Lucy and Her Scottish Laird

by Margo Maguire

  “Your loss, then,” he said. “But you will enjoy the results of my efforts come suppertime.”

  Had he teased her in order to avoid questions about his father? God knew he did not have any answers. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to keep all liquor away from the duke. There were so many servants in the castle, and a few who were bound to be loyal to him and might well provide him a bottle, not understanding the consequences.

  Ian hoped he could put off that day, but even if he managed it, Dr. Henderson’s prediction was dire.

  He could not help but wonder if his father had divulged Ian’s true parentage to anyone else. The highly unlikely tale would be difficult to believe, unless his father or the duchess swore to the circumstances of his birth. He had never heard of such a situation, and did not know what the legalities would be. Could he be declared illegitimate at this late date? He did not dare consult with a lawyer, for fear that the truth would somehow get out.

  Even if there were no legal ramifications, Ian assumed his credibility would suffer greatly. As would that of his children, if he ever had any.

  One thing was certain. Ian needed to have a talk with his father when he was fully sober in order to sort out truth from falsehood. He needed to know exactly how many people knew about his true mother, and whether or not Duncan was his half brother.

  It was bound to be a difficult conversation.

  He tied one of his neatly crafted flies onto his line and cast it into the stream, counting on the next hour to soothe his battered soul.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  Lucy put aside the image of Lord Broxburn without a coat, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. How was it possible that she had never noticed a man’s forearms before? Broxburn’s were thicker and a great deal more muscular than hers, and obviously quite strong.

  She might have stayed and watched him fish, but his presence perturbed her. And not in the annoying way he had done at Glencory, but something altogether different. Something wholly inappropriate.

  Slipping away from the river and her unseemly thoughts, she followed the narrow path through the deep wood, assuming it led to the hamlet Broxburn spoke of. It did not seem to be well used, but she was able to pick her way through the trees without difficulty. It was farther than she thought it would be, and she saw no sign of human habitation until she noticed a stone grotto, just off the path in a thicket of shrubs and trees. It looked like an ancient cave that might have been used for shelter or storage. Perhaps it was a small chapel. She started for it, but suddenly stopped short at the high-pitched sound of a woman’s squeal.

  She walked farther along the path and caught sight of a man and woman lying together in a clearing up ahead.

  The woman gave out a sultry laugh and rose to her feet. Lucy was shocked to see that she was only partially clothed. Her stays and chemise were in place, but barely covering her. Her hair was in disarray about her shoulders, and her homespun bodice lay draped around her hips. As the man stood, he lifted the bodice to her shoulders, somehow embracing her as he did. Amid kisses and other intimate behavior Lucy could not quite see, the man fastened his trews and they managed to make the woman presentable.

  The man lifted his lady in his arms and spun her around, their delight in each other palpable. He kissed her deeply, then took her hand and walked in the direction Lucy had been going, into the woods on the other side.

  Lucy realized she was holding her breath. Her skin tingled and her heart galloped in her chest. The same deep yearning she’d felt during her dream came over her. A yearning for more than just a kiss.

  She could almost feel Broxburn’s strong arms around her; feel the heat of his body and the desire on his lips. Lucy pressed her hands against her breasts to quell the aching need there. Her entire body was aflame.

  But it was because of the wrong man. Broxburn was not the one she wanted. He was not the one she’d loved for so many years.

  She removed her hat and fanned her face. She had to leave Craigmuir Castle. Surely they could find a way to gently transport Arden to Edinburgh. They moved injured men from the battlefield, didn’t they? And few of those victims would have had the ease of cushioned benches.

  Lucy turned around and retraced her steps as images of the anonymous couple’s ardor echoed in her mind. There was no good reason for her to think of Lord Broxburn just now, and yet it was his face and his scent that filled her mind and made her body burn. She forced away thoughts of him carrying her to her bed, and of the dream kiss—

  “No,” she muttered. “Broxburn is nothing more than a rude, obnoxious Scot.” And Lucy wanted as little as possible to do with him.

  Except that he wasn’t really rude, and he had not been obnoxious, not since the accident.

  Lucy marched on, moving past the path that led to his fishing stream. The less she saw of the man the better, and soon she would be on her way to Edinburgh with her aunt and uncle.

  She continued to the main drive, walking past the neglected cottage, and up to the castle. Somehow, she was going to convince her uncle that it would be best to take her aunt home to Edinburgh. Obviously, Arden would recover quicker in her own bed, her own surroundings.

  Lucy knew for certain that she had to get away from there, away from the man who managed to sensitize her skin just by being close. The man who caused her lips to tingle and her body to burn, without the slightest touch.

  She groaned inwardly. She really needed to get her thoughts in order. There wasn’t a man on earth who’d ever had such an effect, not even Joshua, in spite of her love for him.

  Lucy felt certain that once she was ensconced at her uncle’s home in Edinburgh, in her own bedroom, and with a normal routine, she would forget all about Craigmuir Castle and the absurd dream. In the meantime, she would modulate her thoughts, and not allow ridiculous fancies to stray into them.

  As she approached the castle gate, a carriage came up behind her. She stepped aside to allow it to pass, but it stopped beside her. Malcolm, Lord Kindale, alighted, sending the carriage ahead without him.

  Lucy masked her dismay. The last thing she wanted was to have to make polite conversation now, when her mind was racing and her body still humming with a disturbing sensual restlessness.

  “Miss Stillwater!” Kindale said, falling into step beside her. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “Nor I you, my lord.” She realized her tone was sharp and not altogether friendly. But images of that amorous couple in the clearing continued to haunt her. She softened her tone. “It is very good to see you. We did not have much chance to visit while we were at Glencory.”

  “No, we did not. I trust all is well?”

  “Not quite. My aunt and uncle had not planned on stopping before Edinburgh,” she said as they walked together into the castle courtyard. “But we had an accident nearby, and my aunt was injured.”

  He frowned. “I am quite sorry to hear that. I hope she is improving.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Her recovery may take some time.” And hopefully it was going to take place in Edinburgh.

  Kindale was pleasant enough, but Lucy sensed a melancholy about him now that had not been present when they’d met more than a year ago at a house party in Berkshire.

  “And the rest of your family? How do they fare?” he asked.

  “Everyone is well, as far as I know. My brothers are returning home from abroad at the moment, to visit my mother who was ill last spring.”

  He frowned, and Lucy quickly added, “She is much improved this summer.”

  “I am very glad to hear it. How are your sisters? I recall you have several.”

  “They are all well, and Caroline will make me an aunt in autumn.”

  “My congratulations to her and her husband. Is uh—”

  He stopped abruptly.

  “My lord?”

  “Ach, ’tis naught.”

  But Lucy sensed it wasn’t just naught. She would like to have questioned him further, but sensed
a deep reticence in him. She would not pry.

  “Is Ian at home, then?” he finally asked.

  “Ian? Oh yes, Lord Broxburn,” Lucy said. “He is, although I doubt he is at the castle just now.”

  “Gone fishing, is he?”

  Lucy gave a wry smile. Apparently Broxburn was predictable. “I believe so.”

  Kindale slapped his thigh, his mood suddenly turning cheery. “Then I’m very happy I’ve arrived in time for supper. Broxburn’s cook always does justice to his catch.”

  Lucy smiled. “He seemed quite confident in his skills.”

  “In his…?”

  “Fishing, my lord. His fishing skills.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said with a chuckle. “He is very good at many things. Have you met the duke and duchess?”

  She nodded. “The duchess is ill, I understand.”

  “She has been in poor health for some time, and much worse of late. And the duke?”

  Lucy hesitated.

  “No need to reply,” Kindale said. “I have known His Grace all my life, but ’tis only recently that he has taken to drinking heavily. I know Ian is worried.”

  From what Lucy had seen, Ian had cause to be worried. She had never seen anyone look so ill other than her poor grandmother on her deathbed. “Yes. Lord Broxburn was quite beside himself this morning when his father demanded whiskey.”

  “’Tis no wonder he went fishing,” Kindale mused. “He finds it relaxing.”

  Just as her father did, Lucy realized.

  They separated after entering the castle, and Lucy went up to look in on her aunt and uncle. Lord Kildrum seemed in much better health and spirits, but Arden did not.

  “’Tis the laudanum, Lucy,” her uncle said. He was sipping tea from a tray on a nearby table. “It keeps her insensible. Which, I suppose, is better than allowing her to languish in pain.”

  Lucy supposed he was right.

  “Uncle, do you suppose we might move her tomorrow? Take her home?”

  Kildrum stopped moving. “Tomorrow? Absolutely not.”

  “But if we dose her well with laudanum and cushion her—”

  “No, no, no. The physician was quite specific,” Kildrum said. “She is not to be moved.”

  “I am sure we could make her comfortable.”

  “No, my dear. The roads between here and Edinburgh are not good.”

  “But—”

  “No, no. We will not move her until the physician says it is safe to do so.”

  Lucy felt the heat of panic. Heavens, she couldn’t. Stay here? At Lord Broxburn’s home?

  Impossible.

  * * *

  Ian returned to the castle and went right to the kitchen where the cook and scullery maids gave due respect to his catch. The cook wiped her hands on her apron and took the string of trout from him. “Ye’ll be havin’ a braw supper this eve, my lord.”

  Ian knew it was true. If anyone could do justice to a few fat trout, it was Mrs. Kilgore. “Aye, but keep it simple tonight, Mrs. Kilgore. We’ll dine informally.”

  He headed to his bedroom to change, but was intercepted by Lockhart before he even reached the great hall. “Lord Kindale has stopped in for the night, my lord,” the butler said. “I put him in the Wallace room, but he is in the garden sitting room just now.”

  “Very good, Lockhart.” An excellent diversion from the enticing Miss Stillwater. It had taken all afternoon to put aside fanciful thoughts of those long, sleek legs wrapped around him, but now that he was home, it was all he could think of. Those legs, and her saucy mouth.

  In his room, he washed off the smell of fish and changed clothes. Then he went to find Kindale. His friend was standing outside the doors of the sitting room, smoking a cheroot.

  “Ian!” Kindale said, turning. “I hope I have not come at an inopportune time.”

  “It is all inopportune here at Craigmuir,” Ian said sourly. “But you are always welcome. I thought you would be in Edinburgh by now.”

  Kindale stubbed out his cheroot in a container meant for that purpose beside the cobblestone path. “I should be.”

  Ian walked to the chairs that had been set out for the summer in this isolated garden. He remembered the duchess objecting to Ian using this space, but his father had overruled her. And now it seemed the duchess never left her room, so she would not even know.

  He and Malcolm sat, just as a footman came out with a tray of coffee and set it on a small table between their two chairs. Ian poured.

  “Why the delay – are you avoiding going home?”

  Malcolm scrubbed a hand over his face. “Ach. I am being an idiot.”

  “Miss Douglas is fully recovered, then?”

  Malcolm nodded. “Mostly, yes.”

  They sipped their coffee in companionable silence, Ian sensing that Malcolm did not care to speak of his upcoming nuptials. He knew Malcolm had pledged to wed his late father’s ward, Elsbeth Douglas, who had come of age after her recent bout with typhus. There had been an outbreak in Edinburgh, and Miss Douglas had succumbed in early spring. Malcolm had hurried home from the Lake District to see her through the illness, whatever the outcome might be.

  He cast a sidelong glance at Malcolm. “If she does not suit you, Kindale—”

  “No, she will make a…fine wife. And I did promise,” he said quickly. “Miss Douglas is without family, without a protector besides me. We will marry.”

  Ian gave a quick nod. “Of course.” He had met Miss Douglas, and she was lovely to look at, though rather vacuous in personality.

  Ian believed there was something more that bothered Malcolm. He felt sure some untoward event had occurred at Lake Windermere, and it still troubled him.

  “Miss Douglas is in Edinburgh?” he asked.

  “Aye. I am on my way there, but thought I would stop here, since it was getting late.”

  Ian nodded. It was only a few more hours ride by carriage to Edinburgh. Malcolm could have reached the city if he really wanted to. Apparently, he was in no hurry.

  “Did you acquire some business for your kilns?” Malcolm asked.

  “Aye. Plenty. Ferguson will have to travel next week to measure the fields, but yes. Business will be good once again.” He did not mention the difficulties he was going to have paying the men who made the tiles. He didn’t want Malcolm to feel obliged to help. At least, not yet.

  They discussed a few safe subjects, and then Malcolm said, “Lady Kathryn Hay turned up at Glencory right after you left.”

  Ian tugged his earlobe. He’d met Lord Auchengrey’s comely daughter on a few social occasions in Edinburgh, and had heard the gossip pairing the two of them together.

  “She is hunting you down, my friend.”

  “That might have been an intriguing notion a month ago,” Ian said. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “But…?”

  “Bloody hades, Malcolm,” Ian said. “My father is quickly killing himself. And the duchess…Our physician believes she will not live out the year.”

  He debated whether to tell Malcolm what he’d learned about his origins. He knew he could trust his old friend, but Ian wasn’t sure he was ready to divulge his shocking news. Would Malcolm view him differently, knowing his true mother was not the highborn lady who lay ailing in her bedchamber in the south wing of the castle?

  “So you do not plan to court Lady Kathryn?”

  “No.”

  Now that he said it, Ian felt relieved. There was no question Kathryn Hay was a good candidate for marriage, but not the best choice for him. Perhaps he just wasn’t ready to take a wife. Or possibly he had not found the right woman.

  And then there was his dubious parentage.

  “Well, that is news,” Malcolm said.

  Ian took a deep breath. “Aye, I suppose it is.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments before Malcolm spoke again. “I met Miss Stillwater at the castle gates on my way in.”

  “An accident brought her to my doorstep.” He did not mention
that the lass had been on his mind ever since he met her at Glencory, and his preoccupation with her had only gotten more intense since her arrival here.

  “I heard,” Malcolm said. “Will her aunt survive?”

  Ian shrugged. “I hope so.”

  “She is an agreeable person,” Malcolm said. “Miss Stillwater, that is.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Very likable, if I do say so,” Malcolm remarked. “Claymere and I met her some time ago, when the Duke of Beckworth was courting her friend, Miss Easton.”

  “Before Eleanor Easton jilted Beckworth?” If Ian had heard of it all the way up in Scotland, it had to have been the scandal of the season in London.

  Malcolm nodded, smiling. “Miss Stillwater came into a taproom where Claymere and I were waiting out a storm. She was with her friend, Miss Ivy Barnett – now Lady Claymere.”

  “That must have been amusing.” He liked Claymere’s wife, a feisty American who’d knocked the earl off his feet with her decidedly un-English ways.

  “We spent a pleasant afternoon in that taproom waiting for the rain to pass, and then returned to the house party.”

  Ian sipped his coffee. His thoughts drifted far too easily to the idea of a rainy afternoon spent with Miss Stillwater up in his tower. He did not doubt she would appreciate the artifacts he had collected and stored there. He wondered if she would enjoy a lusty companion who—

  “Lord Kildrum was not seriously injured in the accident that brought him here, I take it?” Malcolm asked, getting back to the subject at hand.

  “Hmm?” Ian said, regaining some semblance of rationality. “Oh, no. Not much. Bruised a bit, I think.” He was reticent to mention Lucy’s injuries – it seemed too intimate a topic to share with Malcolm, though why he should feel that way was a mystery to him. It was only a small gash on her head. “I believe the earl will be well enough to travel far sooner than his wife.”

  Ian finished his coffee and stood. “Well. I have business in Craigmuir Way. I’m going to collect Ferguson and ride down there before supper. Care to join us?”