The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  Looking down into her flushed features, he said softly, “Why, much more, lassie. A sweetness that melts the bones and makes the heart ache flows between two lovers.” His finger stopped one of her tears, and he brushed it away. “Dinna fret, lovey. I’ll make it better for ye the next time. I would hear ye cry wi’ passion, nae pain.”

  She blushed again. “You are a bold man, my lord. The boldest I have ever known.”

  “I’m the only man ye’ve ever known, Arabella Stewart,” he replied huskily. “There is proof of my words upon the very sheets. Yer maidenhead, lost for all to see.” He pointed to the linens beneath them and to her bloodied thighs. Then reaching out he cupped her head in his big hand and drew her up to him. Their lips were almost touching as he murmured, “I want more of ye, lovey! More than ye even realize ye hae to gie me,” and his mouth crushed down on hers.

  For a moment she felt as if she were drowning, but desire is communicative as Arabella was quickly discovering. She could not stop herself from wrapping her arms about his neck to draw him even closer, realizing even as she did that she liked the feel of his hard, masculine body against hers. She was unable to resist meeting him kiss for kiss, her lips becoming more skilled with each passing minute than she had ever thought them to be. Where earlier she had fought against the rising tide of excitement within her own body, she now no longer struggled against the inevitable. Her husband had not lied to her. There was pleasure in passion, and Arabella realized, though it did surprise her a little, she wanted that pleasure.

  He sensed this end to the hostilities between them, and it but fueled his own hunger to once again possess her. The firm flesh of her young breasts was like a magnet, drawing him to them, binding themselves to him. He covered them with quick, hot kisses. His mouth closed over the nipples, suckling upon them, scoring them lightly with his teeth, inciting her to dig her fingernails into the nape of his neck even as she murmured her obvious contentment of his actions.

  His lips strayed below, crossing her torso, causing her to draw her breath in sharply, particularly when his tongue began to slowly trace an irregular pattern across her tingling, shivering flesh. He rubbed his face into her belly, inhaling her fragrance. Then suddenly he was kissing the curve of her jawline, his lips moving down her neck to bury themselves into the hollow of her throat, where he growled low as her very pulses pounded wildly beneath his mouth, even as she turned her head to nip sharply at his earlobe.

  Why, she wondered in a brief moment of clarity, why had she been so fearful of this marvelous wildness? She had not known! She had not known! Arabella almost purred her approval as he probed once more into her yet tender sheath, moving rhythmically upon her with careful, measured strokes which soon set her whimpering with frustration, for the man-root she had feared too large but minutes ago now seemed not large enough.

  Watching her from between half-closed eyes, the earl saw the subtle changes in her face even as passion caught her in its thrall. He smiled with satisfaction. “All right, lovey,” he murmured softly to her, “I’ll take ye home now!”

  Arabella felt as if she had been swept up into a fiery maelstrom. She could feel the powerful thighs pressing against her thighs as if he were guiding her. She managed to open her eyes for a moment, and the sight of him above her made her shiver, though whether from fear or passion she was not certain. He appeared so fierce, so savage in this possession of her. Her head was whirling, and she closed her eyes once more. She was suddenly and most acutely aware of a strange feeling that was beginning to permeate her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head.

  She felt like a child chasing a bright, yet elusive butterfly. There was something she wanted badly, but she did not know quite what it was. Arabella’s body caught the rhythm meted out by her husband. As they moved together in their wild passion, a fullness began to build within her, overwhelming her, almost suffocating her in its intensity. She wanted it! She did not understand what it was that she wanted, and surely she was going to die from the unbelievable sweetness flooding her body, her mind, and her very soul—but she cared not! She wanted it!

  Satisfied that his young bride had at last attained the full perfection of passion, Tavis Stewart took his own release once more. Pleasured, he drew Arabella into the comfort of an embrace, and was amused when she sighed deeply and fell quickly into a quiet sleep. He grinned to himself. The lass was either going to kill him or keep him the happiest man in all of Scotland, he thought. He was not sure that he was ever going to get enough of his adorable wee English wife, but he did know that this marriage, made in haste and anger, would be well-consummated before he and Arabella appeared in the Great Hall of Dunmor Castle tomorrow morning. Knowing innocence made wise, the earl took his rest while he could.

  When he awoke it was yet dark, and by the chill permeating the room, he knew the fire to be low, if indeed it had not gone out entirely. Arabella lay next to him, curled like a small cat against his side, the warm puff of her breathing soft against his shoulder. Gingerly the earl moved away from her, sliding his big frame from the bed. He padded across the floor to the fireplace, where the coals still glowed with a deep orange light. Kneeling, he laid a fresh log upon them and then fed the coals small bits of tinder until the fire flamed up once more, the blaze spreading a cheerful golden glow and a friendly warmth throughout the room.

  “Tavis?”

  He arose at the sound of her voice and returned to their nuptial bed. “The fire was about to go out, my love,” he told her, and he cradled her within his arms.

  “Will Lona and Flora come home today?” she asked him sleepily.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “I have not yet spoken to Lona about conditions at Greyfaire under Sir Jasper’s rule, nor have I had any word of my mother. She must surely be near her time.”

  He had to tell her, Tavis Stewart realized. Now. Before the morning, when Lona would return. There was no time left. His arm tightened about her. “Lona did indeed bring word of yer mother, Arabella,” he began, and felt her tense against him. “Ye must nae be angry at Lona,” he quickly continued. “I would nae let her tell ye lest it spoil our joy in Ailis’ wedding to Rob. Can ye understand that, lassie?”

  She nodded, a sinking feeling suddenly welling up in the pit of her stomach. Mama! The word echoed in her brain, and she knew even before he said the terrible words. She knew!

  “Yer mother is dead, Arabella, and the bairn wi’ her.” He let her digest his words, and then when she said nothing, he continued. “Sir Jasper would nae allow her to communicate wi’ ye, but Father Anselm, and yer good FitzWalter, saw that Lona was sent to ye wi’ yer own little mare on her death. Yer mother wanted it, and she wanted ye to know that she loved ye, and hoped ye’d forgie her.”

  It was then that Arabella began to weep. Great, tearing, gulping sobs of raw anguish that almost broke Tavis Stewart’s heart. “Forgive her? She wanted me to forgive her? Why should she need my forgiveness, Tavis? She saved me from that dreadful man. I do not believe for one moment that she really loved him. She was lonely after my father’s death, and she was incapable of managing without a man to tell her what to do.”

  “Yer nae like her, are ye?” he observed wryly.

  She looked up at him, her eyes like rain-washed gems with her sorrow. Then she shook her head slowly and said simply, “Nay.”

  He hugged her close against him, and she began to vent her sorrow once more while he crooned soft words and phrases of comfort to her. Finally her grief seemed to abate, to his relief, for he was quite soaked with her tears.

  “I am alone now,” she said.

  “Ye hae me, lassie,” he answered quietly.

  She looked at him again. A solemn, thoughtful look. He was a good man, this great border lord who had stolen her away from Greyfaire, wed her in anger, and then this night initiated her into womanhood with such overwhelming tenderness and care. Lifting her face to him, she said softly, “Kiss me,” and as his lips touched hers with gentle passion, she w
as overcome with sadness once more. Her arms wound about her husband’s neck and she wept again. How fortunate she was to have Tavis Stewart! Why should she be so blest when her sweet and simple mother had been so curst?

  And as if he could see her very thoughts, the Earl of Dunmor said comfortingly, “Dinna think on it, lassie. Yer gentle mam is safe in Heaven wi’ yer father now, and I suspect she is far happier there wi’ him than here wi’ out him.”

  “This is all the fault of Sir Jasper Keane,” Arabella said, and suddenly her voice was hard.

  “Aye,” the earl agreed, “and ye may be certain, my wee English wife, that the devil will pay for his misdeeds. I’ll see to that, I promise ye.”

  “You must see he does, Tavis Stewart, for there are but two people upon whom I can rely in this world. You and me.”

  In the months to come, Tavis Stewart would remember his bride’s words with growing foreboding. For the moment, however, he was content to love her sorrow away.

  PART TWO

  Her Ladyship of Dunmor

  Chapter Nine

  “Tavis! Welcome, man! Welcome!” Scotland’s king stepped across the floor to meet his half brother, enfolding him in a warm embrace. He was a handsome man, with his French mother’s olive skin, dark hair, and fine, dark eyes. Stepping back from his younger but taller brother, he said, “And this wee lassie is yer countess, is she?”

  “Aye, Jemmie, she is,” the earl said, and drew his wife proudly forward. “This is Arabella Stewart.”

  The Countess of Dunmor curtsied to the king, her deep blue velvet skirts puddling prettily about her as she dipped her knee.

  James Stewart took her hand and raised her up, smiling as he did so. “Welcome to ye, my lady of Dunmor. Yer a far lovelier lass than rny brother deserves.”

  Arabella blushed prettily. “Thank you, Sire,” she said, “but I find I am most content with the marriage I have made.”

  The king chuckled. “Yer outspoken, lass, just like a good Scots woman, for all ye were born and raised on the other side of the border. Come now, for this is nae a formal court, I fear. Ye will want to meet the queen, of course, and my heir, Jamie.’’ He led her to the dais where Queen Margaret sat and made the introductions.

  Arabella curtsied again.

  “Why, my dear, how fair ye are,” the queen said in kindly tones. “Come and sit by my side that I may know more of ye.”

  At the queen’s command a small upholstered stool was brought and set beside the queen’s chair.

  “Sit down, my lady of Dunmor,” Margaret of Denmark said, and when Arabella had settled herself, the queen continued. “I was sorry to learn of yer recent sorrow. I know how very sad I was when my mother died. Like you, I was far from home and did not learn of it for several months. I will remember yer mother in the Mass, of course.”

  “Thank you, madame,” Arabella said. “I am grateful for your prayers for my mother. When I think of her wed to that awful man, however, I think perhaps it is best she is dead and with my father, who loved her above all women. Besides, Sir Jasper but married her in an attempt to steal Greyfaire from me, but I will not let him do it!”

  “Greyfaire is yer childhood home?” the queen inquired.

  “Aye, madame, but more important, it is my inheritance, for I am the last of the Greys of Greyfaire. It is my dowry as well. Without it I come to my husband worse off than a shepherd’s daughter. Sir Jasper Keane was chosen as a husband for me by King Richard, who was wed to my mother’s cousin, Anne Neville. King Richard was a good man, but he was not aware of Sir Jasper’s wicked reputation, for from the moment of his ascension to England’s throne, he had all the difficulties he could manage simply in order to retain his ordained place.”

  “My husband says he was the best of the Plantagenets,” Queen Margaret remarked, “but continue with yer tale, my lady of Dunmor.”

  “There is little more to it, madame. Unbeknownst to King Richard, to me, and to my mother, Sir Jasper Keane had murdered Eufemia Hamilton, who was my lord’s betrothed wife. Tavis desired revenge.’’

  The queen’s blue eyes sparkled. “I understood that he kidnapped ye from the church on yer wedding day. Is it true?”

  Arabella laughed. “Aye, he did. He arrived just as Father Anselm was beginning the service, and he offered to meet Sir Jasper in single combat. That craven, however, hid behind the priest’s skirts and demanded sanctuary of the church. So Tavis stole me away and wed with me himself two days after. I’d heard by then that Sir Jasper had forced Father Anselm to marry him to my mother even as Tavis rode over the border with me.’’

  “She died in childbirth, I understand,” the queen said.

  “Aye,” Arabella answered, not certain just how much of the truth the queen actually knew, but in an effort to protect Rowena’s reputation, she said, “My mother was not a good breeder, madame. She lost several children by my father. I am her only surviving offspring.” Arabella’s eyes filled with tears. “I shall never forgive Jasper Keane! It is not, you realize, that I do not believe that Tavis is the better man, for I do; but had Sir Jasper accepted my husband’s challenge, my mother might have been saved from him. If he had beaten Tavis, he would have wed with me. If he had lost, he would have been dead and my mother alive this day!”

  The queen, who knew that Rowena Grey had been several months gone with child before her hasty and scandalous marriage, reached out and patted Arabella’s shoulder. Her gallant effort to protect her dead parent, even if her reasoning was faulty, was touching. Queen Margaret approved of her ladyship of Dunmor’s filial loyalty. “I do not attempt to understand God’s will, my dear,” she said, “and oft times I find it difficult to even accept it, but accept it we must as good daughters of Holy Mother Church. Our gracious Lord has given ye a new family, my lady, and with God’s blessing ye will bear children of yer own. They will never take yer mother’s place in yer heart, but ye can best serve her memory by raising them well as she raised ye.’’

  “And as ye raised me, little mother!”

  “Jamie!”

  A tall and extremely handsome boy had joined them. He had a quick and winning smile that reached all the way to his bright blue eyes. His hair, unlike his dark-haired father and his blonde mother, was bright auburn red.

  “My lady of Dunmor,” he said, catching Arabella’s hand in his and raising it to his lips, which lingered perhaps a trifle longer than they should have. His eyes held hers in thrall for a moment, and Arabella was shocked by the raw sensuality she saw lurking within their depths. Prince James was a boy, a lad no older than herself, yet his boldness bespoke a man, and a man of far more experience than even she, a married woman, had. Arabella disengaged her hand with as little fuss as she could, but though the boy’s face was a mask of polite charm, those wicked blue eyes told her that he had read her very thoughts.

  The queen, however, did not seem to notice, and her tone was almost doting as she said, “Jamie, yer a naughty laddie! Will ye not at least wait for me to properly introduce her ladyship, yer new aunt, to you? Arabella, my dear, this is our eldest son and Scotland’s heir, James, whom we call Jamie. Make yer bow, ye wicked scamp!” his mother scolded lovingly, and when he had, she said, “Jamie, yer uncle Tavis’ bride, Lady Arabella.”

  Arabella arose from her stool and curtsied to the future king, blushing furiously as he took the opportunity to look boldly down her bodice.

  “Madame,” the prince said in proper tones, “yer presence at my father’s court makes it a far fairer place. Welcome.’’

  “I thank you sir,” Arabella said politely.

  “I am going to steal Lady Stewart away from ye, Mother, for ye hae been monopolizing her since her arrival. I would take her about and introduce her to all here.”

  “Of course, Jamie,” his mother agreed, “‘tis a fine idea.” Then she turned to Arabella and said, “Come back to me if ye grow tired of all this hubbub, my dear.”

  Arabella could not see any way to escape the prince, and so she curtsied
to the queen, saying, “Thank you, madame, for all your kindness.”

  The prince took Arabella by the hand and led her across the room, but instead of introducing her to anyone, he drew her into an alcove. “Yer the most beautiful woman I hae ever seen,” he declared.

  “My lord, your compliment is overly extravagant,” Arabella said in what she hoped passed for a severe tone.

  The prince laughed. “I hae been told ye are a spitfire, my beauty. I like a wee bit of spice in the wooing.’’

  “I would hope you would not even attempt to woo me, my lord, for I am content with my husband.’’ Arabella was shocked by the prince’s attitude.

  He grinned engagingly at her. “I would make love to ye, my beauty,” he said, and leaning forward, kissed her breast just as it swelled from her bodice.

  Arabella started as if she had been scalded. “My lord! How dare ye!”

  “I would dare anything in pursuit of passion, my beauty,” came the disconcerting reply.

  “How old are you?” Arabella demanded, suddenly deciding the only way to treat this saucy boy was to treat him as a child.

  “I bedded my first wench when I was ten, my beauty. I’m a Stewart, and we’re known for our warm natures.”

  “Ye’ll soon be known for yer warm bottom, my royal nephew,” came Tavis Stewart’s stern voice, “unless ye behave yerself and dinna attempt to seduce my wee wife.’’

  “Uncle!” The prince turned and grinned up at the earl. “Ye canna expect me to ignore this beautiful creature ye’ve wed.”

  “I expect ye to behave yerself in her presence, Jamie.’’

  “I would try, Uncle, but the amorous culuch will nae allow it.”

  “If ye dinna want to find yer culuch shortened by several inches, laddie, ye’ll keep yer wicked ways away from my wife. Now run along and find a more willing playmate.”