Hugh reached down and slid a wispy lock of her hair behind her ear, oblivious to the sidelong glances his intimate act garnered from the very proper matrons who passed them by. She supposed she should be relieved that he hadn’t run his hand down the slight curve of her belly, as he was wont to do.
“Mmmm?” Brianna drew her hand more deeply into the crook of Hugh’s arm and moved closer to him as they walked. Perhaps they should have stayed home in bed, for she craved his touch more than ever. “What did Mr. MacTavish have to say?”
“He asks whether we’re ready to return to Glenloch. The new manor house is nearly finished.”
Hugh had razed the entire castle soon after the bodies of Roddington and MacGowan had been recovered. The place had been fraught with unpleasant memories for Hugh, with its history of violence and the deceit he would no longer countenance. His father’s whip, Amelia’s locket, and the drawing of the sailing ship that reflected Hugh’s futile pining for his lost friend had all been destroyed with the building.
Hugh had had to explain the significance of Amelia’s sponges and the vinegar in her dressing table, and then they both knew the extent of her betrayal. Instead of giving Hugh her honesty, instead of living up to the responsibilities of her marriage, Amelia had become sullen and resentful, making both their lives as miserable as possible.
Even so, Brianna knew Hugh regretted that she’d somehow interfered in Roddington’s dealings with MacGowan. The hints the two had given Brianna made it almost certain that they were responsible for Amelia’s death, as well as Kincaid’s. And the blackguards had nearly managed to cause Brianna’s early demise. In spite of her narrow escape, she and Hugh were both glad to have discovered the body of the young woman in the cellar—the Glenloch Ghost—who had haunted the castle for centuries.
Hugh had seen to it that she received a Christian burial, in spite of the fact that her name was unknown. Everyone in Falkburn believed she must have been the daughter of an ancient laird who was said to have disappeared. In any case, it had not been too difficult to persuade the vicar to bury her in the village churchyard.
“Are you certain ’tis all right for you to be walking so far?” he asked her.
“This is not far at all,” she said with a joyful laugh. The sun was shining, her heart was full, and she was walking beside the man she loved. “And since you do not want me to ride any more, I must find some way to exercise my legs. Tell me what Mr. MacTavish had to say about Glenloch.”
“The barley is in and growing,” he replied. “Our builder and the engineer are still up there, overseeing the construction of the new house and the distillery, and making sure all is being done according to the highest standards. We’ll be ready to make whisky this autumn after the crop is in.”
She smiled at his enthusiasm for the project. Visiting Glenloch was going to be an entirely different experience for Hugh now, with the castle gone, and the distillery standing in its place. The new house was being built much closer to Falkburn, to the village residents who would soon be earning their income from the new venture. Fortunately, they had the proceeds from Roddington’s purse—money that had been swindled from them—to help carry them through until then.
“Do you regret tearing down the castle?”
“Not at all,” he replied, his dark visage lighter than she’d ever seen it. “Naught has ever given me such satisfaction. ‘Twas a horrid place, but for meeting you there.”
“I will not disagree, husband.”
“And I’m doubly glad that we’re out of the free-trading business,” he added. “No doubt Captain Benoit will have plenty of others to take our place, but there will be no more violence for the sake of Glenloch’s brandy.”
“I would like to meet Captain Benoit one day,” Bree said. “I have a question I’d like to ask him.”
Hugh looked at her curiously, but then smiled. “Whatever you wish, love.”
They entered the church, and he steered her toward two seats that were as far as possible from where Lord Stamford and his family were already seated. Somehow, the Crandalls had lost favor with the more influential hostesses of the ton, and Brianna rarely saw them at any of the balls or soirees she and Hugh attended.
It did not bother her in the least.
She looked to the altar where she might have married Roddington had she not acted so impulsively that cold December night, and thanked God that she had been taken in by the Laird of Glenloch instead. Had they not been in church right then, Brianna would have kissed him, pouring into it all the passion and love she felt for him.
“I cannot imagine being happier, or loving anyone more than I do you,” she said, pulling him down slightly to whisper in his ear.
“Brianna…” He squeezed her hand and looked down at her, his eyes reflecting all the love and happiness they shared. Speaking so that only she could hear, he said, “You take my breath away. I would never have believed it a few months ago, but you have given me a life, and a future. I love you.”
Author’s Note
The idea of placing the Glenloch Ghost’s bones in a drum of liquor came from an article in the Journal of Chemical and Engineering News (November 3, 2008). It described the way Dr. William Beatty, the surgeon on board the HMS Victory, preserved Admiral Lord Nelson’s body when he was killed at sea. Anticipating a hero’s burial for the admiral, the doctor placed Nelson in a cask of brandy to preserve his body. When the ship returned to port, the body was found to be in a state of “perfect preservation.”
The Glenloch Ghost lay in her cask for more than a century, so my guess is that her degree of preservation was not quite as good as Lord Nelson’s, but enough for Brianna and Hugh to have discovered her.
The Scottish bits of wisdom at the beginning of each of the previous chapters came from the book Scottish Proverbs, by Andrew Henderson, with explanatory notes and glossary by James Douglas, printed in Scotland, 1881.
About the Author
MARGO MAGUIRE is the author of sixteen historical novels. Formerly a critical care nurse, she worked for many years in a large Detroit trauma center. Now Margo writes full time and loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.margomaguire.com, or join her MySpace page at myspace.com/margomaguire.
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By Margo Maguire
TAKEN BY THE LAIRD
WILD
TEMPTATION OF THE WARRIOR
A WARRIOR’S TAKING
THE PERFECT SEDUCTION
THE BRIDE HUNT
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TAKEN BY THE LAIRD. Copyright © 2009 by Margo Wider. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-193902-0
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