Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  “Dinna ask, just eat."

  Slowly, Brigette chewed another bite, then swallowed. “Well, it tastes good.” She patted her stomach and looked at her husband, saying, “Our baby takes after his Scots father."

  Iain stared coldly at her, then turned away. Yes, he thought, but which Scotsman is the father?

  Is he angry with me? Brigette wondered, bewildered. Have I done something, or not done something I should have?

  “Has Spring told ye the good news?” Moireach asked loudly, attempting to smooth things over. “She and my Jamie have handfast."

  “Handfast?” Brigette looked over at Spring, who was blushing furiously. Beside her, Jamie was grinning. “Is that like being betrothed?"

  “It's a marriage of sorts,” Moireach explained.

  The fork that was en route to Brigette's mouth halted, and then returned to her plate. “A marriage of sorts?"

  “It's perfectly legal, mind ye,” the housekeeper assured her. “They'll live together for a year and then decide whether or no’ to wed permanently."

  “Your man is dishonoring my cousin!” Outraged, Brigette turned on her husband. “I insist they wed immediately!"

  Iain's expression darkened even more. “Jamie isna’ forcin’ Spring to do anythin'. For once in yer misbegotten life, mind yer own business."

  “Misbegotten life?” Brigette would not mind her own business, but she would ignore her husband's insult. He would pay for it later. “This is scandalous,” she wailed, appealing to the earl.

  Black Jack sat back in his chair. If he didn't settle this now, he was certain to develop indigestion before supper was finished. “Moireach, tell Jamie and Spring to come here.” When they stood before him, Black Jack addressed his man. “Would ye be willin’ to wed Spring in front of Father Kaplan?"

  “Who else would wed us?"

  The earl smiled pleasantly. “I mean, immediately followin’ supper."

  “Ye—ye mean tonight? But—"

  “Lady Brigette isna’ happy wi’ yer arrangement,” Black Jack interrupted. “If ye dinna wed Spring proper, she'll be sent home to England."

  “Send me home?” cried Spring.

  “That bein’ the case,” Jamie agreed without hesitation, “I'll wed my lassie now."

  Supper resumed. Brigette peeked at Iain. His disdainful stare pierced her heart more deeply than any dagger could. If he's angry, she wondered, why doesn't he tell me and have done with it?

  “When we spoke earlier,” Brigette said to Black Jack, an imp entering her soul, “did you say ‘mellow with age’ or ‘sour'?"

  Black Jack laughed, and Brigette joined him. Iain watched them sullenly, positive their jest was at his expense.

  “Uncle Iain isna’ happy,” Glenda piped up, noting his displeasure.

  “Yes.” Brigette glanced sidelong at him.

  “When ye left,” the little girl chattered away, “Uncle Iain was verra angry wi’ Uncle Percy. It was frightenin’ to see."

  “What happened?"

  “Uncle Iain scolded me harshly,” Glenda rambled, “but Grandfather is the laird here and set him straight. Grandfather said Uncle Iain was sick wi’ worry aboot ye."

  Over Glenda's head, Brigette caught her husband staring at her stomach, and he flushed. “If ye canna behave yerself, Gabby Glenda,” Iain growled, “ye willna’ be invited to sup wi’ us again."

  “Do not vent your foul mood on the child,” Brigette returned, reaching for Glenda's trembling hand. “It ill becomes you."

  Moireach arrived then to clear the table and saved Brigette from a tongue-lashing. The earl called for Father Kaplan, Jamie, and Spring to step forward.

  It was a simple exchange of vows, completed in a few short moments. In fact, the bride and groom's passionate kiss lasted longer than the ceremony, or so it seemed to Brigette. A rousing cheer filled the hall as the kiss went on and on. Lest Glenda see or hear what she shouldn't, Moireach led her, protesting, from the chamber.

  The earl stood and toasted the bride, then drained his goblet and smashed it against the wall. His warriors drained their mugs but were more careful of their lord's property.

  Brigette kissed her cousin and wished her well, then, intending to seek her own chamber, walked the length of the high table.

  “Humph!” Antonia sniffed.

  Brigette halted and turned around, her green eyes meeting the blonde's disdainful blue. “Was there something you wanted to say?"

  “Yer a hypocrite,” Antonia sneered.

  “Speak to the point."

  Aware that all eyes were watching, Antonia rose from her chair, her eyes challenging Brigette's unwavering gaze. “Ye shameless slut, do ye even know whose brat ye carry?"

  “You ... you ... wood pussy!” Brigette lashed out. Turning on her heels, she stalked out of the hall.

  “Did ye hear the vulgarity?” Antonia wailed, turning to Black Jack and Iain.

  Black Jack laughed, and even Iain was unable to suppress a smile. “I believe,” the earl informed his daughter-in-law, “Brie just called ye a skunk."

  With her shoulders slumped, Brigette sat on a stool in front of the fireless hearth. The door opened, and at the sound of her husband's entry, Brigette jerked up straight, squared her shoulders, and resumed brushing her hair.

  Iain crossed the chamber and sat in the chair beside her stool. Silently, he watched her, but Brigette ignored him.

  “Some important questions have arisen,” Iain said abruptly. “I need the answers—honest answers.” Brigette continued brushing her hair.

  “Damn ye,” he snarled. His hand snaked out and halted the vigorous stroking. “Look at me when I'm speakin’ to ye!” She turned toward him then, and he saw the tears on her cheeks. Iain hesitated, then asked, “Are ... are ye carryin’ my child?"

  Brigette gasped. The hairbrush flew, catching Iain on the side of his face. “It's Murdac Menzies's brat, you idiot!” she shrieked.

  Iain grabbed her wrist and yanked her off the stool, forcing her to kneel in front of him. “I amna’ jestin'."

  “You've been listening to Antonia."

  “Dinna blame her for voicin’ my thoughts. What were yer accommodations along the road to London?"

  Much to Iain's surprise, Brigette burst out laughing, “A-along the road?” Her laughter intensified, rising dangerously close to hysteria. “You—you think M-Magnus and m-me?” Iain gave her a rough shake, then waited while she calmed herself. “You're a fool,” she hissed, wiping her tears away. “Magnus Campbell is honorable."

  Iain flushed. “I'm relieved to hear it, as I dinna relish the prospect of dispatchin’ my own kin. And when ye stayed in London?” he probed cruelly. “Did anyone get to ye then?"

  Her expression of horror answered his question. “Nobody ‘got to me,’ as you so delicately put it,” Brigette snapped. “Do you actually believe Bucko and Marianne would have allowed anyone near me? Ha! I was better protected there than I am here."

  “I believe ye."

  “How exceedingly kind,” she said, then hiccuped.

  Feeling guilty now for doubting her fidelity, Iain reached out to touch her shoulder, but Brigette shrugged him off. “You accused me of not trusting you, but you don't trust me,” she said, her eyes flashing with anger. “I hope this baby is a boy—for Black Jack's sake."

  The unspoken threat of estrangement hung heavily between them. Brigette stood, but Iain pulled her down onto his lap and kissed her deeply. No response.

  “Damn it, Brie! I canna help bein’ jealous. I love ye."

  His admission of love was a mightier weapon than the worst of his angry insults. Brigette crumpled against his chest and wept.

  “I'm sorry, hinny,” he crooned over and over, his heart wrenching with each teardrop she spilled.

  When her sobbing subsided, Iain tilted her chin up and gazed into green eyes shimmering with tears. “Give me a smile, sweetie,” he coaxed.

  Brigette smiled tremulously, and Iain pressed a kiss on her cheek. “It's been
a long, unpleasant day,” he whispered. “Let's go to bed."

  Once undressed, Iain turned toward the bed, a peculiar sight greeting him. On the other side of the bed sat Brigette, massaging her stomach and breasts with lotion.

  “What're ye doin'?” Iain asked, walking around to her side. He admired the way the candlelight and lotion combined to give her skin an appealing sheen.

  “Moireach made this for me,” Brigette answered, admiring his powerfully built physique in the glow from the candle. “She says it discourages stretching marks."

  “May I help ye?"

  “Yes."

  Iain knelt in front of her, and if his face hadn't been cast into shadow, Brigette would have recognized his grin as waggish. After warming the lotion in his hands, Iain began with her stomach. His strokes were slow and soothing, and Brigette marveled that the touch of his battle-scarred hands could be so gentle. As she watched Iain, so intent upon his task, a tender smile touched her lips.

  “It's amazin’ to think what lies beneath my hands,” he whispered. “In five short months he'll be here."

  “Or she."

  “Yes, or she."

  Iain warmed more lotion in his hands and reached for his two favorite things in the world, his wife's breasts. Brigette closed her eyes. The strokes that had soothed her rounding stomach now tantalized her sensitive breasts.

  “Yer nipples are swollen and dusky,” he murmured, teasing their tips between his thumb and forefinger. “They remind me of those cherries we ate at court."

  Brigette chuckled throatily. A bolt of tingling desire raced from the peaks of her nipples and stabbed the secret spot between her thighs.

  Leaning closer, Iain kissed each soft breast. His tongue taunted their hardened centers, and moaning softly, Brigette clasped him tightly. When her hips began to move, he pushed her back on the bed.

  Iain's lips slid down the length of one leg. He kissed her foot and licked his way up the inside of her leg, then, pausing to press his lips on her stomach, he murmured, “I love ye.” Then his skillful lips lavished the same attention on her other leg.

  Returning once more to Brigette's stomach, Iain's head dipped suddenly to her womanly slit. He licked and nipped her female button, and, when she cried out, slipped his tongue inside her. Brigette melted against his face, waves of pleasure sweeping her toward the ultimate paradise.

  Iain loomed above her face. “The babe ...?"

  “Misses you."

  Keeping most of his weight off her, Iain slipped into her wet sheath. Slowly, he pierced and withdrew, increasing his tempo with each seductive plunge. Brigette arched, urging him on, and met each exquisite thrust with her own. In the throes of their passion, one maddened, bucking creature was formed.

  “Fill me,” she wailed. And he obliged by spilling his seed.

  When their breathing eased, Iain drew Brigette beneath the coverlet with him, then cradled her in his arms. “Sometimes I'm an ass,” he said, then vowed, “May God smite me dead if ever I upset ye again."

  Brigette's shoulders shook with silent laughter.

  “Well,” Iain amended, “if I ever doubt yer love for me. Is that better?"

  “Much."

  14

  “God's earlobe,” Brigette grumbled, struggling with her gown. She'd had no heart to summon Spring to her chores the morning after her marriage, but dressing without her cousin's assistance was proving hopelessly impossible.

  Brigette was ensnared inside the voluminous folds of her gown, unable to free herself or locate the armholes. Why is a grown woman incapable of dressing herself? she wondered, frustrated. Brigette struggled on valiantly, her determination growing apace with her frustration.

  Across the chamber, Iain watched the war being waged between his wife and her gown. The wryest of smiles touched his lips.

  Success! Brigette found the sleeves and slipped her arms in. The gown cleared her head and slid into place. Only the buttons remained. Reaching around, Brigette found the button at her waist, and the battle began in earnest. She contorted this way and that, but the sides of the bodice would not meet. Never mind, she told herself. She would begin at the top.

  The two top buttons were deceptively easy, and her confidence grew. Brigette could reach the third button but was unable to pull the sides of the bodice together. The fourth button was unreachable, and she was already flushed and damp from her exertions.

  Strong hands touched Brigette's shoulders. “Can I help ye?” Iain asked, his breath tickling the back of her neck.

  “Yes."

  “My fingers are a mite too large for such a delicate task,” he said, struggling to pull the sides of the bodice together. “Damn! Suck in yer gut."

  “I am."

  Heedless of tearing the gown, Iain tugged with all his strength.

  “Stop!” Brigette cried. “I can't breathe."

  “Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!” Iain clucked at her plight. “Yer too fat for yer gown."

  “It's one of my favorites,” she wailed, a sob catching in her throat.

  “I've the perfect solution.” Hiding the proof of her widening girth, Iain draped one of Brigette's shawls over her shoulders, then tied it in front. “Given a choice,” he said, playfully tapping the tip other nose, “I prefer battlin’ yer buttons to holdin’ yer head over the pot."

  In the great hall, Black Jack sat alone at the high table. Iain and Brigette joined him there, and as they walked through the chamber, noted many weary and pained expressions on retainers and men-at-arms. Apparently, Jamie and Spring's marriage celebration had included a great quantity of drink.

  “Good mornin',” Black Jack greeted, pleased to see his son's improved expression.

  “Good mornin',” they chimed together.

  “How are ye feelin’ today, Brie?"

  “Fat."

  Black Jack chuckled. “Ye dinna appear fat to me. Yer lovely. Isna’ that right, son?"

  “My wife is perfection,” Iain agreed, “but her gowns are tighter than a virgin's—"

  “Iain,” Brigette said. “You are incorrigible. Why do you persistently annoy me?"

  “Annoyance makes ye even more adorable than ye already are."

  Black Jack patted Brigette's hand. “Dinna pay him any mind. A widenin’ girth is natural in a breedin’ woman. After all, how could the two of ye fit into one gown?"

  “Two of us?"

  “Ye and my grandson,” Black Jack replied. “And I've news that'll make ye feel better."

  “What?"

  “Antonia willna’ be joinin’ us for meals ‘til her injured pride recovers from yer name-callin’ last night."

  “If ye werena’ breedin',” Iain teased, “I'd train ye to come raidin’ wi’ me. That waspish tongue of yers lets blood."

  “Speakin’ of raidin',” Black Jack said, and Iain groaned, knowing what his father was about to say. “It's August, and ye've had a day and a night of rest."

  “What's important about August?” Brigette asked.

  “Harvest raidin’ is the busiest time of the year,” Iain told her.

  “Unlike last year, when Iain was courtin’ ye at the huntin’ lodge,” Black Jack added, “we spend August honin’ our fightin’ skills and plannin’ strategy. When a clan fails to properly protect itself, a lean winter follows."

  Their breakfast of oatmeal porridge, bannocks, ale, and milk arrived then. “Good mornin',” Moireach said, setting a mug in front of Brigette. “Here's yer milk."

  “I'm beginning to feel like a cow,” Brigette complained.

  “And yer beginnin’ to resemble one,” Iain quipped, then threw his hands up in mock surrender when Brigette, ready to do battle, turned on him. “Around the udders, I mean, the breasts,” he amended. Brigette was unamused.

  “Come here, sweetie,” Black Jack called to Glenda, who walked into the hall. “Come and bid me a good mornin'."

  “Good mornin', Grandfather.” Glenda climbed onto his lap and batted her eyelashes at him, as Brigette had taught her.


  He smiled, then asked, “Did ye sleep well?"

  “Yes."

  Brigette reached down to pat Sly, who was sitting on the floor between their chairs, then glanced sidelong at the little girl. “I'm wondering,” she said, “why my furry friend did not sleep with me last night."

  “Lord Sly begged to remain wi’ Lady Autumn,” Glenda lied.

  “Did he now?” Skeptically, Brigette arched a brow at her.

  “Yes, but I'll escort him to yer chamber tonight."

  Brigette considered the offer, then smiled. “If Lord Sly prefers passing the night in your chamber, it's acceptable to me."

  “Do ye mean it?” Glenda's voice rose in excitement.

  “To be honest with you,” Brigette whispered, leaning close, “Uncle Iain becomes jealous when Sly shares my bed. You'd actually be doing me a tremendous favor by—"

  A rousing cheer interrupted her words, and everyone looked up. Jamie and Spring, crimson with embarrassment, entered the hall belatedly.

  Iain grinned at their discomfort and called them to the high table. “I hope ye slept well, Jamie,” he teased. “The earl has ordered us outside the walls today to begin trainin'.” Jamie's mouth dropped in dismay.

  “Good mornin', cuz.” Brigette smiled knowingly at Spring. “I'll need your help today letting out the seams on my gowns."

  Black Jack stood, then resettled Glenda in his chair and kissed the top of her head. “I've plenty of work to keep me busy,” he announced. “Ye willna’ be seein’ me ‘til supper.” Noting his granddaughter's disappointed expression, he added, “But I'll be seein’ ye at the usual hour in the garden.” Glenda grinned.

  “I'm going to redecorate the nursery,” Brigette informed her husband. “What do you—?"

  Ignoring her, Iain stood and quaffed his ale, then pecked her cheek and strode out of the hall. Moaning and groaning, the MacArthur men-at-arms followed him out.

  “We've been deserted,” Spring observed, taking the chair vacated by Iain.

  “Glenda,” Moireach called from the entry. “It's time for yer lessons.” The little girl feigned deafness. “Come along,” the housekeeper ordered, marching to the high table. “Father Kaplan's lookin’ for ye. And dinna make me shout."