by Regan Walker
Her beautiful eyes met his. “What do you mean?”
“If I do this right, Ailie, you won’t be needing those nightclothes.”
“Oh.”
They had dined earlier and drunk their fill of champagne, yet perhaps she needed more time. “Would you like something to drink? To eat?”
She shook her head and pressed her lips together. He had to try and calm her fears.
“Remember the woods, Ailie, when I first kissed you?” She nodded. “And the night we shared the stars together and I kissed you again?” She nodded. “And the kiss I gave you at Dunnottar?” Again she nodded. “This is yet another time when I will kiss you, showing you my heart and, I hope, raising your passion. Only this time, we will become one.”
He kissed her then, a teasing kiss. He wanted her eager for more before they moved to the bed. Knowing the woman he had desired for weeks was finally his and that, tonight, they would join together made him impatient to begin but, for her sake and that of their marriage, he planned to go slowly.
He kissed her until her breath came faster and she reached her hands to his nape, exploring his mouth as he explored hers. His body responded, his groin swelling in anticipation of what was to follow. Did she realize the entwining of their tongues foreshadowed what would come next?
He slid his hand to one of her warm breasts, touching for the second time what he’d only imagined before. Slowly, he stroked the sensitive peak through the silk and the thin fabric beneath it. In his mind, he pictured her naked. It was impossible not to.
Wanting to taste her, he pulled down one of her sleeves and the shift underneath it, exposing one silken shoulder. Brushing his lips over her warm skin he kissed her from her shoulder to her neck, gently nibbling along the way until he felt her shiver.
Raising his head, he looked into her eyes. “Do you like how that makes you feel?”
“Aye, I like it.”
“Good. There is more to come. You can kiss me, too, Ailie, anywhere you like. I want you to touch me.” He loosened his shirt from his trousers and pulled it over his head until his chest was naked before her.
He let her look her fill. His chest was well-muscled from a combination of his work on ships and his sporting activities with Robbie in London.
With innocent fingers, she raised her hand and tentatively ran her fingers over the dark curls sprinkled over his chest and glided her fingers across his nipple, sending a shiver to his core. She raised her head to meet his fevered gaze. “You’re beautiful.”
He resisted the desire to fling her onto the bed and take her. “Not beautiful,” he said with a husky voice, as he opened his eyes, “but I’ll take that as meaning you like the body of the man you married.”
She smiled, then bit her bottom lip as if embarrassed. “I do.”
“You must know how much I enjoy your touch, Ailie. There is no shame between us in the marriage bed. God gave it to us to enjoy.” This time when he kissed her, he ended the kiss by taking her hand and leading her toward the bed. He removed her tartan sash and turned her around, unbuttoning her gown. It dropped to the floor and he laid it on the chest at the foot of the shelf bed. With her back to him, he kissed her neck and her shoulders, taking both her breasts in his hands. She bent her head to the side as he kissed her neck. “I think it’s time we dispensed with all pretense of clothing.” He unlaced her corset and let it drop, along with her shift.
She turned in his arms and no longer did he have to imagine what she looked like underneath the female frippery. His bride was everything he’d hoped for. And more. Intelligent, full of wonder and dreams and more beautiful than she knew. “You are perfect, Ailie.”
She covered her breasts with one arm and the fiery hair at the apex of her thighs with the other. “Nay.”
He pulled her hands away. “I say you are perfect. Your breasts like ripe fruit, your belly like a smooth sea and your legs. Ah, your legs are long and shapely and there’s fire where they join.” He lifted her onto the edge of the bed and removed her stockings, slowly rolling them down.
Even in the lantern light, he could see the blush rising from her chest to her face.
“Oh, Ailie, don’t you know I would love you if you were not so beautiful? But I say again, you are perfect.”
He held the cover for her so she could crawl beneath it. Then shedding the rest of his clothing, he joined her in the bed, pressing his body to hers. Heat seared his blood, so ready he was for the lovemaking that would follow. Forcing himself to go slow, he said. “I left the lantern to burn, so I can see you and you me.”
Her eyes spoke of the trust she placed in him. “All right.”
“And now, we begin.”
Ailie woke sometime later, hearing the sounds of the revelry that always accompanied Hogmanay. Nash had draped his arm possessively around her, his body turned into hers as it had been when he had fallen asleep. One of her legs was caught between his.
She smiled, so happy she could not help it. He had loved her well, teaching her to love their joining. By the time they had coupled, she was desperate to have him inside her. The pain was brief and he had warned her. Once it had diminished, she had moved with him, delighting in his body, as he whispered words of love, and took them to that place she had never been.
That was the first time, but there had been a second time, which had been even better, for he had made love to her slowly, driving her mad.
More shouts sounded from the town’s streets. She pictured the revelers swinging their fireballs. Wanting to see them before they were cast into the water of the harbor, she carefully extricated herself from Nash, kissing him on his forehead, and rose. She remembered seeing her blue velvet wrapper on the end of the bed and felt for it in the dim light. The lantern no longer gave its light, though the coals in the stove stilled glowed.
Donning her wrapper, she padded the short distance from the bed to the window that faced the harbor. Opening the curtains, she glimpsed the town, bright with flaming torches. Down the center of the main street, men marched, swinging the flaming balls they would have earlier steeped in paraffin, wrapped in sacking and tied with netting wire.
The fireballs that marked the Winter Solstice celebration lighted the snow-covered street, turning it into a river of glowing fire. Since she was a young girl, each year she and Will, and sometimes her parents and younger brothers, had sailed to Stonehaven to spend New Year’s with her grandparents to witness the ceremony.
“The bed is cold without you, my love,” said Nash, coming up behind her and crossing his arms over her chest. She leaned back into his warmth and turned her head to accept his kiss. He smelled of sandalwood and their joining.
She brought her hands up to cover his arms, loving the feel of the soft hair on his forearms, the same dark hair on his chest. “Don’t you want to see the fireballs?”
“It seems appropriate our wedding night should be marked by fire, don’t you think?”
He skin flushed with heat. “Aye.”
The men began to toss their fireballs into the harbor where they hissed as the flames were doused. She turned and laid her head on his warm chest. He was hers as she belonged to him now.
A chorus of Auld Lang Syne rose from the harbor. She looked back to see people standing together singing. Ailie joined them, singing softly,
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,
We’ll take a cup o kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”
He nuzzled her neck. “Another of Burns’ poems?”
“Aye and no. ’Tis an ancient poem Burns committed to paper. We sing the song after midnight at year’s end to remember happy days from the past, the days that followed after and coming back together.”
He held her tightly and kissed her temple. “A little like us, eh?”
She nodded and raised her head to kiss him.
&n
bsp; “Come to bed, my love.”
Some hours later, Nash opened his eyes. The only light was from the dying coals in the stove that cast deep shadows around the cabin. He had no desire to leave his bride’s bed, but he remembered another tradition Will advised him to keep. “If you happen to think of it, that is. ’Tis your wedding night, after all.”
When he’d asked, Will told him of the Scots’ tradition of “first-footing” whereby if a man of dark hair bearing a gift was the first to cross the threshold after midnight on New Year’s Day, he would bring good luck to the household.
Nash tucked the cover around his bride and pulled on his breeches. Lifting from his coat pocket the gift he had acquired when he’d bought her wedding ring, he crept from the cabin. Once outside, standing in the cold passageway, he knocked loudly on the cabin door. When no sound came, he knocked again. She needed sleep after their night of lovemaking, but he thought she’d not mind rising for one of her traditions.
Finally, he heard her sleepy voice through the cabin door. “Nash?”
“Yes, love, it is I.”
The door opened and he entered, closing it behind him.
She peered at him in the dim light of the cabin. “Where did you go? The door was unlocked, you know.”
Rising to his full height, he grinned widely. “Behold, it is I, the first-footer!”
She laughed “Oh, Nash, you are, aren’t you?” She kissed him on the cheek. “Clever man. Did you bring me a lump of coal? We could add it to the stove. It’s freezing in here.”
“I will stir the coals and gladly add wood to the fire, but first I have a gift for you.” He pulled the brooch from his pocket and placed it in her palm. “I know a lump of coal is the usual gift but I thought you’d like this better. Come, you’ll be able to see it better as I light the fire.”
He went to the stove, stirred the coals to life and added two chunks of wood. When the flames caught, Ailie exclaimed, “Oh, Nash. ’Tis magnificent, a gift for a queen.”
“So it is. My queen.” He returned to her side and studied the brooch, a large sherry-colored oval stone surrounded by a wreath of silver, carved with thistle flowers and leaves. The gem seemed to be alive as it caught the light of the fire. “It’s a Madeira citrine. When I saw it, I knew it had to be yours. It’s the color of your eyes, Ailie.”
When she finally looked up, her eyes were full of tears. “I shall wear it always.”
“Here,” he said, taking it from her. “I’ll pin it to your wrapper for tonight.”
They returned to their bed and did not wake till the sun’s rays spilled into the cabin.
Chapter 23
New Year’s Day
The day was fair but the wind off the sea biting as Muriel waved goodbye to Angus from the deck of the Albatross. Behind her, the ship’s crew was preparing to set sail. Aileen and her new husband waved to the man who Muriel now called friend.
“He will miss you, I think,” said Aileen.
“And I him. Do bring your grandfather to London for a visit, won’t you?”
“I will at least suggest it,” she replied, “but Grandfather’s life is here on Scotland’s coast with his fishermen friends and his business. Still, for you, he might come.” A moment ago the young woman had been radiantly happy from her wedding night, but now she was wistful at having to say goodbye to her grandfather.
For herself, Muriel hated partings and always felt melancholy when they were forced upon her. There had been too many in her life. She had only to turn around and someone was departing, if not this life then England. She did not envy Aileen being the wife of a man who went to sea, but she would have the other Powell wives for company when that happened.
The pale winter sun hung low in the sky when the Albatross docked in Arbroath that afternoon. Muriel had come up on deck to see the butler Lamont, his head held high, Mrs. Platt, smiling broadly, and the housekeeper Mrs. Banks waiting to meet the ship. The three servants stood at the edge of the dock, Aileen’s watchful setters sitting patiently at their feet.
William and Emily descended the gangplank first with Muriel just behind them on the arm of Robbie Powell. The setters rose and whimpered until their mistress, just behind Muriel, affectionately greeted them.
As the others filed off the ship, Muriel turned to Aileen. “Will you take the dogs to London?”
Aileen exchanged a glance with her husband before answering. “Aye. Nash has agreed Goodness and Mercy may come as long as Captain Anderson doesn’t mind their presence on the Albatross.”
Nash glanced at his bride and then faced Muriel. “Can’t you picture us walking the setters in Hyde Park?”
Muriel could well imagine the sight. “A fine-looking young couple and their dashing black setters? Why, I expect all of London will speak of it.”
“And every man will envy my brother,” said Robbie, “including me.”
Nash’s face bore a victor’s smug smile.
Muriel looked at Robbie askance. “Just remember, Robbie Powell, you are next.”
Nash made a noise that Muriel could only describe as a snort, but Aileen smiled. “I look forward to seeing the rogue fall. Already I like my future sister-in-law.”
“I wonder who she’ll be,” said Nash, turning to his brother. “Perhaps Muriel will find you some quiet, biddable girl for you to charm.”
“I shall be looking, you can be certain of it,” said Muriel, “but I do not promise biddable.” She glanced again at the brooch Nash had given his bride, pinned to Aileen’s cloak. “I do love that brooch, Aileen. Your new husband has excellent taste.”
“Aye, he does, doesn’t he?” Aileen gave her husband of one day a look that spoke of their wedding night. “I would expect you to admire it, Muriel. Nash told me the stone is a Madeira citrine.”
“No wonder it caught my eye,” Though many years past her own wedding, Muriel felt a blush coming on as she remembered her first night with the Earl of Claremont, the first time she had glimpsed the pearls he gave her.
They strolled up to the estate and William invited them into the parlor where drinks awaited them. “Since you sail tomorrow, we’ll have an early dinner tonight.”
Muriel was glad for the Madeira that fortified her for the sad parting she knew was coming. While she would be glad to see her friends in London, she would miss her dear friend Emily and the new friends she had made in Scotland. But what wonderful new memories she had.
William came to her side. “Have you quite enjoyed yourself these past weeks, Muriel?”
“Indeed, I have.” She sipped her Madeira. “Can’t recall a holiday I have enjoyed so much in years. You and Emily have been wonderful hosts.”
“And, of course, there was Angus,” said Robbie, tossing her a smirk.
“Shameless rogue,” said Muriel.
Once she had rested and Rhona helped her pack for the sail to London, Muriel went downstairs early, hoping to see Emily before dinner. In the parlor, she found Kit sitting on one of the sofas setting her sketchbooks on the table in front of her, Muriel’s charges gathered around the artist.
Her dark red hair neatly tied back at her nape, a pencil resting over one ear, Kit looked up when Muriel entered. “Oh good, you’re here. Come sit next to me.”
Muriel took the seat next to Kit and everyone pulled up a chair around the table. Emily claimed the other end of the sofa, William sitting on the arm above her.
Glancing from her sketchbook to William and Emily, Kit said, “I did these for you as a reminder of our time together and everyone cooperated.”
“I knew you were making sketches,” replied Emily, “but I had no idea they were for us. How thoughtful!” She looked up at her husband. “Won’t these make wonderful keepsakes?”
“Aye, they will, Leannan. We thank you, Kit.”
Kit directed her attention to her sketches, opening the first of the two large books. “I want to show you the couples first, beginning with the one of Martin and me.”
Martin laughed wh
en he saw it. The picture showed Kit sketching and Martin sitting in a chair watching her, affection in his eyes. “You have the right of it, sweetheart. And I expect our hosts appreciate all those hours I gazed with longing at my beautiful wife with other things in mind.”
Kit regarded her husband with mild disapproval. “And didn’t I make up for it?”
“You did.”
Flipping the page, Kit said, “Here are Mary and Hugh as we might all think of them.”
Muriel inclined her head to see the drawing of Hugh and Mary riding two of William’s fine horses.
“Hasn’t she captured us well, Hugh?” asked Mary.
“Indeed, she has.”
“The next one,” Kit went on, “is of Nick and Tara, together on the Albatross. It’s how I remember them as we sailed from London to Arbroath.”
“A good likeness,” remarked Muriel. “The shipmaster and his lady aboard a ship.” Kit had captured the essence of Nick’s love of the sea and his wife. “A great talent.”
Nick and Tara studied the sketch, nodding their approval.
Turning the page, Kit revealed a sketch of Aileen, Nash staring at her with adoring eyes.
“You sketched us together?” asked Ailie. “We have been so busy since the wedding, when did you find the time?”
“I didn’t do this one after the wedding, but long before. It was the day we went deer stalking. I had begun one of Nash in the library one morning and finished it the night we all talked about the avalanche, adding you, Ailie. Not until that day did I know how things might turn out between you.”
Nash, whose arm was around his bride, kissed her. “Told you.”
Robbie raised a brow. It occurred to Muriel that he must not know of his twin’s valiant act saving Ailie from the avalanche.
“And this one is of Robbie,” said Kit, “though he’s in others as well.” Muriel thought the sketch a good likeness of him before he’d been shot. Now he had a scar that would forever distinguish him from his twin brother. In the bottom corners were drawings of an otter and a lion as they had discussed that afternoon in the parlor.
