The Laird Of Blackloch (Highland Rogue)

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Only one thing was as clear as it had always been: she needed to get away.

  ***

  Lounging in one of the window seats, gazing out across the dark expanse of Loch Rannoch, Alex sipped his second glass of whisky for the night as he mulled over his plan of attack to win over Sarah Lambert.

  His mouth curved with amusement as he recalled her berating him over her bespoke clothing. She was certainly pricklier than a hedgehog hiding in a bramble bush. But underneath her pique and suspicion, he sensed reluctant attraction and a passionate nature. Even though her pretty blue eyes darted with fire every time she looked at him, in time he was sure he would succeed in seducing her to his side, thus eliminating any threat she might pose to him in the future.

  The days ahead would be interesting indeed.

  His whisky finished, he snuffed out all but one of the candles then retired to the small bedchamber adjacent to Sarah’s. After lighting the fire, he discarded his clothes, pulled the leather tie from his hair, and settled down for the night. The bed was small but comfortable enough and it wasn’t long before bone weariness tugged him towards the arms of sleep.

  But then something jerked him awake. An anguished cry followed by a soft, heart-rending sob; the muffled sound of a woman weeping.

  Oh, hell. Was the lass having nightmares? Considering what she’d been through, it wasn’t surprising.

  Alex sat up and ran a hand down his face. He could ignore Sarah, of course. The last thing she probably wanted was for him to invade her room, especially since he’d assured her that he wouldn’t. He might drive her farther away.

  But this could also be an opportunity for him to offer her comfort and perhaps gain her trust. If he approached her the right way. In an unthreatening way. It was a risk, but as Sarah continued to cry, as his own heart clenched with sympathy and not a small degree of guilt, he decided he would be a bigger heel if he just sat here listening to the sounds of her distress. Even if he were to blame.

  After throwing on a clean shirt, a pair of breeches, and a velvet banyan, he quietly padded along the short stone corridor to the tapestry where he paused and listened. Sarah had stopped crying—perhaps she’d heard him. He let out a shaky exhale.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Alexander MacIvor…

  Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the tapestry aside. The room was only dimly lit by the fire; the tester bed was in deep shadow. ‘Sarah, are you all right, lass?’ he whispered.

  Silence greeted him. Then a soft whimper and the bedclothes rustled.

  Christ. Was she still asleep?

  ‘Sarah?’ he murmured again, stepping farther into the room.

  All of a sudden she thrashed against the bedclothes, before sitting bolt upright with a gasp. ‘Oh, God, help me,’ she sobbed. ‘Get off me. Don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Sarah.’ Alex rushed to her bedside. ‘Wake up, lass. You’re safe.’

  Sarah sucked in a startled breath and then threw her arms about him. ‘Black. Oh, thank God.’

  Shock froze Alex for a moment as Sarah clung to him, her wet cheek pressed against his shoulder. Then his arms rose to cradle her gently. His hand stroked her tangled hair as he attempted to soothe her. ‘Hush, sweetheart. No one will hurt you.’ He wasn’t sure if she was completely awake. Whatever monster she’d been dreaming about, it clearly hadn’t been him. At least this time.

  ‘I thought… my nightmare… it seemed so real. Those men… If you hadn’t noticed I’d gone last night… If you hadn’t followed me…’ Her voice cracked on another sob.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he murmured against her temple. The incident at the Stag’s Head had clearly affected Sarah more deeply than he’d initially thought. ‘I’m here.’ As he continued to stroke her back and her hair, he desperately tried to focus his thoughts and his anger on the bastards who’d tried to rape her and all other curs like them. Curs like the Earl of Tay, her fiancé. He shouldn’t be aware of the feel of her slender body, clothed only in a night-rail, beneath his hands, the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the sweet floral scent of her hair, or her warm breath caressing the bare skin of his throat.

  When shameful desire inevitably surged, a wave of guilt immediately washed over him. The last thing the lass needed was to feel his cock twitching. She was already traumatised and he didn’t want to make things worse. Which was ironic really, but what was done was done.

  Ever so gently, he unwound her arms from his neck as he set her away. ‘There’s only one thing I know of that will make you feel better after a bad dream.’

  Sarah’s brows drew together and her nose wrinkled. ‘Not whisky, I hope.’

  Alex smiled. ‘Well, that can help too, but I have something else in mind. Why don’t you take a seat by the fire and I’ll bring it to you.’

  Sarah sniffed then dabbed at her eyes with edge of her sleeve. ‘All right. And thank you. I… I apologise if I woke you.’

  Alex stepped away before the temptation to haul her back into his arms became too strong. ‘Do not worry. I’ll be back in a wee moment.’

  ***

  Sarah wrapped herself in a shawl and then installed herself in one of the damask-covered wing chairs before the fire, a thick blanket tucked around her. It wasn’t lost on her that both she and Black were in a shocking state of dishabille. Again. Not that anyone would ever find out, but still, it was highly improper.

  Of course, everything about this whole situation was improper, and had been from the very start.

  Sarah’s cheeks burned as she recalled how she’d unthinkingly thrown her arms around Black when she’d woken from her hideous nightmare. Even though she’d been distraught and not in her right mind, it was embarrassing to say the least.

  She’d sought comfort from the man who had kidnapped her. It was wrong and it was mad but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t deny that last night he’d saved her from an assault that didn’t bear thinking about. But more than that, he’d made her feel safe. It seemed she was beginning to accept Black’s word that she wasn’t in any physical danger.

  What had he said earlier tonight? I swear to you, with God as my witness, I will not hurt you. In fact—if she overlooked the way Black had brought her here to the island—all he’d done was take care of her since the incident at the Stag’s Head. Even when she’d railed at him and called him a monster, he hadn’t taken umbrage. Indeed, right at this very moment, he was still taking care of her. And despite multiple opportunities to take advantage of her, Black hadn’t.

  It was a bizarre situation. Confusing and disconcerting. She felt as though she didn’t know which way was up and which way was down. She shouldn’t trust Black at all, but a small part of her did. She should be furious with Black for coming to her room, but she wasn’t. She shouldn’t find Black so fascinating but every time he walked into the room—as he was doing right now—she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  Even though her hair was a bird’s nest, her eyes red-rimmed, and her nose undoubtedly pink from crying, it certainly seemed Black was attracted to her too; the smile he flashed was nothing but rakish as he placed a tray on a small oak table between the chairs and offered her a china cup with a flourish. ‘Hot chocolate, just for you, Miss Lambert. I hope it’s to your liking.’

  Hot chocolate? If Black had offered her manna from heaven, she would have been less surprised. She examined the contents. Sure enough, rich, thick, foaming hot chocolate filled the cup. It smelled divine and her mouth watered.

  ‘I purchase the paste from an exclusive chocolate house in London,’ he explained as he sat down in the other chair. ‘I believe it contains vanilla and cinnamon, and I added sugar and milk. It’s very good, if I do say so myself.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ She took a tentative sip, then another and hummed in appreciation as the dark and delicious liquid slid smoothly down her throat. When she opened her eyes, it was to find Black openly smiling at her reaction.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ he asked.

&nbs
p; Still only clothed in breeches, a loose open-necked shirt and a banyan, with his raven locks brushing his wide shoulders, Sarah thought Black looked just as dark and delicious as the hot chocolate. To hide her blush—between Black’s smile and her wayward thoughts, it seemed she was fighting a losing battle at maintaining any semblance of composure—she took another sip and then turned her gaze to the fire, as she answered. ‘It is lovely and just the thing for dispelling nightmares. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’ Again a lingering, heated stare sent her pulse skittering and her stomach afluttering. It had never been like this with Malcolm. He was an attractive man too but she’d never felt so off balance around him. So aware of his physicality. But then, Malcolm had never sprawled so nonchalantly in a chair, sans half of his clothes, with such a careless disregard for propriety.

  Even now she could feel the weight of Black’s appreciative gaze and instead of being affronted by it, she was at last willing to admit to herself that she quite liked it. Besides, it was not like she owed Malcolm any loyalty anymore. He’d betrayed her. Destroyed her trust.

  Sarah, what is wrong with you? Stop this. You’re falling under Black’s spell again. You cannot trust him either. You really don’t know what he has planned for you.

  Sarah took one more sip of her hot chocolate then set it aside. ‘At the risk of ruining the temporary truce between us, Mr Black, I must venture to ask, how long do you plan on keeping me at Eilean Dubh? You’ve told me Lord Tay must pay a ransom to secure my release—which leads me to believe that there must be a due date for it to be paid.’

  ‘Yes…’ A muscle twitched in Black’s jaw as if he were debating with himself whether to add more. ‘In about two weeks from now,’ he finally said. ‘The first of March.’

  ‘What…?’ Sarah swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. That was only a week before her wedding day—if she still chose to marry Malcolm. Had Black chosen that particular date for a reason? She forced herself to ask the next logical question, ‘What… what will happen if he doesn’t pay by then?’

  ‘Whether Lord Tay pays the ransom or not, I promise no harm will come to you.’

  ‘So you keep saying, Black. And I do believe you. But will—’ She bit back the question that hovered on her lips: will you keep me here indefinitely if he doesn’t pay? Because that was the logical alternative, wasn’t it? Could he really risk letting her go when there was a very good chance she could find out who he actually was? He must have given his real name to the magistrate at Dunkeld. Lord and Lady Kenmuir probably knew his true identity too. She could hunt him down and have him prosecuted if she wished. The answer Black might give to her unspoken question suddenly terrified her. ‘Never mind.’

  What if he does intend to keep you here, Sarah? Perhaps he’s trying to charm you for a reason. If you’re more biddable and pliant—if you fall for his charms—it makes life easier for him, doesn’t it? Despite his denials, perhaps he does intend to make you his mistress. Her thoughts strayed to all of the elegant clothes—and the flimsy undergarments—in the chest and armoire.

  She shivered and Black noticed. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked.

  ‘A little,’ she lied.

  Black rose and threw several more logs on the fire. ‘If there’s nothing else, Miss Lambert, I will bid you goodnight again.’ He bowed and threw her a roguish smile that was no doubt calculated. ‘I hope you sleep well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She made herself smile back. ‘I’m sure the hot chocolate will help. Goodnight.’

  As he disappeared behind the tapestry, Sarah stared into the fire. Two can play at this game, Black. Perhaps I should try to charm you into submission too.

  If he fell for her, if she could gain his trust, it would give her some power in this strange relationship. Surely it would be easier to escape if she could lull Black into a false sense of security. If she could get him to share more about his life, if she could find out exactly where she was, if he let down his guard, she’d have a greater chance of succeeding, wouldn’t she?

  But how long would that take?

  All she knew was that Malcolm might never pay the ransom. And if she couldn’t secure her release with her own money, she’d have to rely on the only other currency she had at her disposal—her wits and her feminine wiles.

  At least she now knew there was an end date—of sorts—in sight.

  Two weeks…

  Chapter 8

  Eilean Dubh

  18 February 1757

  Sarah awoke to the sound of pans clattering and the smell of frying bacon. The muted murmur of voices. She blinked and pushed herself up. Pale sunlight filtered through the mullion windows of Eilean Dubh’s main bedchamber, highlighting the silver and gold thread in the sage-green embroidered counterpane. Someone had placed a vase of snowdrops on the window ledge.

  It must have been Aileen. Sarah couldn’t imagine that Black would cook her breakfast or bring her flowers. But then, he’d made her hot chocolate…

  She slipped from the bed and after donning some slippers—the floorboards were icy—and a velvet robe, peered into the kitchen. Aileen and a young redheaded woman looked up from where they were plating food at the table.

  ‘Good mornin’, Miss Lambert,’ greeted Aileen in her usual brusque manner. ‘The master said ye would be verra hungry so my daughter an’ I thought ye might like a decent meal.’ She gestured at the young woman with her chin. ‘This is Isla.’

  ‘Good mornin’ to you, Miss Lambert.’ Isla bobbed a curtsy and offered a shy smile. ‘I hope ye like the flowers.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. They are lovely.’ Sarah glanced towards the door that led to the chamber Black had slept in last night. ‘Is Mr Black about?’

  ‘Nae, miss,’ replied Isla, fiddling with her white apron. ‘He has returned to Bla—’

  Aileen gave her daughter a poke in the ribs and finished her sentence for her. ‘He has business to attend to. But he will be back this evenin’.’

  Returned to where? Black-somewhere? Sarah would definitely make it her business to talk with Isla when she was alone. The girl seemed to have a loose tongue.

  Pretending nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, Sarah murmured, ‘I see,’ then took a seat at the table. Aileen immediately offered her a plate piled with bacon, eggs, fat sausages, and thick slices of something Sarah didn’t recognise but reminded her of a coarse terrine. She touched it with a fork and asked, ‘What is this?’

  ‘Och, it’s haggis, miss,’ replied Isla. ‘Lord—’

  Aileen shot her daughter a sharp look and again she amended what Isla had started to say. ‘Aye, it’s haggis. And Lord above is it good. ’Tis the master’s favourite dish. It’s a sheep’s stomach stuffed with oats and sheep’s pluck. You ken, lungs, and liver, and heart.’

  ‘It sounds… interesting.’ Sarah took a tentative bite and despite her initial reservations, she thought it rather tasty.

  ‘Would ye like tea or hot chocolate, miss? Or coffee?’

  ‘Tea thank you, Aileen.’ Sarah watched with bemusement as the middle-aged woman poured her a steaming cup to her specifications. Then Aileen shooed Isla into the main bedchamber where she began issuing orders about making the bed and heating water. For gaolers, they were both very attentive to her needs.

  Sarah shook her head but decided not to dwell on how strange everything was. Not when the plate of food in front of her looked and smelled so good. As she began to eat, she realised it had been a whole day since she’d last had anything substantial. She couldn’t let anxiety get the better of her. She’d be more likely to succeed in escaping if she were well fed and well rested.

  Which reminded her… She was completely alone right now. Had Aileen and Isla locked the door? As quietly as she could, Sarah put down her knife and fork and pushed away from the table; the legs of the chair scraped a little on the floorboards and she held her breath, listening. However, when neither Aileen nor Isla returned to the room, she rose from her seat and crossed to the heavy, iron-
studded oak door. As she’d expected, it was locked, and there was no key to be seen anywhere; it wasn’t in the lock and it wasn’t hanging conveniently from a hook by the door.

  Damn. She scowled. It was probably on that blasted iron ring at Aileen’s waist.

  ‘Och, lassie. Ye are no’ one to give in easily, are ye?’ said Aileen from somewhere behind her. ‘But I wouldna bother. Even if ye did manage to open the door, one of the master’s burliest footmen, MacLagan, is guarding the stairs. Ye wouldna get verra far.’

  Sarah sighed heavily and turned around to find the woman standing in the doorway to the bedchamber, arms crossed over her ample chest and an almost sympathetic look in her eyes. However, Sarah refused to feel contrite. ‘You cannot blame me for trying,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Aileen brushed her hands down her calico apron then nodded towards Sarah’s abandoned breakfast. ‘Is it no’ to yer liking? I would be verra happy to make ye somethin’ else. Toast or scones. Or porridge.’

  ‘No. What you have prepared is quite fine, Aileen. But thank you.’ Sarah returned to her seat. Whilst she ate and lingered over her tea, Aileen stirred something in a large pot that was suspended over the fire—it smelled like some kind of soup or stew. At least she wasn’t going to starve to death.

  Eventually Isla returned to the room and offered to help Sarah with her morning toilette and she readily agreed. The young woman had an amiable nature and a ready smile, and her inconsequential chatter provided a welcome distraction as she helped Sarah to bathe then don her stays and stockings, petticoats and pannier, and finally her gown.

  Even though Isla prattled away, she didn’t inadvertently divulge any more useful tidbits of information about Black or the location of Eilean Dubh; Aileen had obviously warned her to speak with more care. But that didn’t mean Sarah had given up. A slip of the tongue was bound to happen, especially if she led Isla in the right direction with an artful question or two.

  Within the space of a half hour, she was attired in the blue and ivory satin robe à la française with her hair styled into a neat arrangement of twists and curls at the back of her head. As Isla offered her a silver-framed hand mirror, she decided that even if she didn’t feel like her usual self, at least she looked presentable—if one discounted her bandages, the shadows beneath her eyes, the touches of windburn on her face, and the scrape upon her cheek. Whilst it still rankled that she must wear the garments Black had procured so deviously, if she had any hope of snaring his affections, she needed to make some effort with her appearance.