Sorcha put a plate piled with thick, steaming bread slices before her. A crock of creamy butter and a dish of fruit preserves followed. Yvette put a hand to her rumbling stomach.
“Some tea, milady?”
“If it would not be too much trouble.”
“Nae trouble at all.”
Biting into the warm bread, Yvette grinned. “‘Tis wonderful.”
Sorcha smiled and put water on to boil before returning her attention to the large pot she had been stirring when Yvette entered the kitchen.
Moments later, the clamor of childish voices was heard. Iona and a small boy burst into the kitchen, their arms full of fresh vegetables. Upon seeing Yvette, Iona’s face broke into a gapped-toothed grin. Dumping the contents of her arms into the sink, she helped the boy do the same. She looked to Sorcha, but obviously wanted to go to Yvette.
“Go on with ye,” the smiling cook said, waving her spoon in Yvette’s direction.
Iona grabbed the boy’s hand and tugged him to stand before Yvette with her.
He must be Iona’s brother. The resemblance was unmistakable. “Iona, would you please introduce me to your brother?”
Looking abashed, the freckles more pronounced on her cherub’s face, Iona nodded her head. “Yer ladyship, this be me brother, Peadar.”
Yvette guessed the boy might be five or six years old. He had the same bright red mop of hair his sister sported. “I’m pleased to meet you, Peadar.”
The boy hid his grubby face in his sister’s shoulder.
“I’ve brought you something Iona, your brother too.”
“Ye have, lady?”
“Aye.” Yvette lifted the basket off the table and settled it in her lap. “Come, see what I have for you.” She tipped the top open.
Iona’s squeal of delight echoed throughout the kitchen.
Yvette held a fat, fuzzy calico kitten in her hands. She transferred the bit of fluff to Iona, who buried her face in the kitten’s soft fur. Cooing softly, cradling the cat in her arms, she plopped onto the floor. Peadar stood looking at the kitten in his sister’s arms, trying to quiet the trembling of his distended lower lip.
“Peadar, look.” Yvette held a sleepy, jade-eyed, orange and white striped tabby.
His blue eyes huge in his thin face, Peadar asked, “For me?”
Yvette smiled and nodded. “Yes.”
The grin splitting his face would have turned night to day had it been dark outside. He reached for the kitten, cuddling it to his neck, and talking to it in a soft, lisping whisper.
Yvette glanced across the kitchen to find the four kitchen staff staring at her, their faces beaming with undisguised approval. She suspected she’d made four allies and returned their smiles.
With the corner of her apron, Sorcha wiped a tear from her eye before turning her stern eye on the rest of the help. They resumed their duties, whispering beneath their breaths and darting glances Yvette’s way every few minutes.
“The kittens are brother and sister, like you,” Yvette said. “They are your responsibility. You must feed them and take them outside.” Pausing to survey the kitchen, she peered at the cook. “Sorcha, is there someplace the kittens can sleep which wouldn’t be underfoot?”
“They might as well sleep with the bairns. They have a pallet in one of the storerooms.”
Storeroom? She must talk to Ewan about remedying that immediately.
“Peadar, Iona, you must see that the kittens do not disrupt the work of these dear women. Can you do that?”
As one, the children answered, “Aye.”
“Might I show the laird my kitten?” Iona was studying her kitten’s face. The kitten swatted at the curls bouncing beyond her paws.
“I’m sure when he returns he would like that.”
When would that be? It had been over three weeks since he left. Yvette had been certain, well, had hoped, he’d return early, or at the very least, post a letter. But there had been nothing.
Turning the mite over, Iona began tickling the cat’s belly.
A sad smile touched Yvette’s lips. She’d been right about the kittens, though. Iona and Peadar needed something to love and that loved them in return.
Peadar lay on his back. Holding the purring kitten across his skinny chest he mumbled, “The laird be in the village, sister. He be home soon.”
Yvette’s teacup clattered in its saucer. “What did you say?”
He sat up. Clutching the kitten to his side, his blue eyes pooled with tears.
“‘Tis all right. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Yvette assured him. “What’s this about the laird?”
“Thom said he saw the laird afore, when he was in town.”
Merciful God in heaven, Ewan was home. Yvette looked at her smudged dress and put a hand to her hair. She was a sight. Thank goodness she’d washed her hair last night.
She jumped to her feet in a flurry of skirts. He couldn’t see her like this. “Sorcha, please heat water for my bath. I know you’re busy, but the laird is home. I must make myself presentable.”
Before darting from the room, Yvette dashed to the cook and hugged her. “Thank you for the delicious bread. And for allowing the children the kittens.”
Sorcha stood there with her mouth open. Spinning about, she hollered at the stupefied help. “What are ye waiting for? Ye heard her ladyship. Heat the water. The laird is home.”
Yvette hurried to the stone stairs beside the enormous fireplace, saying, “Oh, and could someone please find Nessia for me? Send her to my chamber at once.”
Wiping her hands on her starched apron, Sorcha shook her head. “Aye, me lady.”
As Yvette started up the stairs the cook spoke again.
“Did ye see the way she jumped from her chair when she heard the laird was near? She be eager to be reunited to be sure.” The women tittered in agreement.
Yvette’s face burned at the cook’s comment. Hiking her skirts to her knees, she raced up the back staircase, one of the many alternate routes Isobel and Adaira had shared with her. They had taken her on a tour of the castle, showing her the seldom used corridors and staircases. There were even a few cobweb-filled secret passageways.
Adaira had giggled in remembrance. “Many were the times I snuck outside the Keep by way of one of these corridors. There are a couple of secret entrances to the dungeon too. Prisoners, enemy clan members, and even aristocracy were smuggled in an out, ‘tis said.”
Lowering her voice to a covert whisper, Adaira had confessed. “I know where the keys to the cells are kept too. They’re hanging on a peg at the base of the stairs, in a little alcove.”
Recalling the conversation, Yvette’s mouth lifted in amusement. No surprise there. Adaira was incorrigible.
Yvette rounded a sharp corner. She had grown adept at using the routes in order to avoid Aubry. She drew her brows together. Aubry still made her uncomfortable. Oh, she was pleasant enough, some might even call her genial, but Yvette had seen a calculating look in her eye when she thought no one was watching.
Yvette hastened around another bend and ascended a rarely used, very narrow, stairwell. Enough of those dour thoughts.
Her husband was home.
Chapter 28
From the tub Yvette called, “Nessia, hang the light blue silk with the white organza overskirt to air, please.” Her lips curved. The Luckenbooth brooch would look exquisite pinned at the bodice.
Lathering the sponge with jasmine scented soap, she listened to Nessia moving about in the outer chamber. A door closed. The wardrobe no doubt. Nessia was adapting to her role as a lady’s maid with considerable finesse. Yvette was quite pleased with the sweet-tempered girl.
Resting her head against the tub’s tall edge, careful not to dislodge her loosely piled hair, she let her ey
es drift closed. The warm water felt wonderful slipping across her skin.
No word had reached her yet of Ewan’s return to the castle. She had asked to be informed the moment he arrived. She allowed herself these few moments to collect her wits and decide what she was going to say to her husband.
Husband.
The word caused goose bumps to rise on her exposed skin. She had been married for a moon, yet she was as jittery as a new bride. A disturbing idea flitted through her mind. What if the delay in Ewan’s return was due to his disapproval? Mayhap, he had not liked the changes she had made in the village.
Suddenly anxious, she sat up, then reached for a fluffy towel.
“Nae, stay wife.”
Her startled squeak was muffled by the water’s sloshing as she sank into the tub with only her head exposed above the bubbles. Lord have mercy, what was he doing in her bathing chamber?
Rotating to peep over the edge of the tub, Yvette started to question his presence. “Ewan?” She stopped, her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. He stood, stripping off his clothing, a wicked grin on his face. Squeezing her eyes shut, she sank even deeper into the bubbles.
Ewan’s non-apologetic chuckle sent shivers skittering across her sensitive flesh. She tried, to swallow the nervous lump in her throat.
“Scoot forward, mon amour.”
“You mean to join me?”
“Aye, and much more.”
More? Much more? Sweet Lord, help her.
“Nessia?” Yvette asked.
“I told her you would not need her services this afternoon, or evening.”
“Ewan?” Hesitation laced her voice.
“You can trust me, bien amour.”
Arms crossed, knees drawn to her chest, she scooted forward, exposing her back to his gaze.
He stepped into the tub.
She sucked in a sharp breath, tensing as the water level rose, announcing her husband’s presence. She waited, anticipating his touch. When it didn’t come, she dared to steal a look over her shoulder. His hair was lathered with soap. Grinning, he winked at her. A nuance of desire smoldered in his eyes.
Whatever was the man about?
More splashing and lapping of the water stirred her curiosity, though she wasn’t about to peep again. She knew when he lifted the pail of warm water to rinse his hair.
‘Tis a wonder the water hasn’t spilled over the tub’s edge, she pondered inanely. A raspy rubbing sounded behind her. He must be toweling his hair dry.
No, she would not look.
She started in surprise when a gentle, soothing palm ran across her shoulders and backbone.
Ewan traced the ragged scar on her right shoulder with his calloused forefinger. “How did you come by this, chérie?”
The air wouldn’t leave Yvette’s lungs. She stuttered, “Ch—child, c—carriage accident, k—killed my mother.”
“I’m sorry, mon amour.”
He kissed the puckered skin.
She tensed, holding herself rigid.
“Ma belle, relax.”
Was the man daft? Relax? She was an untried maid, naked in a bathtub with her equally naked husband. Good Lord, relaxing was the last thing she was capable of doing.
His legs grazed the sides of hers, cradling her between their muscular length. She gulped, then gulped again. God in heaven, she felt taut as a bow string. One of Ewan’s large hands trailed the lightest of caresses the length of her jaw and neck, then skimmed across her shoulders.
Yvette shivered.
His hands slipped around her waist, tugging her against his chest. “Lean back, Evvy.”
Releasing a pent-up sigh, she gingerly rested her stiff shoulders against Ewan’s rugged width. Another low chuckle echoed in his chest. His hands continued to caress her shoulders, sliding down her arms in a hypnotic, calming touch. She felt herself relaxing, the tension easing from her limbs.
Ewan’s hands moved lower in their exploration, feathering across her abdomen and the tops of her thighs. He nuzzled her neck, placing light kisses across the nape and along her shoulders.
Something nudged against her buttocks. Lawks, what was that?
Oh!
She dipped her head as heat seared her cheeks.
“I missed ye, wife.”
That was quite obvious.
A low rumbling purr tickled Yvette’s ear. “Did ye miss me?”
Did I?
Yvette nodded her head, too distracted by the tender, yet thorough examination of her husband’s roaming hands. Startled, she gasped when he cupped her breasts, then held them above the water for his viewing.
“Beautiful,” he breathed in her ear.
He touched the mole on her breast. There was something arousing about seeing her smooth white breasts cradled in his calloused, brown hands.
Before releasing them to bob atop the surface, he swirled rough fingers round the nipples. Desire, hot and intense flamed within her. She shifted her position, accidentally sitting on it.
Lord Almighty.
His knowing laugh rumbling deep in his chest stirred the embers of her desire even more.
With one hand, Ewan turned her head. She met his burning eyes before her gaze lowered to his lips. Her own parted in expectation. The kiss was soul shattering, igniting an uncontainable blaze. Fierce in hungry intensity, it lasted several delicious moments. There was nothing gentle or subtle in the dueling tongues or gasping breaths, as she sought to breathe amid the mutual onslaught of sensuality.
Water sloshed onto the floor. She didn’t care.
Yvette gasped as his exploration became bolder, his hands daring to sweep across forbidden territory.
“The water cools, mon amour.”
Ewan kissed Yvette’s shoulder. “I don’t want you catching a chill again.”
He rose, then stepped from the tub, his gaze roaming over her. Tendrils of flaxen hair framed her face. Her skin glistened in the candlelight, and her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her gaze darted to his erection and skipped away just as quickly. She licked her lips, and desire shot straight to his groin.
The temptress. Had she done that on purpose?
Of course not. She’s just curious and nervous. He quickly toweled off admonishing himself. Patience, old chap, patience.
He helped her from the water. She stood submissive, her cheeks crimson, as he patted her dry. Turning her until she faced him, Ewan stood at arm’s length. His eyes roamed her luscious curves.
Burying his hands in her silky hair, he tugged the pins loose. The bounty of curls fell to swirl around her supple hips. Pulling Yvette to him, her round breasts pressing against his chest, he took her mouth again, this time in an imitation of the act he yearned to perform with her inexperienced body.
He lifted her, never breaking their passionate kiss. He strode to her bed. Earlier, he’d turned the covers to the foot, so as not to hinder his love play. Resting one knee on the bed, Ewan laid her across the sheets.
Kneeling by her side, he studied her.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the imperfect panes, casting rainbows across the bed. “Perfection,” He grasped one thick, golden strand and drew it between her breasts to rest across her stomach.
Summoning unmitigated willpower, he forced himself to take it slow. Generously curved in the right places, Yvette was everyman’s fantasy. And, she was his wife. Through narrowed slits, his eyes took in her voluptuous figure. Small waist, rounded hips and thighs, weighty breasts, slim arms, and curved stomach.
Her siren’s form begged him to make her his, though she was unaware of the sensual song her innocent’s body sang to his, or the blatant invitation in her sultry eyes. He could smell her subtle scent, and see her body’s every response to his gaze.
> Yvette was incapable of moving. Something in the predatory, possessive way Ewan stared at her stirred a primitive female response. She wanted his approval, needed him to admire her body. She stole a look at her curvy hips and thighs. She’d always thought she was too generous from the waist down. From the hungry look on Ewan’s face, she guessed he didn’t think so.
She ran her gaze over him.
Lord above, he was a powerfully built man. Muscles bulged in his arms and legs, and across the width of his chest and torso. Dark springy hair covered the expanse, trailing to a nest of, crisp black curls from which his maleness sprang.
How could she accommodate that? She swallowed. She wasn’t afraid. Well, maybe the teeniest bit uneasy. She swallowed again.
Ewan trailed one finger from the pulse beating at her throat, to the center of her chest to circle the taut peak of her left breast. Yvette’s eyes watched the steady, determined progress of his forefinger. Leaving off teasing that breast, his finger traced a pattern of sensation to her other areola. Her nipple firmed in anticipation. Starting at the widest part of her breast, he drew an ever smaller circle until his finger scraped across the protruding tip.
God above. She sucked in a breath of incredible longing and desperate desire.
His manhood pulsed against her thigh. Her eyes widened at the single droplet of moisture glistening on her skin. Where did that come from? She’d no time to wonder, because suddenly, he was beside her, pulling her into his solid embrace. He whispered words of love, making love to her with his skillful mouth and knowing hands.
“Ewan, I don’t know what to do.”
He paused to reassure her.
“If you like it, enchanteresse, chances are, I shall too.”
Holding her breath, she watched his mouth close over one breast, bathing her in glorious sensation. “Ewan—”
The air left her in a whoosh as she said his name. He switched to her other breast, lavishing loving ministrations on its fullness too. Yvette pressed against him, her hands and lips exploring his broad planes and firm flesh. She was floating on a sea of desire, aching at her very center.
Highlander's Hope Page 25
