Taken By the Laird Page 4

  He entered the nursery and saw that the fire was laid and ready to be lit, and a stack of peat had been piled beside it. Hugh got down on one knee and reached into the fireplace. He lit the fire, then turned to assess the rest of the room. The window was shut tight against the storm, and the bed was piled with woolen blankets. Hugh could easily picture his puzzling intruder lying there, curled tight under the blanket against the bitter chill. Or better yet, lying with her heavenly bottom curled up against his lap after a bout of scorching loveplay.

  She was a fiery maid, unlike his last few mistresses, who’d managed to grow dull and uninteresting inside a month of their intimate acquaintance. Hugh was certain that Bridget MacLaren would bring more than a bland, uninspired performance to the bedchamber. Such a woman would be wasted as a governess or lady’s companion. She belonged in bed, with an appreciative lover.

  Quietly, Hugh returned to the drawing room and found that she had not moved from her place by the fire and was still trying to warm herself in spite of her wet clothes. The thought of getting her out of them tantalized him. Whoever this petite, knife-wielding warrior might be, she was vastly appealing. Her pale hair was beginning to dry in soft curls around her face, casting an alluring, halo-like glow about her. The rest of the blond mass trailed down her back, a spill of curls and waves that Hugh’s fingers itched to touch. Her brown woolen coat concealed most of her curves, but he had felt them when they’d tussled at the top of the stairs. He knew her feminine assets were more than satisfactory.

  Her brow was furrowed and her lips pursed as though she were deep in thought. He wondered if she was considering the brandy she intended to steal…or the rutting employer.

  “You ought to take off those wet things. You’ll never get warm this way,” he said, startling her. Her head snapped up as she looked at him, her cheeks coloring with astonishment as well as indignation.

  “If you think I’ll disrobe for you—”

  “Of course not, Miss MacLaren. What do you take me for? I’ve got a fire going in one of the bedchambers. You can stay there for the night.”

  “Oh. I…I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion.” Her blush charmed him and her reaction gave weight to her tale of a randy employer. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “No offense taken,” he said, smiling as he turned away. He would never take advantage of an unwilling woman, but he did not doubt his ability to bring this one around to his way of thinking. He reached down and picked up the bundle she’d carried with her, then led her up the stairs and down the long gallery to the nursery. There, he pushed open the door and allowed her to pass him.

  “I daresay there are candles somewhere,” he said, setting her possessions on the hearth. Her eyes were really quite remarkable—an ethereal blue and altogether too cautious. Perhaps the employer had tried to force her to undress, hence the presence of a knife and her willingness to use it. Hugh decided to give her a few moments alone.

  “Lord Newbury…”

  “Laird Glenloch while in Scotland,” he corrected.

  “Then I thank you, Laird.”

  He gave a slight nod and left her, but not for long.

  In the flickering light of the fire, Brianna peeled off her wet clothes. She pulled one of the blankets off the bed and wrapped it around her, then stepped close to the hearth and opened her bundle. It was where she carried her money, but there were also two plain gowns and a chemise, two pairs of stockings, and one pair of shoes all rolled together in the satchel, inside an oilskin tarp. Only the shoes and one stocking at the very center of the package were dry.

  Brianna was not worried. With the blazing fire and plenty of peat on hand, everything should be dry by morning. She would be able to leave.

  In the meantime, she would be snug and warm here. The room was small, possibly a child’s bedchamber, with a low desk and a narrow bed. She took her money out of her shoe and hid it under the mattress, then laid out her wet clothes, arranging them carefully, for maximum exposure to the fire. As she spread them out, an odd light shimmered from above, as though someone had suddenly lit a lamp above the door. But when Brianna looked up, there was no light. She glanced back at the bed to see if she had truly concealed her coins, or if they were somehow reflecting the firelight off the wall. But there was nothing to account for the strange radiance.

  Dismissing the odd occurrence, she returned to the task of arranging her clothes by the fire, but suddenly felt a prickle of awareness. Someone was watching her! She whirled around, expecting to see Laird Glenloch, but the door remained closed and the flickering light had returned and was starting to gather into a discernable shape. Brianna blinked her eyes, then rubbed them to be sure she was not seeing things. The bright, filmy form of a person could not be hovering at the door!

  And yet it seemed to beckon to her.

  “What do you want?” Brianna whispered, feeling foolish and afraid all at once. Foolish because she could not possibly be talking to an apparition. Afraid because…what if it was real?

  A knock at the door made Brianna jump. The figure disappeared as she yanked open the door, unnerved, forgetting that she was clad in just a thin, woolen blanket.

  “You must be hungry after your long walk,” said Laird Glenloch. He carried a plate of food and a glass of ale into the room and set it on the table beside the bed. Then he went to the writing table and opened the drawer. Drawing out two candles, he lit them both, leaving one on the table and placing the other next to the food.

  Brianna clutched the blanket tightly, making sure the loose end was securely tucked under her arm. “My lord—”

  “ ’Tis not much,” Newbury said, turning to look at her. “Just a cold sausage pie and some cheese that I bought when I stopped at Marykirk.” His gaze dropped to her shoulders and down to the upper curves of her breasts, and Brianna’s skin began to tingle. She remembered the way his body had felt pressed against hers when he’d nearly kissed her, and wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

  He stepped closer, and Brianna found herself unable to move away.

  “You are very beautiful, Miss MacLaren.”

  His voice warmed her as much as the heat of his body. His deep tone was as rich as clotted cream, but far more dangerous. Bree could easily find herself leaning into his strong frame, seeking the comfort of his embrace.

  But she knew better. She took an unsteady breath. “Laird Glenloch, you should not be here.”

  “ ’Tis late to be concerned about propriety, Miss MacLaren.” He was so close she could smell his shaving soap, and see the reflection of the fire in his eyes. His jaw was ruggedly hewn, as though from a block of granite, and the scar on his cheek reminded her that he was not quite civilized.

  “My actions tonight might not follow convention, my lord, but I assure you that I am otherwise a perfectly respectable lady.”

  “Lady Bridget, is it, then?” he asked, moving closer. With one long finger, he touched the hair that curled at the side of her face.

  “No,” she said quietly. “Plain Miss M-MacLaren.”

  “Hardly plain, Bridget, but not too high-toned, I hope?” His thumb grazed her chin, then slid across her lower lip.

  “No,” Bree whispered as his touch caused tiny shocks to course through her. “Not at all.”

  “But you are in need of protection. Assistance.”

  “No.” Brianna gave a slight shake of her head. “I will leave in the morning.”

  “Perhaps I can convince you to stay awhile. Dundee can wait.”

  “Laird, I only came to…”

  His hands slid down her arms, warming her, yet raising chills of awareness. His touch stunned her senses and made her brain go limp.

  “I o-only came here to—”

  He drew her toward him, his head dipping down, his mouth brushing hers. Brianna should have moved away, should have gathered some kind of self-control, put a stop to his gentle assault. She should have shoved him as hard as she’d done to Roddington.

  But when
he pressed her flush against his body and deepened their kiss, his gifted mouth coaxed hers open. Brianna’s heart tripped in her chest.

  He tasted of brandy, and pure, scorching male.

  Rationality deserted Brianna. She felt hot all over. Her nipples tightened and a raw sensation of pleasure pooled deep in her pelvis. The laird tipped her head slightly and sucked her tongue into his mouth, then skimmed his hands from her back to her sides, caressing the lower boundaries of her breasts with his thumbs, then cupping them fully. He made a low sound when he touched their tips, circling them with the pads of his thumbs, then lightly pulling the hardened pebbles between his fingers.

  Barely aware of what she was doing, Brianna slid her hands up his chest and encircled his neck, slipping her fingers through the hair at his nape, surprised at the silky feel of it. She felt truly warm for the first time since leaving Killiedown, relaxed and secure for the first time in months.

  Laird Glenloch inched her back toward the bed and stood before her, his hands inching around to her buttocks. Brianna felt the rasp of his waistcoat against her bare nipples and suddenly realized that her blanket was gone. Somehow, he’d managed to slide if off her, and now she stood fully naked before him, powerless—unwilling—to stop what he was doing.

  His kisses were intoxicating, and his touch turned her knees to quivering reeds. She slid down onto the bed.

  “That’s it, lass,” he said, caressing her, going down on one knee before her. “You were made for pleasure.”

  Brianna took a shuddering breath as he moved between her legs. She should have felt scandalously exposed. Should have slapped his face and made a grab for the blanket that lay pooled on the floor nearby. But he leaned forward and laved one of her breasts with his tongue, and pure, carnal sensation washed over her. A small voice in the back of her mind told her to resist, but she could neither ignore nor overcome the tremendous need Glenloch aroused in her.

  Yes she could. She had not come this far to be seduced by a notorious rake. She reached behind her for one of the blankets on the bed and pulled it over her shoulders. Somehow she managed to close Laird Glenloch out, mortified by her behavior. “Laird, please. I am not a…a light-skirt.”

  Brianna extricated herself from his grasp and came off the bed. She went directly to the fireplace, wrapping herself tightly against any further sensual onslaught. Her legs still felt weak, and there was a trembling awareness of him in every pore of her body. But she would not do this. She did not want a man in her life. Neither Roddington, nor Glenloch, nor anyone else who would use her and control her with little thought for her own well-being.

  Hugh scrubbed one hand across his face. He had not intended for things to progress so far. He’d only planned to soften her to the point of admitting her true business at Castle Glenloch. And if she was innocent of interfering with his smuggling operation, there would be no harm in making a lady’s maid receptive to his advances. But he’d lost control. And ended up walking out of her chamber sporting the most painful cockstand he could recall.

  He dealt with it alone in a spectacularly unsatisfactory manner, then turned his attention to what he’d intended to do much earlier, when he’d first encountered the distracting, and oh so tempting, Bridget MacLaren. He returned to the secret door in the drawing room, determined to remove Bridget MacLaren from his thoughts, to eradicate her sweet taste from his lips and the weight of her breasts from his hands.

  He muttered a low curse and worked the latch, then entered the passage leading to the stairs. Proceeding quickly down the steps, he arrived at the stone landing and checked the metal grate through which the brandy tubs were passed. ’Twas no doubt the way Bridget had entered. It was tight in the window frame, but the simple metal grille was not much of a barrier to the elements. She had not lied about the weather. It was hideous. Clearly, she had needed to find shelter somewhere, but it made no sense for her to be out walking alone, dressed as she was. She was entirely too intriguing.

  Holding his lamp high, Hugh looked down at the stone floor. Wet tracks had pooled near the grate, but the footsteps proceeded directly to the stairs. It looked as though she had not attempted to find his secret cache.

  Which meant naught. Perhaps she did not realize this was the place where the brandy was stored.

  Castle Glenloch was the perfect place from which to run a smuggling operation. Riddled with secret doors and ancient passages, the towers looked as though they might collapse under a good wind, deterring any customs officer from investigating. And rumors of the Glenloch Ghost kept away the curious.

  Hugh turned to the far wall and ran his hands along the uneven stones, searching for the catch that would release the hidden door. He rarely had any need to open this door, so it took some time to find it. But finally, his fingers located the small latch, hidden in a hollowed-out stone just above his head. It was a lever recessed into the stone wall, attached to a strong spring. When he pulled it up, the catch released and the door fell ajar. He pulled it all the way out, then entered the room. Tubs and ankers of brandy were stacked high against the walls with just a narrow aisle between them to walk through.

  It was quite cold inside. Hugh cupped his hands at his mouth and blew into them as he counted each container, then left the secret room. Satisfied that he had the information he needed to start his investigation, he had nothing more to do down there. The next step would be to talk to MacGowan.

  Hugh climbed the steps and exited the cold buttery, returning to the warmth of the drawing room. He tended the fire and poured himself a glass of his fine brandy, keeping his back to the prominent portrait of his father. Paintings of Jasper Christie were scattered throughout the castle, and Hugh generally avoided the rooms in which the old earl’s dissipated visage looked down upon him from on high. Just as he’d done in life.

  “Here’s to you, old sod,” Hugh said, raising his glass and tilting it irreverently in the direction of the portrait behind him. “No doubt you’re enjoying this. Your incompetent son has failed once again, and allowed himself to be cheated, dolt that he is.”

  Hugh took a seat in the chair nearest the fire and swallowed a draught of brandy, enjoying the burn at the back of his throat. He considered how the thief might be getting away with his brandy and how his losses must be affecting the free traders in Falkburn. While Hugh could afford a decrease in profits, his people could not, and he felt a pang of regret at leaving it so long. He should have come up to Glenloch and put things to rights much sooner.

  But then he would not have encountered Bridget MacLaren. He wondered if she’d fallen asleep yet. She’d be lying naked in the bed, for it was quite obvious that everything she owned was soaked through.

  His body reacted markedly with the thought of her, despite the release he’d just experienced. She was the most fascinating creature he’d encountered in many a long month, with her dirk and her men’s clothes. Her tale of running from a nobleman’s advances was perfectly believable, but Hugh was not yet ready to absolve her from taking part in the operation that was stealing his brandy. He decided he was very much going to enjoy finding out the truth of the matter.

  Mortification still burned Brianna the following morn when she awoke. She wanted to deny that she’d engaged in such shameless behavior with the master of Glenloch, and that she’d enjoyed it. She wished she could deny the sensual power Laird Glenloch wielded over her.

  And yet she could not. She pressed her legs together to squeeze out the sensation of his touch, but it only made it worse. Her breasts still tingled where he’d nuzzled and sucked them, and her mouth felt swollen and bruised from his kisses.

  Bernard’s tame kisses had never created such a maelstrom of sensations, and she wondered if that had been part of his appeal—he’d never caused her to lose control.

  She turned over and jerked the blankets up, over her shoulders. Glenloch was just a man, a roué whose only skills were those of a master seducer, a gambler, a sporting pugilist. Not a single one of his traits was admirabl
e. She could—she would—resist his advances until she could get away.

  But it might be some hours before that happened, for it was still raining. Brianna heard it dribbling down the windowpane, along with the howl of a stiff wind that chilled her in spite of the warmth of her room and the soft down of her covers.

  She could not face it just yet.

  If only Claire still lived, Brianna would not be in this predicament. Her aunt had been a beautiful, vital woman who’d swooped down on Stamford House nine years before to rescue Bree from a miserable existence with her guardian. Claire had been abroad at the time Brianna had been orphaned, and unaware of her niece’s situation. But she’d rectified it the minute she returned, flouting convention to take Stamford’s ward away to Killiedown.

  And there they’d lived until Stamford’s demand that Bree join his family in London for her first season. Brianna never believed those seasons had been provided for her benefit, else Stamford would have allowed her to wed Bernard, for he was a perfectly acceptable young man.

  As recent events proved, Stamford was only interested in making a close alliance with a powerful family. And who was more powerful than the man who would become the Duke of Chalwyck?

  It was a marriage that would never happen. Bree would move heaven and earth to stay out of Stamford’s—and Rotten Roddington’s—clutches until she reached her majority and was able to make her own decisions.

  Brianna could not remember her mother at all, and her father was just a vague memory. But she recalled each and every miserable moment she had spent in Stamford House. Her subsequent years at Killiedown had been sheer heaven, and Bree would have been content to stay there forever.

  And yet Claire had insisted that she comply with Lord Stamford’s demand to return to London for a season. Brianna sensed that there was more to Claire’s agreement than the fact that Stamford was Bree’s legal guardian, and if he chose to press his cause, the law would have been on his side then, as it was now.