Joshua sometimes told her she was too fanciful.
Perhaps she was. Craigmuir Castle roused the imagination unlike any of the old structures she’d explored with Joshua in Berkshire. Lucy stood in the courtyard, picturing knights gathering there in their armor, preparing for battle. Her heart fluttered a little when she realized that William Wallace and Robert Bruce might have stood right where she was, some five hundred years ago.
There were stone steps up to the battlements, and Lucy climbed them to get a better view of the castle compound. From there, she could see the gatehouse, a chapel, two towers, and several low buildings, including a stable and blacksmith shop.
It all took her breath away.
Lord Broxburn strode across the courtyard and went into a door leading to one of the towers. Lucy considered following him into the tower through a door at the top, but decided against it.
Instead, she walked across the high battlements to the gatehouse where she found a thick wooden door with a heavy brass latch. Lucy lifted the latch and the door opened.
She stepped into a room furnished with wall tapestries that were nearly threadbare, a long, scarred bench, two large wooden chairs and a table, all of which looked to be hundreds of years old. The fireplace did not appear to have been used in years, and the windows were mere arrow loops, designed for defense.
Lucy could hardly contain her excitement. She couldn’t believe she’d stumbled upon such a well-preserved medieval structure and wished she knew more about its history. It did not keep her from imagining it.
She could almost feel the presence of the first lord and lady of Craigmuir up here, as they looked out across their lands in relative safety. At least, safety for the times. After all, why build a stone wall if the region was safe from marauders and invading armies? Life had not always been peaceful in the borderlands.
Lucy moved on to the next room, which was empty, then lost track of time exploring the other rooms in the gatehouse. It was eerily simple to put herself in the place of the ancient Lady Craigmuir, living and breathing in olden times. Lucy felt something odd about her…a piercing sorrow that could only be—
“Would you like a guided tour, Miss Stillwater?”
Chapter Seven
* * *
Lucy jumped at the sound of Lord Broxburn’s voice and the otherworldly sensation dissipated. “Oh! You startled me!” She’d been so enthralled, she hadn’t even heard him come in.
He did not apologize as any civilized man would do, but smiled. He moved toward her, taking her elbow and leading her to one of the arrow loops. “It is said that the armies of the Earl of Mar mustered his forces just there,” he pointed to the grounds below the gatehouse, “before the Battle of Dupplin Moor.”
“He lost that battle, didn’t he?”
He chuckled. “You know your history.”
“’Tis an easy thing to know if one has a passion for it.”
When she turned to look at him, his face was close enough for her to see flecks of green in his dark eyes. Close enough for her to recall the touch of his lips on hers in the dream. “Is it your passion, little Sassanach?”
His voice was low and intimate, and Lucy had trouble catching her breath. She knew she ought to step back, but her feet would not move. Her body felt hot, and the tips of her breasts seemed to be overly sensitive to the slight friction of her clothing over them.
She swallowed, and he stepped away. Not far, but far enough for her to gather her muddled thoughts.
“We have a ghost at Craigmuir,” he said.
She gave a small shake of her head. “A ghost?”
“Yes. You’ve heard of them…restless spirits that haunt—”
“Yes, of course I know what ghosts are,” Lucy said irritably. She glanced around, as though the presence she’d sensed would appear at any moment. “You say you have one here?”
“We have two, actually.” His mouth quirked up in a half-smile.
She took a deep breath, distracted by his mouth. “D-do you know who they are?” It was annoying to be so affected by him. In another day or so she wouldn’t even remember dreaming about him.
He went to one of the windows and looked outside, and Lucy felt her palms dampening inside her gloves. Her gaze locked upon his broad shoulders and traveled down to his trim waist. He was quite solid, and strong, too, judging by his ability to carry her aunt up the staircase, then carrying Lucy to her bed. Her face heated with the memory of those moments when he’d held her in his arms.
“For anyone who believes in this sort of thing…the ghosts are said to be an ancestor of mine and her lover.”
She sensed he knew more, and when he turned to face her, she knew it was not a pleasant story. “Do you know anything about them?”
* * *
As it happened, it was not Ian’s sordid family history that haunted him, but his sordid present. His twelfth century grandmother might have been an adulteress, but his father was a lying womanizer. Ian didn’t even know if the Broxburn line was true, or if he had descended from Beatrice’s lover.
But what did it matter now? Ian wasn’t legitimate, and his cousin might well be his brother. He managed not to quake at the thought of it.
“He was Sir Alexander Gordon, a knight in the service of King David.” No doubt he’d cut a dashing figure and had been irresistible to Beatrice. “Béatrice was little more than a lass when she wed the much older Lord Broxburn – the old family title – far from her family and her home in France.”
“How did they die?” Lucy asked quietly.
“Her husband ran his sword through Gordon’s heart, and tossed Béatrice from the tower window.”
Lucy paled and Ian realized it had not been necessary to give quite so brutal an explanation. Admittedly, it had been a gruesome end for the lovers, but he could have said he didn’t know what had happened to them. He could have told her about the legend of a hidden cache of gold that Béatrice and Gordon had hidden from their lord and master.
But he kept his silence on the foolish tale, and all the others he’d heard about the two lovers. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered, and Ian saw that hint of vulnerability she’d shown yesterday. He had a nearly irresistible urge to close the distance between them and take her into his arms, but there was no point. He was in no position to offer comfort to anyone. Especially not a dark-haired English beauty who seemed to have little use for him.
“I am glad my father has allowed us to choose,” she said. “I would not care to be given in marriage to a husband I did not know. Or love.”
“Is that why you are unwed?” he asked. “You have not fallen in love with anyone?”
She blushed. “No. There is someone in Berkshire, which is why I am anxious to return home.”
“Then why—”
She coughed, though perhaps it was more of a choke. Perhaps regretting such a personal disclosure. “I think I will take my walk now.” She started for the door that led to the wall and the open stone staircase.
He studied her for a moment. He wondered about her “someone,” and why she’d have traveled so far from home if he were waiting for her. Perhaps he was not waiting.
“Come this way, Miss Stillwater. The gatehouse stairs are much safer. They are enclosed.”
He led her through the interior of the gatehouse, intending to go all the way down to the ground. But she stopped several times to ask him questions about the building and who had lived in the rooms above. At ground level, she was enthralled by the double portcullis and the murder holes. Ian found her as knowledgeable about Craigmuir Castle as she’d been about the Viking room at Glencory.
Once they reached the outer gate, Lucy turned to him and made a quick bow. “Thank you for the tour, my lord. I’ll just go on now…”
He watched as she walked down the drive, deciding there wasn’t any trouble she could get into. She would soon come upon Craigmuir Way, the hamlet at the end of the path, and the people there were nothing if not hospitable.
Ian had business in the hamlet and would have offered to accompany her, but he was sure she’d have refused. It was plainly obvious she was uninterested in his company.
* * *
The day had turned warm, and Lucy intended to enjoy a quiet walk in the countryside – something she had not been able to do since leaving Berkshire. At home, she could follow footpaths that led to the homes of friends and neighbors. One path took her to Long Willow Place — Joshua’s home – but she could hardly turn up at his manor every day. Her visits were rare, and were always in the company of her youngest sister, Emily.
Here, it was all uncharted territory, in every way. She’d never had dealings with a marquess before, or slept in a duke’s castle. And ghosts! She wondered if they ever manifested themselves, or if their presence was merely legend. She’d been so sure she’d sensed something otherworldly in the gatehouse. Could she have been mistaken? Or had Broxburn taken advantage of her curious nature and teased her with the tale of star-crossed lovers, tragically killed.
She would not put it past him. He was possibly the most maddening man on earth, and she told herself the turmoil rippling through her was purely a reaction to his boorishness. How dare he goad her into mentioning Joshua? Not that she’d actually said Joshua’s name, but she had no intention of speaking of him with Lord Broxburn or anyone else. Not until she and Joshua were safely betrothed.
It had been with obvious sarcasm that he’d mentioned her falling in love. As though he could not possibly believe in the notion of it – even when his own ancestress had died for it.
Lucy decided to be generous and forgive him for being contrary. With a drunken father like the Duke of Craigmuir, anyone would be sorely tested. She wondered if the older man had always been that way. She remembered Arden mentioning she did not like the duchess, but Lucy did not know why. And with Arden, it could be for any reason at all, though if the woman was anything like her husband…
Lucy walked on, determined not to think about Broxburn or his family any more. Banishing him from her thoughts would surely dispel the unsettling feelings he provoked whenever he was near.
She noticed a dirt path off the main road and headed that way. Before long, she came upon a stone cottage whose sides were overgrown with vines and weeds. It looked to be nearly as old as the castle, with narrow windows and panes of filmy glass in their frames. Judging by the overgrowth, no one lived there.
She walked on, listening to the creaking of the impossibly tall trees that lined the path, and the buzzing of insects as they lit upon the wildflowers in the grasses all around her. The sun was shining, and Lucy found herself forgetting she was far from Berkshire. This bit of Scotland was not so very different from her home.
She heard water running in the distance, and saw a lightly trodden path in the grass. She followed it, eventually arriving at a narrow river. Trees grew close to its rocky bank, with a few dead trunks tipped horizontally across the water.
It reminded her of the pond where she and her siblings had learned to swim. There were willows all around it, and some had fallen in. She and her sisters used to walk out on one of the trees whose broad trunk hovered above the water. They would remove their shoes and stockings, sit down and dip their feet in the pond. Or even stand and jump in.
Lucy looked around. The place was deserted and certainly out-of-the-way. No one was likely to come here. She could soak her feet in the stream and no one would ever know. She took off her gloves, removed her hat and hung it on a short branch, then sat down on the fallen tree trunk and removed her shoes and stockings, stowing them neatly beside a rounded boulder on the river bank. The tree trunk was broad and easy to walk on, so she went far enough along to sit down and put her feet in the water.
She pulled her skirts up around her knees and sat, letting her feet dangle in the cool water below.
It was heaven.
She saw a few fat brown trout swimming in the stream and knew her father would have loved this spot. He was an avid fisherman, frequently reminding his wife and children that his catch was not merely an exercise in providing food for their table. Baron Stillwater enjoyed it, and said it relaxed him.
Lucy had always understood that. She experienced peace in the setting, too, and wished her sisters could be there to enjoy it with her.
All at once, a wave of homesickness overtook her. She worried about Meg, her eldest sister, who’d been staying in the Lake District with a dear family friend, the elderly Lady Wakefield. But Meg had come home suddenly, without explanation a few months ago. She denied that anything untoward had happened, but Lucy could see that something important troubled her sister. She might have been able to find out what it was if she’d been allowed to stay at home.
Her brothers, Samuel and Calvin, had been abroad for several years, but each had begun his journey home upon news of their mother’s illness. Lucy sighed when she realized Calvin was probably home from America by now, and Samuel would arrive from India soon. She felt more than a twinge of disappointment, realizing how likely it was that she would miss their visit.
And Caroline would have her baby without Lucy being present to help. Lucy hoped Meg would go to Richmond to assist their sister, since their mother was still not strong enough to travel, much less help to care for a newborn. Jessamine was in the midst of courting season, and Emily was only thirteen – too young, and a bit too wild, to be of much help to anyone.
Lucy did not know how she would bear being away another four months.
She tucked her skirts around her knees and let the cool current rush over her feet. Her spot on the fallen log was dappled with warm sunlight, so the cool water felt refreshing. She closed her eyes and swung her feet back and forth, and did not hear the quiet footsteps moving through the grass toward her.
* * *
Ian stopped just before he got to the clearing, to the best fishing spot near the castle. He willed his horse to be silent as he gawked at Lucy Stillwater – or rather, at her bare legs. At her slender feet gliding through the water. At her posture of pleasurable abandon. She was unaware of his presence, obviously. And as soon as she became aware that he was there, she would likely squeal and throw down her skirts that would become soaked in the process.
She might even fall.
He backed his horse away from the river until they were out of sight. Then he started whistling loudly, crashing through the grass, returning to the spot he’d claimed as his own when he was a child, years ago. When he returned, Lucy was standing, her skirts in place, and she was walking across the log to the riverbank.
She glanced at him with annoyance.
“I see you found my favorite fishing pool,” he said. He took his fishing gear from his pack, put up his horse’s reins and let him wander. He wouldn’t go far.
“This is your—? Yes, it is rather perfect,” she said, looking back at the water, “isn’t it?”
“Aye.”
She jumped down from the log into the sand before he had a chance to offer his hand. Ian appreciated that she did not become distraught at his arrival, but calmly retrieved her shoes, sat down, and brushed off her feet. “If you would not mind turning around, my lord?”
Ian did so, suppressing a small smile. She was nothing like the other young Englishwomen he’d met, and certainly not the stiff, unyielding woman he’d seen getting out of her uncle’s carriage at Glencory Castle. She was anything but unyielding.
She’d actually sighed and curled into him when he’d carried her to her bed the night before. She’d fit him perfectly.
He cleared his suddenly dry throat. “I thought you would walk down to the village.”
“There is a village?”
“Well, more of a wee hamlet than a village. We call it Craigmuir Way,” he replied. “’Tis where the Craigmuir tiles and bricks are made.”
“Do you mean we could have—”
“If you’re thinking you might have taken shelter there during the storm, you’d be wrong.”
“
Why would I be wrong?”
“It’s quite small, and too far off the road for your driver to have found it.” He turned to face her and saw her fastening up her half boots. “Besides, the castle was closer.”
It was incredibly intimate, even with his back to her, while she innocently pulled on her stockings and tied them above her knees. It was painfully arousing, too, especially after seeing the pale, delicate limbs she was now covering.
“I did not take you for a fisherman, my lord,” she said.
“What did you take me for?”
She paused long enough for him to wonder whether she would be honest. “A horseman.”
He suppressed a smile at her disdainful tone. “Ah. A horseman. I take it you are not fond of—”
“Ugh. They are a necessary evil.”
If he was not mistaken, she actually shuddered. For some reason, he could not help but enjoy her discomfiture. Her little scowl was adorable. “Horsemen?” he asked. “Or horses?”
“I have no interest in the animals, and have little patience for the men who race them.”
“What is so bad about horses, Sassenach?”
“Naught, my lord, since they must be used to deliver one from here to there. Otherwise, I have no use for them.”
“Well, that is a pity. I would have enjoyed showing you my stable.” He stifled a grin, enjoying her scorn immensely. He had a minimal stable, but she did not have to know that. Not when she pulled such a delightful face.
“No doubt you would,” she said, taking her hat from a branch of the tree and placing it on her head. She tied the bow beneath her chin, then pulled on her gloves. She stared at him a moment. “Will your fath—”
“Besides horses, I have a way with the fish. Don’t you want to stay and witness a master fisherman at work?”
She gave him a sour look and started walking toward the path, waving her hand behind her dismissively.
Lucy and Her Scottish Laird Page 6
