The Laird Of Blackloch (Highland Rogue)

by Amy Rose Bennett

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘You mean, you haven’t proposed to her yet?’

  ‘Aye, I have. And you could have knocked me over with a feather when she accepted. Only…’

  Robert’s dark blue eyes narrowed. ‘Only you wish she could take your name, MacIvor.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Robert inclined his head. ‘I understand completely.’

  ‘Robert, I’ve just come back from the village and you’ll never guess which crofter’s wife had her wee babe last night…’

  Alex stood up as the most breathtaking redheaded lass he’d ever laid eyes upon entered the room. Dressed in a burgundy wool riding habit, her red-gold curls spilled over her shoulders as she pulled off then discarded a jaunty hat decorated with pheasant quills onto a nearby chair. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry fer interrupting, Robert,’ she said as soon as her gaze fell on Alex. Her honey-brown eyes darted back to her husband. ‘If I’d known you had company, I would have knocked.’

  ‘It’s quite all right, Jessie. Alex and I are old friends.’ Robert turned to him. ‘Alex, may I introduce my lovely wife to you? Jessie, Lady Lochrose.’

  ‘My lady.’ Alex stepped forward and bowed over her gloved hand.

  ‘And Jessie, this is Alexander MacIvor, Baron Rannoch. Although outside of this room, it’s probably best if you refer to him as Mr Alexander Price.’

  ‘Or you may call me Alex.’

  Jessie smiled at him. ‘Alex. Of course.’

  Robert touched his wife’s arm claiming her attention. ‘Alex and I, we have some past history in common, if you take my meaning. And we are both in similar lines of business in the New World.’

  Understanding flashed in Jessie’s clear brown eyes. ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Alex is also getting married. To…’ Robert cocked a dark eyebrow at him.

  ‘Miss Sarah Lambert,’ finished Alex.

  ‘Och, that’s wonderful,’ said Jessie with a dazzling smile. ‘Congratulations! I hope I shall have the opportunity to meet your affianced one day.’

  Alex tilted his head. ‘Thank you, my lady. And I think that it is entirely likely. May I offer my sincere congratulations to you and Robert as well? I can see how happy you both are.’

  ‘Thank you. We are indeed.’ Jessie’s cheeks became suffused with colour as she cast a soft look her husband’s way. ‘Verra much.’

  Robert caught Jessie’s hand and brought it to his lips. ‘I haven’t spoken to Father yet but I’m sure he will lend his unreserved support in assisting Alex to secure a pardon.’

  Jessie beamed. ‘I’m sure he will too.’

  Robert had once been estranged from his father, the Earl of Strathburn, but clearly that was no longer the case. To see his friend so damn content and secure gave Alex hope that maybe such a fate was within his reach too. After all, the issuing of royal pardons for Jacobites was not unheard of; aside from Robert attaining one, Ranald, the Younger of Clan Ranald who’d been living in exile in France after the Rebellion had also been allowed to return to Scotland three years ago. Yes, there was definitely hope.

  Robert and Jessie kindly invited him to stay the night at Lochrose rather than rushing off to Blackloch straightaway; when he politely but regretfully declined, there was much consternation. However, in the end, they reached a compromise and Alex agreed to stay for luncheon. The charming Lord Strathburn joined them too. Although physically frail, he was both jovial and sharp-witted and by the end of their repast, he’d pledged to Alex he would do everything in his power to secure an unreserved royal pardon for him. Fortuitously, the following week, the earl was due in Edinburgh to meet with his solicitor and the Lord Advocate, the King’s representative in Scotland. And now, at Lord Strathburn’s urging, Alex would join him for the latter meeting too.

  When it came time for Alex to quit Lochrose Castle—he was reluctant to leave Sarah alone at Blackloch for too long—he did so with a considerably lighter spirit.

  By God’s grace, within the space of a month, he would be known as Alexander MacIvor again and the title of Baron Rannoch would no longer be attainted. Then there would be nothing in the world to stop him from marrying Sarah.

  ***

  Taymoor Castle, Perthshire

  26 February 1757

  ‘Milord, I’m sorry to disturb ye during breakfast, but there’s a young lady here to see you.’

  Malcolm frowned at the young footman—he couldn’t remember the lad’s name—hovering in the doorway to the morning room at Taymoor Castle.

  A young woman? What the deuce? He put down his cup of coffee and anticipation spiked as another thought occurred to him. ‘Well, did she give her name?’ It couldn’t be Sarah, could it?

  ‘Nae, milord.’ The footman’s cheeks turned pink and he nervously pulled at the grimy cuffs of his liveried jacket. ‘But she said you would want to see her. Tha’ the matter she wanted to speak to you aboot was verra important. Something to do with some letters you’ve received recently… aboot another young lady…’

  ‘Christ, man! Why didn’t you say so?’ Malcolm threw down his napkin and pushed away from the table with such force, the china and silverware rattled. ‘Show her to the library. I’ll be along directly.’

  ‘Aye, milord.’

  Malcolm ran a hand through his hair as he strode down the icy-cold denuded corridor—the carpets, curtains, paintings, marble busts, and occasional chairs had all been sold months ago—heading towards his almost-as-bare library. He hadn’t bothered dressing properly this morning. He badly needed a shave and he hadn’t bathed for several days. Not having a valet was becoming increasingly annoying. But then, why should he bothered about a strange, presumptuous lass’s opinion of him?

  His attire of breeches, stained boots, loose shirt, and rumpled striped-silk banyan would have to do.

  The nameless lass was waiting by the empty fireplace, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the cold. As soon as she saw him, she dropped into a curtsy. ‘Milord, thank you fer seeing me at such short notice.’

  Malcolm crossed his arms and slowly, deliberately raked his gaze over her, from the top of her bright orange-red curls to the hem of her mud-splattered, nondescript brown wool gown. Despite the plainness of her garb, she was a pretty young thing with bright green eyes, good-sized tits, and a nice trim waist. ‘You’d better not be wasting my time, Miss…’

  ‘Isla Dobson,’ she said with a proud lift of her small pointed chin. ‘And I’m not.’

  ‘Humph. I’ll be the judge of that.’ He gestured toward the worn leather wing chair and matching settee behind them. ‘Won’t you take a seat, Miss Dobson?’

  ‘I’d prefer to stand.’

  ‘Very well.’ He pinned her with a narrow-eyed stare. ‘My footman tells me you have information about some of my private correspondence. Correspondence related to a very sensitive matter…’

  ‘Aye.’ Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘I know all aboot your affianced’s kidnapping, milord. But more importantly, I know exactly where you can find her.’

  Could the lass really be telling the truth? Malcolm tapped a finger against his stubble rough chin. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

  ‘I know, because I’ve been helping to look after Miss Lambert whilst she’s been held captive.’

  This sounded too good to be true. Could this be another elaborate trap of Price’s? A trick? ‘Really? Pray, Miss Dobson, how did you know where to find me? I’ve only just arrived here from Edinburgh.’ It bothered him that no sooner had he returned to Taymoor than this girl turned up on his doorstep. It was highly suspicious to say the least.

  The girl regarded him steadily. ‘Until recently, I was in the employ of Mr Alexander Price, the Laird of Blackloch Castle, milord. However, I now work at the Boar’s Head Inn at Aberfeldy. You made a brief stop there on your way here. I saw you as you were leaving yesterday evening.’

  At least the whore, Nell, had been telling him the truth about Price then. But he still didn’t know about Isla. ‘Hmmm. How do
I know that isn’t an elaborate ruse? That you and Alexander Price aren’t playing me for a fool? For instance, why have you suddenly decided to betray your master and help me instead?’

  ‘It is no’ a ruse, milord, I swear it.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  The lass swallowed and her cheeks grew pink. ‘I dinna wish any harm to come to Mr Price. But I do want Miss Lambert gone. And judging by the state of Taymoor Castle,’ Miss Dobson cast a pointed look about the dusty, half-empty bookcases and the curtainless, grimy windows, ‘you need Miss Lambert’s coin. Badly. So I’d suggest you trust me.’

  ‘Why, you little bitch—’ Hot anger flared and Malcolm lunged for Isla Dobson, gripping her about the throat. ‘Who do you think you are to insult me so?’ he thundered. ‘Tell me everything you know, right fucking now, or I’ll wring your scrawny neck.’

  Isla’s green eyes widened and she clawed at his hands. He loosened his grip a little and she gasped. ‘Milord…’

  ‘Sit down.’ Malcolm released her so abruptly Isla stumbled over to the settee.

  He waited for a minute for the girl to catch her breath before advancing forward to loom over her, his feet planted wide, his hands on his hips. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded.

  ‘It isna going to work like tha’, milord. I need you to promise tha’ you will no’ harm Mr Price.’

  Malcolm’s knuckles cracked as he pushed down the urge to beat the truth from the obstinate chit. ‘I’ll make no such promise yet. Tell me, why do you wish Miss Lambert gone?’

  ‘Because Mr Price intends to wed her.’

  What the fuck? What the actual fuck? Malcolm scrubbed a hand through his hair. Of all the things Isla Dobson could have said, it had never been that. It meant that Price didn’t need the ransom money at all. And it also meant he had to get Sarah back. Immediately.

  ‘When? When does he plan to marry her?’

  ‘I canna be sure, but soon.’

  ‘Tell me where she is.’

  ‘Only if you swear you willna hurt Alexander Price.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Malcolm bellowed in her face, but it made no difference. The stubborn bitch clamped her eyes shut and pressed her lips together.

  Only when he drew back did Isla open her eyes again. ‘You can shout all you like, Lord Tay, but I willna tell you Miss Lambert’s precise location until you give me yer word tha’ no harm will come to Mr Price.’

  Malcolm snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you’re in love with the bastard.’

  ‘Aye. I am.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Isla said nothing, just stared at him. There was such fire in her eyes, Malcolm had the inkling that even torturing her wouldn’t wring the truth from her.

  He retreated to one of the windows and stared out at the ill-kept grounds of Taymoor: the all-but invisible garden paths; the tussocks of dead, overgrown grass between the patches of snow; the rampant ivy that was crumbling the brickwork.

  He needed Sarah, it was that simple. If Price intended to marry her, that meant he’d probably fucked her by now. But he wasn’t in a position to be particular about another man’s leavings. As long as Sarah’s fortune was his, he didn’t much care if she bore him a bastard.

  He turned back to face the room and uttered the lie Isla Dobson needed to hear. ‘All right,’ he said grimly. ‘We have a deal. You take me straight to Miss Lambert, and once I have her, your master will have nothing to fear. I will not retaliate.’

  ‘You swear?’ Isla gave him a narrow-eyed stare as though that would be enough to sway him.

  ‘I swear.’ Stupid chit.

  Chapter 16

  Kinloch, Loch Rannoch, Perthshire

  26 February 1757

  ‘Mind the dung, miss,’ instructed Aileen as she handed the reins of her horse to MacLagan. ‘Ye dinna want yer boots and riding habit to get mucky.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sarah, who’d already dismounted with MacLagan’s assistance, neatly sidestepped the fresh pile in the middle of the half-frozen muddy square that was most probably the village green. When she’d heard that Blackloch’s reinstalled housekeeper was going to visit the village to make a few purchases for the castle’s cook, she’d asked to come along too. Alex had been away from Blackloch for two whole days and to take her mind off missing him, and worrying about Aunt Judith worrying about her, she’d thought a tour of Kinloch would be just the diversion she needed.

  She couldn’t wait for Alex to return; not only did she miss his company and quite shockingly, his lovemaking, she was also eager to send a letter to her aunt explaining she was safe, along with an invitation to join both her and Alex at Blackloch Castle. Before he’d departed, Alex had promised to send one via courier to Linden Hall and to Charles Swindon’s office in Newcastle to make sure Judith would learn of her whereabouts. Even though Alex had been fairly certain Malcolm would no longer be at Tay House, he was quite understandably reluctant to send a message there.

  Home. Sarah still couldn’t quite believe Blackloch and the village of Kinloch would indeed be that place. How her destiny had completely changed in less than two weeks. Trying to ignore the curious glances of a pair of red-coated dragoons riding past, and a dour-faced woman tending a small patch of garden in front of her cottage, Sarah picked up her skirts and followed Aileen towards a cluster of neat, grey stone buildings with thatched roofs set against the imposing backdrop of a towering craggy hill. It was an overcast, frosty day and the hill’s peak was lost in a blanket of dark cloud. Sarah hoped it wouldn’t rain on the return journey to Blackloch.

  ‘The master has worked miracles here, Miss Lambert,’ said Aileen when she caught up to her. Her mouth had lifted at one corner into a rare smile, and her grey-green eyes shone with pride. They’d paused by the window of a small building that looked like a shop for general purchases. ‘Och, only a few years ago, this place was as wild as could be, despite the dragoons’ barracks. The master has been working verra hard with the dragoon captain, the factor of the forfeited Robertson estate, and the new pastor and his wife, to make the countryside a wee bit more civilised. Over there, ’Aileen pointed with one gnarled finger across the green to a larger building with wide wooden doors, ‘is the blacksmith’s and the wheelwright’s. Next door is the mason’s. And behind the trees, closer to the river, is a schoolhouse. The pastor’s wife has also been teaching the crofter’s wives to spin and weave. One day the master hopes there will even be a mill, a tailor, dressmaker, and shoemaker here. He also has plans underway to build a better bridge across the Tummel and a fine new kirk on the other side.’

  ‘That is indeed wonderful,’ agreed Sarah with a smile. Her chest swelled with pride to think the man she loved had such a great sense of philanthropy and social responsibility. Unlike Malcolm…

  Sarah pushed thoughts of him and the havoc he’d wrought aside as she followed Aileen into the small shop. The housekeeper was greeted warmly by the stooped, grey-bearded shopkeeper; he stood behind a long wooden counter that was piled high with all manner of odds and ends including jars of sweetmeats, several large wheels of cheese, and a wooden crate of vegetables. Aileen introduced him as Mr Reid.

  The elderly Mr Reid studied Sarah with interest. ‘We dinna get ladies as bonnie as you visiting Kinloch very often,’ he remarked in a voice cracked with age. He suddenly winked. ‘Are ye staying up at the castle then? As a guest of Mr Price?’

  Sarah blushed but before she could respond, Aileen shot a sharp glare at him. ‘Mr Reid!’ she admonished. ‘Where are yer manners, man?’

  ‘Och, I’m sorry, lass. It’s just tha’ many of us from around these parts have been hoping our laird will settle down with a wife. ’Twould be a fine thing to see some wee bairns at Blackloch again.’ He winked again, but this time at Aileen. ‘Just like in the old days, Mrs Dobson.’

  ‘Aye, it would indeed,’ agreed Aileen. Quite unexpectedly, she cast a rather knowing but friendly smile Sarah’s way, and Sarah found herself blushing again. It seemed her erstwhile gaoler was warming to th
e idea that an Englishwoman, who was formerly betrothed to her master’s nemesis, was going to be the next mistress of Blackloch Castle. Considering Isla had clearly resented her, Sarah was both grateful and relieved to discover Aileen bore her no ill will.

  Aileen made her purchases—a cone of sugar, two tins of soft soap, and a dozen fat, beeswax candles—and once she’d arranged for the delivery of several sacks of oats, barley, and flour to the castle, they returned to where MacLagan waited with their horses on the edge of the green.

  The weather had changed whilst they’d been inside Mr Reid’s shop. Although it was only early afternoon, a freezing fog had rolled in, obscuring the view of the loch and completely hiding the peak of Fairy Hill. As they clattered across the bridge at the southern edge of Loch Rannoch, heading towards the Black Wood with its massive ancient pines and birches, Sarah really wished she’d thought to wear her cloak and bring a pair of gloves. The distance from Kinloch to Blackloch Castle was a distance of ten miles so it would take them over an hour to trot all the way back, especially in thick fog. Hopefully the inclement weather wouldn’t delay Alex’s return; all going well, he’d intimated he might be home by tonight.

  Sarah was lost in deep thought, dreaming of Alex to take her mind off how cold she was when Aileen, who was ahead of her on the woodland path, suddenly reined in her horse.

  ‘Isla,’ she exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you doing back here, lassie?’

  Sarah and MacLagan halted their mounts too. Sure enough, a few yards away beneath a towering pine was Isla. Sitting atop a horse, she ignored her mother’s question and stared straight past her.

  Straight at Sarah.

  The back of Sarah’s neck prickled at the hardness of the girl’s glare. ‘What do you want, Isla?’ she asked. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded thin and anxious.

  ‘You. Gone,’ Isla said. And then there was a deafening crack and MacLagan slumped over in his saddle.

  A scream spilled from Sarah’s throat as her horse skittered off the path and Aileen’s mount reared, unseating her.