Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  “My lord,” she whispered, her face coloring to a vivid scarlet, “I've other n-needs as well."

  Iain stared a moment longer and then grinned. “I'll return in a few minutes,” he said, then sauntered to the door. “There's a chamber pot in the corner near the foot of the bed."

  Brigette thought she would die from the humiliation. How could he be so public about such a private function? Alone, she raced for the chamber pot and relieved herself, then rushed across the room and dressed hurriedly. Dizzy from the activity, Brigette sank into the chair.

  The door opened and Iain entered, chuckling. In his arms was a squirming lump of copper fur. “Look what I discovered sniffin’ aboot! Have ye ever eaten fox stew, Bria? Would ye like a muff?"

  "Sly!" Brigette sprang from the chair.

  Sly leaped from Iain's arms and ran to Brigette, who knelt upon the floor and gathered him into her arms. “There now,” she soothed, cooing to the frightened fox.

  “Are ye acquainted wi’ this beastie?"

  "He's my pet!" Brigette roared, turning flashing green eyes on him. Iain was startled by their murderous glint. Percy had obviously been correct, his wife was no meek lady.

  “Sly kept me company when I was lost in the forest,” she said more calmly.

  Iain grinned. “Does this mean we willna’ be enjoyin’ fox stew?"

  “Would you murder a poor, motherless bairn? Even a Highlander could not be so cruel."

  At the insult, Iain's eyes lost their humorous gleam. Frightened, Brigette realized she'd said too much and tried to make amends. “Forgive me,” she apologized. “My careless mouth is my worst flaw. Please, may we feed him?"

  Iain filled a bowl, then knelt beside Brigette and Sly. “Come on, laddie,” he invited, placing the steaming porridge in front of the fox. “Eat yer breakfast."

  Over Sly's head, Brigette and Iain looked at each other. Her eyes became trapped by the dark intensity of his. He leaned close; then his lips touched hers. One of his powerful hands traveled to the back of her head, held her immobile. His tongue forced her trembling lips apart, flicked this way and that, exploring and tasting the sweetness of her mouth.

  When he finally released her, Brigette's face was pale, and her expression was dazed from the earth-shattering experience of her first kiss. Iain smiled lazily, seeming to be unaffected.

  “A virgin Gypsy?” he mocked gently.

  Brigette's complexion took on a rather rosy hue. “How do you know?"

  “Och! I've kissed many and many a—"

  “Thank you for your hospitality.” Brigette cut him off, her voice cold. “Sly and I must be on our way."

  “Ye willna’ be goin’ anywhere ‘til yer better."

  “It's improper for me to stay."

  “Allowin’ ye to traipse aboot the Highlands while yer still weak would be even more improper, my lady,” Iain countered. “I'll let ye know when yer fit to travel."

  “You mean, you'll tell me when I'm feeling better?” Brigette was flabbergasted.

  “Correct."

  “Why, of all the—"

  “Let's eat breakfast,” he said in dismissal.

  Patting Sly, Brigette watched Iain fill their bowls with the oatmeal porridge. He won't even listen to me! she fumed in growing frustration. How can I win the argument if he refuses to participate?

  When she went to bed that night, Brigette wore her chemise. Sleepless, she watched the lodge's other two occupants relax in front of the hearth. Iain sat in his chair, and Sly was curled up on the floor beside him.

  When Iain stood and began undressing, Brigette snapped her eyes shut. Never had she seen an unclothed man! Would he sleep naked in the chair? Where had he slept last night? The bed creaked as Iain slid in.

  “What are you doing?” Brigette shrieked and bolted up.

  “Doin'? I'm goin’ to sleep."

  “Here?” Brigette was shocked.

  “Do ye see another bed in the lodge?"

  “It's highly improper for you to be in this bed with me,” she announced, lifting her upturned nose in the air. “If you won't play the gentleman, I'll sleep elsewhere."

  Brigette moved to rise. Iain yanked her back, and she fell against his well-muscled chest. She tried to pull away, but his steely grip kept her from moving.

  “Ye must trust in me, Bria. I willna’ harm ye but neither will I let ye go."

  He kissed the top of her head, then closed his eyes. Gradually, Brigette relaxed. As she drifted off to sleep, she sighed and snuggled against him. In the next instant, her eyes flew open and her body stiffened. What was she doing? Oh, Lord, she was in bed with her husband's half brother!

  Brigette squirmed as far away from Iain as she could and turned her back on him. At least, their bodies were no longer touching. Determined to guard her virtue through the night, Brigette stared at the wall.

  “Ye'll never get well enough to travel to Edinburgh if ye insist on stayin’ awake all night,” his voice warned in the darkness. “Dinna worry aboot yer virtue. Yer safe wi’ me."

  “I'll be the judge of that,” Brigette grumbled, but closed her eyes anyway. Too tired to worry about improprieties, she soon succumbed to sleep.

  * * * *

  A truce sprang up between dissembling husband and unsuspecting wife. Brigette did not mention leaving again, and Iain's intimacy proceeded no farther than sleeping beside her each night. She had the freedom of the lodge and surrounding area, always supervised, of course, lest she fly. They were pleasant enough with each other, helped along by Sly's unique talent of uniting them in laughter.

  And so it went for a week. One morning Iain decided to ride to Dunridge for a few of life's necessities—food, clothing, and whiskey. Uncertain of Brigette's feelings for “Ross,” Iain was reluctant to leave her behind, lest she flee while he was gone.

  The two of them sat at the table eating their usual morning fare, oatmeal porridge—Sly preferred his in a bowl on the floor. “I'm ridin’ to Dunridge today,” Iain said casually. “Would ye care to join me?"

  “N-no,” Brigette sputtered, almost choking on her porridge. “I—I—I think not."

  Iain's lips twitched with the urge to smile. “I may be gone several hours."

  “I'll be fine,” she hastily assured him. “I won't even leave the lodge. And don't forget, I've Sly to protect me."

  Iain's gaze drifted to Sly, who appeared to be no protection at all. “Well, ye might clean up a bit and try yer hand at cookin’ supper for once."

  “Clean and cook?” Brigette was taken aback by the suggestion.

  Iain nodded and smiled.

  “But—but I don't know how to cook."

  “A Gypsy lass wi’ nae idea of cookin'?” His dark eyes gleamed with amusement.

  Meeting Iain's questioning stare, Brigette flexed her imagination. “Ross,” she explained in a condescending voice, “my father is the king of the Gypsies. I was never required to cook. We'd servants to do that."

  Tickled by her glibness, Iain choked back his laughter. His wife was as slick with her tongue as the serpent in Paradise and as sly as the beast she called her pet. “Do ye think ye might try?” he asked.

  “Yes, I'd try anything for my rescuer.” Brigette smiled brightly, relieved he'd swallowed another of her lies.

  Iain arched a brow, certain she'd no understanding of what she offered. He stood to leave, then stooped to kiss her forehead. “I'll be back long before supper."

  After he'd gone, Brigette felt lonely and abandoned. She lifted Sly onto her lap and stroked him, more for her own sense of well-being than his pleasure. Ross fills this lodge to capacity, she thought, and without him, it seems empty. Oh, Lord, what a coil! She was beginning to care for her husband's brother. Thinking about that would give her a headache. Mindless chores like cooking and cleaning would make her feel better. She hoped.

  How does one go about cleaning and cooking? Brigette shrugged her shoulders. If servants could do it, then so could she. Brigette began with the breakfast bowls
, and when she'd finished, she felt a real sense of accomplishment. Next Brigette tackled the bed. With that done, she decided to begin supper's preparation. An accomplished cook Brigette was not, but even she knew that stew must simmer. The longer the simmer, the better the stew.

  Brigette started a fire in the hearth and gathered the necessary ingredients as she'd seen Ross do. When the pot was filled and simmering, Brigette decided she needed a rest. Cleaning and cooking were wholly rewarding tasks, but terribly tiring, and she'd experienced enough fulfillment for one day. Brigette lay down with Sly upon the bed and fell asleep.

  * * * *

  It was late afternoon when Iain returned, pleased with the way his day had gone. When he had arrived at Dunridge Castle, he'd reported first to his father and had assured the earl that Brigette and he would return home soon. He had refrained from mentioning the fact that his bride was still a virgin. That was a thing Black Jack would not understand.

  Next Iain had enlisted Percy's aid in gathering food, clothing, and a good supply of whiskey. By the time he'd left Dunridge, Iain had totally managed to avoid Lady Antonia, who had never realized that he'd been there and gone. Escaping Antonia's notice had made the day successful!

  Whistling a happy tune, Iain dismounted and entered the lodge. His nose twitched and his stomach growled, calling out to the delicious smell of simmering stew that permeated the chamber. His wife had obviously done well in her culinary efforts.

  Iain sat on the edge of the bed and watched Brigette, enchanting in sleep. Her hair was in wild disarray and her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were moist and parted in an irresistible invitation. Iain leaned over and touched his lips to hers. Those incredible eyes of green opened, and she smiled.

  “Somethin’ smells good,” he said. “And I'm so hungry I've a mind to gobble ye up.” Brigette giggled, especially when Sly climbed on Iain's lap and demanded his own share of attention.

  Iain sat at the table and watched Brigette fill their bowls with stew. “I've brought ye a change of clothin',” he told her.

  With a start, Brigette realized he'd probably heard about Iain's runaway bride. “Anything of interest happening at Dunridge?” she asked casually, placing the steaming bowl of stew in front of him. She took her own seat.

  “All was as usual.” There was a long pause while Iain ate several spoonfuls of stew. “Bria,” he said finally, “ye said ye made stew. Is this stew or soup or perhaps spicy water?"

  “It's stew,” Brigette cried.

  “Then where are the meat and vegetables?"

  “Damn it! They're in the pot!"

  “The pot, ye say? They belong in my bowl."

  “I couldn't get them out!"

  “What? I dinna ken."

  “The meat and vegetables stuck to the bottom of the pot,” Brigette answered through clenched teeth, “and I could not get them out."

  Iain threw back his head and shouted with laughter. At least she'd been game enough to try. “I amna’ laughin’ at ye,” he lied. “The verra same thin’ happened the first time I made stew."

  “It did?"

  “Even my broth was foul tastin', but yers is excellent."

  “Truly?” Brigette's eyes gleamed like emeralds.

  “I've tasted many and many a broth,” Iain declared, “but I've never tasted a finer broth than this.” At that moment, Brigette thought Ross MacArthur was the most wonderful man in Scotland, or England for that matter. Correctly reading her expression, Iain mentally rubbed his hands together.

  * * * *

  Several days later, Iain invited Brigette to ride with him. Afraid they would meet her husband along the way, Brigette accepted reluctantly. Since there was only the one horse, Iain pulled her up on the saddle in front of him, and off they went.

  On the one hand, Brigette wondered if she should, as planned, return to England; but on the other hand, she was uncertain if she really wanted to leave. The thought of never seeing Ross MacArthur again tugged insistently at her heartstrings. If only she'd not wed Iain MacArthur by proxy!

  Enjoying the outing and the man's nearness, Brigette relaxed against Iain. Soon, the warmth of her flesh seeped through her clothing to tease and taunt Iain's desire for her. When she rested her head in the crook of his neck, Iain nearly lost control. The fragrant scent of her hair tormented him, and Iain ached to drag her from the horse and have done with it, but knew he would regret such a hasty action.

  They rode into a clearing that became a glen. Brigette stiffened. Dressed in the MacArthur plaid, a group of men were riding toward them.

  Panicking, Brigette turned her face into Iain's chest, but kept a watchful eye upon the approaching men. It was finished! She would be taken like a common prisoner to Dunridge Castle! And what would happen to Ross? Would he be punished for harboring her? Percy was among the group and would recognize her. Her red hair alone would attract his attention.

  The MacArthur men turned unexpectedly and rode off in a different direction. Relieved, Brigette nearly slipped from the horse, but Iain kept her from falling. Someone above must be watching over me, she decided, and snuggled into Iain's chest. He glanced down at the top of her head, and his lips quirked in a smile.

  Stopping at a secluded stream, they walked to the water's edge and then sat beneath a tree. “Ross?” Brigette's curiosity got the upper hand. “Why didn't Percy greet you?"

  “Percy?"

  “Your brother, Percy."

  Aha! Iain thought. At last the truth will out! “How do ye know I've a brother Percy?” he asked, arching a dark brow at her. “And how do ye know he was among those men?"

  Brigette froze, realizing her error, and tried to think of a reasonable answer. A sudden idea lit her mind and made her eyes sparkle like jewels. “I—I've the Sight.” Her smile dazzled him. “Haven't I mentioned it before?"

  “I dinna know ye had such a gift.” Lies slip from those rosy lips as if they'd been greased, Iain thought. The viper!

  “My sister Kathryn writes that many in Ireland are blessed with it."

  “And now we've one in the Highlands,” he grumbled.

  “You never answered my question,” she reminded him.

  “What question?"

  “Why did Percy not acknowledge your presence in the glen?"

  Iain's expression was suitably serious. “I'm a bastard, lass, and—"

  “I know you're a bastard,” Brigette interrupted, a mischievous smile touching her lips.

  Iain grabbed her arm, and Brigette laughed, then appeared properly contrite. “It was a jest."

  “As ye grow older,” he said, “ye'll learn, I hope, that bastardy is nae matter for jestin'."

  “I never realized a bastard's life was so difficult. The earl is a hard man?"

  “The earl does what he must to survive and protect his own."

  “What of his sons?"

  “Sons?” Iain smiled mockingly. “The Sight?"

  Brigette grinned puckishly, and Iain was unable to hold back a rumble of laughter. But then he realized how great a fool she believed him to be. Only an idiot would believe her outrageous lies!

  “Percy thrives on fightin’ and laughin’ and lovin',” Iain said, biting back his ire. “The proverbial good-for-naught, ye might say. But what can ye expect from a coddled younger son?"

  “And—and the other?"

  “Iain? Now, there's a real mon! He and I are closer than brothers, always seemin’ to be of the same mind. He's a hard mon, but fair ... just ... honorable...."

  “A paragon?"

  “Aye, that he is.” Iain leaned closer until his lips met Brigette's, jolting her with a delightful tingling sensation. The softest of lips yielded to his kiss, and Iain's kiss became demanding. One strong hand held the back of her head, gently but firmly kept her from fleeing. Overwhelmed by his masculine nearness and scent, Brigette surrendered to the more powerful force. Her arms creeped up his chest to entwine his neck.

  “Open yer mouth, Bria,” he whispered hoarsely. Her lips parted i
nstantly and Iain's tongue slipped in, exploring and tasting the moist sweetness within. Brigette shivered, feeling hot and cold all at the same time.

  Leaving her lips, Iain placed feathery-light kisses on her eyelids, temples, and throat. They fell back to the grass, he lying on top of her. Iain's lips returned to Brigette's, and she felt consumed, as if he would take her very soul.

  A gentle breeze tickled her bared breasts, but Brigette was too dazed to care. Iain's dark head dipped lower until his masterful lips reached her breasts. Kissing one of those soft mounds, he worked his way to its center, finally drawing upon its sensitive nipple, which hardened in arousal.

  Brigette moaned, and sanity returned in the form of guilt.

  “Get off me, you seducing oaf!” Brigette shoved him and pulled away. “Keep your distance, liar."

  “Lied about what?” Iain asked, devouring her with his passion-glazed eyes.

  “You said I'd be safe with you, but then you tried to seduce me,” she accused, covering her bared breasts.

  “I dinna try to seduce ye,” Iain defended himself. “Ye enticed me."

  “I did not!"

  Iain muttered several colorful curses and wished he'd done what he'd set out to do in the first place—find his Sassenach bride and drag her back to Dunridge!

  “Cursing indicates a lack of vocabulary,” Brigette chided.

  Iain gave her a scathing look, then said, “Let's go home."

  “No,” she refused. “I cannot feel safe with you."

  Damn! This English bride of his was infuriating. Iain counted to ten, then added another twenty for good measure. “I swear upon my sainted mother's soul to protect yer virtue, even from myself,” Iain promised, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

  “How can a woman who bore a child out of wedlock be sainted?” Brigette shot back.

  “Dinna strain my patience,” Iain growled, his expression darkening even more. “I've given my word as a mon of honor, and ye must accept it."

  “Very well,” Brigette gave in reluctantly. “I warn you that I am quite capable with weapons and will, if provoked, defend myself."