Highland Portrait

by Shelagh Mercedes

  Slowly, undulating like a dancing girl, Stella moved closer to him, her palm up.

  “You have too many clothes on.” In a flurry Robbie began tugging at his clothes as if they were fire burning his skin. Stella giggled, “Let me take them off, please, my love, let me do this.”

  Robbie stopped his undressing, but moaned, “Aye, Stella, but be quick about it.”

  She stood dangerously close, her perfumed body a bonfire of temptation, a glorious conflagration of enticement and he closed his eyes so he could not see her, so he would not weaken. She placed her hand on his chest and he grabbed her wrist and held it tight. His eyes were pressed tightly shut, his mouth drawn in a taunt straight line.

  “Stella, ye play a dangerous game, love.” She said nothing but softly pushed his hand away and reached for the pin that held his plaid in place. She placed it carefully out of the way on the small table by the bed. She pulled the plaid free and began to unwrap him, the plaid falling free to the ground leaving him with naught but his white tunic and his boots. Having little patience for waiting, wanting no part of any delay, Robbie pulled the tunic over his head swiftly, throwing it on the floor, never taking his eyes off Stella’s breasts.

  She kneeled at his feet and smiled, feeling the heat of his erection, smelling the earthy desire creeping like fog, embracing her and chipping at her resolve to play this out slowly. She knew that Robbie was suffering and that her game was hurting him. She removed his boots quickly and efficiently, tossing them aside and she rose and stood between his legs her hands on his broad shoulders.

  Robbie could no longer contain his heated need, his desire was unhinged and in the unhinging erased all promises to allow love to burn slowly. She felt his rapid breathing, his arms reaching for her hips, his hands running down her long legs.

  “Ah, Stella, you are made of silk,” His body trembling with his need for her, he pulled her forward and kissed her flat belly, his tongue tracing the circle of her navel, his hands holding her buttocks, massaging their soft firmness. She was delicious to his taste, a feast, all he would ever need to be filled.

  “My god, Robbie.” She pressed his head closer to her belly, running her fingers through his hair, massaging his head, gently encouraging him to explore and taste her skin. If he had been on the precipice before, he was now falling over. He knew it was time and even if he had wanted to, he couldn't have stopped it, and so he let her presence take him there.

  "Now, Stella, now! I canna wait, I must ha’e ye." She felt her body ignite when, with a moan that spoke of need put off too long, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to the bed, rolling over and covering her with his body.

  As a new universe is borne of eruptions of incandescent heat, so was their coupling born of an explosive power of fiery passion, each igniting within the other the fulfillment of a towering need. They took their pleasure as they took their fill and in the taking transformed each other.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Somewhere in his sleep fogged brain Robbie heard the sound of a rooster, unexpected and startling, disrupting his nights rest. He cursed the bird hoping it would quiet its irritating squawk before it woke Stella. He yawned and stretched and then slowly rolled over, putting his arm around her as she slept, her soft breathing keeping time to his heartbeat. He moved closer to her gently molding himself to her back and pulled her ever so closer to him. She moaned softly, acknowledging his presence but refusing to give ground to wakefulness, preferring to remain in her cocoon of sleep.

  He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled the sweetness of her, an olio of scents that mingled like an aromatic millefiori brooch, tantalizing and mysterious and confusing…much like her. Lilac was braided with the scent of woman and his hands caressed her arm loving the softness of her skin. She had wrapped the linen sheet tightly around her, to ward off the morning chill but he pulled it back gently revealing hips and thighs relaxed in rest, knees drawn up like a sleeping child. He leaned into her and kissed the warmth between her neck and shoulder. Her skin smelled delicious, her woman scent an aphrodisiac. He could not believe his good fortune in waking to this mysterious creature. She was at once, fragile, dangerous and ethereal. His grip tightened.

  He pulled the sheet around them both but moved his hand stealthily beneath the linens, careful not to disturb her, and stroked her breasts. His fingertips lightly teased the skin tracing a pattern over the warm flesh, delighting in the feel of her. Her breathing continued undisturbed and he captured a warm breast in his hand feeling the fullness, the heaviness of it. He imprinted the weight in his mind so that he might remember it when she was not with him – in those moments when he needed distraction from his work, or comfort or just longed for her. His thumb rubbed across her nipple and his mouth watered longing for the taste of the dark pink flesh that responded so quickly to his touch.

  His hunger growing he nuzzled her ear and whispered good morning. Stella was reluctant to leave her dreams and face the day but his hands became insistent, gently massaging the roundness that triggered a primal need in him. He pressed his growing need into her back and held her tighter listening to the change in her breathing knowing that she was climbing out of sleep and would join him in what he hoped would become a morning ritual of commitment and pledge.

  He pulled her over onto her back and she slowly opened her eyes…

  Stella woke to birdsong outside the slender windows of her chambers. It was her second dawning of the morning, Robbie having gotten her up earlier to once again pleasure her, and in the doing surrendered himself to her once again. She had drifted back to sleep, replete and sated, but now she could see that daylight was strong and it would probably be a good idea to make a showing before noon. She rolled over and as expected, Robbie was no longer there, having forced himself to leave her side to attend to his uncle’s business. She stretched like a cat and then sat up to consider what she would wear. Brijit had taken her woolen dress to wash and all she had was her jeans which she knew would not do but she did not want to put on the dress from last night, it being too formal and too heavy and full to her liking. She reached for her chemise that Robbie had so quickly discarded the night before and slipped it on. At that moment Brijit knocked softly and not waiting for an answer came into the room carrying clothes and a tray of tea and small sweet oatcakes.

  “Good morning, Mistress! I see I’ve come just in time. Elinor has sent me along with these fine dresses for ye.” She lay the dresses on the trunk and put the small tray on the valet chair by the fire.

  “Mornin’, Brijit, I was just wondering what I was going to wear today. I will have to thank Elinor in a very special way. What’s that on the tray. I don’t suppose its bacon and eggs?”

  “Bacon, mistress?” Brijit looked at her quizzically. “What might that be?”

  Stella thought for a moment, and considered the glorious pig and its many functions, and could not actually remember which part of the pig bacon came from. “Well, Brijit, I think it’s sliced pig belly. Doesn’t that sound delicious?” Stella smiled brightly going to the tray and picking up the oatcake. She considered, for a moment, that the Scots ate a lot of oats, more so than even their horses it seemed.

  “We do eat pig belly, mistress, but we nay call it bacon,” said Brijit as she chose one of the dresses for Stella.

  “Ah, but do you fry it up, slap it on a burger and add cheese?” Stella winked at her and let Brijit pull the soft blue dress over her head. She turned and allowed Brijit to lace her up while she sipped her tea.

  “I know not burger, Mistress, but pig belly and cheese sounds a mite…uh…” Brijit was searching for words.

  “Disgusting?” asked Stella, again with a twinkle in her eye. “In Texas we eat such stuff and though it sounds awful, it is also delicious.”

  “Ah, much like our haggis, then. Sounds disgusting, but is delicious.” Brijit smiled, finished up the laces and began unfolding the veiled headpiece for Stella.

  “Not for me, Brijit, I have my own ha
t,” said Stella nodding at the headpiece. “What exactly is haggis?” Stella took the brush from Brijit and began to pull it through the tangles of her hair.

  “Ah, now that is a right good recipe. It’s sheep’s pluck and nice onions w’ oatmeal and some suet stewed in the sheep’s belly. It’s quite delicious.” Brijit’s eyes widened with glee thinking of that grandest of Scottish treats.

  Stella, dumbfounded, looked at Brijit as though she’d lost her mind. “Bridgit, what the hell is sheep’s pluck?” Brijit’s mouth dropped open at the language of her mistress, throwing her hand over her mouth, she giggled.

  “Mistress! Sheep’s pluck is the liver, heart and lungs.”

  “Stewed in a sheep’s stomach? OK, Brijit, you win this round of ‘disgusting dinner recipes.’ Stella laughed and handed the brush back to Brijit. “Where is Robbie this morning?” she asked as she tugged on her boots. Brijit, straightening the bedclothes and cleaning the room was still giggling over her Mistress’s use of language.

  “He is with the Laird all morning, Mistress. They are in the library, have been since the tanist got up.”

  “Thank you, Brijit, then I think I’ll go and find my dad. Have you seen him?” Stella saw the trunk where she had locked up her backpack was now here in Robbie’s chamber. She took out her sketchbook and pencil and carefully locked the pack back in the trunk.

  “Nay, mistress, I have nay seen him this morning.” Stella took her hat from a peg on the wall and headed toward the door.

  “Ok, thanks, Brijit, I’ll go look for him. I’ll see you later.” She smiled and left Brijit musing over her strange use of language.

  Although the people of the castle had treated Stella with the utmost respect and curiosity she did not want to be intrusive or bring too much attention to herself although it was almost impossible not to. As she walked into the bailey heads instantly turned and looked, some bowing slightly others just ogling her. Those she spoke to showed her great deference, smiling and bowing, and speaking in heavily brogued English, or in their native Gaelic, so asking for directions did not always make her way easier. Her young greeter, Thomas MacDougall, came out of the crowd and shouted her name.

  “Mistress Stella, Mistress Stella!” Thomas was waving his hands and his look of delight eased Stella’s mind, happy to find someone that was less intimidating than soldiers and grown ups who were still uncertain about her.

  “Thomas, how good to see you.” Stella’s laughter encouraged Thomas “I’m looking for Albert, have you seen him?”

  “Nay mistress, but I’ll help ye find him.” Thomas proudly escorted Stella’s to all the stalls along the bailey wall, each stall busy with the business of running this rather large community. There were blacksmiths and tanners, carpenters and wheelwrights, each in brisk occupation, the noise and the sounds a musical of earnest engagement. Never had Stella wished for a camera like she did this morning. The sun was bright, the temperature warm, but not hot, and she was awash in the colors of this place. She had always envisioned all historical periods to be in black and white, or a grainy sepia, but here she noted all the colors and textures that textbooks had denied her. Walking through the bailey was a greater education of this period than all the books her father had given her to read. Here she witnessed firsthand how life was lived and the intricate dance of labor and industry that sustained this castle and its people.

  In one corner of the bailey she found a large stall that seemed to be the only one with the door shut, no people venturing in and out as in the other stalls. Unlike the others that had thatched roofs this one appeared to have no roof at all, but was open to the elements. It had a robust wooden gate, with metal hinges rather than the leather hinges she had seen on the other doors in the castle.

  “Och! No mistress, not there,” exclaimed Thomas, “’Tis said a great monster lives there, we canna go in there.”

  Stella looked at Thomas and wondered what ‘monster’ might be hiding behind a wooden door in the bailey of a castle. Especially if there were no roof to keep him in. Stella looked at Thomas with her eyes wide and filled with mischief.

  “A monster, you say? Then let’s see it, Thomas!!” Teasing Thomas with a smile and a look of awe Stella knocked on the door, but when no answer came she lifted the latch and pushed the door slightly open to peek inside.

  “Nay, nay!” Thomas took off running through the bailey to safety somewhere far away from the great wooden gate.

  Stella, laughing, pushed the gate open and to her great astonishment she beheld not a monster’s den, or another space of castle industry, but a garden of amazing beauty. She knew that all castles had kitchen and herb gardens, but this was a garden of flowers and exotic plants that had abandoned formality and were a composition in exuberance. It was a brilliant mix of terraced beds and stone walkways, pools, cascades, and stout urns filled with carefully shaped topiaries. Flowers, blush with new buds, and heavy with the deep hues of mature blossoms filled the space with color and the spice of scent. Roses, pink and fat as cherubs, filled one corner of the garden and it was there that Stella found a wooden bench beckoning her to sit and inhale the beauty of this place of breathtaking loveliness.

  Closing her eyes she inhaled a bath of scent, sweet perfumes creeping upward from the ground and hanging heavy in the air. The garden was scattered with petals clinging to the leaves and carpeting the brick walkways like the giddy aftermath of a flowered rain. Slender trees with wispy braches draped with white buds like strings of pearls gave the garden a decidedly faerie-like appeal. The stout walls of the castle blocked out the din of the bailey creating a small oasis of peace and tranquility inviting the visitor to reflect and ponder. Birds and the quiet trickling of the pools were the only noise, providing Stella with sweet background music to accompany her drawing.

  Stella had never seen such an exquisitely beautiful garden and wondered why it had been closed. Was this a private space she had invaded? If so who was it for and most importantly who was the gardener? She opened up her sketch book and began to draft the shapes of this exquisite place. A keen observer at all times she noted a small door in the corner of the garden that was quiet and small, not like the grand wooden gate to the entrance of the garden. She supposed that it lead into the keep somewhere and was used by the gardener. Partially hidden by the rose bushes Stella spent an hour sketching the garden, the people of the bailey, Brijit, and the many sites that she would replicate when she got home, losing herself in the many wonders she had seen since coming to this magical place yesterday.

  As she laid in the details of dresses and shawls, hammers and bellows, she heard the quiet opening of the corner door. Looking up from her book she saw a young man come into the garden, carrying a bucket and several small hand tools. He was bent sideways at the waist, his back horribly crooked, rending him lame, his movements slow, his feet dragging with difficulty along the bricked walkways. His shoulder was bowed, his spine having mutated his body so that it was almost painful to look at. His lips were slack, moist with spittle, his eyes cast downward as if he carried the weight and burden of his deformities not only in his body, but in his heart as well. His wheat blond hair was fine and straight, irregularly cut to shoulder length, falling forward on his face, brushing his eyes. Stella watched with interest as he shuffled, painfully slow to one of the raised beds of purple thistle and small blue forget-me-nots. With a grunt he lowered himself to the ground kneeling at the shallow wall of the bed and began to work the soil loose around the plants using a small pick-like tool, digging with the delicacy of a surgeon, giving air to plants. Stella knew she was watching the gardener, as he touched his plants as one would touch a child or pet a small animal. This was a young man that bestowed all the beauty missing in his form to this space leaving in his wake a small Eden that was unmatched by any kings garden.

  Stella watched in awe as his twisted body, reached forward to pull out errant weeds and grab up small pests, his eyes missing nothing. Scraping her booted foot slightly across the bricked
walkway the young man looked up at the sound and was instantly paralyzed to see a stranger sitting in his garden. He looked with fear at Stella, his hand holding his small pick in mid-air, his breath held tightly in his contorted chest.

  Not daring to move he watched her, waiting for the frown, the censure, the pitying looks, but none came. Not wanting to frighten him further, Stella did not move, but smiled at him gently nodding her head. Reaching to the side of the bench she cupped a fat rose and pulled it toward her nose, breathing deep of the heady fragrance. She let it go, smiled and nodded again and looked at the young man, and in that small gesture he knew that she approved of this beautiful garden and that she approved of him.

  He relaxed somewhat, dropping his hand with the pick and continued to stare at Stella unsure of what he should or should not do. He had infrequent visitors to his garden, it being closed off from the bailey with a heavy wooden gate and the common unspoken consent among the bailey’s folks that this walled space belonged to him alone. This seclusion freed them from the onus of looking upon the sin of his body.

  Stella arose from the bench and approached the young man and sitting on the shallow terraced wall of his raised bed of purple thistle she opened her book and thumbing quickly through the drawings she came to the rendering of the garden. She gently ripped the page out and handed it to him.

  “For you,” she said almost in a whisper, “here, take it, I want you to have it.” The young man looked at the paper in her hand and looked at Stella. He seemed not to understand what she was doing. She took his free hand, laid the page on his palm face up that he might see what it was.

  Silently he looked at the beautifully detailed drawing, recognizing his garden, his work, on this piece of paper. He had never seen anything like what he held in his hand and was sure that this beautiful woman before him was an angel. He looked at her and she smiled at him, touching his cheek, watching the grey-blue eyes water.