by Arnette Lamb
He smiled that endearing grin she hoped God would bequeath to her child. “No one,” he murmured, “except my family, and we needn’t worry about them.”
Then he kissed her, his lips soft and persuasive, his arms a strong and comfy cradle. The kiss inspired a new intimacy, a contentment born of two souls searching for oneness in this space in time. Then she felt a familiar yearning that seemed to bind her fully to him and spawn dreams of a future that would never unfold. She threaded her hands in his hair, mapping the shape of his head, committing to memory the rich texture of his hair, his high brow, and the slight indentation at his temples. Even as her need for him grew and she anticipated the pleasure they would share, her mind envisioned the child they had created.
No longer fettered by the constraints of an uncertain future, she felt free to explore him, to take the lead. With the same attention to detail he’d practiced on her since the first night they’d made love, Alpin hugged him close and spread kisses over his face, his neck, and the shell of his ear.
His breathing turned raspy. Against her cheek, he said, “If my gift inspired such wifely devotion, I’ll be certain to give you presents every day of the year.”
Ignoring the reference to a permanence they would never achieve, she whispered in his ear. “It wasn’t your generosity, but you. Please love me, Malcolm.”
He groaned and removed her clothing with the skill and speed of a man with no time to lose. Then he laid her down on the soft rug and lavished her breasts with slow, wet kisses, teasing the sensitive sides and grazing the nipples with his tongue and the tantalizing edge of his teeth. When at last he set to suckling her properly, she cried out and hugged him to her.
The familiar ache deep in her belly turned to a raging need. Reaching down, she rucked up his tartan and, with both hands, caressed him, learning the different textures of his sex, the soft, weighty sacks, the velvety skin that encased his steely maleness, the crowning glory that had touched her intimately.
His mouth went still on her breast. She looked down at him and beheld a man deep in the throes of absolute pleasure. His eyes were closed but not tightly shut, his mouth was open but not slack. Seeing him thus and knowing she’d brought him to such a state of arousal, she grew bolder in her handling of him. She coddled him with her palm and brushed him with the pads of her fingers; she lightly grazed his length with the tips of her nails.
He gasped and his eyes flew open; then his luminous brown gaze focused on her. “I think,” he said, “you had better stop.”
Feeling spunky, she winked. “But I like it.”
He grinned. “Have your way with me, then, Alpin, but be forewarned: I shall retaliate in kind.”
The picture wouldn’t form, so she continued her ministrations. “Wouldn’t you rather kiss me than threaten me?”
“Oh, aye, love. But—”
Then his eyes did squeeze shut and his jaw went tight with tension, and instinctively she knew he was fighting the demon that was himself, the demon that she had aroused.
Suddenly he jerked away and tore at the buttons on his shirt, almost ripping the fabric.
Lying naked before him, lazily watching his frantic movements, Alpin felt a devil invade her mind. “I feel like a lusty proclivity.”
He laughed. “Oh, you are. No doubt about that, and as soon as I get out of my regalia, I’ll show you how much I appreciate your new station in life.”
As innocent as a virgin, she said, “But we haven’t had dessert It’s on the table.”
Still clothed from the waist down, he paused and shot her a look that promised retribution. As if he had all the time in the world, he forgot about removing his garments and knelt between her legs. “Nay, mine’s right here.”
Then he caressed and loved her in a way that defied her imagination and made child’s play of her preconceived notions about physical love.
She fell asleep in his arms, his tartan wrapped around them for warmth and modesty.
Through a heavy blanket of sleep, Malcolm felt a raspy wetness on his cheek. Instinctively he drew up his arm to shield his face. Alpin lay nestled against his side. The floor of the study felt solid at his back. He heard an impossibly familiar whimpering and sensed movement in the room.
Flint struck steel. Light blossomed behind his desk, followed by a female gasp. Craning his neck he focused on the dog. His heart sinking with embarrassment, he lifted his gaze to the woman who stood before him.
Lady Miriam MacDonald Kerr.
Her blue eyes flamed with motherly outrage. “That naked brunette had better not be Jane Gordon.”
Chapter 17
Malcolm cast off the last shackle of sleep and awakened to the reality that he and Alpin lay naked on the floor with only his tartan covering them. Over him stood his stepmother and her dog.
“That naked brunette had better not be Jane Gordon.”
He tried to decipher her warning. Politics often dominated his stepmother’s life. She never meddled in his private affairs. He had written to her of Gordon’s visit. He had hinted at the unrest among the Highland clans. He had been specific about Gordon’s offer of his daughter’s hand in marriage.
His conclusion drawn, Malcolm quietly said, “She is not Jane Gordon.”
“Good. I feared he would go to any lengths or depths to press the suit.” She picked up the marquetry box and clutched it under her arm. “I was looking for this.”
As always, Lady Miriam was a victim to her own logic and dedication to work. The box contained Malcolm’s notes taken from the months of correspondence between Gordon and the exiled Stewarts.
Alpin stirred beside him. Placing his hand over her ear so as not to wake her, he whispered, “Wait for me outside, Mother, and take that slavering beast with you.”
“Yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry.” She put her hand against her cheek, a cheek that was as smooth as that of a woman half her age. “I just didn’t expect to find you here at this hour. I mean, I did expect you to be awake by now, but not here and with—Oh, Malcolm, why couldn’t you have locked the door?”
Alpin moved again, and this time her knee brushed his groin. Dodging an arrow of desire, he clenched his teeth and said, “Apology accepted. What time is it?”
She stared at the array of male and female clothing scattered on the floor. “Almost six.”
He glanced at the drapes, but the heavy fabric blocked out the light. “Leave the lamp. I’ll join you in a moment.”
She snapped her fingers. The huge sleuthhound, aptly named Redundant for his resemblance to his grandam, trotted to the door. In a swirl of green silk and stately elegance, Lady Miriam glided out of the room.
Malcolm closed his eyes and breathed deeply, giving his dignity a moment to recover. He spent most of his time at Kildalton Castle, but he had always kept his women at Carvoran Manor. He had younger sisters here and their sensibilities to consider. He also respected his parents too much to parade his lusty proclivities before them.
But he was past his desire for mistresses; the woman in his arms was all the female he needed and more. Her frankness and the reasons behind her asking for the property in Barbados spoke volumes about how much she wanted their marriage to succeed.
It was unfortunate that she would never have the opportunity to present her newly acquired dowry to a daughter or bequeath her money to a son. He had wanted to tell her the truth last night, but she’d been too excited about becoming a woman of means, and too eager to exercise her new independence. Spontaneity had been their watchword last night, happiness the result.
Yet their marital bliss stood on shaky ground, the bedrock cracked with a lie.
He intended to make a full confession, just as soon as he’d spoken to his stepmother.
Feeling lighter for having made the resolution, he pulled Alpin onto his chest. “Wake up, you slugabed.”
She moaned and cuddled against him. “What time is it?”
“’Tis nearly six o’clock.”
“Oh, my good
ness.” She bolted to a sitting position, taking his tartan with her. “Dora will need her instructions. We were to make candles this morning, and the floors in the barracks are a muddy mess from the rain yesterday.”
She looked delightfully mussed, her expression still endearingly sleepy, her hair a mass of chestnut-hued ringlets trailing to her waist How could anyone term her glorious hair brunette? The word sounded too ordinary. It must have been the dim light.
“Wouldn’t you rather forget Dora and dirty floors and give your husband a good-morning kiss?”
Saints condemn her, she actually pondered the question. Pride stinging, he said, “Unless you don’t care to know the name of the very special person who arrived here a few moments ago.”
She leaned over him and rubbed her nipples across his chest. “Good morning, husband mine.”
Her hair formed a warm curtain around them, and when her lips settled on his, he thought he might just have to make love to her again. His randy body confirmed it.
He hugged her close, allowing his mind to drift to the softness of her skin, and the way she fit perfectly against him. He enjoyed savoring this woman and nurturing her passion, but he couldn’t banish the idea of a quick loving.
She drew back. “What’s so funny?”
“I was thinking about one of the coarser terms for lovemaking.”
Curiosity sparkled in her eyes. “Tell me.”
“’Tis called the rooster rut.”
Her carefree laugh was the second sweetest sound he’d ever heard her utter.
“What is the rooster rut?” she said.
“’Tis something that happens very quickly. Are you interested?”
She stared at the ceiling, her teeth toying with her bottom lip. The delicate column of her neck and the perfect planes of her shoulders drew his attention. Her dainty size was misleading, for she possessed an abundance of womanly charms.
She glanced down at him, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Instead of nipping me on the neck and calling out my name when you … you know …”
Enjoying her discomfiture, he smiled. “You mean when I’m trapped in the throes of passion.”
“Yes. Instead of enjoying what you usually do, I’m eager to see you tuck your thumbs in your armpits, wag your elbows, and cock-a-doodle-doo.”
They both laughed, and he embraced her again, feeling cozy and content. His desire subsided, replaced by a deeper need for harmony and trust with this very special woman. She warmed his heart. She made him long for day’s end and the time when they could be alone. She made him regret all of the years he’d spent scheming for revenge against a crime committed by an innocent lass who’d never known love and security.
A shadow of doubt passed over his happiness. What if she couldn’t forgive him?
“Who is here?” she said.
What if he couldn’t make her love him? Malcolm shied from the possibility. “Lady Miriam.”
Alpin scooted away again. “Truly?”
“Aye, she arrived a little while ago.”
She scratched her forehead, then gathered her hair and pulled it over her shoulder. “Where are my hairpins?”
“Scattered, I’m sure, as are your clothes.”
“She mustn’t see me like this.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her just how much Lady Miriam had seen. “Take the tunnel up to our room. Do you remember the way?”
She snatched up her stockings and petticoats. “Yes, I think so.” Once she had dressed, she scooped up the papers and the lamp and disappeared into the tunnel.
As he dressed, he wondered what Lady Miriam would say when he told her about his handfast marriage.
“Congratulations, Malcolm,” she said. “Who’s the lucky lass?”
She stood at the base of the main staircase, her tapestry valise at her feet, the enormous sleuthhound at her side.
“Welcome home, Mother.”
A warm smile brightened her face, and she hugged him fiercely.
The embrace brought to mind how much she had enriched his life. A woman of extraordinary character, a world renowned diplomat, Lady Miriam MacDonald Kerr had changed the course of British history and affected the life of everyone in the Borders. By example she had taught him to fight for his dreams and hold his principles dear. In the latter he had failed her.
Her dog barked and wedged a cold nose between them.
“Redundant, get back!”
The dog, which weighed a pebble shy of six stone and sported front legs as thick as Malcolm’s forearms, immediately sat. Aside from being the only creature able to snap Malcolm from a sound sleep, the sleuthhound could smell a rabbit from a hundred paces and track it for miles without tiring.
“Well?”
Lady Miriam’s arrival spawned dozens of questions. “My news can wait,” he said. “Tell me when you got back.”
She huffed impatiently. “My ship docked in London three days ago.”
“‘My’? Singular? Where’s the rest of our family?”
“Malcolm! I’m as curious as the widow MacKenzie. Who is your bride?”
Although the top of her head barely reached his chin, Lady Miriam was truly a formidable presence and an expert in the art of intimidation. The only problem was, she often failed with family members. “You go first,” he said. “What happened in Constantinople?”
She put down the marquetry box and began pacing. “’Twas an unremarkable treaty punctuated with passages from the Koran and concessions from both sides. I drank an ocean of fruit juice and ate a mountain of rice and greasy mutton. The sultan wanted to house me and your sisters in the seraglio. Your father bedeviled me by pretending to contemplate the arrangement. Saladin would have been in heaven there. Salvador despised every moment and had the nerve to fashion tiny icons into the illuminated border of the sultan’s copy of the treaty. Mahmud came to terms with the Persians. As we speak, both sides are scrambling to find ways to break the agreement. I expect that effort to keep them busy for a couple of years.”
She stopped and bowed from the waist. “So there, my inquisitive son.”
She rattled off matters of state as if they were a list of household chores. Her flawless memory and attention to detail had been the bane of kings and carpenters, the torment of bootboys and bishops.
“Did you tell that to King George?” Malcolm asked.
“I told him nothing. He’s in Hanover trying to make a mistress of the Countess von Walmoden.”
“But you saw the queen or Walpole?”
“Both, unfortunately.” She removed her lace-worked coif and shook her head. Her shoulder-length hair fell perfectly into place. “That’s why I’m a day late getting here. The prime minister insisted I attend a reception commemorating the opening of his house on Downing Street. The queen was there. We stood in a broom closet while I gave her my report on the mission.”
He laughed. “You expect me to believe you convened a meeting with the queen in a broom closet?”
“You always were a skeptical lad. Now. I’ve told you everything about my trip. Will you please tell me everything about your bride?”
He felt as proud as he had the day he’d learned to wield a broadsword. “She’s Alpin MacKay.”
Surprise enhanced her youthful appearance; caught off guard, Lady Miriam could have been mistaken for her eldest daughter. “The baron’s Alpin MacKay?” she said. “That’s who you were with just now?”
Possessiveness consumed him. “She’s my Alpin MacKay, and she’s gone upstairs to change and comb her hair. She’s nervous about seeing you again after all these years.”
Now that she’d regained her composure, she scrutinized him like a mother reunited with a wayward child. “How long has she been here?”
“’Tis a long story, and you look exhausted. Let’s sit down.”
She stuffed the delicate coif into her pocket “You’re such a comfort to a vain mother.”
Ignoring her gibe, he led her to her favorite room, the lesser hall, which
was empty. Redundant trotted to his favorite spot at the base of the Kerr throne and plopped down with a thud.
Malcolm held out a chair at the table near the windows, then sat across from her. The first rays of sunlight accentuated the strands of silver that salted her red hair. At eleven years old, Malcolm had fallen in love with her, thought she was the only woman in the world for him. At twenty-eight, he thought the world a better place for her presence in it.
“Now that you’ve seen to the comfort of my rickety old bones, you can tell me how Alpin MacKay came to Scotland and ended up naked on the floor with you.”
A fresh bout of embarrassment seized him. He cleared his throat. “She arrived from Barbados a couple of months ago.”
“Why didn’t you write it to me in your letter?”
At the time he’d written, he had justified the omission by telling himself the news would have complicated her mission in Constantinople. In actual fact, she was too skilled to be distracted, but the point was moot, for his plans for Alpin had taken a different turn.
Thinking of his handfast bride and how he’d acquired her, he decided one small lie would create a hundred truths. “I wanted to surprise you.”
A frown marred the ivory smoothness of her forehead. “I am surprised. I thought you disliked her because you believed she made you sterile with those hornets years ago.”
He’d wasted too much time on that emotion. “I love her to distraction, and now that you’re home, I’ll set a date for the wedding.”
She gave him a rueful smile to let him know she hadn’t missed his evasion about the hornet incident. Hell, his stepmother’s perception was rivaled only by her perfect memory.
“Does Baron Sinclair know she’s here?”
“Nay. He hasn’t returned from Ireland and the company of his grandson.”
“You’d never know he once abhorred children, especially Alpin,” she said. “Why did she come back to Scodand?”
If half-truths were blessings, Malcolm had a foot in heaven’s door. “Charles died.”
