Lucy and Her Scottish Laird

by Margo Maguire

  Not that anyone knew the truth of his heritage. Ian wondered what these young women would say if they discovered what he had learned just yesterday. That he was not his mother’s son. That his father had impregnated an Irish serving maid while his long-suffering, childless parents were on an extended trip in that country.

  According to his father’s drunken confession, he and the duchess had taken the Irish maid and gone into seclusion somewhere on the desolate coast of County Louth for the duration of the young woman’s confinement. The duke had intended to pay her for her infant if she bore a son, and pass Ian off as his own legitimate child. But the Irish lass had died during childbirth, so there was no payment to be made, and no one of import to gainsay the fiction of their family. The duke had taken care that neither the midwife nor their two hired servants had known their true identities.

  The duke and duchess had returned to their estate in County Armagh and they’d had Ian baptized and registered in the local church, making him the official, legitimate son of the Duke and Duchess of Craigmuir.

  Ian wondered how anything could be so simple. Surely someone had known, or at least suspected, what had happened.

  He found it amazing, too, that the duchess had held her tongue all these years, though she’d refused to show her “son” even an iota of motherly affection. Quite the opposite. With Craigmuir’s confession yesterday, Ian had finally come to understand why his mother abhorred him. He was the son she could not give her husband, and the proof of his infidelity to her – the woman he’d supposedly married for love.

  So much for the proverbial “love match.”

  At least Ian looked just like his father, down to the hazel color of his eyes, the slight cleft in his chin, and the deep creases in his cheeks. No one had ever questioned his parentage.

  But Ian could not help but wonder if his father had left had a scattering of by-blows all over the isles. His stomach turned at the thought of the duke as some indolent lothario, taking advantage wherever it suited him. Had the Irish maid – Ian’s mother – consented to their carnal congress, or had the duke forced himself upon her? Ian’s cousin, Duncan Munro was notorious for such behavior. Ian hated the thought that it might run in the family.

  “What do you know of Miss Stillwater?” Erskine asked. “What of her dowry? Will Kildrum settle—”

  “Hardly necessary,” Kindale said. “Baron Stillwater is one of the wealthiest men in Berkshire.”

  Erskine rubbed his hands together, reminding Ian of an illustration he’d seen somewhere of a miser and his ill-gotten goods. The man’s mercenary attitude was fiercely irritating. God, he wanted to get away from these people, away from his own thoughts. He gave up on having a chance to speak to Kindale alone, and walked back toward the castle.

  They did not catch the hint, but followed him, reaching him when he stopped at a particularly grotesque, full-body gargoyle next to a tall, thick hedge.

  “Come along and have a drink with us, old friend,” Markham said.

  “Forgive me, but no. I have no desire to spend the rest of the afternoon with all of you and these ridiculous simpering females. Especially simpering English females.”

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Lucy’s blood boiled when she heard the man’s disdainful voice. Simpering females? Ridiculous? What about overbearing, obnoxious males? How about barbaric Scots? If only he knew her derogatory thoughts on Scotsman – with the exception of her kind and gentle uncle, of course – he might not sound quite so high and mighty.

  She happened to be on the other side of the hedge when she heard the insult, but she recognized the speaker as the man whose gaze had followed her from her uncle’s carriage all the way into the castle. She’d seen him enter the garden with Kindale and a few others, and walk in that direction. She wondered if he had any idea how obnoxious he was.

  She looked down at her traveling gown, wishing Lady Glencory had not insisted they join the others outside before giving her a chance to change. A bath would have been welcome, too.

  “I am so glad you’ve come, Arden! Your timing could not have been better,” Lady Glencory said to Lucy’s aunt. “And with your niece, too! You will enjoy meeting my other guests, I am sure.”

  The viscountess was pleasant enough, but that did not alter the way Lucy felt about her traveling clothes. Her queasiness had left her when they’d alighted from the carriage, but now she was flirting with a headache. She wanted to wash her face and hands at least, before she was compelled to put on a pleasant face and join in the festivities. Guests were treated better than this at Stillwater House, and Lucy vowed that when she was mistress of Joshua’s home, she would follow her mother’s example and make travelers comfortable when they came to stay.

  The conversation dragged on, and her patience wore even thinner than before.

  When there was finally a moment’s lull in the banter between the viscountess and her aunt, Lucy bowed to her hostess. “Thank you for the warm welcome, my lady. But if you will excuse me. I need a few moments…”

  “Lucy—”

  “I will see you at supper, Aunt.”

  She quickly made her way toward the castle, avoiding the small groups of ladies who stood gawking at the outlandish stone figures in the garden. The burly red-haired lord caught sight of her and called to her, but Lucy pretended not to hear, and slipped into a door behind some tall, flowering bushes. It was far from the one Lady Glencory had taken her through to get to the garden, and led into a fascinating narrow stone passageway that Lucy hoped would take her to the interior of the castle.

  It was dark and showed no signs of ending, and Lucy debated whether to proceed through it or return to the garden and find another door. But she did not want to run into any more of Lady Glencory’s guests.

  She proceeded forward through the dark and narrow passage. As she went along, a little bit of light penetrated, and Lucy could see drawings of some sort on the walls that looked like runes. Viking runes. She remembered her aunt saying that Glencory Castle had been built in the thirteenth century. Obviously, there were far older portions of the building.

  She moved on toward the end, hoping to come out in a recognizable area where she could find a servant who would lead her to her room. But the passageway eventually widened into a windowless stone room that was illuminated by candlelight. She nearly clapped her hands with delight when she saw several more runes and other primitive drawings on the walls. Joshua would be astonished and enthralled by this place.

  At one side of the room was a cabinet with glass doors, revealing several bottles of spirits. In front of the fireplace were two large chairs, one of which was occupied.

  Lucy took a step back.

  “What happened, little Sassenach? Did you lose your way?” the man said with too much of a slur to his words to be merely his Scottish burr. It was the darkly handsome stranger with the penetrating eyes and ridiculously alluring dimples in his cheeks. He might have appeared charming if he had not dismissed her on sight.

  “I didn’t realize there would be a drunken Scotsman here, else I never would have come through.” She glanced around again and saw no obvious exit.

  He put his feet up on a leather ottoman and raised his glass in her direction. “I am hardly drunk.”

  “You are hardly sober, either.”

  He made a low sound of derision. “What brings you here, Sassenach? Looking for a noble husband among my barbarous Scottish brethren?”

  She glared at him. “Someone like you? Not a chance.”

  “I am relieved beyond saying. Not that any Scotsman worth his salt would marry a simpering Sassenach.”

  “I did not come here to simper,” she retorted angrily. Even so, she could not help but peruse the walls. She’d never seen anything like this place, and she would have liked to explore further.

  He made a low, obnoxious chuckle

  “How do I get out?”

  “There is no way out, except for the passage you came through.” He
gestured toward the tunnel. “And you are more than welcome to go through it again.”

  Lucy decided to ignore the man’s rudeness and give in to her curiosity. She looked around at the ancient drawings on the walls. “This was a Viking strong room,” she said quietly to herself. It only made sense. There were no windows or doors, and the passageway was easily guarded, or even hidden. In addition, the drawings on the walls portrayed great riches – cups, chalices, coins.

  The Scotsman refilled his glass and took a long drink.

  As much as Lucy would have liked to stay and really study the Viking etchings, she had no interest in spending one more minute with this odious Scot who lounged in his chair like the lowest drunken sot, as though she were not even in the room. She did not bother to say good day as she retraced her steps through the passage to the horrid statue garden.

  * * *

  Ian awoke in his chair in near darkness. The last of the candles had nearly sputtered out, and he wondered if he’d dreamed his little encounter with Miss Lucy Stillwater.

  She was astonishingly beautiful in close quarters, and not the least bit simpering. He would have smiled at her audacious remarks if he still did not feel quite so wretched.

  He took the sputtering candle and made his way out of the ancient treasury – fancy the young Englishwoman realizing what it was right off – and went around to a back entrance he knew from past visits to Glencory. It took him to a staircase that led to the wing where his room was located. He could hear strains of music from the pianoforte in the music room far below, and a young woman singing.

  He knew Lady Glencory had not forgotten him, but at least she would not insist he join her party. Thank God. Because Lord Glencory’s excellent Scotch whiskey had done nothing to improve his mood.

  Ian woke Ferguson, who had fallen asleep in a chair in Ian’s room, and sent him off to bed. The man was as much a friend and companion as he was Ian’s secretary and steward, but Ian didn’t want any conversation tonight. “Get some rest, for we leave early tomorrow.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Once Ian was in bed, he found sleep elusive. His thoughts flew from one subject to another – from the irritating Miss Stillwater, to his family’s declining fortunes, to the truth of his own birth.

  Miss Stillwater was the least of his worries. Surely a passing attraction to a beautiful woman would evaporate once she was out of sight. All that would remain was the memory of her prickly demeanor.

  According to his father, the business in Selkirk was crucial. And it got him away from Craigmuir Castle for a few days – away from the mother who’d always hated him, and the father who’d protected him, but felt nothing but guilt over him.

  Ian wished the duke had never told him about his affair with the Irishwoman. At least that way, he would still feel as though he belonged in his own skin.

  Now, though…

  He and all his titles were a sham. He, who’d always put such stock in honor and honesty, was living a lie. He ought to make the truth known, and live with the consequences.

  * * *

  Lucy ended up staying at Glencory for three days. She did not see the unpleasant Scotsman again, nor did she ever learn his name, but she did not regret it. There was no point in bothering with such a disagreeable person. Once Lucy made her way out of the fascinating Viking chamber, she had a chance to refresh herself in the comfortable bedchamber Lady Glencory had given her. Then she did her best to enjoy the rest of her stay at the castle with Lord Glencory showing her some of the more interesting features of the ancient building.

  Still, she was glad when they finally departed for the last leg of their journey. She and her aunt and uncle set off in one carriage, as usual, with their servants and luggage following shortly behind. It was a long day’s ride to Edinburgh, but tonight they would finally arrive at their destination.

  At midday, they stopped in a pleasant, wooded area to eat the lunch that had been packed for them. Lucy was grateful for the reprieve from the hot, stuffy confines of the carriage.

  “Lord Erskine seemed particularly taken with you, Lucy,” Arden said, referring to the overbearing earl. “But you were wise to avoid his attentions. ’Tis said he will be a pauper soon if he continues with his gambling and whoring.”

  Lucy’s face went hot at her aunt’s use of the shameful word.

  “Do not go all missish on us now, girl,” Arden said. “You need to find a husband who knows how to use his time and his money, and Erskine is not the one.”

  She was certain Joshua Parris was a prudent man, for his estate flourished under his care. He was well respected by everyone who knew him, including her father.

  “Lord Markham is a likely suitor,” Arden said. “He has a house in Edinburgh, as well as an estate up in Aberdeenshire.”

  “He does not suit me, Aunt.”

  “Why ever not? He is handsome and sufficiently pleasant for your English tastes.”

  Lucy supposed he was decent enough, but he was not Joshua. And his estate was even farther north than Edinburgh. She shuddered. “He does not appeal to me, and that is all there is to it.”

  “If you are going to take that attitude toward every young man you meet, then you are destined to stay a spinster,” Arden said.

  Stay a spinster? Lucy did not consider herself a spinster at the ripe age of twenty-two. Besides, she had no intention of giving up on Joshua Parris, so there was no point in arguing with her aunt.

  The maid and footman were just clearing away the simple meal when the drivers of their two carriages approached. “My lord, there’s a change in weather coming,” one of them said. “We should move on as soon as is convenient.”

  “Very good, MacLean. We are ready, are we not, my dear?”

  “Yes, yes,” Arden said. “Let’s do go on. Now that we are so close to home, I am anxious to arrive.”

  Thank heavens, Lucy thought. No more stops until they reached Edinburgh. And hopefully, no more talk about whom she should marry. At least not now. She knew she could not escape that discussion forever.

  Lucy’s uncle dozed for the next hour or two, his head bobbing with every sway of the carriage. They’d been on the road too many days already. Halfway into their journey, Lucy had feared they would never reach their destination.

  The carriage stopped and Lucy’s uncle awoke enough to push the curtain aside as MacLean came around to the door.

  “My lord,” he said, opening the carriage door.

  It had become windy, and Lucy could feel rain on the air. It had been stifling hot inside, and she appreciated the breeze.

  “The wind has picked up considerably and the clouds have grown heavy. I believe we’re in for a downpour,” MacLean said. “With your permission, I will make haste toward Craigmuir Castle where we can shelter.”

  “Are you certain, MacLean? Perhaps we ought to stay put and wait it out.”

  “The horses, my lord. They’ll—”

  “Aye, go ahead. Perhaps we can get by before the rain. This road always turns into a muddy morass when the sky opens up.”

  MacLean returned to his seat on top, and Lady Kildrum pulled a face. “Really, Archie? You know I cannot stand the Duchess of Craigmuir, and I’ve heard the duke has taken to drink – even worse than ever.”

  “Well, we’ll only put up with their hospitality for the duration of the storm and then make our way home. They might not even be at home.”

  Arden made a deep sound of disapproval just as the carriage lurched forward, practically flying across the roadway. Everyone hung on as the carriage horses dashed through the storm, and they cringed at the sound of thunder and the sudden crashing of rain upon the carriage roof.

  “I think we should stop and wait for the storm to pass!” Arden shouted over the noise of the storm and the beating of the horses’ hoofs.

  “No! MacLean is right. ’Tis better to find shelter!” Uncle Archie barked. “I’d rather not be struck by lightning out here!”

  They galloped on until ther
e was a sudden loud, terrifying crack, and the carriage lurched into the air. Lucy tried to hold on, but the carriage seemed to be tumbling. Her head hit the roof, and the carriage rolled, knocking the occupants in every direction until it finally came to rest under the pelting rain. They seemed to be upright now, and Lucy found herself on the floor, with her uncle right beside her. There was an ominous silence within, but for the rain.

  Lucy managed to pull herself up to the seat. The wind howled about her and the rain whisked in through the broken door. Uncle Archie was unconscious, but Aunt Arden was not even inside.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  “Come on, Ferguson!” Ian shouted over the rumbles of thunder. “We can make it to Craigmuir Castle in no time!”

  “But the lightning, my lord! The mud!”

  “We’ll be home before the next one strikes!”

  Ian had always loved a good storm. The drama taking place in the clouds was far better than the indifference shown him by his mother and the habitual absence of his father.

  “There’s a carriage stopped up ahead,” he called out as he slowed his pace. The rain was still stoating off the ground, but at least the thundering had slowed.

  He and Ferguson approached the carriage as two servants climbed out and ran with their driver to another carriage that lay bent and broken just ahead. It was listing partially on its side just off the roadway.

  It was a disaster. A rear wheel had cracked off and was sight unseen. A man – most likely the driver – lay motionless in the mud some distance from the carriage. A well-dressed woman lay on the other side, just beyond the broken door.

  Servants from the intact the carriage ran ahead as Ferguson quickly dismounted and went to assist the motionless carriage driver. Ian followed the maid and the driver of the second carriage who were hurrying to the woman on the ground.