Chapter 24

Taymoor Castle, Perthshire

February 26, 1757

“ M ilord, I’m sorry to disturb ye during breakfast, but there’s a young lady here to see ye.”

Malcolm frowned at the young footman—he couldn’t remember the lad’s name—hovering in the doorway to the morning room at Taymoor Castle.

A young woman? What the deuce? He put down his cup of coffee and anticipation spiked as another thought occurred to him. “Well, did she give her name?” It couldn’t be Sarah, could it?

“Nae, milord.” The footman’s cheeks turned pink and he nervously pulled at the grimy frayed cuffs of his liveried jacket. “But she said ye would want to see her. That the matter she wanted to speak to ye aboot was verra important. Something to do with some letters ye’ve received recently... aboot another young lady...?”

“Christ, man! Why didn’t you say so?” Malcolm threw down his napkin and pushed away from the table with such force, the china and silverware rattled. “Show her to the library. Now. I’ll be along directly.”

“Aye, milord.”

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair as he strode down the icy-cold denuded corridor—the carpets, curtains, paintings, marble busts, and occasional chairs had all been sold months ago—heading toward his almost-as-bare library. He hadn’t bothered dressing properly this morning. He badly needed a shave and he hadn’t bathed for several days. Not having a valet was becoming increasingly annoying. But then, why should he be bothered about a strange, presumptuous lass’s opinion of him?

His attire of breeches, stained boots, loose shirt, and rumpled striped-silk banyan would have to do.

The nameless lass—a young redhead—was waiting by the empty fireplace, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the cold. As soon as she saw him, she dropped into a curtsy. “Milord, thank ye for seeing me at such short notice.”

Malcolm crossed his arms and slowly, deliberately raked his gaze over her, from the top of her bright orange-red curls to the hem of her mud-splattered, nondescript brown wool gown. Despite the plainness of her garb, she was a pretty thing with bright green eyes, good-sized tits, and a nice trim waist. “You’d better not be wasting my time, Miss...”

“Isla Dobson,” she said with a proud lift of her small pointed chin. “And I’m not.”

“Humph. I’ll be the judge of that.” Malcolm gestured toward the worn leather wingchair and matching settee behind them. “Won’t you take a seat, Miss Dobson?”

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“Very well.” Obstinate chit. Malcolm pinned her with a narrow-eyed stare. “My footman tells me you have information about some of my private correspondence. Correspondence related to a very sensitive matter...”

“Aye.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “I know all aboot your betrothed’s kidnapping, milord. But more importantly, I know exactly where ye can find her.”

Could the lass really be telling the truth? Malcolm tapped a finger against his stubble-rough chin. “How could you possibly know that?”

“I know, because I’ve been helpin’ to care for Miss Lambert whilst she’s been held captive.”

This sounded too good to be true. Could this be another elaborate trap of Price’s? A trick? “Really? Pray, Miss Dobson, how did you know where to find me? I’ve only just arrived here from Edinburgh.” It bothered him that no sooner had he returned to Taymoor Castle, this girl turned up on his doorstep. It was highly suspicious to say the least.

The wench regarded him steadily. “Until recently, I worked as a housemaid for Mr. Alexander Price, the Laird of Blackloch Castle, milord. However, I now work at the Boar’s Head Inn at Aberfeldy. Ye made a brief stop there on yer way here. I saw ye as ye were leavin’ yesterday evening.”

At least the whore, Nell, had been telling him the truth about Price then. But Malcolm still didn’t know about Isla. “Hmmm. How do I know this isn’t an elaborate ruse? That you and Alexander Price aren’t playing me for a fool? For instance, why have you suddenly decided to betray your master and help me instead?”

The chit raised her chin. “It is no’ a ruse, milord, I swear it.”

“Prove it.”

The lass swallowed and her cheeks grew pink. “I dinna wish any harm to come to Mr. Price but…but I do want Miss Lambert gone. And judging by the state of Taymoor Castle”—Isla Dobson cast a pointed look about the dusty, half-empty bookcases and the curtainless, grimy windows—“ye need Miss Lambert’s coin. Badly. So I’d suggest ye trust me.”

“Why, you little bitch—” Hot anger flared and Malcolm lunged for Isla Dobson, gripping her about the throat. “Who do you think you are, to insult me so?” he thundered. “Tell me everything you know, right fucking now, or I’ll wring your scrawny neck.”

Isla’s green eyes bulged and she clawed at his hands. Malcolm loosened his grip a little and she gasped. “Milord!”

“Sit.” Malcolm released her so abruptly Isla stumbled over to the settee.

He waited for a minute for the girl to catch her breath before advancing forward to loom over her, his feet planted wide, his hands on his hips. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“It isna going to work like that, milord,” croaked Isla. “I-I need ye to promise that ye will no’ harm Mr. Price.”

Malcolm’s knuckles cracked as he pushed down the urge to beat the truth from the obstinate chit. “I’ll make no such promise yet,” he growled. “Tell me, why do you wish Miss Lambert gone?”

“Because Mr. Price intends to wed her.”

What the fuck? What the actual fuck? Malcolm scrubbed a hand through his hair. Of all the things Isla Dobson could have said, all the things he could have guessed, it had never been that. It meant that Price probably didn’t need the ransom money at all.

It also meant he had to get Sarah back. Immediately.

“When? When does he plan to marry her?”

“I canna be sure, but soon.”

“Tell me where she is. Is she at Blackloch Castle?”

“I am no’ a fool, milord, and neither is Mr. Price. I willna confirm her precise whereabouts until ye agree to my terms.”

“Where is she?” Malcolm bellowed in her face, but it made no difference. The stubborn bitch clamped her eyes shut and pressed her lips together.

Only when he stepped back did Isla open her eyes again. “Ye can shout all ye like, Lord Tay,” she said through gritted teeth—but I willna tell ye anything more until ye give me yer word—if ye swear—that no harm will come to Mr. Price.”

Malcolm snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with the bastard.”

The lass’s green eyes sparked with defiance. “Aye. I am.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Isla said nothing, just stared at him. There was such fire in her eyes, Malcolm had the inkling that even torturing her wouldn’t wring the truth from her.

He retreated to one of the windows and stared out at the ill-kept grounds of Taymoor: the all-but invisible garden paths; the tussocks of dead, overgrown grass between the patches of snow; the brambles that caught at one’s clothes; the rampant ivy that was crumbling the brickwork.

He needed Sarah, it was that simple. If Price intended to marry her, that meant he’d probably fucked her by now—not that it really mattered to him at this point. He’d already decided days ago that he wasn’t in a position to be particular about another man’s leavings. As long as Sarah’s fortune was his, he didn’t much care if she bore him a bastard.

He turned back to face the room and uttered the lie Isla Dobson needed to hear. “All right,” he said grimly. “We have a deal. You take me straight to Miss Lambert, and once I have her, your master will have nothing to fear. I will not retaliate.”

“Ye swear?” Isla gave him a narrow-eyed glare as though that would be enough to sway him.

“I swear.” Stupid chit.