Lucy and Her Scottish Laird

by Margo Maguire

  Kildrum gave her the names of his solicitor and steward, and when a very disheveled Sinclair arrived, Lucy rose from the bedside to get out of her way. Following the doctor to the door where Broxburn remained, Lucy realized she must also look a fright. Not that she cared what Broxburn thought of her. Dark and brooding men held no appeal for her. Even when they possessed the masculine beauty of Adonis.

  She brushed some dirt from her traveling gown. “If I might go somewhere to—”

  “You are in the next room, Miss Stillwater,” Broxburn said. “There is a writing desk and everything needed to pen your letters. Give them to Lockhart when they are ready and he will see that they are posted.”

  Obviously, he’d been listening. She wondered for how long, not that anyone had spoken confidentially. But at least he knew that their small party would not be leaving his home right away. “Thank you.”

  She went into the room and heard Lord Broxton ask to speak to Dr. Henderson in private. She closed the door and surveyed her surroundings so she wouldn’t have to admit to the unwelcome prickle of feminine awareness Broxburn elicited. It was ridiculous, considering what a loathsome man he was.

  She hated to admit that Lord Broxburn’s home charmed her with its stone walls and arched windows. There were even two large, well cared for tapestries on two of the walls. She could easily imagine a medieval lady warming herself by this fireplace and sleeping beneath this vaulted ceiling.

  She looked out the window and was enthralled by the view below. Craigmuir was a fully intact castle, with a high, crenellated wall, a gatehouse, two towers, and a huge courtyard. Her room was within the original keep, which seemed to have been expanded and modernized over the years.

  A tub rested on the hearth near the fireplace, but it was empty. Luckily, there was a pitcher of warm water and a bowl beside the bed that Lucy could use to wash away the dirt and debris from their accident. Before she had a chance to pour the water, someone knocked at her door. It was a woman about her aunt’s age, wearing a high-necked black gown with a white apron tied in front. Her hair was a deep red with hints of silver.

  “I am Mrs. MacRae, the housekeeper. Do you have all that you need, Miss Stillwater?” At least her voice and demeanor were not as severe as her attire. She seemed friendly and concerned.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. MacRae.”

  “If you like, I will have footmen fill the tub after supper, and Aileen can help you with your bath.”

  “Oh yes. That would be very welcome.”

  “Now, let’s see to that cut on your head.”

  * * *

  Ian could not remember ever being so angry. Confused, perhaps – even a little worried. But he was full-blown furious now.

  How was it possible he had he never realized before that his father was an arse?

  He took a deep breath and moved aside as Lucy Stillwater came through the doorway. She was not the haughty little Englishwoman he’d thought at first. She’d ignored her own wound while kneeling beside her aunt, her eyes sparkling with tears as she spoke to Henderson.

  “She is a lovely lass, is she not?” Henderson said quietly. “’Tis a tragedy. I do not know if her aunt will ever come ’round as she should.”

  As Miss Stillwater left the room, Ian felt something very much like compassion. An emotion he’d not associated with the sharp-tongued Sassenach before.

  An emotion he’d not expected to feel for a very long time, not after reading his father’s damnable documents.

  He cleared his throat and drew Dr. Henderson from the Kildrum sickroom. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Aye, my lord?”

  “Can a man die from too much drink?”

  The doctor hesitated a moment. “You don’t mean all at one sitting, do you, lad?”

  Ian shook his head. “Maybe.”

  “He’s that far into his cups, then?”

  “All of the time,” Ian replied. “He is never without a glass of Scotch.”

  Henderson’s lips tightened. “Well, aye. Too much liquor rots the liver. And one can not live without a liver.”

  “How can I stop him?”

  “I do not know of any way,” Henderson said. “Once a man takes to drink, there’s very little that can sway him from it.”

  “He’ll die, then.” If not from poisoning his liver, then from something else – like falling down somewhere in a drunken stupor and breaking his neck. And leaving more than half his unentailed property to Duncan Munro, Ian’s irresponsible cousin.

  He did not care so much about the property as he did for his father’s reason for changing his will. What was Ian missing?

  “I am sorry I must agree with you, my lord,” Henderson said. “But sometimes there is naught we can do about things that are meant to be.”

  Ian wasn’t sure he wanted to know why his father had changed his will. He had his suspicions after hearing the duke’s confession about his bastardy, but his father had been in no condition to answer his questions.

  “How is the duchess?” Henderson asked. “Your father’s decline seemed to coincide with that of your mother.”

  Ian knew that was true. It wasn’t until the duchess had become ill that his father had really taken to the bottle, hard. Ian had not been around much – though he loved Craigmuir Castle, he preferred to spend his time away from his parents – especially the duchess – at Pentland Manor or the house in Edinburgh. He’d assumed all was at least satisfactory, until MacAdams had summoned him.

  He spoke with Henderson of family matters for a few minutes, and soon Miss Stillwater came out of her room, wearing a pale blue gown that complimented her striking, dark blue eyes. She had washed her face and appeared at least a bit refreshed, no doubt due to Mrs. MacRae’s ministrations. The bleeding from her head wound had stopped.

  “Would you assist me with your aunt, Miss Stillwater?” Henderson asked her.

  She nodded somberly and led the way into the bedroom where Lady Kildrum’s maid was covering her employer with the bedding. Lord Kildrum lay on a cushioned chaise near the fireplace, wounded, and apparently asleep. Ian turned to leave, but Henderson bade him to stay. “We might need further assistance, my lord.”

  Ian felt superfluous while Henderson dosed Lady Kildrum with laudanum and prepared a splint for her arm. Lucy looked worried, her gaze flashing between her aunt and uncle as though afraid to look away from either of them for too long.

  It was admirable. She had not melted with the vapors or become weepy throughout her ordeal. He knew she was intelligent else she wouldn’t have sparred so effectively with him at Glencory. And she certainly wouldn’t have recognized the Viking strong room for what it was.

  She was lovely, too, even when she’d had dirt and blood on her face, with the rain drenching her.

  “Miss Stillwater, if you will take your aunt’s hand and reassure her,” Henderson said. “And Lord Broxburn, be prepared to hold her legs.” He instructed the maid to hold the broken arm, then went about stretching it and placing the splints.

  Lady Kildrum moaned and struggled, but the process was over quickly, with a cotton wrapping holding the splints in place. Tears ran down Lucy’s face as she held her aunt’s hand, but she ignored her own distress, calming Lady Kildrum with her soothing voice.

  When it was done, Ian went to the fireplace and picked up the decanter of sherry from the mantel. He poured a dram or so into a glass and handed it to Lucy. “Drink this,” he said. “You need it.”

  “Excellent idea,” the doctor said. “I’ll have a glass, too, if you don’t mind.”

  Ian poured a second glass, noticing Lucy’s slight shiver when she swallowed hers. It was clear she was not accustomed to spirits, even the mildest kind.

  “Thank you, Ian,” Henderson said, using his Christian name for the first time since Ian’s school days. He looked to Lady Kildrum and spoke to her maid. “Keep watch over her tonight, and we will have Mrs. MacRae find another bed for Lord Kildrum.”

  “Oh no, Doctor,�
�� the maid said. “Lord and Lady Kildrum have shared the same bed for forty years. They would not like to be separated now.”

  Henderson threw back the last of his sherry. “Well, then let them stay together, but mind he does not do harm to her arm.” He turned to Ian. “I’ll just check on your father, and then perhaps we can share Mrs. Kilgore’s luscious sausage pie that I smelled when I arrived.”

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  Ian walked with Henderson to the library where he’d last seen his father. They found the duke in his chair, unconscious with his head on the desk in front of him. The empty decanter of Scotch lay upon its side.

  “He is breathing, at least,” Henderson said. The doctor eased Craigmuir back in his chair without rousing him. He lifted the duke’s eyelids, then looked in his mouth past his slack jaw. He further examined Ian’s father, pressing his hands to the duke’s belly, and looking at his legs.

  He shook his head. “He should be in bed.”

  The butler arrived at that moment.

  “Lockhart,” Ian said, “summon a couple of footmen to assist – or carry – my father to his room. Have his valet put him to bed.”

  “Yes, my lord. Immediately,” Lockhart replied. Then he added, “Supper is ready in the small dining room.”

  Ian led the way to the dining room, indicating that the doctor was certainly welcome to join him. “What of my father?” he asked Henderson.

  “He won’t survive another bout of drinking like this one,” Henderson replied.

  Ian felt his jaw tighten. His feelings for his father were so damnably complicated. The duke had protected him as a child and personally taught him many of the skills he used every day. He’d been a better father than most of his friends had had. Though the duke had sired him out of wedlock, he could not be accused of neglecting him the way other bastards were neglected. “I’ll have the servants remove every bit of liquor they can find.”

  “I am certain they will not find it all, but that will be helpful, at least.”

  They entered the small dining room where they were served the sausage pie Henderson had remarked upon earlier. If was delicious, of course, as was everything Mrs. Kilgore prepared.

  “How is your mother these days?” the doctor asked. “I’ve not been called to see her of late.”

  Ian paused, his truthful answer on the tip of his tongue. But instead of merely saying she died twenty-eight years ago, he replied, “According to Mrs. Fleming, she is the same.”

  “Still not able to speak?”

  “No.” And thank God for that. Else she might divulge the secret she’d lived with all these years. Ian wondered if she’d ever said anything to Fleming, her secretary who now served as her nurse.

  “And the weakness on her right side?”

  “Mrs. Fleming says it is worse,” Ian replied.

  Henderson shook his head. “The duchess was never the same when she returned home from Ireland after your birth. Some say the birthing of a child can cause a deep melancholy in the mother. I’m afraid that is what happened to the duchess.”

  “Hmm.” Melancholia? Ian supposed it could be called that. Though it was more likely due to a deep, abiding hatred for her husband and his by-blow, not to mention the fraud she was forced to perpetuate for so long.

  “I am afraid you must prepare yourself, my lord.”

  Ian looked up, startled.

  “The next few months are going to be difficult,” Henderson said.

  * * *

  Lucy stepped out of the room to allow her uncle some privacy while his valet woke him and prepared him for bed. Then she returned to stay with her aunt and uncle, giving Sinclair and Miles the opportunity to go and have some supper. It was well past mealtime, though Lucy wasn’t particularly hungry.

  “No, please,” she said when the maid protested. “You two go. Eat and get some rest. I’ll stay and watch over them for now.”

  She turned a comfortable chair around so she could keep an eye on the occupants of the bed, and took a book from a set of shelves in the corner. It was a Lathom mystery, and it should have kept her attention to keep her from falling asleep in her chair. But after awhile, Lucy found herself nodding.

  A moment later, it seemed, she felt herself being lifted out of her chair by a pair of strong arms. Lucy sighed and turned her face into the broad, linen-covered chest, only minimally aware of the whispers around her. She had a vague sense of being carried…then flickering candlelight…a pleasant masculine scent…her shoes off…A feeling of deep contentment…And then sleep.

  She dreamed. She was at a ball where the music filled her head, and dancers swirled around her. She practically floated in the arms of her partner. He held her closer than what she knew was proper, but Lucy did not care. She felt cherished. Loved.

  He drew her out to the terrace where the music was barely audible. But Lucy felt his breath near her ear.

  Her neckline dipped low in back and his fingers traced a light pattern on her skin, causing her to shiver with pleasure. His hand dropped to her waist and pulled her closer. He dipped his head for a kiss.

  His lips were full and warm and moved against her mouth with sensual promise. She felt hot all over, and a melting sensation that began beneath her breast spread to her nether parts.

  It was what she’d always hoped for, yearned for. Joshua’s—

  She awoke, sitting up abruptly. “No,” she whispered. It was not Joshua’s lips she’d felt. He was not the one who’d made her breasts tingle and turned her womb to pudding.

  It was Broxburn. And she did not even like the man.

  Lucy slid to the edge of the bed and let her stocking feet drop to the floor. Someone had carried her to her bedroom. Not Miles, he was far too slight to bear her weight, and he would never presume to do so, anyway. It had been Broxburn. She remembered his scent and the feel of his linen shirt against her cheek.

  Surely that was the reason she’d dreamed of him last night, though why she would ever imagine him kissing her was unfathomable.

  It was late, though she could not be sure how long she’d slept. She got out of bed and discovered her gown was unfastened, and her stays loosened – by Sinclair, of course. Or maybe Mrs. MacRae. Lighting a candle, Lucy pulled off her clothes and pulled on the damask wrapper that had been laid across a chair. Then she picked up the candle went to check on her aunt and uncle.

  All seemed to be quiet in the house as Lucy walked the short span to her aunt’s bedroom. She opened the door quietly and saw Sinclair sitting silently next to the bed where her aunt and uncle rested peacefully. The maid got up from her chair and came to Lucy in the doorway.

  “Miss Stillwater, you should be asleep.”

  “I wanted to check on my aunt and uncle.”

  “They are fine. Both sleeping.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Sinclair nodded. “I gave Lady Kildrum a small dose of laudanum a while ago when she cried out in pain. She’s comfortable now.”

  “I can stay if you want to go to bed.”

  “Oh no, Miss,” Sinclair said. “You were dead asleep when Lord Broxburn carried you to your bed. Miles and I were not in the accident, but you were. You need your rest. Miles will take my place in a couple of hours.”

  “But I—”

  “I believe I am right in this, Miss,” Sinclair said firmly. “’Tis what your aunt would want.”

  Lucy hesitated for a moment. “All right, then. If you’re sure…”

  “Yes, Miss,” Sinclair said firmly. “Now, go. You’ve had quite a day.”

  “Thank you for loosening my stays, Sinclair. I would not have been able to undress without you.”

  “’Twas not I, Miss,” she said, turning back to Arden. “It must have been one of the castle maids. Aileen, perhaps.”

  Lucy left her aunt and uncle’s room, but startled at the sight of a tall figure approaching her from the dark end of the corridor. The man she’d seen in her dream moved quickly, taking hold of her elbow to s
teady her.

  “All is well, little Sassanach?” he asked in a low tone.

  Lucy could not find her voice, not when the sensation of being caressed by this man still resonated so deeply within her. She nodded.

  “Shall I escort you back to your room, then?”

  “Wh-what are you doing up?” she asked, but when he firmed his hold on her elbow, her breath caught.

  “Are you interested in my sleeping habits, Miss Stillwater?”

  Lucy felt her face heat. “Of course not. It’s just that it’s late.”

  “Yes, it’s late.” He took the candle from her and opened her door, indicating that she should go in first.

  It would be wrong – not to mention awkward – to argue, so Lucy went ahead and turned to take the candle from him. He evaded her, walking to the bedside to put the candle on the stand.

  His shirt was open at the collar, and he wore no coat. Lucy’s eyes were drawn from his chest to his mouth, to the sensual promise of her dream. She felt her nipples tighten and wondered if his mouth was as warm and pliable as it had felt in her dream.

  “Be careful, Miss Stillwater, or I might get the impression that you don’t entirely hate me.”

  * * *

  Miss Lucy Stillwater was a puzzle. She was a sharp-tongued harpy one moment, and a kind, concerned niece the next. Ian supposed he’d deserved her cutting retorts at Glencory. He’d been atrociously rude to her at first meeting.

  He grinned. He had yet to meet a Scotswoman who could hold a candle to this fiery English lass. Who would have thought he’d be so tempted by a dark-haired vixen?

  She was beautiful, and he was as drawn to this vulnerable side of her as he was to the fierce lass he’d met at Glencory.

  His thoughts darkened. He had pressing matters weighing on his mind, and Miss Stillwater was a momentary distraction. The welfare of Craigmuir’s tenants depended heavily upon whether or not Ian would figure out a way to pay them for making the tiles that had been ordered during his Selkirk trip. The worst thing would be to act precipitously – until he knew exactly how dire the Craigmuir finances actually were.