Claimed by the Laird (9 page)

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?”

* * *

S
HE
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.”

“What will you do?” Lucas asked.

“Go to Eyre, I suppose,” Christina said. She was slurring her words slightly now. “Beg him to release Callum MacFarlane. I suspect he will enjoy seeing me beg.”

They had reached the top of the stairs. Christina stood up on tiptoe to take a key from the lintel above the door. For a second she swayed against Lucas, her hair brushing his shoulder, her breast pressing against his arm. She smelled of bluebells and the earthiness of peat and the faintest hint of whisky. His body tightened and he shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her.

She fumbled with the key in the lock for so long that Lucas stepped forward and took it from her, sliding it into the lock and turning it. The door swung open, silently again, to reveal a small dressing room furnished with two deep, comfortable armchairs and a thick carpet on the floor. Beyond that an open door showed the corner of a big tester bed and a grate where a fire burned low. The room had the same shabby coziness that characterized the rest of the castle. Lucas felt again that unfamiliar sense of warmth and welcome drawing him in. He, who had never had a proper family home and had never wanted to create one, felt its appeal.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Ross,” Christina said. She was sliding the cloak from her shoulders, draping it over the back of one of the chairs. Her gown was a little lopsided, dipping down to reveal the curve of her left shoulder. Lucas stared, fascinated. Her skin was creamy, pale and scattered with freckles, the faintest shadow cast by the delicate line of her collarbone. He wanted to press his lips to the elegant curve where her neck met her shoulder. He wanted to see if the rest of her body had that tempting dusting of freckles, too. He badly wanted to know.

“You may go, Mr. Ross,” Christina said, interrupting his thoughts. “Please lock the door on your way out and hide the key.” She looked him straight in the eyes, or at least she tried to. Her gaze seemed slightly out of focus. “I hope that I can trust you not to tell anyone about this.”

“You can trust me,” Lucas said.

Another lie.

He was disturbed to feel a jolt of guilt. There was something about this woman that seemed to demand honesty, and he could not give her that. He did not even understand why he felt the need to. All he knew was that she was intoxicated and vulnerable and that for some reason that made him feel protective of her.

He forced himself to think about Peter. Like Callum MacFarlane, Peter had been someone’s child, someone’s brother, scarcely more than a boy himself. He wondered if Christina had cared about that.

“Answer me one thing before I leave,” he said. “You owe me that.”

Her eyes opened wide. She blinked. “I don’t owe you anything, Mr. Ross.” She was making an attempt to sound crisp, reminding him of his place, comically dignified given her tousled state.

“I think you owe me plenty for my help tonight,” Lucas said.

“And I think you presume a lot,” Christina said.

Lucas smiled. “That’s true, I do.” He paused. “What if I ask nicely?”

She sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“I do not understand how a woman like you comes to be involved in something like this,” Lucas said. He looked around the room. “You don’t need the money,” he said slowly, “and after what you have said tonight I would swear you do not do it for the excitement. So why
do
you do it?”

She was silent. After a moment she sat down in one of the armchairs, half turned away from him. He watched the play of firelight and shadow across her face. She was just drunk enough to be indiscreet, he thought, whilst sober enough to be coherent. It could be interesting.

“I’m good at it,” she said after a moment. Her chin came up. She looked defiant. “I am the taster, the only one with the ability to judge when the whisky is ready to be distilled. It’s important...a skilled job.”

“I’m skilled at picking pockets,” Lucas said. “It doesn’t mean I should do it.”

“Are you?” For a moment she sounded intrigued. “What an extraordinary talent to possess! How did you develop it?”

“I had a misspent youth on the streets,” Lucas said. He had not meant to talk about himself, but with Christina it was all too easy to let down his guard and forget. He could see her looking at him curiously; it was not pity he could see in her eyes but compassion. “I was an orphan,” he said. His voice was harsh. He had never told anyone but Jack about his childhood. He was astonished to hear himself telling her now. “I had to learn any number of tricks to survive.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft. “Your parents—”

“I don’t speak of them.” He slammed the door shut before he could betray himself entirely.

“What you do is different,” he said, as much to remind himself as to provoke her.

“Of course.” A defensive note had crept into her voice. “I do not have to fight for survival. But, equally, I don’t act for personal gain. The rest of the gang divides up the profits. They need the money. I don’t.” She rushed on, her words tumbling out far quicker than normal in her hurry to justify herself. “You’ve seen the poverty in the village, Mr. Ross. Many of the young men have left to join the Highland regiments, or taken their families overseas. There is no work, nothing to keep people here ever since my grandfather put up the rents sixty years ago and offered his tenancies to the highest bidder. He drove people from the land.”

Lucas had recognized the poverty in Kilmory Village within the first day of being there. What Christina said was true; there was little work on the land now, few ways to give any man a job and a living wage. And with that loss of work went a loss of self-respect. He understood that; he knew how fiercely a man’s pride and his independence were tied up in his ability to provide for his family. Christina’s grandfather had destroyed the traditional bonds between the laird and his people, and it seemed that her father had done nothing to try to improve their welfare, even though he was reputedly a rich man.