Taken By the Laird

by Margo Maguire

  She finally complied, and when she was halfway up the steps, Hugh started toward Stamford and Roddington. If only he had taken Brianna away the day before, rather than delaying in Falkburn and allowing himself to become inebriated, he would not be facing this mess today.

  Now he was trapped.

  “Newbury,” said Stamford. “I see you are…in possession of my ward.”

  Roddington said naught, but the smirk on his face spoke volumes. Hugh considered his best strategy, but telling Stamford Brianna had just arrived at Glenloch—implying they had not spent any solitary time together—meant he would be throwing her to the worst kind of wolf in all of Britain, a man just like Jasper. In any case, they were unlikely to believe such a story, given the condition of the roads.

  “How did you manage to travel in this?” he asked.

  “We were not far. Heading for Killiedown Manor, but got delayed in Johnshaven,” Stamford replied, removing his gloves as they met midway. “But there is some urgency to our search for Miss Munro.”

  Hugh crossed his arms over his chest and kept his face expressionless as he tried to figure some way to keep Brianna from Roddington for two measly months. If he could just spirit her away somewhere…

  The roads being what they were, that was going to prove difficult, if not impossible. Stamford and Roddington might have managed to get from Johnshaven to Glenloch, but it couldn’t have been easy. Which meant that Stamford was desperate.

  “What’s the urgency?” he asked.

  “The little cow is meant to marry Roddington,” he said with indignation. “She humiliated us all by absconding on the morning of the wedding.”

  Hugh suppressed a grudging smile. “Absconding?”

  “She ran away in the dark of night,” said Stamford.

  As she was wont to do, Hugh mused with a contradictorily admiring disapproval. She was nothing if not daring. “Are you saying she never arrived at the church?”

  Stamford let out a low, condemnatory sound, but did not answer, leading Hugh to believe that that was exactly what had happened. Brianna had managed to escape Stamford’s house and leave London before anyone knew she’d gone. He didn’t know whether to congratulate her or throttle her. London was a seriously dangerous place after dark, especially for an unescorted woman.

  Roddington moved to the fireplace in the drawing room as though he were an honored guest in Glenloch’s hall, with no interest in the dull conversation that would determine Brianna’s fate. Hugh had not seen him since Jasper’s death, nearly three years before.

  It had been jarring to see the indolent bastard at the graveside, one of the few who’d attended the funeral. No other members of Jasper’s contemptible Cerberus Club had attended, and Hugh had wondered about Roddington’s presence there. The marquess had never cared about anything but his own pleasures, his own plots and games. It made little sense for the bastard to have bothered attending services for a man whose own son would have preferred to avoid them.

  Yet it should not have surprised Hugh to see Roddington there. The man had been hand in glove with Jasper in those days, closer even than old school chums, despite their age difference. They’d belonged to a despicable club whose members engaged in a level of debauchery that made Hugh cringe even now, not that he was any sort of prig. But he had an aversion to activities that took advantage of those who could not fend for themselves. Jasper had made great sport of that.

  The thought of what Roddington might have done to Brianna to result in their engagement turned Hugh’s stomach, and he would have liked nothing better than to toss the two rascals out on their arses. But that was no solution to the problem.

  Hugh followed Stamford into the drawing room where Roddington already stood warming his arse by the fire. The man was little more than ten years older than Hugh, but he had aged badly since Hugh had seen him last. He looked closer to fifty than forty, a decidedly sad dog. ’Twas no wonder Brianna had absented herself from the church and run, even if she did not know about her fiancé’s involvement with the Cerberus Club. Frowning, he wondered how her aunt’s death had figured into her flight.

  ‘Twas likely Brianna, bold as she was, had gone to Lady Claire for her protection, because she would be powerless to stand up against Stamford and Roddington alone. Hugh clenched his teeth together. Stamford would have bullied her, and Roddington would have—

  Christ, if the bastard had touched her—

  “You’ve had a pretty time of it, eh, Christie?” Roddington asked, using Hugh’s surname rather than his title.

  He stepped away from the fire and Hugh scowled, his mood turning deadly. “What do you mean?”

  “All alone with the curvy little Munro doxy,” he taunted. But Hugh was going to keep his anger in check, no matter what the marquess said, no matter what he suspected the brute must have done.

  “I want an accounting, Newbury,” Stamford demanded. “And so does Roddington—the, er, injured party.”

  “Lud,” Roddington muttered, turning to glower at the viscount. “I’m out of it now, Stamford. Soiled goods and all that. Don’t have to marry the chit now.”

  “What? We’ve come all the—” Stamford threw his hands up in the air, then turned and shot an angry glare at Hugh. “ ’Tis your doing, Newbury! And you will wed her!”

  A lethal rage simmered just below Hugh’s deceptively calm surface, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “You are deranged, Stamford.”

  Who was this flea-minted viscount to demand anything—much less Hugh’s freedom? Hugh had no intention of becoming shackled in any way, to anyone. He could not possibly be held responsible for his actions with a woman who claimed she had no connections, who’d actually needed his protection…

  Hugh berated himself for allowing lust to cloud his judgment, seducing a virgin who would hardly know what was happening to her until it was too late. Christ, she’d been an innocent, his father’s typical victim of choice, someone who didn’t have the experience necessary to understand the consequences of her actions.

  It was a small comfort that he hadn’t tied her in leather bindings against her will, or fed her any opium to make her compliant, the way Jasper and his cronies had been known to do.

  But it did not alter the fact that he had made love to a viscount’s virgin daughter.

  Hugh did not remember ever feeling so furious or so powerless. He wanted to throttle Stamford for what he’d planned for Brianna, and then wring his neck for even suggesting that Hugh recant his bachelor’s vow.

  “Send someone for the vicar,” Stamford said, his voice low and resolute.

  “You give no orders here, Viscount,” Hugh said in a deprecating tone, intentionally citing Stamford’s lower rank. “Nor are we in England.”

  “What? Oh. Yes, well, this may be Scotland, but if you refuse to wed the gel, you’ll never be able to show your face in London, boy,” Stamford said. “Your reputation will be in shreds.”

  No more than Brianna’s.

  Hugh’s blood turned to a roiling cauldron of disgust. The walls seemed to close in, and it felt as though the air was being sucked out of the room. Between the nausea and his aching head, he could hardly breathe. He was too preoccupied by his fury to notice Roddington stepping away, wandering in what seemed to be an aimless manner to the other side of the room.

  No man would ever wed Brianna if Stamford let it be known that she had spent days and nights alone with him—with a man of his reputation—at Glenloch. She might think she wanted to remain unmarried, only to retire alone to Killiedown, but she was young. Her hopes and aspirations would surely change, as would her need for a man’s attentions.

  For Hugh knew that Brianna Munro was not a woman who could ever be content with a solitary, celibate life.

  Society was not about to accept a “ruined” woman into its midst. The ton would be absolutely correct in assuming that she’d been intimate with him, and it would destroy her life. Her friends would shun her, and she would never again be invited
into respectable homes. Her future would be bleak.

  He jabbed his fingers through his hair and turned away from Stamford, catching sight of Roddington starting up the staircase.

  “Hold, Roddington, if you value your life!” Hugh turned back to Stamford, the only possible decision made. “Go down to Inverbervie and take rooms there for the night. Miss Munro and I will wed on the morrow. Here at Glenloch. Noon.”

  “What about the aunt?” said Stamford. “You’ll need to send someone for her.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Hugh said without offering any further explanation. The fewer questions and even fewer answers, the better.

  Hugh stood fast in the main entryway and watched as the two reprobates gathered their coats, gloves, and hats, and left the castle. Then he went down to the corridor near the scullery, where he jammed his own arms through the sleeves of his greatcoat and slammed out one of the rear doors of the building. He headed for the stable, to the scene of yesterday’s drunken blunder.

  Brianna’s knees gave out, and she sat right down on the floor at the top of the stairs. If Roddington’s approach on the first step of the staircase had not been enough to stun her, Hugh’s words had done it. In one breath, he’d both thwarted Roddington from coming after her and committed himself to marrying her.

  She felt light-headed and shaky, even as indignation coursed through her. Who had given Hugh Christie leave to decide her fate? He had not asked her opinion or her preferences, making the decision as though she was naught but a speck of dust on the banister.

  Feeling as wobbly as a new colt, she rose to her feet and stood, her thoughts flying madly. She had no intention of acquiescing to their demands—to any of them. Laird Glenloch was just as overbearing and unreasonable as Stamford. He was a man, which caused him to believe he had the right to dictate every aspect of her life. How dare he?

  She descended the stairs and went to his study. The money box still sat in the drawer where she left it when she’d gone out to him in the stable the day before. When he’d staggered in, Brianna hadn’t considered the possibility that he was drunk, or that he would ravish her willing body in the stable. He’d been insatiable, even after they’d returned to the castle, finally collapsing only a few hours before dawn.

  He’d bedded her again, even after learning who she was. He should have stayed sober and taken her to Dundee instead!

  She estimated what she would need for food and a modest lodging for two months in Perth. Going to Dundee was just inviting Laird Glenloch to come and find her, and she did not want to see him ever again, not when his intention was to trap them in a marriage they would both abhor.

  Her chin trembled, but now was no time for tears. She’d learned long ago how to protect her heart, how to wall off her emotions. Laird Glenloch didn’t want her any more than Bernard Malham had. Less, even, by the sound of his grudging commitment to marry her.

  She did not belong at Castle Glenloch any more than she had fit in at Stamford House. Killiedown was the only place Bree had ever been able to call home. Claire had suspended her own exciting travels to create a life there for Brianna. Together, they’d built up the farm and their breeding program. Killiedown’s draft horses were unequaled in all of Britain. She and Claire had been completely happy.

  And yet Claire had sent her to London for three seasons.

  You deserve a chance for a husband and your own family to love, Claire had said the night before their departure for that first London season. But Brianna had dismissed her words, certain her aunt had been mistaken. Claire had been perfectly content without a husband—

  But had she?

  Brianna wondered if Claire would have wed her free-trading captain if he’d asked. She considered the possibility that her aunt would have preferred a husband in her bed to a lover she visited occasionally in Aberdeen, a man she’d had to keep secret from her niece and all her tenants.

  Brianna sat down in Hugh’s chair. Dropping her chin to her chest in misery, she tried to understand what was so bloody brilliant about having a husband. And yet she knew, somehow. A husband should be the man who warmed not only her bed…he should warm her heart and her soul. A husband would provide companionship, and children, and a clear sense of belonging. To someone. With someone.

  It was possible that Claire’s own experience had been the reason she’d insisted that Bree go to London. Perhaps she regretted her own lack of a mate, and wanted to be sure that Brianna did not suffer the same lack.

  It hurt Brianna to think it might be true, and that she might have missed signs of her aunt’s restlessness. It seemed so very clear that Claire had given up her lover in Greece, and now Brianna realized her aunt had limited her contact with the sea captain to make sure her niece was content at Killiedown.

  Would it be a mistake for Brianna to do the same thing, just to keep her independence at Killiedown? Marriage to Hugh would not provide any of the warmth or companionship Claire had wanted for her. It would be a marriage of inconvenient convenience, for she knew his thoughts on marrying again. He did not want another wife.

  She stood abruptly and tried to decide what to do. Traveling to Perth on snow-covered roads would be arduous, and Brianna did not believe she could get there—or hide somewhere en route—before Hugh discovered she was gone and came after her. He’d stated his intention to marry her, and she did not believe he would easily renege on his word.

  With the portrait of Hugh’s father at her back, Brianna had the most disconcerting feeling that he was looking directly at her. Wondering if Hugh had ever felt this eerie sensation, Bree turned slowly toward him, and faced the old laird’s harsh visage.

  His gaze was nothing like his son’s, the lines about his mouth and eyes self-indulgent at the least, with a hint of wickedness in them. “You do not frighten me, Laird,” she whispered. “Not even with your leather strips and the whip you kept in the master’s bedchamber.”

  She turned her back on the portrait and fixed her gaze on the window where she’d seen Hugh the day before.

  He was there now, coming out of the stable on horseback. He was tall and formidable in his seat—so different from the way he’d looked the day before—his shoulders broad, his greatcoat spread out behind him. A shudder of pure physical awareness shot through Brianna as she watched him. His eyes were shaded by his hat, but she had the distinct feeling he could see her through the window.

  He turned abruptly, handling the gelding with mastery and care as he kicked his heels and plodded through the snow in the direction of Falkburn, no doubt to get drunk again.

  Chapter 13

  They that dance must pay the fiddler.

  SCOTTISH PROVERB

  There was no need for Hugh to make the hour-long ride to Stonehaven for a lawyer to draw up a marriage certificate. MacGowan handled all the rest of Glenloch’s business, and the man was perfectly capable of making a document that Hugh and Brianna could sign when it was done.

  He rode up to MacGowan’s cottage and quickly gained entry.

  “Laird, I hope all is well,” the man said as Hugh entered. “The brandy—”

  “I took care of it, MacGowan. I’m here on an entirely different matter.” Hugh did not remove his coat, but told the man what he wanted, then turned his back to the window of the parlor while MacGowan wrote the marriage lines according to his wishes. There would be no reading of banns, no special license. Here in Scotland, they only needed witnesses to their declaration. Mrs. Ramsay and her son-in-law, Niall MacTavish, would do.

  He and Brianna would exchange vows at noon the following day, which would give Stamford and Roddington enough time to arrive and witness the marriage’s validity. Fortunately, there were far fewer formalities and much less fanfare than he’d have had to endure in England. A veritable leg-shackling was easy enough to accomplish north of the border. Once done, he would send the two reprobates on their way, far from Glenloch. And with luck, they would never cross his path again.

  “Laird,” MacGowan said as
he waited for the ink to dry, “I thought ye’d vowed nev—” He took note of Hugh’s obdurate expression and changed his tack. “Will ye be stayin’ at Glenloch fer the winter, then?”

  “I haven’t decided.” There was no point in letting MacGowan in on his plans, especially when those plans included finding out how the man was cheating him.

  When the document was ready, MacGowan rolled it and tied it with a simple piece of string. Hugh clenched his teeth and eyed the thing, his fate sealed.

  He led his horse down the short path to Falkburn, then stopped at MacTavish’s cottage. The door opened on his arrival, and Niall stepped outside. “Laird,” he said. “We missed seein’ ye last night, down in the buttery.”

  “Er, too much brandy at Tullis’s.”

  MacTavish gave a rueful grin. “Aye. I’m feelin’ fair jug-bitten m’self.”

  “Is the brandy set to be transported?”

  “No’ yet, Laird. We let down maybe half.”

  Hugh nodded. “We can finish it tonight.” He didn’t want to keep so much brandy about, especially with Kincaid so interested in probing the area.

  “Aye, Laird,” he replied. “We’ll be there.

  “One last thing, MacTavish. I’d like you to come up to Glenloch tomorrow morning.”

  “Laird?”

  “To witness my wedding.”

  Turning abruptly to mount his horse, Hugh took no notice of MacTavish’s astonished expression. And since he’d dealt with his reasons for coming into Falkburn, he had no reason to delay his return to Glenloch—and his future wife—any further. He muttered a silent curse at the way his body reacted to the thought of her, and his vivid memory of the way her smooth skin slid against his. He should be thinking about throttling her, not bedding her.

  Brianna could not escape the sensation of being trapped. She’d run from one objectionable marriage only to land in another.