Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

“Dinna worry, hinny. His skin will smooth out in time—I hope."

  “Iain!"

  The baby wailed, as if protesting his father's insult, and cooing, Brigette offered him her nipple. The baby quieted instantly, making his father smile.

  “What he lacks in appearance, he possesses in brains,” Iain quipped, his dark eyes glowing with love. “What intelligent mon wouldna’ crave a taste of yer sweetness?” He caressed her cheek, then leaned close and kissed her tenderly. “Thank ye for my son, lovey."

  “Want to hold him?"

  “Yes.” Iain reached for his son and cuddled him awkwardly against his chest. “His name will be John Andrew, for my father."

  “Agreed. Who will stand as his godparents?"

  “Magnus and Avril Campbell,” Iain answered. “The duke or his heir always stands as godfather to Dunridge's heir. It's a tradition. Perhaps we'll betroth him to their firstborn lassie."

  Brigette arched a brow. “Another tradition?"

  Iain grinned. “No, good politics."

  The baby whimpered, and Brigette held out her arms to take him. “Scheme away, if you must,” she returned, “but I have what John Andrew desires most in this world.” With that, Brigette offered the baby her nipple. As she watched her son, joyous contentment filled Brigette's heart to overflowing. With her husband by her side and her son in her arms, Brigette knew a peace she'd never imagined possible. Nothing bad could ever break through their circle of love to harm them. Nothing.

  16

  The tip of Brigette's nose tickled and twitched. Opening her eyes, she found herself staring into the thick mat of black hair covering Iain's chest. They lay on their sides, their naked limbs entwined intimately.

  Peering up at his face, Brigette saw that he slept. A lusty gleam, boding ill for her husband's peace, shone from her eyes. Ever so lightly, her hand glided down the side of his body and fluttered across his stomach to caress the masculine appendage nestled at his groin. Her fingertips swirled around and around the knob of his shaft until it grew and pulsed, almost angrily.

  “Lassies who play wi’ fire get burned.” Iain's husky warning sounded above her head.

  Surprised, Brigette looked up into his dark, smoldering eyes, but her fingers never faltered in their tantalizing motion. “You'd best be careful yourself,” she challenged softly.

  Iain chuckled throatily and moved to capture her, but Brigette was faster. She pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips, then smiled lazily down at him.

  “I give up,” Iain surrendered. “Do wi’ me as ye will."

  “You're very easy,” Brigette murmured, and lowering her hips, impaled herself on his erect shaft. Both gasped at the incredible pleasure of female softness meeting male hardness as she began to move up and down, tauntingly.

  When Iain flicked his thumbs across the dusky buds of her breasts, a jolt of scorching desire ran from the sensitive tips of her nipples to the core of her womanhood. Brigette burned and throbbed. The first wave of pulsating pleasure washed over her, carrying her away in its relentless surge.

  Iain yanked her down. Savagely, he suckled upon a milk-laden breast.

  “Iain!” Brigette exploded and clung to him.

  With a quick twist, Iain flipped her onto her back. He drew her legs over his shoulders and rammed his raging dragon into her hot, throbbing lair.

  “Brie!” he cried, shuddering his own completion.

  Panting, they lay motionless. When his breathing eased, Iain kissed her lips and the tip of her nose, then gazed into her eyes and smiled. “Whatever happened to my virgin Gypsy?” he asked.

  “You seduced her."

  Bang! The chamber door crashed open, and Moireach entered with their squalling son in her arms.

  “Oh,” Brigette cried, embarrassed. Iain chuckled and withdrew from her body, then pulled the coverlet up to his waist and leaned back against the headboard.

  “Dinna tell me ye were sleepin',” Moireach warned. “I heard yer matin’ howls belowstairs. Wee Black Jack's hungry and verra angry wi’ his mother."

  “I told you,” Brigette corrected, reaching for her son, “John Andrew's nickname is Dubh. ‘Black Jack’ is no proper name for a three-month-old baby."

  “Ouch!” Dubh ferociously attacked his mother's nipple, teaching her the folly in keeping him waiting for breakfast.

  “There's nothin’ improper aboot callin’ him ‘Black Jack,'” the housekeeper argued. “Dubh is the Gaelic for ‘dark’ and ‘Black Jack’ means ... ‘Black Jack.’ Wherein lies the difference?"

  “It's what Iain and I prefer,” Brigette insisted. “We are his parents, are we not?"

  “Dinna use that uppity tone wi’ me, Countess,” Moireach chided, pausing at the door. “I'm the one who caught him when he slipped from yer body.” Her eyes settled on Iain. “Percy's messenger is in the hall."

  Iain offered his son a finger and smiled when the baby's tiny hand closed around it. Dubh's eyes were large as he stared up at his father, but his mouth never stopped working his mother's nipple.

  “I canna believe the strength of Dubh's grip,” Iain marveled.

  Brigette rolled her eyes, certain all fathers were similarly impressed with their sons, especially the first. Iain winked at her and rose from the bed, then washed and dressed.

  “I get less respect as a countess than I did as the second daughter of a belted earl,” Brigette complained, shifting Dubh to her other breast.

  After pulling on his boots, Iain crossed the chamber and tilted her chin up. “Ye mean, lovey, the exceedin'ly pampered second daughter of a belted earl."

  Brigette's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, refusing to become ruffled by his teasing.

  “I'll see ye downstairs,” he said, walking toward the door. “And I must commend yer self-control, hinny. A year ago ye would have risen to the bait."

  “I am not a bear to be baited,” she returned, the hint of a smile flirting with her lips, “merely your long-suffering wife."

  “Each puir soul has a cross to bear,” Iain countered, “and yer mine.” He ducked out of the chamber before she could throw something.

  After feeding Dubh and returning him to the nursery, Brigette washed and dressed hurriedly, then went to the great hall. She sat down beside Iain at the high table and was served a bowl of oatmeal porridge.

  “There's an emergency,” he told her. “I'll be leavin’ wi'in the hour."

  A spoonful of porridge halted en route to Brigette's mouth, then returned to the bowl. “Emergency?"

  “A group of the queen's loyal nobles have assassinated her secretary. Ye remember Rizzio, the Italian.” Iain relaxed back in his chair, his hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. “The queen's six months gone wi’ child and bein’ held prisoner."

  Brigette was shocked. “The queen is being deposed?"

  “The traitors wouldna’ dare”—Iain snorted—“at least ‘til she's birthed an heir. Contrary to the queen's commands, they dragged puir Rizzio from her verra presence and stabbed him to death. The worst of it is that Darnley was part of the plot.” Iain chuckled without humor. “The queen's consort doesna’ ken his usefulness will be ended if she delivers a boy, and his own royal life may be short-lived. I see Jamie Stewart's fine hand etched in this."

  “Buy why must you go?” Brigette protested. “Surely Magnus—"

  “Magnus isna’ in Edinburgh,” Iain interrupted. “He's off aboot the queen's business, and Argyll's at Inverary. Besides, the duke's an old mon. The bastards were clever enough to wait ‘til Edinburgh cleared of Campbells."

  “What can Percy and you accomplish, besides getting yourselves killed?” Brigette's voice rose in distress.

  “Dinna panic, sweetie,” Iain teased. “Yer milk will curdle. I amna’ plannin’ on bein’ killed. Loyal forces are plottin’ the queen's escape. If Mary springs the trap while I'm en route, she'll still need every mon she can get to ride wi’ her and crush the bastards. I'm leavin’ Jamie in command, and dinna give him a difficult time."


  “Me?” Brigette grinned puckishly. “Create trouble for others?"

  Iain leaned close, one of his powerful hands capturing the back of her head. His lips hovered above her. “Ye've a penchant for trouble, and make nae mistake aboot it."

  A week later, Brigette sat alone in her chamber. Dubh was suckling on her teat and kneading the soft flesh of her breast. She smiled at him and caressed his downy cheek. Still no word from Iain, she thought for the hundredth time. He must have reached Edinburgh by now. Please, Brigette sent up a silent prayer, don't make me a widow.

  “Need help?” Slipping into the chamber, Spring interrupted her cousin's reverie.

  “Can you spare a nipple for a hungry boy?"

  “Dubh would starve.” Spring sat on the stool beside Brigette's chair. “Thanks for steering clear of trouble while my husband is in charge."

  “What do you mean?"

  “Iain almost dispatched Percy for losing you,” Spring answered. “He'd suffer no qualms about slaughtering Jamie. I wouldn't care to be made a widow."

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Brigette commented wryly.

  “What?"

  “I dislike the thought of becoming a widow, and there's been no word from Iain."

  “I'm positive all is well,” Spring said encouragingly. “When Dubh goes down to nap, why not ride out with Glenda to the loch?"

  “Jamie might forbid it."

  “It's not so far and the land is well guarded.” Spring cocked a brow at her. “You are the Countess of Dunridge, are you not?"

  “That I am, cuz.” Brigette grinned. “Who would dare refuse the countess in her own home?"

  After persuading Dubh to sleep, Brigette changed into an old skirt and blouse, then grabbed her shabbiest riding cloak. As she walked down the stairs to the foyer, she heard Moireach's voice, raised in anger, even before the housekeeper came into view with Glenda and Sly in tow.

  “I told ye before,” Moireach was scolding the little girl, “ye'd better come when I call ye. Father Kaplan's waitin’ in the library."

  “I didna’ hear ye callin',” Glenda hotly defended herself.

  “Dinna be lyin’ to me, ye naughty chit. It's a terribly bad sin."

  “I amna’ lyin',” Glenda shot back. “Canna Sly have his lessons too?"

  “No!” Moireach was adamant. “He attacks the quills and eats the parchment."

  Brigette stepped into the foyer, and Glenda appealed to her. “Canna Sly come to lessons wi’ me? He has need of it."

  Brigette looked from Glenda to Moireach, but the housekeeper's frown discouraged the laughter bubbling up in her throat. “Moireach said ‘no.’”

  “Yer the countess,” Glenda argued, “and she's yer servant. It's yer privilege to order her aboot."

  Moireach's eyes narrowed in angry consternation. Brigette shifted uncomfortably beneath the woman's unwavering gaze and wisely chose to evade the issue. “I am the countess,” she said diplomatically, “but the earl is not in residence at the moment."

  “If Uncle Iain isna’ here,” Glenda reasoned, “then yer in command."

  “Uncle Iain left Jamie in charge,” Brigette countered.

  “Tell Jamie to tell Moireach that Sly may come to my lessons,” Glenda demanded, exasperated.

  “It would do no good."

  “Why?"

  “Because blood is thicker than water."

  “I dinna ken."

  Brigette knelt in front of Glenda, her eyes level with the child's. “Moireach is Jamie's mother and he's duty-bound to obey her."

  “Is Moireach in charge of Dunridge, then?” Glenda cried. Brigette burst out laughing.

  “I'd love to know what ye've been teachin’ this once-biddable child,” the housekeeper speculated.

  “Perhaps Lady Autumn would care to join you for your lessons,” Brigette said to Glenda. “I'm riding out—"

  "No!" Glenda threw herself into Brigette's arms and pleaded, “Dinna leave me behind again. I promise I'll listen to Moireach ... and obey her too.... Please, dinna leave me!"

  Holding the child close, Brigette spoke soothingly to her. “I'm only riding to the loch, and I'll even take Sly along for company. How's that?” Glenda remained silent, her face buried into Brigette's neck. “It's a fair day, sweetie, and guess what?"

  “What?"

  “Dubh has never seen the garden."

  “Never?” Glenda was amazed.

  “Not once. When I return, shall we show Dubh the trees birthing their buds?"

  “I'd like that."

  “Humph,” Moireach snorted. “I'm hopin’ my Jamie knows what yer aboot."

  “I'll ask his permission first,” Brigette said, rising. “Come along, Sly."

  Entering the courtyard, Brigette saw Jamie speaking with several MacArthur warriors. A few paces away from the men, she hesitated, uncertain how to handle her cousin's husband. One of the men nudged Jamie and gestured toward her.

  Jamie turned around. “Good mornin’ to ye,” he greeted.

  “Good morning. May I speak with you?"

  “Certainly.” Jamie wondered if his good luck had just run out.

  “I'm riding to the loch.” Brigette smiled pleasantly. “I'll return in an hour or so."

  Jamie raised his brows. “Are ye askin’ permission or tellin’ me?"

  “Asking permission. Iain did leave you in command, did he not?"

  “He did,” Jamie replied evenly, “and I dinna think it's wise for ye to be ridin’ out alone, especially when yer husband isna’ here."

  “I won't be alone,” Brigette returned brightly. “Sly will accompany me."

  Jamie's eyes fell to the small fox, sitting obediently beside his mistress. “That wee beastie isna’ proof against foul play or anythin’ else."

  “The land is well guarded, is it not?"

  “Aye."

  “Then foul play is unlikely,” she concluded. “What else could happen?"

  “Are ye certain ye arena’ runnin’ away, perhaps to England?” Jamie blurted out.

  “And leave my son?"

  “I suppose no',” he conceded, then asked suspiciously, “Ye wouldna’ be traipsin’ after Iain to make certain he isna’ in any danger?"

  “I'm not that brave."

  “No, but ye are that foolish."

  Brigette's expression turned to stone, and Jamie cursed his tactless tongue. “Have yer way aboot it, then,” he relented. “But if anythin’ happens and Iain sharpens his sword on my flesh, I swear I'm comin’ back to haunt ye."

  “Don't worry,” Brigette called over her shoulder as she headed for the stables. “I'll be fine."

  “She'll be fine,” Jamie grumbled to himself. “That's what she said to Percy."

  As she passed through the gate, Brigette waved jauntily to the tower guards. She felt freer, released from the prison Dunridge had become without Iain's presence.

  “Here, Sly,” she called to the fox, who dashed aimlessly about, almost as excited by the freedom as his mistress.

  The day was a Highland rarity of blue skies and dazzling sunshine. Birds were chirping loudly and busily building their nests upon the limbs of trees that were giving birth to buds. Sly was scurrying hither and thither, sniffing and snorting and sneezing at everything in sight.

  Delighted by all she surveyed, Brigette turned her mount toward Loch Awe and started down the travel-worn path through the woods. The entire world and its wondrous creatures are being reborn, she thought in a rare philosophical moment, then giggled with simple joy. No longer did she feel the weighty responsibility of being a wife, a mother, and a countess; for several refreshing moments, Brigette reveled in being young and riding out on a glorious day.

  And then the idyllic mood shattered. She suffered the uncanny feeling of being watched. The fine hairs on her neck prickled; a sudden chill caressed her spine. Brigette's senses froze in near panic but her horse kept moving.

  My husband's lands are well guarded, she told herself. I forgot my fear o
f being alone, and my wild imagination is making me skittish. With a sigh of relief, Brigette left the woods and rode onto the loch's sun-drenched shore.

  Sly raced past her. The hackles on his neck were raised against the unseen presence.

  Danger! Brigette kicked the flanks of her mount and galloped down the beach.

  Whoosh! Something whizzed past her. A heart-wrenching yelp of pain rent the air. Sly went down, an arrow protruding from his right haunch.

  “Holy Mother of God!” Brigette shrieked. She tugged savagely on the reins and stopped short, nearly toppling headfirst from the saddle, and ran toward her pet, which was howling in pain.

  “Sly.” Brigette knelt beside him and reached out with a trembling hand, but a shadow fell across the injured, dying fox. She whirled around to face their assailant.

  A black and white plaid—Menzies! Brigette raised her eyes, but saw only pale blond hair framing a face cast in shadow by the glaring sun at his back.

  Sly whimpered, and Brigette's rage erupted with volcanic force. “You bloody bastard!” Snarling with fury, she leaped to her feet like a kitten challenging a lion. It was then the stranger's fist connected with her jaw.

  “Ooph.” Brigette collapsed in his arms.

  Ignoring the injured fox's whimperings, the man produced a cord and tightly bound Brigette's hands together, then lifted and slung her across his horse. Seemingly unconcerned with the danger in lingering there, he rested his head against his saddle. He'd waited so long to catch the Sassenach alone, he thought, feeling faint. He couldn't falter now. Antonia was depending on him!

  “Damn,” Finlay MacKinnon swore softly. His whole body was damp with nervous sweat, and his hands were shaking badly. The Sassenach is definitely a she-devil, he thought with growing trepidation. The green of her eyes and the fierceness of her spirit do betray her witch's heart.

  Finlay made a protective sign of the cross, then mounted behind his unconscious captive and nudged his horse into the cover of the woods. Sly's pain-wracked whining dogged his every step.

  Brigette slowly regained consciousness. At first she thought she was dreaming; then she thought Iain was hogging the bed, forcing her to hang over the edge. Every muscle in her body protested her uncomfortable position and the motion of the horse.