The Laird of Blackloch (Highland Rogue #2)

Chapter 20

Red Velvet House, The Cowgate, Edinburgh

February 22, 1757

“ G ood sir, what can we do for ye this fine evenin’?” simpered Mrs. MacLean, the Red Velvet’s middle-aged madam. Her brightly rouged cheeks were as plump as apples as she beamed a gap-toothed grin at Malcolm.

Malcolm eyed the garish reception room—its faux-gilt candelabra and smoky wall sconces, the blood-red velvet settees and the lopsided chandelier overhead—along with the equally garish woman before him, with distaste. Her tightly cinched corset did nothing to enhance her doughy figure. Indeed, her ample breasts spilling from her puce silk bodice reminded Malcolm of deflated choux pastries. Dragging his gaze from her sagging cleavage, he looked down his nose at her. “I want to engage one of your tarts. A certain Miss Nell.”

“Och. Ye have verra good taste, sir.” Mrs. MacLean winked at him. “She has the best titties in this whole establishment.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Malcolm withdrew his pocket watch and consulted the time. “I want her for an hour. And I want your best private room.”

“Aye. Of course.” The madam’s gaze traveled over his brocade and velvet frockcoat and black satin breeches. She was clearly assessing how much he’d be willing to pay. “For you, that will be a guinea.”

Malcolm snorted. “I don’t care how good her tits are, I won’t pay more than two crowns.” The girl probably was worth a guinea but he didn’t want to waste what coin he had left. MacNab, the inquiry agent, had already spent far too much hunting down the buxom Nell.

“Hmmm.” Mrs. MacLean tapped a finger beside the tiny heart-shaped patch beside her rouged lips. “I’ll let ye have her for three, and I’ll throw in a decanter of my verra best brandywine.”

“Forget the brandywine.” It was probably watered down horse piss. “But I agree on the price.”

“Excellent.” The madam held out a beringed hand for the money. “If ye just take a seat and wait here a few more minutes, sir,” she added as she tucked the coins into her bodice, “I shall make sure Miss Nell is ready to receive ye.”

Flipping out his coattails, Malcolm took a seat on a settee and twirled the end of his silver-topped cane on a Persian rug that had seen better days. A few minutes turned into a quarter of an hour. With nothing better to do than take a pinch of snuff, and watch a few other men skulk in before being escorted away by other scantily clad whores, Malcolm was seething by the time Mrs. MacLean returned.

“About bloody time,” he said, rising to his feet. “I don’t have all night, you know.” Which was true considering he wasn’t absolutely certain that the ‘Nell’ of Red Velvet House was the woman he was looking for. He was running out of time to raise the ransom and he needed to know who Janus was.

The madam frowned and planted her fisted hands on her ample hips. “Now, now, sir. I ken ye are a fine gent, but we’ll have none of that sort of language. Or I might need to rethink our arrangement.”

Malcolm took a menacing step forward. His fingers itched to unsheathe the sword concealed within his walking cane and prick the madam in the jowls. “Don’t you know who I am?”

The cursed woman didn’t budge an inch, just cocked a painted brow at him. “Nae, I dinna ken who ye are. Do ye really want me to?”

Malcolm eyed Mrs. MacLean narrowly. She did have a valid point. He didn’t really want anyone at this brothel to know he was the Earl of Tay. Aside from that, there was a rather burly guard in the nearby entry hall. Even though Malcolm had a weapon, he couldn’t afford to make a fuss. Avoiding any kind of scandal was still uppermost in his mind. “Very well,” he conceded sourly. He adjusted his lace cuffs. “Just take me to her.”

“Aye, sir. This way, if ye please.”

The woman ushered Malcolm through to a dimly lit hallway that smelled oddly of rising damp, burnt toast, and a heavy musk-like scent, before leading him up a narrow flight of stairs. The sounds of enthusiastic fucking—rhythmic grunts, moans, and the occasional squeal of laughter—filled the air and he felt his prick begin to harden.

At the end of the corridor, the madam pushed open a wooden door with a tarnished brass handle. “Here ye go, sir. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Malcolm brushed past her, impatience turning to sharp anticipation as he entered the chamber. The claret-red velvet curtains were drawn but there was enough light from the fire and several branches of candles to reveal an overly ornate bed, the headboard decorated with paintings of fat cupids frolicking in a rose bower...and hallelujah, the woman he’d been searching for.

Nell, attired in an almost transparent rose-colored peignoir, was reclining upon a pink and red striped chaise longue—but as soon as she laid eyes on Malcolm, she leapt to her feet.

“Och... milord...” she said, her hand fluttering to her slender throat. “Fancy meeting ye here.”

“Aye, fancy that.” Malcolm advanced toward her, unsheathing his rapier before pushing the point between her bountiful breasts. Through the peignoir he watched her nipples harden and his cock swelled, tenting his breeches.

Nell’s eyes widened in alarm. “Wh-What can I do for ye, milord? I dinna mind things to get a wee bit rough but no’ like this.”

Malcolm traced the tip of the rapier up to Nell’s throat. “I want to know who hired you to distract me at Kenmuir House. Don’t even think about lying, or your pretty throat is as good as slit.”

Nell swallowed, but to her credit, she held his gaze. “Och, is that all ye wish to ken? ‘Twas a verra handsome black-haired gentleman by the name of Mr. Alexander Price. And verra generous he was too. Hired me for the whole night.”

Triumph flared inside Malcolm’s chest. Price. Price was Janus. He had to be.

But why the fuck had Price kidnapped Sarah?

It didn’t make sense. Unless the dog wasn’t as rich as everyone thought...

Malcolm narrowed his gaze. “Did he tell you why he hired you?”

Nell frowned. “All he asked me to do was keep ye entertained for an hour or so. I was to take ye to a private parlor he’d picked out and make sure the curtains were left open. I assumed he wanted to watch us. Some men like that, ye ken. To watch.”

Bastard. The fucking bastard. This Alexander Price must have taken Sarah out to the terrace, then whilst she was reeling from what she’d seen, he’d somehow spirited her away. Probably through the nearby garden gate to the lane beyond. MacNab, during his discreet inquiries at Kenmuir House, had discovered the gate’s lock had been broken.

As Malcolm had puzzled over Nell’s revelation, she’d slid off her peignoir and now stood before him stark naked. Her puckered raspberry nipples had his mouth watering and the sight of her bare mons made his balls throb.

She must have noticed the flash of lust in his gaze as she arched a brow and twirled a flaxen curl around one of her fingers. “Ye seem displeased, milord. If ye wish to punish me for being a verra bad lass at the ball, perhaps I could suggest a spanking...”

Malcolm lowered his rapier and sheathed it. “Right after you use your mouth on me,” he said, unbuttoning his breeches. As much as he’d like to throttle Nell, he may as well get his money’s worth while he was here. And the idea of spanking that lovely round arse of hers until it was as red as her nipples was certainly appealing.

Nell grinned and sank to her knees. “Och, aye. With pleasure, milord.”

Janus’s—or Alexander Price’s—next letter of demand arrived on the doorstep of Tay House some time before dawn the following morning.

As the only remaining Boulle clock in the entire house struck seven, Drysdale shuffled into Malcolm’s bedroom with the letter and Malcolm, still abed, snatched it up and tore it open with alacrity rather than trepidation. The note contained brief instructions about where he should deposit the ten thousand pounds in order to reclaim Sarah, on the first of March.

The location was an isolated spot, a cairn at the foot of the mountain Schiehallion—the Maiden’s Pap—on the south-eastern side, not far from a stretch of dense woodland. Of course, Malcolm knew the area well. After all, it was only ten miles from Taymoor Castle. Interestingly enough, on the other side of the mountain was Price’s land—the old MacIvor estate that the Crown had seized following the Rebellion. It made perfect sense and only confirmed that Price must be Janus.

Malcolm cast the letter onto the rumpled bedclothes and for once, he smiled rather than cursed at his ancient butler. “I want coffee, my good man. And after I’ve dressed, brush down my greatcoat then pack my trunk. I also want the carriage brought round by nine. Send one of the footmen to engage a couple of hacks from the Whitehorse Inn. I’m returning to Taymoor Castle.”

“Aye, milord.”

Malcolm rubbed the morning’s bristles on his chin. “Is Lady Glenleven in?” He hadn’t seen Damaris since early yesterday afternoon and wanted to share the good news.

Drysdale shifted his weight from side to side as he studied the bedroom floor. “Nae, milord. I dinna think she is...”

Malcolm snorted. She was probably still at Arbelour House, screwing more jewels out of the old earl. He threw back the covers and reached for the chamber pot beneath the bedside table. “If she arrives whilst I’m getting ready, tell her to come and speak with me. At once.”

“Of course, milord.”

Malcolm picked up Janus’s ransom note again as he relieved himself.

Fuck you, Price. His mouth curled into a smile. He couldn’t wait to confront the prick and have him thrown in jail. To watch him swing at the end of a hangman’s noose. But even better than that, he’d have Sarah back.

Ruined or not, he was going to make her his wife.