The Laird Of Blackloch (Highland Rogue)

by Amy Rose Bennett

  If he were lucky, the bastard might end it all and send himself to purgatory. Or better yet, hell.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah subside into her corner and rest her fair head against the leather squabs. Her pale brow was furrowed and he had no doubt her mind was working furiously to come up with various escape plans. He had to ensure that didn’t happen. That would be an utter disaster, especially if she went straight back to Tay and they both worked out who he really was.

  Because then he was the one who’d be ruined.

  ***

  The journey was interminable. As Sarah watched the snow-blanketed fields and drear woodlands slip by, her eyelids eventually grew heavy and she dozed. Some time during the afternoon, Black bade the carriage stop in the middle of nowhere for a comfort break. Sarah knew they must be heading north as the snowfall had become heavier, and the drifts deeper; when she stepped down from the carriage into a freezing mizzle, her thin satin shoes had immediately become soaked right through.

  Aileen, her face red and pinched with cold, had tied a rope tightly around her wrist before leading her off the road to a small copse of fir trees. Sarah had briefly thought about trying to undo her bonds, but even if she did manage to untie the knots with her frozen, gloveless fingers, and then tried to make a run for it, there was nowhere to hide; all around was only open ground, sparse woodland and fog-blanketed hills in the distance. And Alexander Black would be sure to catch her before she’d even managed to run fifty yards across the snow-covered field.

  And then he’d probably drug her again. A frisson of fear tripped down Sarah’s spine at the thought.

  No, she’d best bide her time and wait until a better opportunity arose. If they were to maintain the cracking pace they’d been travelling at, at some point they’d need to change horses at an inn. So she would watch and wait, and when the right time came, she would act.

  By the time she’d taken her seat in the carriage again, she was shivering violently. She couldn’t feel her toes or her fingers and her teeth were chattering.

  Black flicked a wing of dark, damp hair out of his eyes, revealing a frown as he sat down. ‘Miss Lambert, you look half-frozen,’ he said, tugging his black kid gloves off.

  ‘I’m f-f-fine,’ she said, pushing her hands into the sleeves of her woollen jacket. ‘T-truly.’

  ‘No, you are not. You’re blue with cold.’ His gaze raked over her then he cursed beneath his breath. ‘Damn it. What are you wearing on your feet?’

  He leaned forward and flipped up the hem of her skirts. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he muttered when he saw her wet, mud-stained shoes. Scowling, he got up and threw open the carriage door. ‘Aileen, Dobson. I need Miss Lambert’s trunk. Now.’

  Sarah blinked in confusion. ‘Wh-what trunk?’

  Black ignored her and jumped down from the carriage. Sarah heard him issue a few more orders and then after a minute, he climbed back inside; in his arms he carried a large bundle of woollen items, which he tossed onto his seat. He draped a large black cloak around her shoulders—it smelled of sandalwood and citrus and Sarah suspected it was the same cloak she’d worn last night.

  As the carriage rolled off, Black sat on the edge of his own seat, his knees almost bumping hers. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ he said gravely as he draped a blanket across his lap. ‘I was thoughtless.’ Before she knew what he was about, he’d lifted her legs up, flipped off her pumps, and had placed her stocking-clad feet onto the blanket.

  ‘Wh-what are you d-doing?’ she demanded, trying to pull away from his firm grasp.

  ‘Your feet are frozen. I won’t have your toes falling off because of frostbite.’

  Before Sarah could draw breath to protest, he’d reached beneath her skirts and had peeled off one of her wet stockings.

  ‘Stop,’ she cried, but she didn’t pull her foot away. His hand upon her ankle felt deliciously warm.

  Black cocked an eyebrow. ‘Miss Lambert, I’ve seen you in practically nothing but your shift. Upon my honour, all I’m going to do is attempt to restore the circulation.’

  Sarah eyed him for a moment but couldn’t detect any insincerity in his tone or manner. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But don’t dillydally about it.’

  ‘I won’t.’ After he’d removed her other stocking, Black used the blanket to gently chafe and rub her frozen feet back to life. Sarah bit her lip as the blood began to flow again; a burning, tingling sensation spread through her tissues but the pain soon abated and it wasn’t long before she closed her eyes and relaxed against the squabs. Somewhere at the back of her mind warning bells sounded; she really shouldn’t let herself succumb to the illicit pleasure of having Black’s large warm hands massage her toes and the soles of her feet. But another part of her was melting. His ministrations felt so very good. If she were a cat, she would have purred.

  When Black gently placed her feet on the floor, she discovered he was smiling at her. ‘Better?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Black’s grey eyes darkened and his smile developed a sensual edge. ‘It was my pleasure.’

  Oh, my goodness. Sarah blushed and set about straightening her skirts so that her bare feet were tucked away.

  ‘These are for you.’ Black passed her a fresh set of wool stockings and a pair of shiny black leather ankle boots that had neat little buttons up the sides. ‘Aileen should have given those to you earlier.’

  Sarah narrowed her eyes in suspicion as she examined them. Her kidnapping was clearly well planned—remarkably so. Black hadn’t done this on a whim. ‘Why… How did you manage to arrange all this? You asked for my trunk just before. This habit,’ she gestured at her herself, ‘fits remarkably well and these boots also look like they will be a perfect fit.’

  Black shrugged. ‘What can I say? I like to be prepared. And despite what you may think of me, I’m not a monster. It has never been my intention to treat you badly.’

  Resentment flared to life within Sarah. ‘Yet you are,’ she countered. ‘If you had any decency, you’d let me go. When we stop to change horses at an inn, I could easily hire another carriage—’

  Black’s gaze was stony. ‘No.’

  ‘But what if Malcolm won’t pay the ransom?’ she demanded. Desperation sharpened her tone. ‘After last night—’

  ‘He wants you back.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ To Sarah’s mortification, her lower lip trembled. ‘I’m certainly not.’

  ‘Sarah—’ Black reached for her hand but she snatched it away.

  ‘Leave me be,’ she spat, angry with herself for momentarily falling under Black’s spell. ‘Trying to mollify me with pretty clothes, flirtatious words, and gestures of kindness won’t help. No matter how much you deny it, you are a selfish, dishonourable beast. And I detest you. Now turn around. I wish to put my stockings and boots on without you leering at me.’

  Black’s smile was tight as he turned away. ‘Of course, Miss Lambert.’

  ***

  Alex turned his gaze to the window to give Sarah the privacy she’d asked for.

  Although little did she know he could see tantalising glimpses of what she was doing in the reflection caught by the carriage’s windowpane. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the passing scenery, his attention was hopelessly drawn to the much more appealing sight of Miss Lambert rolling on her stockings and fastening the ribbon garters about her slender legs.

  There was no denying the fact she was unaccountably pretty. But more than that, she was highly intelligent and he had nothing but admiration for how brave she was, how she fought back and scolded him rather than dissolving into a blithering wreck or becoming hysterical. Indeed, if he weren’t an attainted Jacobite, she was exactly the sort of woman he’d be tempted to formally pay court to. A woman who’d make a fine Lady Rannoch… if he were ever pardoned and his title was reinstated.

  Lord Tay certainly didn’t deserve her.

  Of course, a small part of him did regret the mental and emotional suff
ering he was putting her through. A beast and a scoundrel he might be, but he would never, ever do to her the vile, depraved, unspeakable things Tay had done to his mother and sister.

  And his sweetheart, Maggie.

  Alex clenched his jaw and closed his eyes as the anguish of eleven years ago burned through him. He could still feel the scar on his left palm. Could still recall the deep, satisfying sting as he’d made his blood vow to avenge those he’d loved and lost.

  No matter how wronged Sarah Lambert felt, her pain paled into insignificance whenever he remembered that long ago day at Blackloch Castle.

  He wouldn’t stop until Lord Tay was rotting in hell.

  Chapter 5

  Tay House, Edinburgh

  16 February 1757

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Malcolm, how do you know these letters are genuine ransom demands?’ asked Damaris, tossing both pieces of parchment onto the gilt-edged table beside her.

  She was lounging on a rose-patterned chaise longue in her morning room with her white terrier, Bonnie, on her lap. The remains of her breakfast, congealing on another nearby table, made Malcolm’s stomach turn in an uneasy somersault. He really shouldn’t have had so much claret last night, but drinking himself into a stupor seemed to be the only way he could get any sleep.

  Oblivious to his foul mood or the impending crisis, Damaris continued on with irritating blitheness. ‘Sarah’s probably run off with some other man. She always struck me as the flighty type. Good riddance to her, I say. I’ll be glad to see the back of her miserable aunt too.’

  Malcolm snatched the papers up and Damaris winced. The terrier growled. ‘Of course these are bloody real, Damaris.’

  The second letter had arrived early this morning; it had been pushed beneath the door, like the first. And this time, a torn piece of heavily embroidered apricot-pink satin, edged with gold lace, had been enfolded within. ‘Even you agree that this,’ he waved the scrap in Damaris’s face, ‘belongs to Sarah.’ Although he generally didn’t pay much attention to women’s attire, Malcolm knew the distinctive fabric came from the gown Sarah had worn to the Saint Valentine’s ball at Kenmuir House.

  Damaris sighed and tickled Bonnie’s ears. ‘Even if the demand is genuine, I don’t see that railing about it will help.’ She popped a sugared sweetmeat into her mouth before feeding one to the terrier. ‘It’s not like you can afford to pay it. I say let this Janus—whoever he is—have her. If we go to London straightaway, I’m sure you’ll find another wealthy, gullible girl who’d be willing to trade her fortune for a title.’

  Malcolm grabbed Damaris by the chin, forcing her to look at him. ‘Now listen here, my very pretty but very dim-witted sister. I’ve just sold off all but one of our carriages. The horses are gone too.’

  Fear flickered in Damaris’s golden-brown eyes. ‘Wh-what? You must be joking,’ she breathed.

  ‘Well, I’m not. We can’t afford to go to London. And the only one who’s going to be whoring herself at the moment is you. Why don’t you go and visit Lord Arbelour and let him screw you in exchange for some jewellery, which we can then sell off? You told me he was quite taken with you at the Kenmuir’s ball.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ Damaris jerked her chin away and pouted. ‘Do we really have so little money?’

  ‘Yes, dear sister. I’m afraid so.’

  ‘How much is the ransom again?’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds. I’m to pay it by the first of March. Which only gives me two bloody weeks to find the money.’

  The colour drained from Damaris’s cheeks as she swallowed audibly. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, oh.’ The due date was only a week prior to the day he was supposed to marry Sarah at Taymoor Castle. It made Malcolm wonder again who Janus actually was. The timing seemed rather pointed, the message clear—pay the ransom or you won’t have the chance to wed your wealthy affianced.

  ‘Do you think…’ Damaris drew a shaky breath, ‘do you think you could go to the bank and arrange another loan? If they know you are due to wed Sarah in less than a month, perhaps—’

  ‘Don’t you think I haven’t already thought of that?’ Malcolm snapped. ‘The bank won’t let me in the damn door, let alone lend me another penny.’

  ‘Perhaps if Judith knew—’

  ‘Christ, no. If Judith found out that I can’t pay the ransom, she’d be off to Newcastle to tattle to that pompous ass Swindon that I’m all but financially ruined. Between the two of them, they’d probably bloody pay the demand. Sarah would be sure to call off the engagement as soon as she found out I hadn’t been the one to save her.’

  ‘But if Sarah loves you, as you believe she does, surely she wouldn’t care that you are not as wealthy as she thought.’

  Malcolm paced the threadbare Aubusson rug. Until recently, perhaps she would have overlooked such a thing. But he was certain she’d caught him fucking the blonde chit. And she wouldn’t willingly marry him if she believed he was faithless as well as penniless; unlike Damaris, she wouldn’t do anything to get what she wanted.

  But what if Sarah had no other choice but to marry him?

  Malcolm stopped by the window and studied the fog-shrouded view of Calton Hill through the grimy panes. This Janus, whoever he was, might just dip his wick whilst he had Sarah in his possession. God knows, he’d wanted to. She was pretty enough. If she were ruined—perhaps even with child—she’d have to marry him to save herself from disgrace.

  Malcolm’s lip curled. Yes, he rather fancied playing the part of a knight in shining armour.

  But first things first. He had to pay the ransom.

  ‘What shall we tell Judith?’ asked Damaris. ‘She’s been talking about going to the Town Guard to enlist their aid. I’ve told her you’ve sent out men to search for Sarah. But if she makes a fuss, and then others find out what’s really happened… And that we have no money…’

  ‘Yes, keeping Judith quiet is a priority. She mustn’t suspect, even for a moment, that Sarah has been kidnapped. The one thing we cannot afford, if we are able to afford anything at all, is a scandal.’ Malcolm turned around to eye Damaris. Aside from fucking men well, his sister had other talents. ‘Do you think you can forge Sarah’s handwriting?’

  ‘You know I can. Just tell me what to write and I will do it.’

  ‘Good.’

  Damaris plucked at the lace edging of her pink silk peignoir. Her brow was furrowed in thought. ‘Who do you think Janus is? This whole scheme seems very… personal.’

  ‘I wish I knew.’ Malcolm’s hands curled into fists as he contemplated what he’d do to the dog who was doing this to him. Making his life even more of a hell than it already was. ‘But if I ever discover who, he’ll rue the day he was born.’

  ***

  The Stag’s Head Inn, Perthshire

  Sarah lay in a lumpy tester bed with a sagging blue canopy, listening to the squalls of rain lashing the window. She was exhausted yet taut as a bowstring. Her eyes were gritty with fatigue and she would love nothing more than to go to sleep but she mustn’t.

  Because tonight she was going to escape.

  To her relief, Black had taken the room adjoining hers and Aileen’s. Even though he’d closed the connecting door when he’d bid her goodnight, she’d still needed to exercise extreme caution—she hadn’t heard the lock tumble and Black could enter the room at any time. She prayed he was weary too and wouldn’t come to check on her in the next hour or so. Her plan depended upon it.

  Aileen was currently tucked into a pallet bed to one side of the fireplace, and judging by the woman’s gentle snores, she was sound asleep. She had to be exhausted. They’d travelled through much of the night on the first day of their journey north and Sarah imagined that if she’d barely slept a wink in the relative shelter of the carriage, Aileen, sitting atop with the driver, wouldn’t have slept at all.

  She almost felt sorry for Aileen. But considering the woman had helped Black to smuggle her into the inn, and then tether her to the bed, she just couldn’t.
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br />   Of course, Sarah’s heart had pounded with excitement when Black had first announced they would be stopping for the night. However, all her hopes of entreating someone to help her were dashed when Black had also informed her that he’d made arrangements to hire every single room at the inn. On their arrival, well after dark, he’d instructed the staff to stay in the public rooms so if she screamed, it was unlikely anyone would hear her. To Sarah’s frustration, he’d then bound and gagged her again before taking her to her room—her latest prison—via a side entrance; most likely one used by the staff. Aside from Aileen and Black, Sarah hadn’t encountered a single soul.

  As Black had tied her to the bed, she’d decided then and there to do what she must in order to free herself. If she could break her bonds, get dressed, and then procure the room key without waking Aileen, she’d make her way to the stables and take a horse. She was an able rider and even though the weather had turned foul, she’d rather brave the elements than endure another second as Black’s hostage.

  The man was hell-bent on seeking vengeance and she had no idea how far he would go to exact it. He’d assured her he wouldn’t hurt her, but she didn’t trust him. From what she’d seen so far, Black had been plotting to kidnap her for some time—she shuddered every time she thought about how well orchestrated this whole scheme was. From the way he’d stalked her at Kenmuir House, then offered her false comfort. Drugged her and spirited her away. Provided her with a wardrobe that appeared to be tailor-made. Hired out every room at this inn. The man was as meticulous as he was diabolical and she must never, ever forget that.

  Malcolm had already betrayed her so she’d be foolish indeed to think she could rely on him to pay the ransom. And since yesterday evening, she’d given up trying to negotiate her release with Black. He was as implacable as the granite peaks they’d been heading towards this afternoon.