Taken by the Laird by Margo Maguire Page A

determine whether ’twould be safer to leave Glenloch or remain at the castle and risk further brazen advances from its laird.
    During her three dull seasons in London, Bree had never met anyone like him. None of the swells who’d come calling could match this tall, dark nobleman with his seductive ways, not even Bernard Malham. Brianna could not help but wonder how she’d have felt if this laird had come to Stamford House to woo her as a legitimate suitor.
    In spite of his scandalous ways, Lord Newbury—Laird Glenloch—was known to be a wealthy peer with more power and influence than most other noblemen in Britain. Perhaps Lord Stamford would have overlooked his faults, just as he’d overlooked Roddington’s, to achieve a promising marital alliance with him.
    The laird was vastly attractive, and Bree suspected that if he’d come to call, Lady Stamford would have sent her away on some errand, just as she’d done every other time an attractive young suitor had come to the house. Her guardian and his wife never intended to give her a choice in the matter.
    In truth, Lord Stamford had orchestrated her “ruination” with Roddington to ensure a match with his powerful family. Brianna could only imagine how angry he must have been when he realized that Brianna was not coming to the church for the wedding.
    She did not care. Let Lord Stamford marry one of his own daughters to the old lecher.
    She looked up and saw Glenloch gazing intently at her.
    “You said you have no relations.”
    “No. Only my aunt…who died recently.”
    His brow creased, and Brianna realized she shouldn’t have mentioned it. Now he would probably ask questions she did not want to answer.
    But he did not. “My sincere condolences,” he said. “Your aunt was your only connection? The only one you could turn to when your employer’s husband accosted you?”
    Brianna had thought her tears had all been shed, but a fresh flood clogged her throat, and she could do nothing but nod.
    “You were close.”
    She nodded again and bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She did not wish to discuss her situation, and so picked up her fork and started to eat, even though her appetite had waned with the reminder of all she had lost.
    The silence lengthened, and Bree grew uncomfortable under Glenloch’s scrutiny. “You are a long way from London, Laird,” she finally said.
    “There is always business, Miss MacLaren,” he said gently, “at one estate or another.”
    His hands were large and strong-looking, his fingers blunt-tipped with nails pared short. Brianna had felt their strength and their tenderness, and she wondered which reflected the true character of the man. LordRoddington’s hands had felt as soft as putty when he’d grabbed her hand and placed it on the front of his trews to prove his attraction to her.
    Laird Glenloch had needed to do no such thing to demonstrate his desire.
    “Are you cold, Miss MacLaren?” he asked, noting her shiver.
    “Oh, uh…yes, I suppose so. I neglected to bring a shawl.”
    “ ’Tis clear you packed in haste,” he said, and Brianna managed to refrain from looking down at her wrinkled dress. She knew she did not look particularly fashionable and hoped her attire supported the Banbury tale she’d told him. “Are you still disinclined to confide your troubles to me?”
    Brianna bit her lip, aware that the less said, the better.
    Glenloch gave a slight shake of his head. “We’ll leave it, then.” He turned toward the open door and called to the housekeeper, who returned to the dining room, wiping her hands upon her apron.
    “Aye, Laird. What is it ye need?”
    Brianna felt homesick as she witnessed the easy informality of Laird Glenloch’s house. It was just so at Killiedown Manor, with servants who had been part of the household for nearly a generation and a genuine affinity between them. Brianna had told Claire’s housekeeper that she would be back, to keep the fires burning, and she would