The Laird Of Blackloch (Highland Rogue)

by Amy Rose Bennett

  ‘I can bear it. I want you inside me. I want to be yours in truth.’

  Alex groaned. Dear God, her words would have him spending before he’d even entered her. He dropped a kiss on her sweet lips. ‘I want that too, my love. I will be as gentle as I can.’

  A small crease appeared between Sarah’s brows as the head of his cock pressed against her entrance. She closed her eyes as he tilted his hips forward and pushed farther in. She was so very tight, and hot and wet. As he rocked forward again, her breath caught and her frown deepened. Her fingernails dug into his back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, withdrawing a fraction.

  She opened her eyes and offered a tremulous smile. ‘I’m fine. I just feel very… full.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right then.’ Gritting his teeth against the overwhelming urge to pound into her mindlessly, Alex surged forward again then groaned with pleasure as the satiny heat of Sarah’s sex completely enveloped him. Beneath him, Sarah’s body tensed, but as he rained gentle kisses across her brow and her cheeks, she released a soft sigh.

  ‘Ready for more, lass?’

  She slid her hands to his tightly bunched buttocks. ‘Yes please.’

  Alex slid out ever so slowly then on a smooth glide, thrust back into her welcoming warmth. The tight clasp of her inner sheath about his throbbing length was indescribable. Lowering his head, he plundered her mouth with a ravenous kiss.

  A delicious moan slipped from Sarah as he set up a gentle rhythm. Her legs wrapped around his and she began to rock her pelvis, meeting him thrust for thrust, and it wasn’t long before he succumbed to the urge to increase the pace. The pressure, the need for release was piling up inside him like an approaching storm. But he wanted to make sure Sarah achieved satisfaction again. Taking his weight on one arm, he slid his hand between them and caressed the sensitive nub at the apex of her quim. Almost immediately she cried out and clutched his shoulders, her sex clenching and rippling around him, her body quaking with the force of her climax.

  He couldn’t hold on. His blood roaring, his control fraying, he frantically pounded into Sarah, hurtling headlong towards beautiful oblivion. With an almighty groan of elation, his balls tightened, his body bucked and a cataclysmic release threw him heavenward.

  Sweet Jesus. Had sexual congress ever felt so sublime?

  He didn’t think so. His breath sawing, his heart pounding, he pushed himself up and gazed down at the beautiful angel in his arms.

  His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper when he was able to speak. ‘My beautiful, Sarah. God, how I love you.’ Knowing he was being a brute for demanding more of her, but unable to resist temptation, he swooped down and seized her mouth in an ardent kiss.

  Her fingers speared into his hair and she kissed him back with equal ferocity. ‘I love you too, Alexander,’ she whispered when he drew back.

  ‘You know under Scots law, we’re as good as wed now.’

  Sarah’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. We’ve exchanged vows of commitment and consummated our union. And now we’re handfasted.’

  She pouted prettily. ‘Well, you might have warned me.’

  ‘What?’ He laughed. ‘You don’t wish to be wed to me?’

  Mirth sparkled in her blue eyes. ‘A proposal would have been nice. And a wedding before God in a church.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Buried deep inside her, his body humming with pleasure, he couldn’t think of a more perfect way to offer for her hand. ‘Sarah Lambert, would you do me the untold honour of consenting to be my wife?’

  ‘And who shall I be marrying?’ She arched an elegant brow but her eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Mr Price or Lord Rannoch?’

  Alex frowned. She was right. ‘Does it matter?’ He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, stroking his cheek. ‘Not to me. Only it might matter when we have children.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve made you upset.’

  ‘No. Don’t even think it.’ Alex kissed her again before adding, ‘I know someone who might be able to help me reclaim my title.’

  ‘You do?’ A smile lit Sarah’s eyes. ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘Yes. Only…’ How to tell her the next part, the woman he loved. ‘There’s always the risk that I might not be granted a pardon. That things might go wrong.’ Such as being arrested and tried for treason… Being executed…

  ‘Oh…’ A deep furrow appeared between Sarah’s brows.

  ‘Do not fret, my love. I’m sure everything will work out.’ God, he hoped so.

  ‘I believe you. And whatever you decide, I’ll be there by your side, as Sarah Price, Sarah MacIvor, or even Sarah Black.’

  ‘So is that an unqualified yes?’

  Sarah’s smile was a balm for his blighted soul. ‘Yes, Alexander. Indeed it is.’

  Alex cupped her face and brushed his lips across hers, savouring her sweetness. ‘Thank you. You’ve made me happier than you’ll ever know.’

  Gathering her into his arms, he tucked her head beneath his chin. ‘Sleep now, my sweet, Sarah,’ he whispered. ‘We shall work out where we go from here, tomorrow.’

  Chapter 14

  Red Velvet House, The Cowgate, Edinburgh

  22 February 1757

  ‘Good sir, what can we do fer you this fine evening?’ simpered Mrs MacLean, the Red Velvet’s middle-aged madam. Her brightly rouged cheeks were as plump as apples as she beamed a gap-toothed grin at Malcolm.

  Malcolm eyed the garish reception room—its faux-gilt candelabra and smoky wall sconces, the blood-red velvet settees and the lopsided chandelier overhead—and the equally garish woman before him, with distaste. Her tightly cinched corset did nothing to enhance her doughy figure; indeed, her ample breasts spilling from her puce silk bodice reminded him of deflated choux pastries. Dragging his gaze from her sagging cleavage, he looked down his nose at her. ‘I want to engage one of your tarts. A certain Miss Nell.’

  ‘Och. You have verra good taste, sir.’ Mrs MacLean winked at him. ‘She has the best titties in this whole establishment.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Malcolm withdrew his pocket watch and consulted the time. ‘I want her for an hour. And I want your best private room.’

  ‘Aye. Of course.’ The madam’s gaze travelled over his brocade and velvet frockcoat and black satin breeches. She was clearly assessing how much he’d be willing to pay. ‘Fer you, that will be a guinea.’

  Malcolm snorted. ‘I don’t care how good her tits are, I won’t pay more than two crowns.’ The girl probably was worth a guinea but he didn’t want to waste what coin he had left. MacNab, the inquiry agent, had already spent far too much hunting down the buxom Nell.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Mrs MacLean tapped a finger beside the tiny heart-shaped patch beside her rouged lips. ‘I’ll let you have her fer three an’ I’ll throw in a decanter of my verra best brandywine.’

  ‘Forget about the brandywine.’ It was probably watered-down horse piss. ‘But I agree on the price.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The madam held out a chubby-fingered hand for the money. ‘If you just take a seat and wait here a few more minutes, sir,’ she added as she tucked the coins into her bodice, ‘I shall make sure Miss Nell is ready to receive you.’

  Flipping out his coat-tails, Malcolm took a seat on a settee and twirled the end of his silver-topped cane on an oriental rug that had seen better days. A few minutes turned into a quarter of an hour. With nothing better to do than take a pinch of snuff, and watch a few other men skulk in before bring escorted away by other scantily clad whores, Malcolm was seething by the time Mrs MacLean returned.

  ‘About bloody time,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I don’t have all night, you know.’ Not when he wasn’t absolutely certain that the ‘Nell’ of Red Velvet House was the woman he was looking for. He was running out of time to raise the ransom and he needed to know who Janus was.
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br />   The madam frowned and planted her fisted hands on her ample hips. ‘Now, now, sir. I ken ye are a fine gent but we’ll have none of that sort of language. Or I might need to rethink our arrangement.’

  Malcolm took a menacing step forward. His fingers itched to unsheathe the sword concealed within his walking cane and prick the madam in the jowls. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  She didn’t budge an inch, just cocked a painted brow at him. ‘Nae, I dinna ken who ye are. Do ye really want me to?’

  Malcolm eyed her narrowly. The woman did have a valid point. He didn’t really want anyone at this brothel to know he was the Earl of Tay. Aside from that, there was a rather burly guard in the nearby entry hall; even though he had a weapon, he couldn’t afford to make a fuss. Avoiding any kind of scandal was still uppermost in his mind. ‘Very well,’ he conceded. He adjusted his lace cuffs. ‘Just take me to her.’

  ‘Aye, sir. This way if you please.’

  The woman ushered Malcolm through to a dimly lit hallway that smelt oddly of rising damp, burnt toast, and a heavy musk-like scent, before leading him up a narrow flight of stairs. The sounds of enthusiastic fucking—rhythmic grunts, moans, and the occasional squeal of laughter—filled the air and he felt his prick begin to harden.

  At the end of the corridor, the madam pushed open a wooden door with a tarnished brass handle. ‘Here you go, sir. I’ll be back in an hour.’

  Malcolm brushed past her, impatience turning to sharp anticipation as he entered the chamber. The wine velvet curtains were drawn but there was enough light from the fire and several branches of candles to reveal an overly ornate bed, the headboard decorated with paintings of fat cupids frolicking in a rose bower… and hallelujah, the woman he’d been searching for.

  Nell, attired in an almost transparent rose-coloured peignoir, was reclining upon a pink and red striped chaise longue, but as soon as she laid eyes on him, she leapt to her feet.

  ‘Och… milord…’ she said, her hand fluttering to her slender throat. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

  ‘Aye, fancy that.’ He advanced towards her, unsheathing his rapier before pushing the point between her bountiful breasts. Through the peignoir he watched her nipples harden and his cock swelled, tenting his breeches.

  Nell’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Wh-what can I do fer you, milord? I dinna mind things to get a wee bit rough but no’ like this.’

  Malcolm traced the tip of the rapier up to Nell’s throat. ‘I want to know who hired you to distract me at Kenmuir House. And don’t even think about lying. Or your pretty throat is as good as slit.’

  Nell swallowed, but to her credit, she held his gaze. ‘Och, is tha’ all ye wish to ken? It ’twas a verra handsome black-haired gentleman by the name of Mr Alexander Price. And verra generous he was too. Hired me fer the whole night.’

  Price. Price was Janus. He had to be.

  But why the fuck had Price kidnapped Sarah?

  It didn’t make sense. Unless the dog wasn’t as rich as everyone thought…

  ‘Did he tell you why he hired you?’

  Nell frowned. ‘All he asked me to do was keep you entertained for an hour or so. I was to take you to a private parlour he’d picked out and make sure the curtains were left open. I assumed he wanted to watch us. Some men like that, ye ken. To watch.’

  Bastard. The fucking bastard. He must have taken Sarah out to the terrace, then whilst she was reeling from what she’d seen, he’d somehow spirited her away. Probably through the nearby garden gate to the lane beyond. MacNab, during his discreet inquiries at Kenmuir House, had discovered the gate’s lock had been broken.

  As Malcolm had puzzled over Nell’s revelation, she’d slid off her peignoir and now stood before him stark naked. Her puckered raspberry nipples had his mouth watering and the sight of her bare mons made his balls throb.

  She must have noticed the flare of lust in his gaze as she arched a brow and twirled a flaxen curl around one of her fingers. ‘You seem displeased, milord. If you wish to punish me fer being a verra bad girl at the ball, perhaps I could suggest a spanking…’

  Malcolm lowered his rapier and resheathed it. ‘Right after you use your mouth on me,’ he said, unbuttoning his breeches. As much as he’d like to throttle Nell, he may as well get his money’s worth while he was here. And the idea of spanking that lovely round of arse of hers until it was as red as her nipples was certainly appealing.

  Nell grinned and sank to her knees. ‘Och, aye. With pleasure, milord.’

  ***

  Tay House, Edinburgh

  23 February 1757

  Janus’s—or Alexander Price’s—next letter of demand arrived on the doorstep of Tay House some time before dawn the following morning.

  As the only remaining Boulle clock in the entire house struck seven, Drysdale shuffled into his room with the letter and Malcolm, still abed, snatched it up and tore it open with alacrity rather than trepidation. The note contained brief instructions about where he should deposit the ten thousand pounds in order to reclaim Sarah, on the first of March.

  The location was an isolated spot, a cairn at the foot of the mountain Schiehallion—the Maiden’s Pap—on the south-eastern side, not far from a stretch of dense woodland. Of course, Malcolm knew the area well; after all, it was only ten miles from Taymoor Castle. And interestingly enough, on the other side of the mountain was Price’s land—the old MacIvor estate that the Crown had seized following the Rebellion. It made perfect sense and only confirmed Price must be Janus.

  Malcolm cast the letter onto the rumpled bedclothes and for once, he smiled rather than cursed at his ancient butler. ‘I want coffee, my good man. And brush down my greatcoat. After I’ve dressed, pack my trunk. I also want the carriage brought round by nine. Send one of the footmen to engage a couple of hacks from the Whitehorse Inn. I’m returning to Taymoor Castle.’

  ‘Aye, milord.’

  Malcolm rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘Is Lady Glenleven in?’ He hadn’t seen Damaris since early yesterday afternoon and wanted to share the good news.

  Drysdale shifted his weight from side to side as he studied the bedroom floor. ‘Nae, milord. I dinna think she is…’

  Malcolm snorted. She was probably still at Arbelour House, screwing more jewels out of the old earl. He threw back the covers and reached for the chamber pot in the bedside table. ‘If she arrives whilst I’m getting ready, tell her to come and speak with me. At once.’

  ‘Of course, milord.’

  Malcolm picked up Janus’s ransom note again as he relieved himself.

  Fuck you, Price. His mouth curled into a smile. He couldn’t wait to confront the prick and have him thrown in gaol. To watch him swing at the end of a hangman’s noose. But even better than that, he’d have Sarah back.

  Ruined or not, he was going to make her his wife.

  ***

  Blackloch Castle, Perthshire

  23 February 1757

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Isla. I did.’ Alex swept the young serving woman with an assessing look as she stood before his oak desk. The early morning sunlight filtering through the library window revealed that her red hair was dishevelled beneath her lace cap, and her face was pale and pinched. Lines of tension bracketed her mouth.

  Her gaze stayed fixed on the Persian rug beneath her feet and her hands twisted her apron as she waited for him to say something else. Alex rubbed his chin, anger warring with heartfelt regret. He didn’t like seeing the lass so cowed. He’d known her since she was a wee babe. Indeed, Aileen had given birth to her at Blackloch and after Isla had left the wet nurse’s cottage in Kinloch, she’d spent her childhood at the castle whilst Aileen had served as Blackloch’s housekeeper and Dobson filled the role of first footman.

  After Alex had purchased Blackloch five years ago, Isla had also served him faithfully and well in the capacity of a maidservant. But he just couldn’t condone what she’d done to Sarah.

  There must be consequences. But
he was willing to let the lass have her say first.

  ‘When Miss Lambert discovered the book about Eilean Dubh and Blackloch Castle—I’m also suspicious as to how such a title ended up in the solar, mind you—why didn’t you tell me about it, Isla? Instead of taking it upon yourself to get rid of the threat you thought Miss Lambert posed? You gave her wrong directions, didn’t you? So she’d meet with an accident on the moor perhaps?’

  ‘I…’ Isla shuffled her feet and her face became as flushed as the ruby-red curtains behind her. ‘I didna do such a terrible thing, milord. I do no’ remember much after Miss Lambert took her breakfast. I had a cup of small beer and then—’

  Alex slammed his hands flat on the desk and the maid jumped. ‘Don’t you dare lie to me, Isla. It was you who fished out the laudanum and laced the small beer both you and MacLagan drank. We both know it was in a locked casket in my bedchamber at Eilean Dubh. Your mother and I were the only ones with a key. And Aileen tells me that her key has gone missing.’ Alex’s eyes flitted to the iron key ring at her waist. ‘But something tells me I won’t have to look far to find it.’

  At last Isla raised her gaze to his. Her green eyes were glazed with tears. ‘I was only trying to help, milord. You’ve taken such pains to hide who ye really are. And with Miss Lambert being a Sassenach and all, I thought you would be happy if she just disappear—’

  ‘Disappeared?’ Alex snorted. ‘You mean died. And you were wrong, Isla. Very wrong about how I feel about Miss Lambert.’ Alex rounded the desk and leaned on the edge closest to Isla. He crossed his arms and drew a deep breath in an attempt to tamp down his anger and disappointment. ‘Miss Lambert has become very dear to me. In fact, I have asked her to be my wife. And she’s consented.’

  A flicker of strong emotion—pain, or was it resentment—flashed in Isla’s eyes before she dropped her gaze again. ‘Then may I offer my sincere congratulations to you both, milord?’ she whispered.

  Alex sighed. ‘The problem is, Isla, I don’t think you are being sincere.’