Claimed by the Laird Page 9

  “It’s too soon, Richard.”

  He shook her, but gently. “No. It is not. We have been wed for a month now and the longer we go on like this the more difficult it will be.”

  There was silence. The pounding of the sea had dulled to a murmur. The high, plaintive call of the seabirds had faded. After a moment, Richard sighed.

  “Perhaps your father—”

  “No.” Allegra was adamant. Of all the people likely to help her, her father was last on the list. Generally he had no interest in her at all, but he would be very interested to discover that she, the heir to all the unentailed Forres fortune and estates, had thrown herself away on a penniless government official with no connections and no prospects. Interested, outraged, furious. She shuddered.

  “Then tell your aunt Christina.” Richard sounded patient, coaxing. “I met her today. She seems very nice. I am sure she could help us.”

  Allegra considered it, watching the birds sail high and fast against the deep blue of the sky. She liked Christina best of all her aunts and uncles. Christina was ancient, of course, and she could have no idea what it felt like to be desperately, hopelessly in love, or to do anything wild and mad and passionate. But Allegra knew that she cared about people and tried to help them. She had seen Christina’s kindness toward her father’s tenants and those who were sick or poor, lonely or desperate. Christina was a loving person where her own parents were cold and empty of humanity.

  She considered telling Christina what she had done, and that felt safe enough. She could do that. But the thought of going with Christina to tell her mother made her tremble. Cold fear gnawed her gut.

  Richard was talking. “Now that I have this job as riding officer I have more to offer you. Perhaps if I make a success of this commission to capture the Kilmory Gang, Sidmouth will reward me and your family will be more inclined to accept me—”

  He broke off as though he had sensed just how pointless his words were. They both knew that nothing short of him inheriting a dukedom would make a difference to Allegra’s parents.

  Allegra jumped to her feet. Her gown was crumpled and stained. Suddenly she felt grubby and ashamed and close to despair. She had not meant for it to be like this. She had met Richard and wanted him very much, and so she had run off and married him in secret. No one knew. It had all seemed simple then. “I must go,” she said.

  Richard swore under his breath. His hands were as clumsy fastening his trousers as they had been in unfastening them. The sight shot her through with love and misery and she had no idea why. She had not thought love would hurt so much.

  “I’ll tell them,” she said in a rush, wanting to make it better, wanting to make him happy. “I promise.” She went to him, touched his arm. For a brief second his hand covered hers.

  They both knew she was lying.

  * * *

  CHRISTINA CLOSED THE door of the bothy softly behind her and leaned back against it, feeling the wood rough against her palms. Here, in the warm, whisky-laden darkness, she finally felt some of the peace she had been seeking all day. She had worked her fingers to the bone for the past twelve hours, blocking out thoughts of Lucas.

  She knew that attraction was no respecter of age or rank or status. Still, it disturbed her that she was so drawn to a man who was her junior by at least half a dozen years and was unsuitable in every way there was. She did not like it, she did not understand it and she did not want it. Yet part of her liked Lucas well enough; the part that she had been denying for years, the part that wanted to indulge her fantasies.

  Madness. It could not happen. It would not happen.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the distilling whisky, letting it fill her senses, letting go of her thoughts. The air smelled heavy and rich, the whisky spirit mingled with the smoke of the peat fire. It was hot and heady, and Christina felt as though she could get drunk on the whisky fumes alone.

  “Evening ma’am.” Seumas Mor MacFarlane came in with water from the stream outside. It slopped over the side of the bucket and splashed onto the earthen floor. His was the task of keeping the fire burning and keeping the whisky distilling at precisely the right temperature. His brother, Niall, had the task of stirring the fermenting barley, another part of the process that required skill and delicacy. Each member of the gang had his role, whether it was in producing the spirit itself or shipping it out safely under the noses of the riding officers.

  “I’ve distilled it four times,” Seumas said. “It should be ready.”

  Christina nodded. Each batch of Kilmory peat-reek was normally distilled four times for the best flavor and purity. Known as the Uisge bea’ ba’ol, it commanded a high price. Some they distributed locally, some was taken by boat from the cove to customers farther afield.

  Seumas already had a new batch of the peat-reek distilling. She took the flask he proffered and poured some of the Uisge bea’ ba’ol into a glass. His face was watchful as she held the liquid up to the light. The lamplight lit it with a deep glow, the color of old gold. She sniffed it; nodded. The flavor burst on her tongue, fierce and strong. The heat and power of it went to her head, making it swim. Suddenly her limbs felt weak and she wanted to drink the peat-reek down and lose herself in it.

  “It’s perfect,” she said, and saw Seumas Mor’s expression relax into pleasure. He was a man of few words, rough around the edges, yet with such a feel for the whisky, his trade learned from his father and grandfather before him.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That is ready to be put in the barrels and moved out. You got the last consignment away successfully?”

  Seumas Mor’s expression darkened. “Just. The excisemen were sniffing around.”

  “When are they not?” Christina said tiredly.

  Seumas Mor shook his head. “This time it’s bad, ma’am, worse than before. Mr. Eyre caught Niall down on the beach with his boy just after the boat had gone. Niall told him they were fishing but Eyre didn’t believe him. They took them both to Fort William to the jail.”

  Christina’s head jerked up. Horror closed her throat. “They took Callum, as well? But he’s only eight years old!”

  Seumas Mor shrugged. “Nothing you can do, ma’am. Nothing any of us can do. They went straight to Niall’s cottage and burned it down.”

  Christina rubbed her eyes against the sting of tears. She felt wretched. She knew that Niall would not talk and that Callum knew nothing about the smuggling, but that was not the point. She thought of the boy locked up in a dark, dank cell, probably separated from his father, alone and afraid. She thought of their home destroyed and their possessions trampled. Eyre was a monster who would use anyone and anything to break the gang. He had no scruples.

  Each time a man was taken, Christina thought about giving up the distilling, but stubborn determination always made her fight back. If they gave in to Eyre, the fierce pride the Highlanders had taken in brewing their peat-reek, the rights they had held in defiance of London laws and the money they had made to ward off the crippling poverty of their existence would all be destroyed. But this was too much. If Eyre started to wage war on women and children then she had no choice.

  She filled the glass again and raised the peat-reek to her lips, draining half of it in one gulp. At this rate she would rival Lachlan as a drunkard, but she needed it. She was so tired of having to stand up alone for the people of Kilmory. No one else gave a damn—her father, her brother, both out for what they could get from the land and the people rather than what they could give.

  “I’ll speak to Eyre,” she said. “They cannot ride roughshod over people’s lives like this.”

  Seumas shook his head. “You’re the one Eyre wants, ma’am,” he said roughly. “He’ll go through any number of us to get to you.”

  A cold shard of shock and fear pierced Christina. She had known for a while that Eyre suspected she might be protecting the smugglers. But she had no notion that he believed her to be a part of the gang, and still less that he would seek to arre
st her for it.

  “Why on earth would they want me—” she began, but then she saw it so clearly she felt naive. Eyre was ambitious and he cared nothing for ingratiating himself with the nobility. In fact, he hated the life of privilege that she had been born into. He hated her even more since she had complained of him to Sidmouth. It would be the greatest coup of his career to bring down the Kilmory Gang with her as its leader.

  She drained the rest of the glass and set it down softly. Already the spirit, so strong, was starting to take the edge off her thoughts. She felt warm and a little dizzy. She would think about Eyre and the problem he posed in the morning. She nodded to Seumas, who was watching her dourly. “I’ll do what I can,” she said.

  “Aye, ma’am.” He dipped his head. “We know you will.” He passed Christina a small stone bottle of the peat-reek. She knew it was to be left as a traditional gift for her father, the laird who turned a blind eye to the smugglers’ activities. For once she felt bitter about it. The duke did nothing to help the smugglers. He turned a blind eye because he was utterly indifferent to their activities. He deserved no thanks.

  Outside it was a mild night, starry, warm. The wind rifled the pines and played through the heather. The bothy was set along the edge of Loch Gyle, tucked away in the lee of a rise in the land where there was a running stream and where the smoke from the fires would not be seen. Christina carefully traced her path along the edge of the loch, its waters shining silver in the moonlight, and took the path down the valley to the castle. Along the way she took the stopper from the bottle of peat-reek and took a long swallow. Whisky was not really her sort of drink; apart from the tasting, she never normally touched it. Tonight, though, she rather thought she could get a craving for it. It took the edge off the pain of Niall and Callum’s capture, but beneath the dulling taste of the drink her heart ached.

  She met no one on the walk home. She let herself into the castle grounds and wandered across the gravel to the door at the base of the west tower. Here she always hid a key for those occasions when she went out at night and the castle was locked up. She did not always like to ask Galloway to leave a door open or to wait up for her.

  She bent down to search for the key amongst the tumble of stones at the base of the tower. It was a mistake. Her head swam suddenly from the combination of tiredness and drink. She put out a hand to steady herself and her fingertips grazed the rough stone of the wall. She fell over with as little grace as a collapsing balloon, and the whisky flagon rolled away from her across the gravel.

  “Damnation!” She made a grab for it and missed, sitting down hard on the ground, her skirts billowing around her.

  There was a sound behind her, a step. A shadow fell across her.

  “Dear me.” It was Lucas’s voice, low, cool and amused. “Can I be of any assistance, Lady Christina?”

  * * *

  SHE WAS DRUNK.

  Lady Christina MacMorlan was indisputably foxed on contraband whisky. Of all the people in the world that Lucas would have suspected of sampling the peat-reek as well as brewing it, Christina would have been at the bottom of his list. Her starchy, proper manner evidently concealed a very improper soul.

  And now she was as drunk as a lord and sitting on the gravel drive outside her own door looking ruffled and confused and strangely appealing. Her skirts were tumbled about her knees, showing a froth of virginal-white petticoats, a tempting curve of thigh and a frankly naughty scarlet garter, another sign that she was very far from the staid and respectable old maid she pretended to be.

  Lucas smothered a smile and courteously offered her a hand to help her rise.

  “Mr. Ross,” Christina said. “What a surprise!”

  “Isn’t it?” Lucas agreed. In fact, he had been waiting, night after night, for Christina to leave the castle on smuggling business. Tonight he had followed her. He now knew the precise location of the whisky still, which was the most valuable piece of information he could pass on to Lord Sidmouth.

  She took his hand and propelled herself to her feet with rather more enthusiasm than finesse. Lucas found his arms full of her, warm, yielding, soft. The scent of peat smoke clung faintly to her clothes, almost lost beneath the stronger scent of the fresh sea air. She turned her face up to his and the urge to smile died in him, crushed beneath a lust so strong it felt like a physical blow. Her eyes were shining, her lips parted. He wanted to kiss the life out of her.

  Peter.

  The memory of his brother was sufficient to break the spell. This woman might be Peter’s murderer; he could not afford to feel anything for her. Already the blazing attraction between them, which he had thought to use against her, was working against him, too. It had even made him forget for a brief moment that she represented everything he disliked and distrusted, a world of inequality and privilege that had treated him so viciously.

  He put Christina gently away from him and bent to pick up the bottle of peat-reek, handing it to her. She took it from him, but when her fingers closed over his, she did not let go. Startled, he met her gaze and saw that she was nowhere near as drunk as he had imagined her to be. Or if she was, she was still wary, still suspicious. He needed to tread carefully.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “I saw you when I was on my way back from the Kilmory Inn and thought you looked as though you could do with some help,” Lucas said. The lie came less easily than he had wanted. Somehow, with her hand still resting in his, it felt difficult to deceive her. Her gaze, her touch, demanded honesty from him. He cleared his throat.

  “You should be more discreet, Lady Christina,” he said. “If you wish to avoid detection, I suggest that you delay your activities until after closing time at the inn. The revenue officers drink there, too.”

  There was a moment of silence whilst she weighed his words, and then her hand fell to her side and she nodded. “That’s good advice,” she said. “I am surprised, though. I would not think any revenue officer welcome at the inn.”

  “Their money is,” Lucas said, “and Eyre cares nothing for a cold welcome. His nephew is a different man, but he was not there tonight.”

  Her gaze searched his face again, as though trying to assess his honesty. Lucas could feel his heart thudding. She should have looked ridiculous trying to assume some dignity and authority when she was so disheveled, and yet there was something very endearing about her. In the moonlight, her eyes looked huge and dark. There was something so innocent and vulnerable about her expression, and he was all too aware of the soft, feminine curves beneath her practical black cloak. He felt desire stir again and repressed it ruthlessly.

  “Can I do anything else to help you, ma’am?” he asked.

  “I should be grateful if you could find the key,” Christina said. She waved the bottle of peat-reek in the vague direction of a pile of stones. “I hid it over there.”

  It didn’t take Lucas long to find it. The key fitted neatly into the door and the door itself swung open on recently oiled hinges. He would have expected nothing less of her. She was always efficient; at least she was when she was sober. Tonight she was warm and vibrant in his arms, wriggling a little as he tried to bundle her up the worn spiral stair, a lantern in one hand, Christina in the other. Her body felt delicious against his, the silk of her gown slippery and smooth. Lucas gritted his teeth.

  “Why are you drunk?” he asked.

  “Peat-reek.” Her breath whispered across his skin. Her lips brushed his jaw. His skin shivered. It was all he could do not to turn his head and sample that lush mouth so close to his. She would taste of whisky and sweetness and he wanted to kiss her very much but again he fought back the impulse. He needed to use tonight to gain information and to build her trust in him.

  “I guessed that,” he said. “I did not realize that you drank the peat-reek as well as brewed it. What I meant was, why did you feel the need to get drunk?”

  “I don’t drink whisky usually.” A faint hint of hauteur had come into her voice. �
�Only tonight...” Her shoulders slumped suddenly. The light and warmth and happiness went out of her like a candle blown out.

  “They took a child,” she said softly. “Eyre arrested the son of one of my men. He is eight years old.”

  Lucas could hear the pain clear in her voice. It was sharp and unmistakably sincere. Lady Christina MacMorlan cared. She cared about what happened to the people of her clan. Anything that hurt them also hurt her. She was no privileged aristocrat playing at smuggling because she was bored or spoiled. It was not as simple as that.

  “Eyre is so vicious,” she said. Lucas felt her shiver. “He takes pleasure in brutality. He is one of the most violent and dangerous men I know.”

  Lucas had not met the riding officer yet, though he had heard plenty about him. Sidmouth had told him that Eyre would be in touch with him and would help him, but so far Eyre had completely ignored him. Lucas was not sure if Eyre resented his presence on his patch, but it would be in character with his self-importance and pride to want to keep his information to himself. There was always an undertone of complaint at the inn about the man’s methods and the way he would pursue the villagers for the last penny they owed, searching houses, raiding barns, trampling crops, scaring livestock, careless of their lives and their livelihood.

  “Smuggling is a harsh business, Lady Christina,” he said. “It’s not a game.”

  “I know that.” Her tone was sharp now, and yet Lucas sensed beneath that sharpness a vulnerability that she was doing her best to hide. She did not want him to know how much she cared. She did not want her emotions stripped bare in front of him.

  The light from the lantern fell on her face. There were lines of tiredness and grief etched in her countenance, and Lucas felt something stir inside him.

  “You blame yourself, don’t you,” he said abruptly. “You blame yourself for what happens to the child.”

  He felt another shudder rack her. “Of course,” she said. She tipped the flask to her lips again. “It’s my duty to protect the people of Kilmory,” she said, “not to put them in harm’s way.”