Taken by the Laird by Margo Maguire Page B

return just as soon as she could—the day after she came of age.
    Laird Glenloch spoke to Mrs. Ramsay. “Have someone fetch a shawl among Lady Glenloch’s things and bring it down to Miss MacLaren.”
    “Ye know we doona like to go up to that chamber, Laird,” the plain-speaking housekeeper replied.
    “It will take but a moment,” he said. “Send a maid for it. Or one of your grandsons. Are they here?”
    The woman made a low sound of discontent, then turned away and called for someone named Ronan.
    “I don’t wish to put anyone to any trouble,” Bree said.
    “The servants have been working around the Glenloch Ghost for many a year. Don’t worry about them,” he said with a grin.

Chapter 3
    Never show your teeth unless you can bite.
    SCOTTISH PROVERB
    “T he Glenloch Ghost?”
    “Aye,” Hugh replied flatly. If Bridget MacLaren hadn’t heard of it yet, she would soon encounter various tales of the phantom. Hugh had no control over the stories that were told all over the district, nor did he attempt to squelch them, for they served an important purpose. “ ’Tis said there’s a filmy apparition that haunts the halls and galleries here.”
    “Then I did not imagine it.”
    He decided her engaging speech must have been tempered by southern regions. London, if he was not mistaken. Perhaps her family had had the wherewithal to send her to school there.
    In the light of day, her eyes were larger than they’d seemed before, and the palest blue. He could not seem to take his eyes from the delicate arches above them, or the small dimple at the side of her mouth when she spoke. Her hair was slightly disheveled, as though she’d just arisen from a lover’s bed, and—
    Her words suddenly registered in his brain. “Imagine what?” he asked, his attention abruptly refocused. Dash it, he should never have left London so quickly. A visit to a former paramour might have taken the edge off his restlessness and helped to keep him from lusting so deeply after this woman.
    “What did you see?”
    “An odd light in my bedchamber, then a floating gray shape near the door. It seemed to take the form of a young woman.”
    “You jest.”
    “No, Laird. I assure you, I saw something.”
    “Alone?”
    “Yes, of course I was alone.”
    “No, the ghost. Was it…” Good God, he could hardly believe he was questioning her about a myth. “Was it only one ghost, one figure?”
    “I…I think so.”
    He stood. “Are you certain?”
    “I cannot be absolutely sure, but it seemed to be only one.”
    Hugh felt reassured in spite of himself, knowing that Amelia’s distraught spirit had not joined the old phantom. ’Twas ridiculous, he knew, and he shook off the absurd notion. “Well, don’t worry. Our ghost has never hurt anyone in the centuries it’s haunted Glenloch.”
    A young boy entered the room just then, carrying a woolen shawl in the deep russet color Amelia had favored. He brought it directly to Hugh, who put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him to look him over. “You’re Ronan?”
    “Aye, Laird. Ronan MacTavish.”
    “You were a mere bairn when I was here last.” It had been three years, and Hugh could hardly believe this grandson of Mrs. Ramsay had even been walking then. “How many more MacTavishes are there?”
    “I’ve got two brothers younger than me, Laird, and two older as well. All but the youngest are here, somewhere.”
    Hugh knew and trusted the lad’s father, who was familiar with every aspect of the brandy trade. He would have to talk to Niall MacTavish, soon.
    “How old are you, lad?”
    “Six years.” The boy puffed up his chest in a show of maturity.
    Hugh gestured with the shawl the boy had retrieved. “And you’re not afraid of Glenloch’s ghost?”
    “Nae, Laird. ’Tis only the lasses and old women who are scairt.”
    Hugh laughed. The lad was thin but sturdy. In a few years he and his brothers would join their father in the free trading. Hugh gave him a satisfied nod. “Is