Lucy and Her Scottish Laird (17 page)

Lucy sat up in bed, unsure whether Béatrice’s voice had been real or part of her dream. It had seemed quite real.

She got out of bed and looked out her window. The moon was high, so it must be midnight at least. There was no light in the tower window, and the rest of
the courtyard was quiet, too.

She must have imagined the voice she’d heard. It was strange because it had seemed so real, so—

“
Ma dame
…”

This time, Lucy was sure she heard it. She turned to look toward the voice and saw something…an apparition.

The ghostly figure was hardly more than a smoky blue wisp in the air, but it quickly took the form of a beautiful young woman with long, flowing hair and a
bejeweled coronet upon her head. Her gown looked heavy and rich, with sleeves that flowed down to the floor.

“
Suis moi
,” she said. Her voice sounded to Lucy like the wind blowing through the wheat fields at home. She could barely make out the
words, though they sounded French. Not that she’d ever been good at understanding or speaking the language, but when the spirit beckoned to her, it
seemed clear she wanted Lucy to follow.

The elusive being seemed to drift through Lucy’s door. Lucy grabbed her shawl and went out of the room, planning to follow it. Her. Whatever it was.

She looked both ways down the corridor and saw the odd wisp of bluish light at the far end, near the stairs. Lucy ran to catch up, watching in silence as
the filmy form floated down the staircase. She followed it into the great hall until it turned a corner.

Lucy rushed down the passageway after it, but ran into someone at the door to the library. Not the ghost, but someone alive. Very alive, and quite sturdy.

Broxburn.

He caught her by the arms to steady her. “Lucy!”

Lucy stifled a scream, but couldn’t hold back a small cry of distress.

“What’s happened?” he asked. “Are you— Is your aunt—”

“No! It was…” Would he think she was mad if she told him about seeing Béatrice? He was the one who’d told her about the ghost,
so maybe he would understand.

He took her into the library and shut the door, then lit a lamp on the desk while Lucy stood quietly in her shift and shawl and nothing else. Even her feet
were bare.

“I saw something,” she said when he turned to face her.

“Something?”

“The ghost.” She said it calmly, although she felt anything but calm. She’d seen a wisp of Béatrice in the library, but the pale
blue light faded. Only a waning fire in the fireplace and the pale light from the lamp lit the room.

“You saw it?”

“Her. Lady Béatrice.”

Lucy could not have been more aware of her state of undress as he approached her. She curled her toes against the cool floor, and when he placed his hands
on her shoulders, her face and chest heated as though they would melt off her bones.

“You saw the ghost?”

She gave a slow nod, her eyes captured by his intense gaze.

“And she led you here?” he said in a hushed voice.

“You do not think I’m delirious?”

“No. Anything but delirious.” He moved closer, and Lucy could feel the strength of his body through her thin shift. She felt the beat of his
heart against her breasts. He lowered his head and brushed his mouth against hers.

It was a prelude to the real kiss, a deep, penetrating melding of mouths and lips that set Lucy’s nerves on fire. The room melted away, and there was
only Broxburn, his hard body and his warm, soft lips against hers. Lucy’s pulse quickened and her womb clenched low in her belly.

She was aware of nothing but the sensations surging through her, urging her to press even closer, to relish the sensation of his hands sliding down her
back, the opening of his mouth over hers. His tongue swept in, and Lucy felt herself quiver in response.

He shifted, and all manner of yearnings took possession of her. She wanted – no,
needed
– to feel him pressed against her breasts,
cradled against her thighs. She had not felt anything so…so
all
consuming
since those few moments in the cottage.

He found the tips of her breasts with his fingertips and rubbed lightly, sending waves of arousal through her. She heard herself moan, and without warning,
Broxburn moved back abruptly, leaving her dazed. Perplexed.

Ashamed.

He appeared completely boggled, as though he could not believe he’d kissed her – touched her – again. He muttered a word she’d
heard her brothers use only on rare occasions. And then he rubbed a hand across his face – in puzzlement or perhaps frustration.

“Sassenach.”

She made a dash for the door before he could say anything else, and quickly made her way back to the staircase. She felt thoroughly embarrassed. She was at
fault, wandering about his home wearing naught but her shift and a shawl. He might not have behaved as a gentleman, but she hadn’t been a lady,
either.

 She hurried up the steps and down the corridor to her room, stopping just as the door to her aunt’s room opened and Sinclair stepped out with a
lamp in her hand.

“Oh, Miss Stillwater!” Sinclair whispered. “I was just coming to get you.”

“What is it?”

“Your aunt. I think she is running a fever.”

Ian spent a restless night tossing about in his bed, hardly able to sleep for thinking of Lucy Stillwater. He could not remember any woman he’d
wanted more, but he was not so foolish as to believe Lucy had wanted him just as much. She was an innocent who had likely never experienced even a kiss,
much less the seduction that, even now, his body yearned for. Her responses had made him weak at the knees, though he was certain he’d have managed
the strength to lift her into his arms and carry her to the sofa if his conscience had not stopped him.

He drifted in and out of sleep all night, and when morning came, he battled the same ferocious arousal that had plagued him all night. He managed to crawl
out of bed and get ready to face the day, which was bound to be challenging.

When he arrived at his father’s door, he found several servants standing outside, listening to the shouts emanating from within.

Ian sent them all on their way except for one – Nial, the footman, whose help might be needed inside.

He opened the door and saw the most disturbing sight of his life. His father was crawling around the bed on his hands and knees. He was sweating profusely
and calling out nonsense words.

“He has been this way for hours, my lord,” his valet said.

“Did you send someone for the doctor?”

“Aye. He should arrive at any moment.”

Puzzled, Ian watched his father’s behavior. “What do you suppose is wrong with him?”

Almost in answer to Ian’s question, the duke howled. Like a wolf.

Ian took a step back.

“’Tis the drink, my lord. Without it, he is mad,” the valet said.

“Was he like this all night?” he asked.

Crenshaw shook his head. “He started acting this way – frantic, like – a couple of hours ago. He was merely shaking and trembling before
that.”

Ian turned to Nial, the footman. “Stay here with Crenshaw and assist him if necessary while I go and see Lord Auchengrey off.”

He wanted the earl and his family gone. If word of his father’s demented behavior got out in society, there could be dire consequences.

Worse, he did not want Lucy finding out and thinking he was descended from lunatics. She’d seen the duke’s erratic behavior before, but it
hadn’t been anything like this. Did his father actually believe he was an animal?

Ian encountered Malcolm on his way down to the great hall. “Are you leaving?”

Malcolm nodded. “I thought I’d ride to Edinburgh alongside the Auchengrey carriage. How is your father today, Ian?”

Ian hesitated only for a moment. Malcolm was his oldest and closest friend, and Ian knew he would not carry tales of Craigmuir’s incompetence to
Edinburgh. “He is somewhat worse, I fear. He’s completely irrational now.”

Malcolm’s expression darkened. “What’s to be done?”

“Henderson is on his way. I hope he will know what to do.”

“Ian, if you want me to stay—”

“No, but thanks. I daresay there’s nothing either of us can do.”

They went down to the great hall, where Lockhart was overseeing the packing of Auchengrey’s carriage.

“Where is the earl?” Ian asked.

“The family has breakfasted and will be down shortly, my lord,” Lockhart replied.

“And Henderson?” he queried, rather than asking about Miss Stillwater’s whereabouts. He had to focus on his father now, because it was
quite clear he was deteriorating quickly. Ian wondered if Crenshaw was right, or if the duke had gotten hold of some whiskey.

“I am watching for the doctor now, sir.”

“The Kildrum carriages are not out there, Lockhart,” Ian said, noting the obvious. “I thought they also planned to leave this
morning.”

“They did, my lord. But Lady Kildrum developed a fever during the night and her husband wishes her to stay until Dr. Henderson can have a
look.”

Ian clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace. He’d wanted Lucy to stay longer, but he knew this turn of events would worry her. Not only
that, but…what did he think could happen between them? He was not about to seduce a baron’s innocent daughter, a woman in love with another
man. He should not even be thinking it.

And yet—

“Ah, Lord Broxburn. Kindale,” Auchengrey said as he entered the great hall with his wife and daughter. The older man frowned when he saw
Ian’s face. “I hope naught is amiss.”

“Unfortunately, my father’s condition worsened overnight,” Ian said. “We are waiting for his physician.”

“Where is Miss Stillwater?” Lady Kathryn asked. “She was not at breakfast.”

Lady Auchengrey spoke sharply to her daughter. “Miss Stillwater’s whereabouts is not our concern.”

“I am very sorry to hear about your father, Broxburn,” Lord Auchengrey said. “If there is anything…”

“There is nothing, but thank you,” Ian replied. “The doctor is on his way.” In spite of his concern for his father, he could not
help but notice the gleam of speculation in Lady Auchengrey’s eyes when she looked at him. Was it because she assumed the duke would not survive,
which meant that Ian would soon become the Duke of Craigmuir? And yet Kathryn could not have seemed less interested in him. Her focus seemed to center on
Lucy—

An odd thought struck Ian at that moment, but he shook it away. Kathryn was like a child, anxious to meet new friends, and more comfortable in the presence
of her own gender. She was nowhere near ready to take a husband.

“Ah, here is Dr. Henderson,” Lockhart said as the physician’s gig pulled in through the gate.

“We will bid you farewell for now, Broxburn,” Auchengrey said, “and hope that all turns out well for your family.”

Ian turned to his guests. “Thank you.”

“And please accept my apology for disturbing you at this delicate time,” Auchengrey added.

As soon as the earl and his family exited the castle, Ian said goodbye to Malcolm.

“You will send word if there is anything—?”

Ian gave him a quick nod. “Of course.”

Malcolm left with Auchengrey, and Ian was left alone in the great hall as the carriage drove away. He quickly headed back to his father’s wing of the
castle.

He wondered how Lady Kildrum fared and whether Lucy would be staying another night or two. Nothing would please him more – except, perhaps, his
father’s miraculous recovery, as unlikely as that might be.

He entered the duke’s room where all was strangely quiet. He had a moment’s panic when he saw his father lying still upon the bright white of
his bed sheets.

Ian looked at Crenshaw, who shrugged. “He is quiet now,” the valet whispered.

Craigmuir took a deep, shuddering breath and Ian realized he’d been holding his own, expecting his father’s to be his last. But the duke
suddenly opened his eyes.

“Broxburn,” he said, reaching for Ian. “Son.” His hands were shaking.

“I am here.”

His father had not called him son in more than a decade. Ian guessed they’d been closer than most fathers and sons, perhaps because the duke had come
so close to having no offspring of his own.

“Give me your hand.”

Ian extended his hand and the duke took it. “Take care of the Craigmuir heritage. Do not make the same—”

Dr. Henderson stepped into the room, interrupting whatever the duke was about to say. He approached the bed. “No longer raving, I see. Was there a
seizure?”

“Seizure?”

“A fit. It sometimes happens in cases like these,” Henderson said.

Crenshaw shook his head. “No, sir. Just a few…loud ravings.”

Which Ian had seen.

The duke was shaky and seemed disoriented, and Ian wondered if his father would ever become lucid enough to answer the questions that had plagued Ian since
learning of his parentage. Or whether he could believe those answers.

Lady Kildrum’s maid placed another cool, wet cloth upon the older woman’s forehead while Lucy’s uncle paced. Arden was definitely pale
and feverish. The situation reminded Lucy of her mother’s illness last spring, when they’d been uncertain of her survival. A fever like this
was an unpredictable thing.

As unpredictable as a midnight walk through the halls of a haunted castle.

Those moments in the library with Broxburn had been worse than their previous encounters because she’d known how very potent his kiss was.
She’d known better than to let him get that close to her, and yet she had. She’d relished those moments.

This was just impossible.
She loved Joshua Parris
, and even though Lord Broxburn appealed to her in a certain way…No, no, no – that
was not right. He was too…

Lucy swallowed. He threatened everything she’d always felt for Joshua. Could her feelings have been wrong?

     “As soon as Arden’s fever breaks, I am taking her home,” Uncle Archie said. “She needs her own house, her
own bed.”