by Arnette Lamb
Making a rope of her hair, he wrung out the water, then picked up the brush and began to work out the tangles. “A room with many windows at the top of Fairhope Tower.” His lips fluttered down her spine, leaving a trail of shivers on her skin.
“Drummond…”
“Shush.” He breathed the word into her ear, and she had to strain to keep from crying out. Showers of pleasure cascaded over her, refreshing, taunting, bringing to life a picture of the idyllic scene he’d described, complete with her kneeling naked beside him and awaiting his bidding.
“Aren’t you curious about my second wish?”
“Wish? What wish?”
His arrogant, manly chuckle sounded a warning. She grasped the gist of the conversation. “Your second wish.”
Brush forgotten, he lifted her arm, ducked under it and kissed the tender side of her breast. His other arm went around her shoulder and tried to rake the towel aside.
“You must stop.” The feeble request sounded unconvincing even to Johanna’s ears.
His mouth hovered over the tip of her breast, his breath puckering the nipple. “’Twas a wish to find you here bathing in the pantry and in need of someone to rinse your hair.”
His sensual tone and romantic words lulled her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “What was your third wish?”
He took her nipple into his mouth and dragged his lips back and forth, around and around, stealing her breath and clouding her thoughts.
“Do you know,” he murmured. “I think I’ve forgotten.”
“Try,” she gasped, “to remember.”
“You’re too distracting.”
“No. I’m conceding to you again.”
“Admirably so.”
He sounded so satisfied by her answer that Johanna almost rejoiced; they were conversing easily. Conversing? She could lay claim to the title of second biggest fool if she equated having her breasts suckled to carrying on a conversation. But if she didn’t stop him, he would expect her to take her wifely duties one step further. She was already in over her head.
Yet the need to yield blared like a seminal call, summoning deep emotions, compelling her to pair up with this man and build a nest and a future. He was luring her to forget the harm her discovery would cause others. What of the bride of Christ who’d devoted her life to raising the daughters other people hadn’t wanted? What of Johanna herself? What would become of her? To the world, she lay buried beneath the consecrated soil of Scarborough Abbey.
Fear of dire consequences fled when his mouth moved to her other breast, and he busied his free hand with soothing the nipple that he’d just abandoned. Tension stirred deep in her belly and her neck went limp. Words and phrases spun in her head, but she could not string together enough of them to form a coherent thought, not when his mouth settled on hers in a kiss that sent rivers of pleasure flowing to her toes.
Seeming to know how she felt, he laid his hand on her stomach and gently kneaded the ache. Her thighs relaxed and her hips tightened, then lower she felt a dampness as different from bathwater as conversing from suckling. He continued in his role of wizard by tipping his head to the side and deepening the kiss just when she thought to make the move herself. He slid his hand lower and dipped into her dampness.
She gasped and pulled her mouth from his. The expression in his eyes bordered on dreamy, and she asked if he hadn’t drunk too much of the ale she’d tasted on his mouth.
“Oh, nay. I intend to remember every moment of our lovemaking.”
Lovemaking. What a beautiful word.
Then his arms were lifting her, hauling her up and against his chest. She clung to him as he sat on the barrel, put her on his lap, and drew up her legs to straddle his hips. Naked and exposed, she felt his straining need even through the fabric of his trunk hose. The tightness began again in her belly, and when she shifted her position, the tension magically eased. His hands caressed her back and exerted gentle pressure as he thrust upward, then down, settling into a rhythm that made porridge of her brain and nonsense of her will to resist him.
He rocked against her, sliding his hardness against the precise spot that craved his touch.
“Be adventurous with me, Clare.”
Clare.
Like a scream snapping her from a nightmare, the sound of her sister’s name awakened Johanna to where she was, what she was doing, and with whom. Desire urged her to forget the consequences and step completely and irreversibly into her sister’s life.
She rebelled. With the keep full of extra mouths to feed, the cook and Evelyn should have already started the evening meal. They would return, and if she could but bide her time an escape would surely present itself.
She gave opportunity a nudge. “You haven’t told me all of your wishes.”
His mouth grazed over her cheek and ear, nibbling and nudging. “One is moot now, thank heavens, and I’ll tell you the other afterward.”
Afterward. Dread tightened her chest. He’d have something to say all right, but it would involve the wondrous fact that after bearing him a son and committing adultery, his wife was still a virgin. Unless?—she recalled what he’d said when she’d asked if he’d drunk too much ale.
I intend to remember every moment.
Did that mean ale could make him forget? Only once had she overindulged, and the details of the event had been blurry. If he were in his cups when he made love to her, he might not notice the difference in the brand. The brand. Oh, Lord, she’d forgotten the brand.
The door rattled. “My lady, are you still in there?”
It was Evelyn. And the towel was still snug around Johanna’s neck. Praise God twice. “Yes, I am.”
He hissed an expletive.
“Sorry to disturb you, but the cook forgot to fetch the ham before you went in for your bath. He says if he don’t start it a-boiling now, the Douglas men will go to bed hungry.”
“Where’s the damned ham?” Drummond whispered harshly.
Relief thrumming through her, Johanna pointed to the barrel beneath them.
When he opened his mouth to let out what she knew would be another angry curse, she slapped her hand over his face. “Will you be quiet? I’m embarrassed to my toes, and I refuse to be discovered dallying with you in broad daylight.”
He nodded, and she took her hand away. “Tell her you’re almost done.” His hands tightened again on her hips, and he winced. “God knows I am.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gave her a strange, searching look, as if he’d expected her to understand. “’Tis not important. I just hope that water’s cold enough by now.”
“Cold enough for what?”
He gave her that same, queer look, as if her question puzzled him. “Cold enough for my purposes,” he grumbled and set her on her feet.
Her knees buckled and she clutched his arm to steady herself. Glaring he said, “That ache in your belly is your own fault. You’ll get no sympathy from me.”
She wanted to ask why he thought she wanted pity, but her last two questions hadn’t been well-received. So she fought the dizzying weakness and pulled on her clothing. When she had located the brush, she unlatched the door and came face-to-face with a perky Evelyn, who wore a posy in her hair and a saucy smile. Probably the work of one of Douglas’s men.
The maid’s gaze moved to Drummond, who was so angry he nearly tore off his jerkin. She looked him up and down, then moved back as if burned. “I’ll just get Amauri to fetch that ham.”
Johanna understood completely; she wanted nothing to do with Drummond, either. She escaped to find Glory. There were questions she needed to ask about how to handle a man.
Two hours later, Drummond threw open a window in the solar and searched the yard for his wife. He spied Alasdair demonstrating his sword technique for Sheriff Hay, Sween, and a group of huntsmen. In the lane, merchants folded up their stalls, and the departing crowds wended their way to the main gate. Spread-eagled on the sloping roof of Longfellow’s shelter,
Morgan Fawr secured the last bundles of thatching.
Drummond again scoured the throng until he spied a familiar yellow surcoat and a white coif. Her movements were unmistakable: the confidence of her carriage, the swing of her arms, and the pleasure she derived from sharing a greeting or waving to a child.
A respectable widow, she called herself. He was beginning to believe it. Not the woman he’d married, she was wont to say. That statement concerned him, for she was as different from the Clare he remembered as the Thames Pool was from Loch Maree. Had he changed as much to her? She hadn’t said so, but she also hadn’t cared enough about their life together to commit it to memory.
Asking after his mother was proof of her disinterest. Once at table, she had asked Drummond’s father to describe Drummond’s mother. Gavin Macqueen had been so angry that she would pose the artless question in the presence of his second wife that he’d banished Clare from table for a fortnight.
She’d cried for days, begged Drummond to intercede on her behalf, and he had, to no avail. How could she have forgotten? Or was it that he’d had too many idle years to remember the past?
Looking for new memories, he followed her progress as she made her way to the steps at the base of the keep. She stopped to speak to a woman with two small daughters. After fussing over the girls, she touched the sleeve of the woman’s frock, obviously admiring the garment. They conversed for a moment more, then Clare continued on her way. She looked at ease, her stride purposeful. The people here adored her. Everyone except Elton Singer, who she’d banned from the alehouse until after Vespers.
At the memory of her clever method of administering justice, Drummond smiled. Had she learned authority from Ramsay Hay? When he’d approached her in the pantry, Drummond had intended to confirm her high opinion of the sheriff and admit he’d been wrong to accuse her of again breaking her marriage vows. An apology hadn’t been necessary, for she’d already forgiven him. Why else would she have been so responsive to his ardor? She harbored no ill will, and didn’t she have a delightful way of showing it.
In some respects he was courting her for the first time. Since she’d been delivered to him by the old king, Drummond had been spared playing the gallant to gain her favor. Her dowry had been a promise of peace from a warring English king. Her destiny had been a singular life on this patch of land.
Drummond rather enjoyed bandying words with her, for he did like her better now, she’d developed a stinging wit and a delightful sense of humor. She was also more passionate.
When she was halfway up the stairs, someone called out, “Lady Friend.” She halted, her features sharp with alarm. Drummond saw Bertie Stapledon run down the steps to meet her, no doubt to pass along the message that her husband awaited her here in the solar.
They conversed in tones too low for Drummond to hear, but he had the impression that Bertie was reassuring her, for she began to relax. He envied the special bond that existed between them, but she had been without father or husband for seven years.
She thanked him, then hurried up the steps. Moments later, Drummond heard her voice in the hall. She was telling the cook to send Amauri to the baker to fetch extra bread.
Anticipating another rewarding exchange, Drummond turned. When she entered the room he said in a pleasant voice, “Where have you been?”
Blinking in confusion, she put down her basket and removed her coif. “Visiting with Glory. Did you want me for something other than satisfying your lust?”
Her boldness baffled him; he’d asked an innocuous question. “What’s gotten into you?”
Wisps of freshly washed hair framed her face in a spray of ringlets. The finely woven linen of her surcoat fitted snugly over her breasts and fell to the floor in gentle folds. According to the ledgers, she could afford a wardrobe of costly silks and velvets, but possessed only a few finer gowns. Or so Evelyn had told him just before he sent her to the market.
“Please be more specific,” she said.
His good humor fled. “By all means. You appear angry now. Yet not long ago you were naked and bouncing up and down on my lap. ’Tis proof you were hot for me, so why speak only of my lust.”
“I said be specific, not lurid. You’re demented if you think you can embarrass me and seduce me, all in the span of a day.”
Where was the melting, moaning, passionate Clare? “Then I take it that by being cold to me now, you are returning the favor.”
“How could I when I do not in the least favor you?”
He felt as if he’d been slapped. “You do. Pray explain why you first ordered me out of the pantry and ten minutes later, begged me to suckle your breasts.”
Color blossomed on her cheeks. “I never begged you.”
He held up his thumb and index finger. “You were this close.”
“Delude yourself as you see fit.” She seated herself behind the desk and opened a ledger.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
A determined glimmer shone in her eyes. “I know that I am recording the day’s provisions.” She flipped through the ledger until she found the page she sought. With a flourish, she inked the quill and began writing. “Let’s see. That’s hay for twenty-two extra horses. Oats, four bushels. Ale, already reckoned. Bread, two bushels.”
The scratching of nib on vellum grated on his nerves. “Will you stop that?”
As calm as a cleric at Mass, she replaced the quill and folded her hands on the book. Then she gave him a bland smile. “Of course, my lord. Have you something meaningful to say?”
At a loss, he strolled behind her and stared over her shoulder. Satisfaction filled him, for she wasn’t so composed as she wanted him to believe. “You’ve entered the figures on the wrong page. These are the reckonings for Longfellow’s expense and mine.”
She tapped the top of the page. “It’s the accounting for visitors.”
Frustration made him cross. “I am not a visitor!”
She eased off the stool and headed for the door. He called her back.
She stopped, sighed, then turned around. “Yes, my lord?”
Naked, she had trembled with desire; now she acted like an uninterested virgin. Only hours ago, her eyes had turned the warm color of cinnamon. Now they looked coolly brown. She was fickle, and one way or another he’d put an end to it. “I would have accord between us,” he said.
“Why? You care little for me.”
Was she being coy? “Not two hours ago, I cared very much for you.”
“You as easily could have bestowed your ‘caring’ on a leman.”
“You expect me to take a whore?”
“I expect you will take whatever you want. Now, if you will excuse me—”
“I do not excuse you.”
“Have you a command for me?”
He wanted her willing and currying favor with him. She would; he’d make her. “Aye. Come here.”
She searched his face, trying to discern his intentions. Drummond lifted an eyebrow, daring her to refuse him. The slender column of her neck worked as she swallowed, but praise her courage, she did not look away. She walked halfway across the room and stopped.
To encourage her closer, he said, “We’ll be visiting Red Douglas in October. I thought to discuss the arrangements.”
“The purpose of our visit is … ?”
“He has demanded that I swear fealty to him.”
“Will you?”
“What do you think?”
She studied him carefully, her brown eyes bright with intelligence. “I think you have not decided yet.”
Damn her intuition. “Would you swear fealty to me?”
“I must decline. Wedding vows take precedence over civil promises. Although some would have it that Highlanders are completely uncivilized.”
Drummond laughed. “’Tis one of the nicer descriptions of us.”
She tried and failed to keep from laughing. “I once overheard the farrier in Carlisle say that Scotsmen hike their legs on their houses to ke
ep their clansmen away.”
“What do you say?”
“I think each of us has an opinion.”
“I think you remember little of your life in Scotland. Why else would you evade the question?”
“It’s a habit I learned from you. Every time I asked you if you loved me.”
She hadn’t forgotten that part. “You picked odd times to ask.”
“I only thought of it when you came home reeking of your mistress’s cloying odor.”
“I’ve taken no woman here.” Hell, he hadn’t even enjoyed his wife, not completely.
“Then you must not be looking in the right place.”
“You care not if I take another woman?”
Her haughty expression was unpracticed, her jaw too rigid. “It’s your right.”
“You were wild for me in the pantry.”
Her gaze wavered, then fixed on the laces of his jerkin. “You never did tell me what you wished for the third time.”
“I wish to know why you will not answer me.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “Because there are more aspects to marriage than the physical.”
The truth of her statement gave him pause. He desired her physically, but he wanted more from her. He had asked for an accord; discussion seemed a perfect place to begin. “Just as there are more aspects to being a father than the obvious?”
“Yes, and how admirable of you to recognize it. Alasdair was very comforted by your attention earlier. He’s quite excited about staying in your room.”
The verbal praise felt like a caress. “I’m certain you are, too.”
She demurred and quite prettily. “I would know you better.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to know that I’m taking him on the hunt tomorrow.”
“Have you already told him so?”
“Why?”
“Because if you haven’t, he won’t be disappointed.”
“I intend to bring him back, and I do not need your permission.”
“Nor my opinion, it seems.”
Be reasonable, he reminded himself. She was frightened of losing her son and would go to any ends to protect him, the second best thing about her that Drummond liked. “I was certain you would object.”
