A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant

by Marguerite Kaye

  Toes again. Ankles. Pushing up the hem of her drawers, he kissed the skin behind her knee. Her eyes were wide open, watching him, questioning. It was clear this was another first, and he was glad of it. He pushed her skirts higher, pulling her towards him, and took her in his mouth. The first taste of her almost set him over. She gave a soft cry that became a whimper as he licked her. He took his time, teasing them both, dragging it out, taking her to the brink and testing his own control to the limit, but he didn’t want it to end. She was saying his name, pleading with him, and he was so hard that it ached, but he ignored her pleas to go faster, going slowly, waiting, starting again, until it was too much for both of them, and she tipped over the edge, and he’d never, ever, not ever felt anything like it, watching her, tasting her, hearing her moans of pleasure.

  And then kissing her again, frantic kisses now, as she pulled at his clothing, arching under him, as urgent for him as he was for her. ‘Constance?’ His voice was ragged with the effort.

  ‘Grayson, for the love of God.’

  He struggled free of his breeches, pulling her on top of him, seeing from her face that this was another first, but heedless now, wanting only to be inside her. When she took him, lowering herself down, her smile becoming powerful as he became helpless, he clutched at the blanket and prayed for control. She leaned over to kiss him hard, once, and then he lost himself as she lifted and thrust, hard, deliberate, slow when he wanted fast, watching his eyes, holding his gaze, until he begged her, and she heeded him, tightening around him, holding him deep inside her as he spent himself, wrapping her arms around him as he came, his face pressed into her shoulder to muffle his guttural cries.

  It took him far too long to realise he was still inside her. Another age to regret it, cursing under his breath. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...’

  She kissed him, stopping the words. ‘Don’t. I’m past that. Don’t worry.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘It’s what I wanted.’

  ‘And me.’ He kissed her again, trying to ignore the dread that was slowly seeping into him. ‘It’s what I wanted too.’

  * * *

  It was late, the afternoon was over and the sun had lost its heat as they stood at the top of the tower, looking out at the Firth of Forth. The remains of the picnic was packed away. The hamper and blanket were stowed in the dinghy. They were both fully dressed. They were supposed to be watching out for the arrival of the Carrick Castle. Perhaps Grayson was, but Constance was hoping that the captain had forgotten all about them. She knew that if they left this island—when they left this island—it would be the beginning of the end.

  They had made love. They couldn’t blame lust, or abstinence, or the fates this time. They had made love, and they should not have made love. It was out of the question. Yet she couldn’t imagine how they could have not made love. It was how the day was destined to end. And now they both knew that their time together was coming to an end too. There was no going back, and no question of going forward.

  ‘There she is.’ Grayson pointed at the little dot approaching.

  ‘I wish today would last for ever.’

  He groaned, pulling her into his arms. ‘So do I.’

  She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It wasn’t beating for her, any more than hers was beating for him. In this moment, they belonged to each other. But this wasn’t the real world. Gently, she disentangled herself from him. ‘Best get down, we don’t want to keep them waiting.’

  She sat behind him in the dinghy, watching the island grow smaller as they drew away. Aboard the paddle steamer, they agreed to meet the next day to take a walk down to Holyrood, each knowing that they could now count the hours until there were no more meetings. They sat silently together on the deck after that, their hands clasped under the blanket, watching the sun going down.

  * * *

  Grayson put her in a carriage at Leith, telling her he preferred to walk off his lunch, and she didn’t demur. ‘Thank you,’ she said as he helped her in. ‘It’s been a perfect day.’

  He attempted a smile. ‘Just a bit too perfect,’ he said, closing the door and walking away.

  Chapter Nine

  Come one and all, says Mr Scott

  And view the King’s scarce-covered bot

  For a penny more you can see the lot

  Hail, now the King’s come

  The Highlands cropped of all its heather

  So all can wear a jaunty feather

  We can but hope for clement weather

  Hail, now the King’s come

  Hail George the regal Jacobite

  Strong of leg and pink of tight

  Scotia bow before his might

  Hail, now the King’s come

  The King at fair young maidens leered

  While sycophantic clan chiefs cheered

  Meanwhile at home their lands were cleared

  Hail, now the King’s come.

  A poem by Flora MacDonald, inspired by the work of Walter Scott

  Saturday, 13th July 1822

  Paul Michaels, the editor of the New Jacobite Journal, handed the poem back to its author, grinning. ‘This is inspired. You’ve a real talent, it seems a shame that your work is not more widely read.’

  ‘We’ll have hundreds, thousands more readers in the next few weeks, you wait and see. The King’s visit will provide no shortage of material like this. With Walter Scott more or less in charge of proceedings, Edinburgh will be decked out like a scene from one of his more melodramatic novels.’

  Paul ran ink-stained hand through his short, frizzy hair. ‘True enough. If Scott could have the castle painted tartan, he would.’

  ‘I’ve written you an alternative parody version of his pamphlet too, the one that details the etiquette of behaviour and suitable attire. What do you think?’

  He took the bundle of pages. She had worked through the night to produce them in an effort to distract herself from the parting that was to come and the perfection of the day which had precipitated it with, it had to be said, mixed results. She was not in love with Grayson, she would not permit herself to be in love with Grayson, but she had flown precariously close to the flame.

  ‘Constance?’

  Paul was holding out her work, having clearly made no attempt to read it. ‘I’m sure it’s brilliant, but I have to ask myself if it’s worth the effort and expense required to publish it. Look out there, at the people in the Grassmarket. You can’t buy a bit of heather for love nor money in the city. They’re all absolutely determined to embrace this royal visit.’

  ‘That’s all the more reason for us to point out the error of their ways.’

  ‘We’ve been doing that for years now, my dear, and it’s making little appreciable difference. I’m not sure we’re ever going to turn the tide. Did you see the backlash against that article in the Scotsman? All they did was question, in the most subtle way, why the Scottish people should be expected to bow and scrape to the King, and they were ripped to shreds for it in the popular press.’

  ‘So we’re all to don our plaids and wave our flags and get down on bended knee when the King graces us with his presence. Patriotic obsequiousness is the order of the day, and that is exactly what the NJJ is going to strongly advise against.’

  ‘Do you really think anyone will pay any heed? Hear me out for a moment,’ Paul said. ‘You’re not going to like what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. The fact is, the New Jacobite Journal has a readership smaller than the queue of ladies likely to attend the King’s Drawing Room at Holyrood. Our readers have all got their hearts in the right place I’m sure, but frankly, Constance, they’re the types who soothe their conscience by reading our journal, shedding a few tears, and then using it to light the fire the next morning.’

  �
��Please don’t give up, Paul. This is our best opportunity to make them see, to make them listen, to tell them what’s happening.’

  ‘My dear, most people simply don’t care.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong. I know you’re wrong. It’s ignorance that’s the problem, not indifference. We’re a small press, we have so little reach. If the truth was exposed by the national newspapers, they would sway the hearts and minds of the general public, but it isn’t being broadcast because...’

  ‘Because those who own those newspapers are the very people who also own the land being cleared, or they are related to them. What’s more, those people believe that it is the right thing to do, that the introduction of sheep represents progress.’

  Constance got dejectedly to her feet, absently picking up a ‘G’ from the printing block tray, turning it over in her hand. ‘People are obsessed with this royal visit. They will read anything and everything associated with it, including the NJJ. People who have never heard of us, Paul, will pick us up thinking that they’re reading a description of—oh, I don’t know, a levee, whatever that may be. We’ll draw them in with mention of His florid Majesty, but they’ll read on because they will be shocked, and angry and horrified when we reveal what is really going on in the Highlands.’

  ‘You’ve a powerful and passionate way with words, it’s one of your many strengths but they’re being wasted.’ Paul cursed under his breath. ‘I’m sorry, I truly am. I know how much this means to you, but you’ve been writing for me for four years now and we’re making no inroads. Isn’t it time you turned your thoughts to pastures new, too?’

  ‘I can’t give up yet. I’ve come too far, I’ve sacrificed so much.’

  ‘That’s my point, Constance, this has been your life for the last four years. It’s been all-consuming. It’s not healthy. Even I have a wife and family to go home to at the end of the day’

  ‘I’m not ready to quit yet.’

  ‘No, but I’m afraid I am. There, I’ve said it. I’ve been taking a good long hard look at what we’re doing here, and it’s time for a change of direction.’ Paul flicked open his dented snuff tin, taking a large pinch before wiping his nose with a large, ink-stained kerchief. ‘Do you know, they’re sending a squad of Bow Street Runners up from London to keep an eye on things, and I reckon the Home Secretary will send his spies here too, if Peel doesn’t come himself. They want to ensure this visit’s a roaring success.’

  ‘Are you worried that they will arrest us?’

  He laughed. ‘They won’t be concerning themselves with small fry like us. If the King’s yacht is blown up, or the King himself is pelted with rotten eggs, it won’t be our readers, but the Radical Army who are responsible. But it does show how seriously they’re taking this visit. It’s not only a matter of keeping the King well away from dabbling in foreign policy, it’s an attempt to bring the whole bloody nation together.’

  ‘By pretending that the King is some sort of new Bonnie Prince Charlie, you mean!’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. He’s the first King to come here since the Young Pretender. You can bet he’ll wear the kilt, and he’ll play up his Stuart connection to the hilt. Whoever dreamed the idea up is a smart political operator. You can see it’s working already. The city is raring to go, and preparing itself for a ceilidh that will last a fortnight. They’re not interested in what’s going on in the rest of Scotland. They don’t want to know about a few crofters who can barely scrape a living from the land in the first place, being forced to make way for to sheep.’

  ‘Paul! How can you be so unfeeling?’

  ‘I’m not unfeeling. No one hearing your story could be anything but appalled, but my point is that no one cares to hear it. And as far as I’m concerned, right now there’s other causes that I’d rather use my press to support.’

  ‘You mean the Radicals?’

  ‘They’re gaining real strength. They want the right to vote, Constance. Ordinary men, who work in iron works and mills and docks all over the country, but most especially here in Scotland, are plotting revolution, and our Government is determined to put an end to it. That’s what this royal visit is all about, at the end of the day. What better way to extinguish a revolt in the making, than to provide people with a monumental distraction.’

  There was a light in Paul’s eyes that she had not seen for some time. What he said made horrible sense. She had the sensation that the ground was being cut from under her feet. First yesterday—no, she wouldn’t think of that yet—and now this. ‘You said that you would give me until after the King’s visit.’

  ‘And I will, I owe you that much.’ He sighed wearily. ‘When Pearl Winston put us in touch, I couldn’t believe my luck to have a real Highland woman, with first-hand experience, not just a social conscience. You’ve a pithy way with words that none of my other writers have, too. I feel guilty, at the pittance I’ve been paying you.’

  ‘If I’d wanted to earn a fortune I wouldn’t be a writer, and anyway you know very well it’s not about the money for me. You gave me a purpose when I could easily have given myself over to despair. “Everyone gets hurt, but you can choose how much you suffer.” I’ve never forgotten those words of yours.’

  ‘Now don’t get maudlin on me, young woman.’

  ‘I’m not young, I’m forty years old on Sunday.’

  ‘A babe in arms, compared to me,’ Paul said, with a wry smile. ‘And if I may say so, looking good for your years. I’m wondering if our Flora has maybe found a new Bonnie Prince?’

  Found, and lost in the space of less than a week. Her cheeks flamed. ‘Nothing and no one will ever get in the way of my work here.’

  ‘As if I could ever doubt it. Go home, Constance, and think long and hard about what I’ve said. As soon as His Majesty heads back down south, it’s over. It’s time for both of us to move on to pastures new.’

  * * *

  The sun was hiding behind a thin layer of grey cloud today, making the vast edifice that was St Giles’ Cathedral look even more forbidding, and very much in keeping with Grayson’s mood. What a contrast to yesterday. He had spent a sleepless night, seesawing between remembered bliss and dread of what was to come. After yesterday, he knew leaving Edinburgh straight away was the wisest course of action, but the very notion of never seeing Constance again was impossible to contemplate. That fact alone was enough to make it clear to him that he was in deep waters. The letter which arrived this morning was a timely reminder—as if he needed one!—that it was time to end this little hiatus from the real world and go home. He wasn’t ready to go home yet though. Tomorrow was Constance’s birthday, which frankly, he thought she was getting out of proportion. But he’d promised her moral support and he couldn’t let her down.

  So he’d go on Monday. The decision made him feel considerably worse. Like St Giles’, he’d seen better days, he thought sardonically. Auld Reekie’s cathedral was, in Grayson’s humble opinion, very much second best to St Mungo’s medieval cathedral in Glasgow. The side of the edifice which faced on to the High Street leaned at a precarious angle. Until relatively recently, there had been a line of tenements and shops built close enough to hide this defect. He knew this from one of Walter Scott’s blasted novels, when the shops and the old tolbooth prison were described in, he had to admit, memorable and colourful detail. The novel was The Heart of Midlothian, not one of Neil’s favourites, but Shona loved it. The heart-shaped mosaic the novel was named after was set into the pavement just a few yards away near the cathedral’s west door. When they returned in August, the three of them could visit the main sites featured in the book. He should read it again before then, they’d like that. Or would Shona and Neil consider themselves too sophisticated for that?

  With a sinking feeling, he sat on the steps of the cathedral and pulled out his daughter’s letter. She couldn’t wait to share the exciting news that her grandparents would be coming to Edinburgh for th
e King’s visit. Word had reached them that His Majesty would be receiving the Scottish aristocracy at Holyrood Palace, and so naturally Lord and Lady Glenbranter didn’t want to miss out.

  Staring gloomily at the lawyers mincing to and fro across the square to the old Parliament buildings which were now the law courts, Grayson cursed the Murrays under his breath. At least there would be no room for them at Oman’s on Charlotte Square. It would stick in their throat, knowing that their low-born son-in-law was residing there, rubbing shoulders with the Duke and Duchess of Argyll. Not that he would be doing any such thing, and even if he did, he’d be damned if he’d boast about it.

  Would it be possible to avoid his in-laws then for the duration of their visit? Edinburgh was a notoriously small and tight-knit city. The bigger question was whether Neil and Shona would prefer to spend their time with their grandparents, and not their father. The answer to that was a resounding yes, for Lord and Lady Glenbranter would be bound to be invited to meet the King. There was no way he could deprive his children of the honour of accompanying them, no matter how dubious a privilege he himself thought it. Sickeningly, it was beginning to look like this visit wouldn’t turn out to be the family holiday he’d hoped, but a series of treats for his children and their grandparents. Was this what the future held for him, relegated to the role of provider of funds and luxury accommodation? And currently, the procurement of bales of tartan. Knowing that the material was likely to be in very short supply, he made a mental note to do a bit of shopping sooner rather than later. A shopping list which would most decidedly would not include a plaid for himself.

  Checking his watch, he saw that it was still fifteen minutes before he was due to meet Constance. It was she who had suggested they meet at St Giles’. She had business in the Grassmarket, she’d told him. With the well-connected bookseller? He’d walk down to meet her and surprise her.