by Joan Wolf
Her heart turned over inside her breast at that look. He slid his hands into the hair he had just loosened and bent his head to kiss her. Desire, instant, intense, painful, stabbed through her at the touch of his mouth. They left their clothes in a heap on the floor and fell together onto the bed.
There was no pain this time, only intense, stunning sensation. She was shocked by its sheer primitive power, shocked and a little frightened.
"Christ, sweetheart." His voice was still slightly breathless. He shifted until he had her cradled in his arms. "Things between us never seem to go as I plan."
The thudding of his heart against her cheek was beginning to slow. "It's... a little frightening," she murmured.
"Yes." His voice above her head was perfectly sober. "It is." And she felt oddly grateful that he too was disturbed and overwhelmed by the powerful need that drew them so urgently together.
Slowly he began to rub her back. Van relaxed against him, soft and warm and trusting. After a while his hand moved to the small of her back. Van sighed. He kissed the top of her head. "Let's take it slowly this time," he murmured, and she felt the ripples of desire stir deep within her.
He wooed her with hands and voice and mouth. She turned to him, a flower turning and opening to the heat and light of the sun. He was bright and powerful and she was warm and flushed from his caresses. He sank into her slowly and easily. Her eyes closed and she breathed deeply. From without came the sound of the rain drumming mercilessly against the window Van drifted off to sleep on a flood of rich peace and satisfaction.
She woke in the morning to find him still asleep beside her. He was lying on his stomach, his face hidden by the loose golden hair that fanned across his cheek. His shoulders and upper arms were visible above the quilt and Van stared at the massive muscles that were usually hidden under his beautifully made coats, at the thick bright hair that was usually confined so neatly by its black ribbon. Lying there in her bed, he seemed to her another being altogether, mystic, potent, godlike. Then he rolled over and opened his eyes and became Edward once again.
On the day his sister was married, Niall MacIan narrowly missed being captured by a British man-of-war. The prince's party was desperately trying to move southward down the Long Island, to Benbecula, where they hoped to get a boat to Skye. Their stay in the Outer Isles so far had been fraught with danger and discomfort. They had spent the last week or so sheltering in a wretched hut on the small desert island of Iubhard, hiding from the English frigates which had returned from St. Kilda and were cruising off the shore of Harris.
On Van's wedding day the prince's boat was spotted north of Rodel Point, the most southern tip of Harris, and they only escaped capture by steering into the shoal water near Rodel, where the larger man-of-war could not follow. Niall had scarcely breathed a sigh of relief, however, before they ran into another English frigate, this time near Lochmaddy on North Uist. It was only by spending the night at sea, rowing steadily and quietly southward, that they managed to escape. The heavy rain and wind caught them as they reached Loch Uskavagh in Benbecula, and there they sheltered in a poor bothy, existing on seabirds and fish. It was three days before they could land on the mainland of Benbecula. MacDonald of Clanranald directed them to shelter in Corradale, in South Uist, where they took up residence in a tenant's cottage that looked like a palace compared to their most recent habitations. They remained in Corradale for three weeks and it was there that Lachlan found Niall with his mother's letter.
Niall was not present when Lachlan arrived at the cottage, escorted by a few local MacDonalds who had been helping to supply the prince's party with bread and meal. The hills around Corradale were teeming with game and the prince and Niall kept the party well supplied with grouse and with deer. Niall was out hunting with Charles when Lachlan arrived. They returned to the cottage, laughing and in good spirits, to find Lachlan eating and drinking in front of the cottage fire.
"Mac mhic Iain," Lachlan said, leaping to his feet. Then he acknowledged the prince. "I have brought you a letter," Lachlan announced, and produced Frances' missive. Niall took it eagerly and, excusing himself, went a little apart from the others to read. At the first line he went rigid with shock.
"My dearest son," Frances had written. "On May 10 your sister will be married to the Earl of Linton." Involuntarily Niall looked up from his letter and over to the corner of the cottage where the prince was now seated talking to O'Sullivan. Charles was dressed as a Highlander, in a suit of tartan brought to him by Clanranald, and he was busy lengthening a clay pipe with the quill of a seabird's feather while he talked. The prince had become adept in the simple things of Highland life during the weeks since Culloden. Niall turned and left the cottage in order to be completely alone with his disturbing letter. He did not want anyone to be reading his face.
Outside, he leaned his shoulders against the cottage walls and opened the letter once more. "I do not know if you realize how hard the Duke of Cumberland has come down upon the Highlands," his mother's words continued. "His soldiers have been burning cottages and driving off cattle all around Inverness and the Great Glen. There is starvation and rape and murder wherever they go. Van and I were helpless to do aught to protect the clan, Niall. We were just waiting here, helpless, until the soldiers came. Then Edward arrived.
"Niall, he extracted a promise from Cumberland that the lands and the people of Morar would not be touched if Van would marry him. And there is more. Edward has sent for his yacht and he engages to take you to France.
"He is doing all of this because he loves Van. But he is still an Englishman. He will not help the prince to escape, Niall, only you.
"Darling, think of Jean. How lonely and frightened she must be by herself in France. You have a duty to her now. You have more than discharged your duty to the prince.
"Come home to Morar, my son. My heart is so heavy with fear for your safety. Please allow your sister's husband to convey you to France.
"Van has enclosed a note for you as well.
"I pray I shall see you soon. Your loving mother, Frances MacIan."
Niall unfolded Van's letter slowly, a frown drawing his black brows into a straight line above his intent eyes. His sister's letter was shorter than his mother's. "We cannot possibly smuggle the prince aboard the yacht. Edward plans to be on board personally and he would check any companions you might have very carefully. Morar should be relatively safe from English patrols. I have not told Edward about the cave. Let me know if you need help. Van."
As Niall finished his sister's letter the frown lifted from his brow and a smile crept slowly across his face. He might have known he could trust Van, he thought.
He was not impervious to his mother's words about Jean. His wife had been much on his mind, particularly these last calm days in Corradale. But he could not desert his prince. Should they be unsuccessful in picking up a ship here in the western isles, and be forced to return to the mainland, Charles would desperately need his services as a guide. And there was the cave, where they might shelter, protected by Van and her unknowing husband.
No. When and if he returned to Morar, he would have the prince with him. In the meanwhile, he had a letter to write to his mother.
Frances sat by the window of her sitting room, holding Niall's letter and staring out at Edward's yacht, which was anchored in the loch.
She had known he would not take the chance to escape. He was just like his father.
Alasdair.
Unbearable to think that just two months ago she had had him. And now... The tears began to course down her face. She could not seem to stop crying these days. Alone here in her sitting room, alone in her bed at night, the knife edge of grief would overwhelm her. And once she started to cry, she could not seem to stop.
Van's presence was the only thing that helped the pain at all. Without Van it would have been absolute desolation. Van knew how she felt. Van mourned for him too.
She looked down at the letter in her lap and tried to stop her
weeping. Niall wanted his mother to go to France to be with his wife. The baby was due in August and he was worried to death about Jean being alone.
Oh, but she did not want to go! She did not want to leave this place where she had passed her life with Alasdair. She did not want to leave her daughter.
Frances stood up and went slowly up the stairs to her bedroom, where she splashed cold water on her red, swollen eyes. Her window looked toward the head of the glen and from it she could see her son-in-law approaching the castle. Edward had been spending his days visiting the clan holdings, assessing what would be needed in the way of food for the future. There had been little planted this spring, with the men away at war. With Edward was Alasdair's foster brother, Alan Ruadh, who had been acting as the earl's interpreter.
Frances stared out the window at the distant bright head of her son-in-law. Edward had been kindness itself to her, never seeming to grudge his wife's attendance upon her mother.
I take Van away from him too much, Frances thought. There was a clansman running up the path toward Edward, and Frances watched as he spoke to the earl, his hands gesturing with Celtic grace. Edward waited patiently while Alan Ruadh interpreted.
Van should be doing this with him, Frances thought suddenly. She should be with her husband, not with me. I have been too selfish in my grief. I have been thinking only of myself.
I must go to France.
The thought brought pain, but she closed her fingers on the curtains and straightened her back. It was right that she go, she told herself sternly. Van must be left free to make her marriage. I have been wrong to cling to her so, Frances thought. I have been wrong to burden Van's young heart with my grief. Niall is right. It is Jean who needs me now. It is time that Edward and Van were left alone.
Frances told Edward and Van about Niall's letter while they were having tea in the drawing room that evening. There were four of them, as Mr. Drummond was still at Creag an Fhithich.
"Niall refuses to leave the prince," Frances said to Edward. "He feels that is where his duty still lies."
There was a flash of what looked like impatience in the very blue eyes of her daughter's husband. Then he shrugged his big shoulders. "That is his decision," he said coolly, and began to butter a slice of bread.
Frances continued steadily. "However, he has asked that I go to France to be with his wife. She is expecting a child, as I believe you know. Would it be possible, Edward, for your yacht to take me instead of Niall?"
He looked up from his bread and, for a brief revealing minute, she saw what was in his mind. Then his face was a mask of perfect courtesy. "My yacht is at your disposal, Frances, of course. But are you sure you wish to leave us?"
"Yes." She smiled at him. "It is time for me to go," she said gently, and he knew that she had seen his relief at her decision.
He grinned at her, exactly like a small boy caught stealing goodies from the kitchen. He had more charm than any man she had ever known, Frances thought, as, irresistibly, she smiled back.
"Jean will be perfectly fine without you, Mother." Van's voice was hard, her thin face angry. "I'm quite sure Fassefern has provided for her. You don't want to leave Creag an Fhithich, you know you don't."
"But I do," Frances said firmly. "And what is more, darling, it is what your father would have wished of me. Jean carries the heir to Morar. You know how important that was to him."
Van's light eyes looked doubtful. "Are you certain...?"
"Quite certain." Frances' tone was final. She turned back to Edward. "We can sail through the Moray Firth and return Mr. Drummond to Inverness on the way."
Mr. Drummond, who was beginning to feel as if he were to be immured forever in Morar, was obviously delighted.
The conversation flowed and as Van listened to her mother's plans she began to think that perhaps it would really be good for Frances to get away.
About one thing Frances was adamant. She did not want Edward's escort. "It is not necessary," she said. "I am not one of the people the government is interested in apprehending. You may give me a letter, in case the boat is stopped. But really, Edward, no one is going to arrest the Earl of Linton's mother-in-law."
"You can't be sure, Mother," Van said worriedly.
"Well, if I am arrested I will send you word and Edward can come and rescue me." Frances' humorous tone and smiling eyes seemed to reassure Van, and for the first time since the topic had been introduced, her face relaxed into a smile.
"A change of scene will be good for her, you know," Edward said to Van as they were undressing for bed that night. "And it will be good for her to feel needed. There are too many memories here in Morar just at present."
"Perhaps you are right." Van, seated in a velvet-covered chair before the fire, bent forward to remove her stockings. She wore only her chemise, and her shining hair was streaming over the flawless skin of her shoulders and breasts.
Frances had read Edward correctly. He was glad she was leaving Creag an Fhithich. Not because he did not like her—he did, very much. But he felt strongly that there was a barrier between him and his wife and he thought that Frances was a part of it. Every time Van looked at her mother, she remembered her father's death. With Frances gone, perhaps the resistance he felt in Van would melt.
The physical attraction between them was stronger than ever. At night, in his arms, she was every man's erotic dream come true. But it was not enough for him that they could set the night ablaze with passion. He wanted what they had had in the days of their brief engagement, before the prince had landed. He wanted that oneness, that deep sense of communion between two hearts and two minds, that touching of spirits.
They had not recovered that since their marriage. Van's body was his, but the rest of herself she held aloof.
She did not play the harpsichord anymore.
He had to be patient, he told himself. She had been through a terrible time; he could not expect her to forget so quickly. •
Van straightened up. In the light of the fire her hair shone blue, not brown. She gave him a shadowy smile. "You have been very good to us, Edward. Thank you for letting Mother use your yacht."
A dark storm rose within him. He did not want her gratitude. She was within his reach and he stretched out an arm to pull her toward him. He kissed her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, then swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, where he could assert their union in the only way he could find, where their marriage was deep and personal, where the particularities of selfhood were submerged in the great primal darkness of physical love.
CHAPTER 26
It was raining when Van awoke, the drops beating hard against the windowpane. Poor Mother, she thought immediately. Frances had left for France on Edward's yacht the previous day.
Van lay on her back and looked at the empty chimney. Someone would be in shortly to make up the fire. Edward did not believe in living like a Spartan. He was asleep next to her now, his big body very warm beside hers under the quilts.
Poor Mother, Van thought again. I hope the sea is not too rough.
Van had not wanted Frances to leave, and when the graceful white-sailed yacht had sailed out of Loch Morar yesterday, she had felt fear cramp within her stomach. She had been hiding behind Frances for weeks, and now she was alone.
She turned her head slowly and looked at the man she had been hiding from. He was lying on his side, his face relaxed and very young-looking within its tangle of golden hair. He wanted her to forget what was happening to the Highlands, to forget and to love him as completely as once she had. But she could not forget. She would not forget.
He had put her in a position in which she had had no choice but to marry him. He had virtually forced her to marry him. It was unfair of him to expect anything from her but dutiful compliance.
The fact that she gave him far more than dutiful compliance in bed rankled her pride, but she was helpless before the physical attraction he had for her.
But that was all it was, she thou
ght defiantly. Physical attraction. The girl who had once loved him had died with the clans at Culloden. Nothing between them could ever be as it had been before.
Van was doing an inventory of her mother's medical supplies early that afternoon when Lachlan came to find her. An escaped prisoner from Fort Augustus had taken refuge in his father's cottage and wanted to see Van. The fugitive was Alan MacDonald.
The rain was still falling heavily when Van, wearing trews and wrapped in a plaid, took one of the ponies and rode out to the distant glen that was home to Rory MacIan, Lachlan's father. The path took her through the mountains, up steep and rocky slopes that only a sure-footed Highland pony could handle. Her plaid was soaked by the time she arrived at the small cottage—really scarcely more than a hut—where Alan was sheltering. Rory met her at the door.
"He is sitting by the fire, my lady," the old man told her courteously, and Van walked slowly into the smoky room.
He must know she had married Edward. The last time they had met she had promised to marry him. Van looked at him somberly through the smoke of the fire and waited for Kim to speak first.
He said nothing. The red in his hair was bright in the light of the fire. The beard on his unshaven face was red as well. His face, however, was so thin as to look almost cadaverous. Van's eyes widened. "God in heaven, Alan. You look like a skeleton! What has happened to you?"
"I'm all right," he replied. "Dirty, but otherwise fine." There was a pause; then he said, deliberately, "And how are you?"
Van swallowed. "I'm married," she said baldly.
There was no flicker of expression on his face. "So I have heard. To the Earl of Linton."
