Lucy and Her Scottish Laird (7 page)

She nodded as the butler pulled out a chair for her and poured her a cup of tea. All at once, footmen entered, carrying trays laden with food. It all
smelled wonderful, but Lucy only took a bowl of porridge.

Broxburn sat down in his own chair, the one adjacent to hers. His dark hair was thick and more than a bit unruly, touching the back of his collar and
curling slightly. His strong, square jaw was clean-shaven today, unlike the day before, when he’d rescued her and her family from the broken carriage
and the storm. Lucy had noticed his hands then, when he’d carried her aunt up the stairs with so little trouble. They were large and competent, with
thick veins across their backs – quite rugged-looking, especially when compared to the delicate teacup he lifted to his mouth.

 “Dr. Henderson will be here soon to check on all of you,” he said. “How is your head?”

“Better, I think.” They appeared to be in a truce. He hadn’t said anything about last night’s odd interlude, and she wasn’t
thinking about him nuzzling the sensitive lobe of her ear.

Oh, heavens, she
was
!

She swallowed and looked down at her bowl. “My uncle is much improved, but my aunt is still in a great deal of pain. And she is not entirely…”

“Entirely what?”

Lucy did not know how to describe Arden’s disorientation. “She is not herself.”

“Henderson said she was concussed. Could that be the reason for it?”

“I don’t really know—”

A door crashed open and a gentleman staggered through. He was tall and well-dressed, but there was an air of dishevelment about him. He was nearly
identical to Lord Broxburn, down to the deep crease in his cheeks. Except for his graying hair and rheumy, bloodshot eyes, he could be mistaken for
Broxburn – obviously his son. The duke muttered to himself as he yanked open cabinet doors and the drawers of the sideboard, leaving them hanging
open. Lord Broxburn stood and faced him, but the older man turned to the butler. “Lockhart, ye wee bastard!”

“Your Grace!” Lockhart protested.

“Where’s m’ damned whiskey?”

“Gone,” Broxburn said.

The duke whirled around and jabbed a finger into his son’s chest. “Gone where?” he roared.

“Your Grace, we have a guest.” Broxburn’s tone was cold and assertive. To Lucy, he sounded like a parent speaking to a wayward child.

“What have ye done with it?”

“Henderson said it’s killing you,” Broxburn said calmly. “So now it’s gone.”

“Lockhart,” the duke said, “go down to the village and—”

“No, Lockhart,” Broxburn said. “Stay where you are.”

Lucy felt supremely uncomfortable having to witness such a personal family interchange. She glanced up at Lockhart for some guidance, but the man’s
full attention was on Broxburn and his father.

“I’ll find someone in this confounded house who will do my bidding!” the duke roared.

But before he could storm off, a footman ushered Dr. Henderson into the room. Broxburn’s father stood still for a moment, looking befuddled. Then he
roared again. “What in bloody hades are
ye
doing here?”

Henderson seemed undaunted by the duke’s outburst, but his son’s color was high and his dark brows were furrowed in a prodigious frown. He
seemed ready to lambaste the duke for his rudeness, but Henderson spoke first.

“I’ve come to pay a call on your guests, Craigmuir. What are
you
doing here?” he said calmly. “You ought to be in
bed.”

“Enough!” Broxburn called out in frustration. “Henderson, have some tea and then go up to see your patients. Craigmuir, come with
me.” He took hold of his father’s arm and drew him out of the dining room by force, as though he were a recalcitrant child.

Lucy looked at Dr. Henderson. “Is he always that way?”

“More often than not, these days.”

Lucy glanced toward the door with a better understanding of the cause of Broxburn’s sour temperament.

Ian felt embarrassed even though he wasn’t the one who’d performed so despicably before Lucy Stillwater. At least Craigmuir finally settled
down once he returned to his room. He seemed exhausted by his outburst, and Ian realized his father had likely been on a lengthy rampage in search of
spirits even before his appearance in the morning room.

Wouldn’t it be a mercy to just give him his whiskey?

He looked at his father as he lay insensible on his bed. The valet covered him with a light woolen blanket, and Craigmuir did not awaken. He seemed to
shine with an odd, unhealthy glow that Ian had not noticed before. Perhaps Henderson was right and Craigmuir would actually die if he imbibed again.

Ian rubbed the back of his neck while he paced. If Craigmuir continued this behavior, Ian would be forced to lock him in his room. There were several
brawny footmen in service at Craigmuir Castle, and they would be perfectly capable of taking care of the duke.

But it was not a prospect Ian looked forward to.

“My lord,” the valet said, “are you certain the duke cannot have just one wee dram when he awakens? Surely that will not hurt him, but
calm him.”

Ian stopped pacing for a moment. “No. Not even a dram.” He did not want his father to die. Craigmuir had been a good father to him. But there
were questions…And he wanted to talk to him while he was sober and sensible and tell him exactly what Henderson had said.

Then it would be his decision whether to kill himself or not.

Lucy returned to her aunt and uncle with Dr. Henderson. He examined them both, pronounced her uncle to be well on the mend, but said it was still too early
to move Lady Kildrum. He took his leave with instructions to send for him if her condition changed.

“Lucy, you do not need to stay and watch over us. Arden is resting, and I will just stay here and read. Perhaps nap a wee bit.” Her
uncle’s voice held the weight of sadness, and Lucy knew he would never get over his feelings of guilt for MacLean’s death. “You could
probably use some air. Why don’t you take a walk now, while Arden is sleeping?”

Her heart sank at the sadness in his voice, and she realized he wanted to be left alone. “All right, Uncle, if you’re sure.” He nodded
and Lucy went to her room for her hat and gloves, and then started down the stairs. There was nothing to do but what her uncle suggested – go for a
walk outside.

She reached the great hall and saw Dr. Henderson exiting the castle when Mrs. MacRae stopped him at the door. “Dr. Henderson, will you look in on the
duchess before you leave? She is quite poorly this morn.”

Lucy understood what it was to have an ill mother. She’d worried terribly last spring when her mother had been unable to rise from her bed. Lady
Stillwater been wracked by fever and aches, and she’d had difficulty breathing. Though her mother had improved a great deal in the past couple of
months, Lucy still worried about her. She could easily imagine how Lord Broxburn felt, knowing his own mother was ailing. And his father was not well,
either.

Dr. Henderson turned around and followed Mrs. MacRae through the great hall, possibly to another wing of the castle. Lucy proceeded out the door, but did
not go far as she became enchanted by the incredibly well-preserved medieval buildings. She had seen drawings and diagrams of medieval castles and knew
quite a lot about them. It was an interest she shared with Joshua Parris, who was something of an expert on the ancient ruins near their home.

Sometimes when they explored the crumbling structures, Lucy felt as though she could sense the lives that had been lived in them eons ago – she could
almost hear their voices. They’d been human beings, just like her and Joshua, with joys and sorrows, victories and failures.

Joshua sometimes told her she was too fanciful.

Perhaps she was. Craigmuir Castle roused the imagination unlike any of the old structures she’d explored with Joshua in Berkshire. Lucy stood in the
courtyard, picturing knights gathering there in their armor, preparing for battle. Her heart fluttered a little when she realized that William Wallace and
Robert Bruce might have stood right where she was, some five hundred years ago.

There were stone steps up to the battlements, and Lucy climbed them to get a better view of the castle compound. From there, she could see the gatehouse, a
chapel, two towers, and several low buildings, including a stable and blacksmith shop.

It all took her breath away.

Lord Broxburn strode across the courtyard and went into a door leading to one of the towers. Lucy considered following him into the tower through a door at
the top, but decided against it.

Instead, she walked across the high battlements to the gatehouse where she found a thick wooden door with a heavy brass latch. Lucy lifted the latch and
the door opened.

She stepped into a room furnished with wall tapestries that were nearly threadbare, a long, scarred bench, two large wooden chairs and a table, all of
which looked to be hundreds of years old. The fireplace did not appear to have been used in years, and the windows were mere arrow loops, designed for
defense.

Lucy could hardly contain her excitement. She couldn’t believe she’d stumbled upon such a well-preserved medieval structure and wished she knew
more about its history. It did not keep her from imagining it.

She could almost feel the presence of the first lord and lady of Craigmuir up here, as they looked out across their lands in relative safety. At least,
safety for the times. After all, why build a stone wall if the region was safe from marauders and invading armies? Life had not always been peaceful in the
borderlands.

 Lucy moved on to the next room, which was empty, then lost track of time exploring the other rooms in the gatehouse. It was eerily simple to put
herself in the place of the ancient Lady Craigmuir, living and breathing in olden times. Lucy felt something odd about her…a piercing sorrow that
could only be—

“Would you like a guided tour, Miss Stillwater?”

Lucy jumped at the sound of Lord Broxburn’s voice and the otherworldly sensation dissipated. “Oh! You startled me!” She’d been so
enthralled, she hadn’t even heard him come in.

He did not apologize as any civilized man would do, but smiled. He moved toward her, taking her elbow and leading her to one of the arrow loops. “It
is said that the armies of the Earl of Mar mustered his forces just there,” he pointed to the grounds below the gatehouse, “before the Battle
of Dupplin Moor.”

“He lost that battle, didn’t he?”

He chuckled. “You know your history.”

“’Tis an easy thing to know if one has a passion for it.”

When she turned to look at him, his face was close enough for her to see flecks of green in his dark eyes. Close enough for her to recall the touch of his
lips on hers in the dream. “Is it your passion, little Sassanach?”

His voice was low and intimate, and Lucy had trouble catching her breath. She knew she ought to step back, but her feet would not move. Her body felt hot,
and the tips of her breasts seemed to be overly sensitive to the slight friction of her clothing over them.

She swallowed, and he stepped away. Not far, but far enough for her to gather her muddled thoughts.

“We have a ghost at Craigmuir,” he said.

She gave a small shake of her head. “A ghost?”

“Yes. You’ve heard of them…restless spirits that haunt—”

“Yes, of course I know what ghosts are,” Lucy said irritably. She glanced around, as though the presence she’d sensed would appear at any
moment. “You say you have one here?”

“We have two, actually.” His mouth quirked up in a half-smile.

She took a deep breath, distracted by his mouth. “D-do you know who they are?” It was annoying to be so affected by him. In another day or so
she wouldn’t even remember dreaming about him.

He went to one of the windows and looked outside, and Lucy felt her palms dampening inside her gloves. Her gaze locked upon his broad shoulders and
traveled down to his trim waist. He was quite solid, and strong, too, judging by his ability to carry her aunt up the staircase, then carrying Lucy to her
bed. Her face heated with the memory of those moments when he’d held her in his arms.

“For anyone who believes in this sort of thing…the ghosts are said to be an ancestor of mine and her lover.”

She sensed he knew more, and when he turned to face her, she knew it was not a pleasant story. “Do you know anything about them?”

As it happened, it was not Ian’s sordid family history that haunted him, but his sordid present. His twelfth century grandmother might have been an
adulteress, but his father was a lying womanizer. Ian didn’t even know if the Broxburn line was true, or if he had descended from Beatrice’s
lover.

But what did it matter now? Ian wasn’t legitimate, and his cousin might well be his brother. He managed not to quake at the thought of it.

“He was Sir Alexander Gordon, a knight in the service of King David.” No doubt he’d cut a dashing figure and had been irresistible to
Beatrice.
“
Béatrice was little more than a lass when she wed the much older Lord Broxburn – the old family title – far from
her family and her home in France.”

“How did they die?” Lucy asked quietly.

“Her husband ran his sword through Gordon’s heart, and tossed Béatrice from the tower window.”

Lucy paled and Ian realized it had not been necessary to give quite so brutal an explanation. Admittedly, it had been a gruesome end for the lovers, but he
could have said he didn’t know what had happened to them. He could have told her about the legend of a hidden cache of gold that Béatrice and
Gordon had hidden from their lord and master.

But he kept his silence on the foolish tale, and all the others he’d heard about the two lovers. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered,
and Ian saw that hint of vulnerability she’d shown yesterday. He had a nearly irresistible urge to close the distance between them and take her into
his arms, but there was no point. He was in no position to offer comfort to anyone. Especially not a dark-haired English beauty who seemed to have little
use for him.