Lucy and Her Scottish Laird

by Margo Maguire

  “Tell Mr. Drummond I wish to stay the night,” Ian said. “I’ll have the room at the top of the stairs.”

  “Of course!”

  “And supper. But later.”

  “Aye, m’laird!” She was smiling so broadly, Ian thought her face might just split. But then he realized he was seeing two mouths. And four sets of eyes. There were two of her as she walked away.

  He wondered how much whiskey he’d had. Obviously too much. The room was starting to move.

  She exchanged a few words with Drummond, then left the room with a smile tossed in Ian’s direction.

  Drummond walked over to Ian’s table and handed him a key. “The room ye want is available, Laird.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Ian stood, and Drummond caught his arm to steady him. “I’ll just give you a hand upstairs, then. Eh?”

  Even in his drunken state, Ian realized it would be very bad for Drummond’s business if a marquess fell down the steps. No one wanted the local gentry being humiliated in his establishment. So Drummond helped him up the stairs and into the bedroom where Ian fell onto the bed and into a deep sleep.

  He did not awaken until much later, to a knock at the door. It was full dark outside, and the rain was pelting his windows sideways.

  He groaned and passed out again.

  * * *

  After supper, Lucy fell asleep while reading. It was quite dark and storming violently when she awoke. She did not know how late it was, but when she looked out in the corridor outside her room, all was quiet. One wall sconce was lit, but everything else was in shadows.

  She realized it must be quite late.

  She peeked inside her aunt’s bedroom and saw that Arden and Archie were sound asleep, with Miles sitting near the fireplace, dozing. Neither Sinclair nor Aileen was about. Lucy did not know how she was going to get out of her stays and prepare for bed.

  She returned to her own room and reached awkwardly behind her to unfasten the buttons of her gown. It was never going to work. She could only reach a few of the buttons, and even if…

  The air around her suddenly chilled her skin. She stopped trying to undress and looked around her. The familiar wispy shape of Béatrice stood by the door, beckoning her.

  “What do you want of me?” Lucy asked quietly.

  The ghost disappeared through the door. It took Lucy less than a second to open the door and follow her out. The path was the same as before, down the steps and through the passageways that led to the library. Lucy had no fear of running into Lord Broxburn, because Mrs. MacRae had mentioned he’d gone away and was unlikely to return before the morn.

  She stifled a sigh when she realized the irony of being more fearful of seeing Broxburn than she was of the ghost.

  She opened the library door and fond Béatrice inside, waiting. There was a vague glow emanating from the spirit but it did little to illuminate the room. “Do you mind if I light a lamp?”

  Béatrice opened her hand and gestured toward the desk. Lucy did not hesitate to add light to the room. When she turned back to the ghost, its details still were not clear, mainly because it hovered near the ceiling in front of a shelf of ancient books.

  Surely Béatrice had not led her there so that Lucy could watch her float in the air.

  “You wish to show me something?”

  The specter nodded her head once and turned toward the shelf.

  Lucy saw a ladder in the corner and carried it to the place where the ghost’s attention was fixed. She climbed to the top, close enough to be eye to eye with Béatrice. The spirit seemed pleased. She indicated that Lucy should remove an old, leather-bound tome.

  Lucy carried it down and placed it on the desk, opening it carefully. She could tell the book was centuries old – an illuminated text, in fact. She could hardly believe her find. Was this what Béatrice had wanted her to see? Lucy looked up, but found that the ghost wanted her to return.

  Reluctantly, Lucy left the book on the desk and climbed back up. She took down the next book, along with another three, just as Béatrice indicated. When there was a large opening in the shelf, Béatrice slid her hand inside and then took it out. She gave Lucy a nod to show she was to do the same.

  It was dark up there and Lucy was reticent to put her hand into the space. But she did so, and came up against a wall. Sliding her hands across the cool surface, she discovered a metal loop embedded in the wood. She lifted it and pulled it, opening a passage in the wood behind the shelf.

  “Oh, dear.” She looked at the ghost, who nodded again, smiling.

  Lucy reached a hand into the deeper space and felt cold, hard metal. She gripped it with one hand, but it was heavy. Using both hands, she managed to pull it onto the shelf. When she did, the light seemed to become stronger. She felt around for a latch of some sort, and found it on its side. Rather than opening it while standing at the top of a ladder in near darkness, she lifted the box and carried it down to the desk. There, she figured out how to open it.

  * * *

  Ian awoke in the dark. If he was not mistaken, his bed dipped to one side.

  He turned over and only then realized he was still partially dressed. His boots were off, and so was his coat. But that was all.

  “Ah, Laird – ye’re awake.”

  “Not exactly,” he replied, propping himself up on one arm. The room did not spin any more, but his head ached. Whiskey did that to him when he had more than two. He couldn’t quite remember exactly how many he’d had.

  It was still raining, but there was a bit of light coming in through the window. So he could see Nessa in the bed beside him, wearing naught but a thin shift that she’d pulled down to her waist. She placed and hand on his knee, and ever so gently slid it upward.

  Gesu, it had been a long time since he’d sunk into a woman and slaked his need. Ian reacted predictably, his body tensing and growing hard under her ministrations. She leaned forward and touched her mouth to his, shoving her tongue deep inside.

  Ian groaned and lay back. Nessa opened his shirt and helped him pull it over his head. Then he felt the soft bounty of her breasts on his bare chest, and her hands doing their magic down below. His thoughts dwindled to naught as she plied her feminine wiles.

  Her mouth tasted…Gesu, it tasted worse than his. And her body felt like it was smothering him. He shifted positions until she lay beneath him, though that did not deter her ardor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  * * *

  Ian practically flew off the bed.

  “Laird?”

  He found his shirt on the floor and yanked it over his head. “Not tonight, Nessa.” Not any night, actually. He knew who he wanted and Nessa was not the one. “Leave me.”

  “But, m’laird—”

  “Go.”

  She collected items of clothing as she left and Ian closed the door behind her. He shoved his fingers though his hair and immediately regretted it as shards of pain shot through his head. He wondered how his father stood it – the drunkenness and its aftermath. Ian’s little foray into Haddington hadn’t solved anything. In fact, it had made matters worse. For now he knew for certain that he would not be satisfied by a mindless romp in bed with a stranger. Because he’d tasted Lucy Stillwater’s kiss and felt the powerful stirring of something more than mere lust.

  He was reluctant to define it – especially since Lucy did not appear to feel the same. She’d responded to him, certainly, but it was quite unlikely she’d understood the magnitude of his arousal, or even recognized the climax she’d experienced in the cottage. She might have been appalled by it, for she was in love with a man she’d left behind. Ian wondered what Parris would think of his lady love sharing intimacies with another.

  Ian’s head throbbed. He lay back on the bed and fell into a restless sleep, only waking at the sound of a knock at his door. This time, it was well past daybreak.

  “Go away, Nessie.”

  “’Tis Drummond, m’laird. I brought ye tea and bannnocks.”

>   Ian’s stomach roiled at the idea of eating, but he admitted the man and a young boy, who carried a pitcher of fresh water for washing, and a comb for Ian’s hair.

  “Will you be wantin’ to stay another night, Laird? I can have—”

  “No, no, Drummond,” Ian replied, wincing at a stabbing pain just above his eye. “I shall be leaving as soon as my horse can be saddled. I’ve been away too long as it is.”

  He could not believe he’d stayed away as long as he had. It hadn’t been his intention when he’d arrived in the village, not with his father so ill.

  The groom brought his horse around and Ian headed home. He would have to stay clear of Lucy and not only for her peace of mind. He knew if they had another late night encounter, he feared he would take her to bed and damn the consequences.

  Marriage.

  To a woman who yearned for another man. A woman who did not know he was a bastard in both the legal and moral sense. For no upstanding fellow would intentionally seduce an innocent – the way his father had done with the Irish maid. That was what Ian had decided to believe, even though he knew there were plenty of women like Nessie MacClure who believed they could improve their lot with a liaison with a wealthy laird.

  Though he’d always thought of his father as a fair man, he preferred to think of the woman who’d borne him less like Nessie MacClure, and more like Lucy Stillwater – a virtuous lass who’d lapsed due to a mutual, uncontrolled attraction.

  A short time later, Ian rode through Craigmuir’s gatehouse and found the Kildrum carriage being packed and readied for departure. Lockhart stood in the doorway supervising the servants.

  Ian dismounted and approached the butler. “Lady Kildrum is better, then?”

  Lockhart’s expression ran contrary to his words. Perhaps he did not believe the aunt was ready to go. “Aye, my lord. They plan to leave shortly.”

  “Who travels with them?” Ian wanted to be sure they had an adequate escort for the drive up to Edinburgh.

  “There are the two Kildrum footmen, and I had planned to send Lockerbie and Chisholm with them.”

  “Very good.” Perhaps once they were gone, Ian could focus his attention on the subjects that mattered.

  “My lord—”

  “Is Lady Kildrum really up to the journey?” Ian asked, putting aside his disappointment. Lucy was leaving.

  “I suppose so, but just barely. Her fever is gone, but Mrs. MacRae says she is still weak.”

  “Is it wise, then, for them to go?” Ian asked, in spite of himself.

  Lockhart shrugged. “Lord Kildrum has decided. He believes the countess will recover better in her own home.”

  Ian rubbed the ache behind his brow.

  “By the way,” Lockhart added, “Miss Stillwater asked for you this morning.”

  A wave of lusty need flashed through Ian, but he took a deep breath and tamped it down. “Where is she?”

  “I shall find her for you, sir.”

  Ian entered the great hall, aware of every one of Lockhart’s steps up the staircase. He tried to turn his thoughts to the meeting he’d had with Guthrie, purposely concentrating on something other than his next encounter with Lucy.

  He heard her approach and turned to watch her. She was absolutely lovely in a dark blue traveling gown. Even from a distance, he knew it matched her eyes perfectly. She walked directly to him, her step never wavering. “My lord, something happened while you were away.”

  He frowned in puzzlement. “No. I am sure Lockhart would have told—”

  “He does not know,” she said. “No one does.”

  “What, then?” He was distracted by the soft curls of raven hair that dipped in front of her ears and the plump shape of her lips that—

  “The ghost.”

  “Miss Stillw—”

  “I know it sounds mad, but the ghost – Béatrice – led me to the library last night and showed me something.”

  “You have an overactive imagination, little Sassenach. In all my life, I’ve never actually seen Béatrice or Gordon.” Which was not entirely true. He’d seen something a time or two – a wisp of smoke, a hint of a presence. But naught had come of it, either time.

  “I will show you.” She took his hand, seemingly unaware of the intimacy of holding his bare hand with hers. She drew him down the passageway to the library.

  “She floated just in front of me, leading me right where she wanted me to see.”

  “See what? And why would she lead you and not me?”

  Lucy stopped. “I do not know. Perhaps I was more…receptive than you?”

  Ian had no doubt that was true. He had always had more to worry about than whether or not there were ghosts in the castle.

  He opened the library door. “Go on.”

  She went in first. The ladder was in front of the shelves on the far end of the room, changed from where he’d last seen it.

  “She had me climb up.”

  “You moved the ladder here?”

  Lucy blushed. “Well, yes. At Béatrice’s urging.”

  “And so you climbed it?”

  “Yes. And you should do so now,” she replied.

  Her expression was so earnest, so intense, that he did so, looking back at her only once as he climbed the rungs. “What did she want you to see?”

  “You are almost there, my lord.”

  When he could climb no more before touching his head to the ceiling, Lucy told him to stop. “Now, hand me those three books.”

  “Which ones?”

  She climbed up behind him and reached up to point to the books she meant. His mouth went dry when he felt her warm breath on the backs of his legs. “Give them to me.”

  He handed her the first two and she stepped down to the floor to place them on the desk. Again, she climbed back up and he gave her the last one, an oversized tome that he feared would overbalance her before she reached the floor.

  “Now, do you see the handle in the wall at the back of the shelf?” she asked.

  He had to bend down somewhat to reach his hand into the space where the books had been. He found a metal latch and pulled it. A door opened.

  “Do you see it? Pull the handle.”

  “There’s something inside,” he said, way ahead of her. “A box.”

  “That’s what Béatrice wanted to show me,” she stated. “You should bring it down to the desk.”

  Ian pulled out the box, and in the light he could see that it was a rough-hewn metal box with a cracked hinge. It was heavy. He carried it down to the desk. “Did you open it?”

  She nodded. “But I didn’t take anything. It’s all part of Craigmuir Castle. Your heritage.”

  He believed her. She had a reverence for his home and all its contents. The last thing she would do was to remove any part of it, whatever it was.

  He opened the lid and found himself sitting down hard on the chair behind the desk.

  “There is more, my lord. Look.”

  She pushed back the piles of gold coins so that he could see the thin velvet pouch beneath. “Look inside.”

  The material was fragile, so he carefully opened the flap and slid the contents out onto the desk.

  “I think perhaps if you search the other shelves, you might find more,” she said.

  * * *

  Lucy was taken completely by surprise when Broxburn stood abruptly and took her face in his hands. He kissed her, his mouth opening over hers, and Lucy found herself responding, body and soul. She arched into him, slipping her hands up to his shoulders and trembling with pleasure when he pulled her body up against his.

  His tongue swept into her mouth, and his hands pressed her hips against his. The hard ridge of his desire was evident, and exciting. Pleasure shot straight to her womb and she kissed him back, deeply. He was everything she—

  He suddenly broke the kiss and stepped back, though he held onto her shoulders. “You have no idea what this means!”

  “No, I…”

  “I cannot thank you en
ough, Lucy. We have been facing disaster. The finances at Craigmuir have been quite…” He shook his head as though to clear it. Or perhaps because he could not believe what she’d discovered.

  Lucy swallowed her confusion. Had their kiss merely been one of gratitude? Her experience was too limited to understand him.

  As he returned to the cache of gold and the pouch of jewels, Lucy felt a thickening in her throat. Her eyes started to burn, and tears welled.

  “I will b-bid you farewell, my lord,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.

  She left the room – fled it, really – unwilling to shed any ridiculous tears over that kiss and what it meant. Or did not mean. She’d never wanted a Scotsman, and knew she would despise living in Scotland, so far from her family.

  Quickly returning to the great hall, she met her uncle near the door. “Come, come, Lucy. Your aunt is in the carriage, waiting.”

  Lucy went out to the carriage with him and climbed in.

  * * *

  Lucy walked through the door just as Mrs. MacRae came to it. “My lord, Crenshaw says to come quickly!”

  The Stillwater carriage was not yet though the gatehouse. Ian had taken a minute to put the treasure back in its hiding place, and when he went out to the great hall, Lucy was already gone.

  He was still in shock over what she’d shown him. It was a veritable fortune in gold and jewels, and he’d never even known it existed.

  He looked back at the frantic housekeeper who’d brought the message from his father’s valet.

  “My lord! ’Tis the duke!” she said urgently.

  Ian took a last look at the back of Lucy’s departing carriage, then hastened up the staircase to his father’s room.

  “He’s had a seizure, my lord,” Crenshaw said. “Now he’s unconscious.”

  “Send for Henderson,” Ian told Mrs. MacRae.

  “I already took the liberty, sir,” Crenshaw said.

  Ian nodded and sat down next to the bed. The duke was breathing, but shallowly. Was this the end? Would Craigmuir breathe his last on this fair summer afternoon, just as the estate became prosperous again?