Ann Lethbridge - The Laird's Forbidden Lady

The Highlanders swore by their whisky, attributing healing properties to the malted liquor. They even gave it to babies.

And it wasn’t only illiterate crofters who held fast to the old ideas. The nobles did it, too. A school, education, would bring them into the nineteenth century, but it wouldn’t get off the ground if Ian ended up deported or worse. Didn’t he realise that, by taking risks with his own life for a few barrels of brandy, he was risking their futures?

Or was he smuggling in order to put food in their bellies? Because her father cared not one whit for the people on this land.

Her blood ran cold. She didn’t want to believe it, but her father was completely ruthless when it came to money and power. It was what had made him so successful.

He’d be delighted to see the Gilvrys out of his way.

The memory of Ian’s strong arms around her shoulders, beneath her thighs, haunted her as if she was still some besotted schoolgirl. Only worse, because other sensations tormented her too, little pulses of desire she couldn’t seem to control.

And the way he had looked at her in the tithe barn had only made them worse.

Hot and bothered, she slid out of the bed and walked to the mullioned window. Clear. The rain clouds gone. Stars twinkled teasingly.

The perfect night for smuggling.

The perfect night for a trap.

She gazed in the direction of the village. Was it her imagination, or could she see men leading strings of ponies across the heather between here and the village?

Imagination. It was too dark to make out anything except the dark shape of the distant hills against the sky.

Was Ian out there? About to be caught in the hated Revenue men’s net? She should have gone to warn him this afternoon, instead of telling herself it was none of her business. She owed him more than a thank you for helping Alice. And even if Dunross’s people hated her, she had this strange feeling of responsibility. Dunross Keep might be her dowry, but Ian Gilvry was their laird. She would never be able to live with herself if she didn’t at least try to warn him.

A clock struck eleven. What had felt like hours was only a single turn of the hour hand. It might not be too late to tell them. It wasn’t as if everyone didn’t turn a blind eye to smuggling.

Good Lord, her own father had a cellar full of smuggled wines in London. As long as those responsible didn’t hurt anyone along the way, smuggling, while a crime in the eyes of the law, was seen as more of a game.

A game Ian should have avoided with her father in residence at the keep.

Hands shaking with the need for haste, she sorted through the clothes in her press. Stays. How would she lace her stays without her maid? She lifted up a gaudy skirt she’d worn to a masquerade in Lisbon. She’d played the part of a Portuguese dancer. Somewhere she had a peasant blouse and an overbodice, which laced up the front.

But if she wanted to ride Topaz, she would need breeches, because she’d have to ride astride. She dug out a pair she’d worn on her childhood adventures when Father had left her with servants and hadn’t cared what she did most of the time. Tonight she would wear them under her petticoats.

Anyone seeing her, such as the Revenue men for example, would take her for one of the village girls in such attire.

As long as she didn’t run into Dunstan.

Her stomach rolled in a most unpleasant way. If she was caught, it would be the end of all her hopes for a good marriage.

She would just have to make sure he didn’t see her. She was only going to the village and back. He would be waiting on the shore for the smugglers. Hopefully in vain.

She finished dressing swiftly, throwing an old woollen cloak around her shoulders and hurrying downstairs in bare feet, carrying her shoes. She put them on at the side door and went out to the stables.

Blast. A light shone from a window above the stalls where Angus lived. He’d hear her and stop her if she tried to take Topaz.

Then she’d walk. The gate, of course, was locked and barred. Anyone would think they were at war, the way they locked up the keep at night.

There was another way out. The old sally port—an escape route for if the keep was ever besieged. Long ago it had been her route to freedom and a few secret meetings with Ian.

Hopefully no one had blocked it up in the meantime. She took the stairs down to the ancient undercroft. In medieval times the kitchen was located here; nowadays the space was used for storage.

The next flight of stairs was barely wide enough for her feet and twisted in tight circles. She wished she’d thought to bring a lantern. Damp and musty-smelling air filled her lungs and tainted her tongue as she felt her way down in the dark until she reached the door at the bottom.

The last time she’d been down here she’d hidden the key up on the lintel. She groped around and shuddered at the clingy touch of spider webs. Her fingers touched a metal object. She grinned. It seemed her old way out remained undiscovered.

The key turned easily in the lock and she slipped it in her pocket and entered the tunnel, a dank place, smelling of earth, dug into the hillside. It came out among a pile of rocks some distance from the keep.

Once outside, the air was fresh and even felt warm compared to the dank chill below ground. As she hurried down the hill to the village, the stars gave her just enough light to avoid the worst of the ruts and it wasn’t many minutes before she was standing outside Ian’s house.

A light in both ground-floor windows gave her hope she was in time. She banged on the door.

From inside she heard the sound of coughing, but no one came to the door.

She banged again.

‘Come in,’ a woman’s voice called out and the coughing started again. Mrs Gilvry. Did that mean Ian had left already?

What should she say? Accuse this woman’s son of being a criminal? No doubt that would be well received. Perhaps she should just leave.

‘Come in,’ the voice called again, stronger this time.

She could hardly leave the woman wondering who had knocked on her door and fearing for her safety. She pressed the latch and the door swung open.

‘In here,’ the voice said through an open door on her right.

Selina entered the chamber, expecting a drawing room, and instead found a large four-poster bed containing a pallid-faced woman with greying hair tucked beneath a plain cap propped up against a pile of pillows.

‘Mrs Gilvry?’

‘Aye.’ Pale fingers tightened on the sheets under her chin. A pair of eyes the colour of spring grass regarded her gravely. Andrew and Logan had inherited those eyes. Ian must take after his father. ‘And who is it who comes calling in the dead of night?’ Her voice was wheezy, breathless.

‘Selina Albright. I am looking for your son, Ian. Is he home?’

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Ian, is it? And what would Albright’s daughter be doing looking for him at this time of night? Hasn’t your family done enough to our people?’

The sins of the fathers were still being visited upon the children. ‘I need to give him a message.’

The green eyes sharpened. ‘Is there trouble?’

Selina nodded. ‘The Revenue men are out tonight.’

The woman in the bed twisted her thin hands together. ‘I told him not to go.’

‘Ian?’

‘No, Logan. My youngest. He was supposed to stay with me, but he couldna’ resist. He followed his brothers not more than a half-hour ago. He’ll no listen to me any more. Am I to lose all of my sons?’

Selina’s heart ached for the torture she heard in the woman’s voice. ‘Do you know where they went? I … I could warn them.’

The woman looked at her with suspicion in her gaze. ‘Why would you do that?’