I’m afraid I have nothing else to add. As I told you before, when Sarah left me here to rest, she intended to return to the ballroom to seek you out. When we departed, you were dancing with Lady Glenleven. I wish I knew more but I do not. I’m just as worried as you.’

  I seriously fucking doubt it. Malcolm ground his teeth together to stop himself snapping at the foolish woman. He needed funds. Desperately. Ergo, he needed Sarah.

  Only today, his man-of-business had been forced to placate a creditor by arranging the sale of his second-last carriage and half his town stable. Taymoor Castle had already been stripped of most of its artwork, tapestries, carpets, and any furniture that was decent—thank God Sarah and her aunt hadn’t visited yet. He had no more unentailed properties, land, or any other business assets to sell. He was up to his ears in unpaid debts and overdrawn at the Royal Bank of Scotland. Even the jewels Damaris wore were paste. The contents of Tay House here in Edinburgh would be the next to go to auction. He’d already dismissed a good deal of his staff. Whoever remained was for show alone…

  If he didn’t wed the Lambert chit, he would be utterly ruined—both financially and socially.

  He had to find her.

  Malcolm removed his silver snuffbox from his coat pocket and inhaled a good pinch to loosen the tight knot of panic in his chest. He’d love to down a glass or two of Kenmuir’s cognac, but he needed a clear head so the snuff would have to do.

  As his pulse slowed, he considered what action to take next. He was about to quit the parlour with the intention of checking every single room in Kenmuir House from attic to cellar, when Judith spoke again. ‘I didn’t mention it before, but Sarah did not seem herself earlier on. She denied feeling unwell, but now I wonder…’

  ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘If something was wrong. She seemed distracted. Bothered.’

  Damaris yawned. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Malcolm. Sarah probably grew tired of looking for you and went back to Tay House. It’s easy enough to hire a sedan chair along the Canongate. Don’t fuss so.’

  Suddenly the pieces fell into place. Sarah had been looking for him… and she’d been troubled. Oh, Christ. What if she’d discovered he’d been fucking that blonde chit, Nell, or whatever her name was?

  Malcolm clenched his fists and somehow swallowed down the urge to slap Judith Lambert for not mentioning such a pertinent detail earlier.

  If Sarah hadn’t been such a cold fish, he wouldn’t have had to slake his lust elsewhere. Not wanting to scare her off before they were married, he’d been the epitome of a gentleman—aside from pressing a few kisses on her—during their tedious, drawn-out engagement. If only her fucking father hadn’t died, then they’d already be wed and he’d have taken over her entire fortune months ago.

  After he’d drawn a few deep breaths to calm the rage pounding through his veins, Malcolm redonned his mask. ‘Damaris, go and scour the ballroom and card room again. Miss Lambert, check the ladies’ retiring room once more. And the library for good measure. Make sure your inquiries are discreet—I won’t have either of you stirring up a scandal. I’ll question the footmen at the front door again about guests who’ve taken sedan chairs. Meet me back here when you’re done.’

  Of course, the footmen had no further information that was of help. A few guests had arrived in private sedan chairs but no one had asked for a public chair to be summoned. Indeed, only a handful of guests had left all evening. And none at all fitting Sarah’s description.

  His guts roiling with frustration, Malcolm returned to the supper room. He’d made a quick sweep of the terrace earlier, but not the walled garden. He doubted Sarah would be out there—it was freezing and a light snow had begun to fall—but at this point, he couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned.

  Turning up the collar of his cape, he pushed through the door and strode along the length of the deserted terrace until he reached the very end—or what he’d thought was the end, until he realised it extended around the side of Kenmuir House. Pulse hammering, he turned the corner… then swore. There, on the marble balustrade, gleaming in the light emanating from the nearest window was a gold domino dusted with snow. Sarah’s?

  Malcolm seized it with shaking hands. It had to be Sarah’s. A strand of fair hair was caught in the silk ribbons. He spun around, searching for any other clues that might help him locate her, then cursed again. Bloody, bloody hell.

  The nearby window gave him a clear view of the parlour he’d taken Nell to. The fireside where she’d fellated him and the settee she’d bent over so he could take her from behind.

  Fuck. Malcolm sank onto the balustrade. He’d been so consumed with lust, he hadn’t noticed the curtains hadn’t been drawn. Shit. His fist crushed the mask and it snapped in two.

  As much as it rankled, he was going to have to do some serious grovelling when he found Sarah. She must have fled when she’d seen him. Perhaps Damaris had been right. If Sarah had been upset, she might have slipped away and returned to Tay House on her own. There was probably a garden gate out here somewhere. Or she might have used an out-of-the-way servants’ entrance.

  If she leaves me… Sheer panic shot through Malcolm, turning his blood to ice and freezing his heart.

/>   He had to catch up to Sarah to stop her from doing anything drastic like breaking off their engagement.

  ***

  When Malcolm Campbell stormed back through the terrace doors into the supper room, Alex’s lips curled into a smile of deep satisfaction. By now the cur would have realised that Sarah was no longer within Kenmuir House or its grounds. He might even have guessed that she’d accidently stumbled upon him rutting with Nell. But he was yet to learn how dire the situation really was.

  Oh, how I’d love to be a fly on the wall when that happens.

  Lady Kenmuir touched his sleeve, drawing his attention. ‘My dear Mr Price, would you like more champagne?’ She leaned closer and her plump breasts pressed against his bicep as she murmured into his ear, ‘Of course, if nothing here is to your taste, I’m sure I could find something else to whet your appetite.’

  ‘As tempting as your offer sounds, my lady, I’m afraid I must depart.’ Now that he’d had the pleasure of witnessing Lord Tay’s descent into full-blown panic, and had established an alibi by flirting with his rather attractive hostess, he needed to return to his townhouse. Sarah would probably sleep for hours but he wanted to be at home when she woke. He bowed over Lady Kenmuir’s hand and glanced a kiss across her knuckles. ‘You and your husband have been wonderful hosts and I thank you for your most generous hospitality.’

  Lady Kenmuir’s other hand slipped to his back, and then lower. ‘Oh, that’s such a shame,’ she said before whispering, ‘Lord Kenmuir departs for London in a sennight. If you need a diversion…’ She squeezed his buttock.

  ‘I will know your door is open,’ he murmured.

  Lady Kenmuir threw him a coquettish smile. ‘Most definitely.’