by Julia London
But Duncan faded from her again, moving down her body, his mouth on her abdomen, his hand pushing her gown down to her hips, and over them, baring her body to him. His breath was hot on her sex, his hands cupping her hips.
Fiona’s blood felt as if it scored her veins; she was dangerously aroused, desire seeping into her marrow and pooling in a cauldron inside her.
Duncan rose up to kiss her at the same moment he put his hand between her legs, against her hot, slick flesh. Fiona moaned against his mouth; she was lost, completely lost. But when his fingers slipped inside her and he began to stroke her with his thumb, she was mad. She gasped into his mouth and shifted against him, pressing against his hand and body, moving seductively against him, her body begging for more.
“I canna bear it,” he said roughly, and withdrew his hand, unfastening his trousers, pushing them from his magnificent hips, and quickly coming over her again, sliding in between her legs. He leaned down and kissed her tenderly, holding himself aloft with one arm, his knee nudging her thighs apart. “I want to make you mine, Fiona,” he said. “Completely. Always.”
She rose up on her elbows and kissed him. “Always.”
He groaned; she held his gaze as the tip of him, hot and hard, nudged her. Duncan shifted on top of her and moved his hand to her thigh. He caressed her with his palm, pushing her legs farther apart, then guided himself inside her.
It was an exquisite sensation—her body working to open to him, the tightness easing a bit to allow him. There was a moment of pain, and Fiona closed her eyes. When it had passed, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
He was watching her closely, his eyes full of longing.
Fiona raked her fingers through his hair. “Always,” she whispered.
With a hiss of restraint, Duncan began to move in her—slowly, easily. But Fiona wanted the frenzy of their shared desire again, and kissed him until he let go of his inhibitions and was moving fast and deep inside her.
She ached at the intrusion but longed for more. She moved with him, burying her face in his neck, anchoring her fingers in his flesh. She whimpered with the undiluted pleasure of his body filling hers. When he shifted again, he put his hand between their bodies and began to stroke her as he moved inside her.
The effect was as exhilarating as it was shocking. Her body was responding, and when she found her release, Fiona cried out, tightening hard around him.
He responded with a strangled cry and shuddered deep inside her. She could feel the contractions reverberate throughout his body, and Fiona understood in that astonishing moment that she was precisely where she was meant to be.
Somberly, Duncan gathered Fiona in his arm and rolled to his side. She nuzzled her face into his neck. “I need you, Fiona,” he said again. “Lord God, how I need you.”
She smiled into his neck.
She was home.
Chapter Twelve
Duncan Buchanan was so rejuvenated by Fiona’s love that in the following days he not only began plans to rebuild Blackwood, he also planned a great Hogmanay celebration. As he was something of a pariah in Highland society, it would be attended only by the tenants and the servants and their families, but it would nevertheless be the finest Hogmanay celebration Blackwood had ever seen.
At last there was cause for celebration, and the tenants and residents of the estate all seemed to feel it—they’d gone from the gloom and doom of living in the shadow of a burned mansion to living in the bright rays of hope. Everyone seemed to have a new spring in their step. Everything seemed warmer and sparkling.
The weather cooperated, too, and they were able to build large bonfires on the south lawn, which they would set ablaze on the night of Hogmanay.
The only cloud in that week of blue skies was a message from Fiona’s uncle, warning her the prince’s men were on their way to Lambourne Castle. Duncan’s messenger had been unable to find Jack and Angus, and Fiona fretted that he would return to Lambourne Castle before coming to Blackwood.
But on the evening of Hogmanay, Jack Haines arrived at Blackwood in the company of Angus, just as they had planned. The pair was met at the gates of Blackwood by a grinning Ridley, who, having found the runaway maid, Sherri, and returned her to Mr. Seaver, had waited in Edinburgh until the weather had passed. He’d only arrived two days past, but was instantly caught up in the new atmosphere at Blackwood.
“What’s this?” Angus asked as Ridley fell in beside them on his horse. “Ridley, you old dog—has the laird returned, then?”
“Indeed he has,” Ridley said. “He’s hosting the Hogmanay celebration tonight. There’s to be bonfires and fireworks after the official blessings.”
“You donna say!” Angus said, apparently as surprised as Jack. Jack understood that since the fire, Duncan Buchanan had become a recluse. It was hard to imagine the king of Highland society having fallen so far.
“What news from Buchanan?” Angus asked casually.
“Quite a lot of it, sir,” Ridley said. “But it’s to be a surprise, it is.”
Angus laughed. “I rather doubt I shall be even a wee bit surprised,” he said confidently. “I know the laird far too well.”
They arrived on the grassy east lawn of the main house just in time for the saining, or the blessing of the household and the livestock. From the back of the crowd of servants and tenants, Jack recognized Duncan as he climbed up on makeshift scaffolding. Jack had heard of Duncan’s burns, but he was taken aback when he saw the scars across Duncan’s cheek.
Duncan held up two juniper limbs, then leaned down, extending them to someone in the crowd. When he lifted them again, they were lit. A moment later, he’d extinguished the fire, and used the smoking limbs to conduct the ancient blessing and prayer for prosperity in the new year.
When the saining was done, a raucous cheer went up. The footmen began to move through the crowd carrying small barrels of whisky, which they ladled into tots.
Jack readily took one when it was offered, as did Angus.
Just as he was about to drink the whisky, another man hopped onto the dais and shouted for the crowd’s attention. When the crowd had quieted, he called out, “Have you all got a tot, then?”
A chorus of ayes was raised in addition to the tots.
“Who’s he?” Jack asked.
“Cameron,” Angus responded. “Duncan’s secretary.”
“Then lift a toast to your laird, lads, for this happy day he announces his engagement!”
Jack and Angus exchanged a look and Angus, Jack noted, was quite surprised, in spite of his boasting earlier.
“A hearty Highland welcome to the future lady of Blackwood!” the man called out. “Lady Fiona Haines!”
Jack dropped his tot.
Angus clapped him on the back. “Bloody hell, the devil you are!” he laughed. “You’ve no’ said a word!”
Everyone around them was shouting, “Slàinte, slàinte,” cheering the happy couple as they stepped up onto the dais. Jack gaped, disbelieving. But it was Fiona, all right, his baby sister, smiling and waving at the crowd.
For a moment, he felt as if he were in a dream. He could not conceive how Fiona had come to be here or engaged to Buchanan, but he intended to find out, and rousing himself from his shock, he began to push his way through the crowd. When he reached the dais, he had to grab the hem of Fiona’s cloak and give it a good tug before she noticed him.
She looked down, smiling broadly, and in that moment before she recognized him, Jack thought she looked as happy as he’d ever seen her.
“Jack!” she cried, and fairly leaped at him.
He caught her with both arms and set her on her feet, and Fiona instantly twirled around. “Duncan!” she shouted. “He’s come, he’s come!”
Duncan looked down, saw Jack, and grinned. Grinned. Jack could count on one hand the times in his life he’d seen Duncan Buchanan genuinely grin.
“Lambourne!” he said. “On my honor, I intended to speak with you, I did—”
He ne
ver finished his sentence, as two men climbed up on the dais and distracted him. Jack took the opportunity to glare at his sister. “Fiona Haines, what in bloody hell have you done, then?”
“He would have spoken to you, but you were gone!” Fiona exclaimed, hitting him playfully in the chest. “And no’ a word to where you’d gone!”
“Fiona!’ he cried, grabbing her arms. “Why are you here? What in God’s name are you about? What sort of jest is this, that you are engaged to be married to Duncan Buchanan?”
Fiona laughed gaily. “I think because of the snowstorm!” she cried gleesfully. “Had we no’ had to sleep under the stars, I donna think—” She suddenly blinked and hit him squarely in the chest. “Jack! What am I thinking? You canna stay here!” she cried, and gripping his arm, she began to pull him away from the crowd. “You must go at once!” she said. “The prince’s men are coming for you, and by our best guess, they should be here any day now!”
“The prince’s men? What are you prattling on about?”
“I’m no’ prattling!” she insisted, frantically pulling him along. “Woodburn and Hallaby came to me and said the king wanted you to know that the Prince of Wales had sent men to find you and bring you back to London for questioning with regard to . . . you know very well with regard to what,” she said, punching him in the shoulder. “How could you be so careless, Jack?”
“There is no truth to it, Fiona!”
“It hardly matters—the king said you were to go deeper into the Highlands until it’s all passed.”
She was confusing him. Jack shook his head. “I canna begin to guess what you are saying, lass, but before I try and untangle it all, I will know how you have come to be at Blackwood!”
“I told you! The king sent me,” she said, and leaned forward, glancing anxiously at the crowd. “For all we know, they could be here now, disguising themselves as tenants—”
“The king sent you?”
“Aye, aye, the king!” she cried impatiently.
Jack was dumbstruck for a brief moment. He’d not heard Fiona say aye in ages.
“Listen to me, Jack! They are rounding up the men who . . . who know the princess,” she said, glowering at him, “and I’ve had word from Uncle that they’ve already been to Edinburra. They are en route to Lambourne Castle as we speak if they have no’ arrived already! There is no time to waste! You must flee!”
“Dear God,” he muttered, furious with his old friend George, furious with those who had named him an adulterer. “All right, all right, then. But I will no’ go until I understand how you came to be engaged to Duncan Buchanan!”
“There is no time to tell you that now! Do you think it happened so easily? Without the least bit of scandal, then? Of course no’! It will have to wait, Jack. Just know that I love him! I love him!”
“Fiona,” he said, catching her by the arms. “You’ve no’ done something so monumentally stupid as—”
“It is too late, if that is what you are asking,” she said defiantly. “There is naugh’ you can say to change it.”
“Mi Diah!” Jack cried.
“He’s no’ the same as you remember, Jack!”
“If you are referring to me,” a deep voice said just behind them, “I can assure you I have changed, Lambourne.”
Jack whirled around, glaring at Duncan Buchanan.
“Do you think you can debauch my sister and live to tell about it, then?” he demanded. “I shall call you out, sir. I shall delight in putting a bullet in your chest!”
Far from having the desired effect, Buchanan laughed. “Come now, Lambourne—have you no’ enough trouble as it is?” he asked congenially. “I asked politely, and she consented. I adore her and am quite unwilling to part with her. You must no’ fear it, for I will honor her and protect her—even from you.”
“From me?”
“Aye, from you. As the Prince of Wales has sent his henchmen for you, I will no’ allow any dishonor to be brought to Fiona. Go, Lambourne. Go save your own hide.”
Jack’s head was spinning. He knew how George could be when he was angry. But still— He was rudely interrupted from his thoughts by a hearty shove from Fiona.
“Go, you bloody fool! Go deeper into the Highlands while you can! You may question me to your heart’s content when the danger has passed!”
Jack groaned. He caught Fiona’s chin and kissed her cheek, then wagged his finger at her. “You’ve quite a lot of explaining to do.”
“I shall be delighted to tell you all at the first opportunity.” She pushed him again.
Jack looked at Buchanan. “If you so much as—”
“You donna have to say it. There is no one dearer to me than Fiona. I shall keep her safe and well.”
“Fine,” Jack said crossly, looking at the two of them. It seemed as if he’d entered another world entirely. “I will be back.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” Fiona said. “Now go,” she said, gesturing impatiently. “And keep an eye out for wolves!”
So Jack went, with no destination in mind but “deeper in the Highlands,” as Fiona had said, just some place far from humanity—and wolves, apparently—for a time.
He paused at the gates of Blackwood at the first celebratory explosion and glanced back to see the fireworks of Hogmanay falling from the sky.
What an astonishing start to the new year, he thought, and with a shake of his head spurred his mount forward, into the dark.
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THE LAST DEBUTANTE
Available March 2013 from Pocket Books
Dundavie, the Scottish Highlands, 1811
Jamie Campbell wasn’t alarmed when the old woman pointed her gun at his head—he was galled. He’d ridden up to her fence and had just come off his saddle when the cottage door opened and she appeared with her blunderbuss.
He’d suffered more than his fair share of vexations these last few weeks. Things had gone to hell when his brother, Geordie, had called out Cormag Brodie and very nearly killed him. Not unreasonably, that had prompted Cormag’s sister Isabella, who was Jamie’s fiancée, to cry off their engagement. That was almost enough to drive a man to the nearest bottle of barley-bree, but to finish off that spectacularly bad event, Jamie then discovered that his uncle Hamish, who was losing a wee bit of his mind every day, had given away the money Jamie had managed to save in the family coffers. That money was all Jamie had to help support his clan, who had seen their livelihoods erode with the encroachment of Lord Murchison’s sheep onto their small parcels of land, and many had left for better occupations in Glasgow and beyond.
For the nine years Jamie had sat as laird of the Dundavie Campbells, he’d tried to lead them into the winds of change while holding on to as much of their way of life as possible. The Brodies were key to his plan, so it was all bloody well vexing—as was this woman and her gun. Jamie was descended from a long line of scrappy, argumentative Highland Campbells, men whose mettle had been tested at war, during famines, and in the throes of great change. They were not the sort of men to be put off by duels or broken engagements, or an old woman and her blunderbuss—which was shaking a little as she struggled to hold the thing up.
“There’s no call for that now, aye?” he said, pausing outside the gate. He held up both hands to show he was unarmed.
“As you are standing on my property, I’ll be the one to judge,” the woman retorted in a crisp English accent.
Sassenach. Mary, Queen of Scots, another one. Jamie’s hackles rose.
“What business have you here, sir?”
What business had he here? He was born and reared here, in these very hills. He knew them all, every path, every stream, every tree. What the devil was she doing here? Ach, he shouldn’t have come. He didn’t generally act in haste; at the very least, he should have brought Duff, his cousin and right hand, along.
But Old Willie had told him that the woman who lived in this cottage on Brodie lands wa
s the one who had used Hamish so ill, and it had made Jamie feel a wee bit murderous. What sort of person took advantage of an old man who possessed only half his mind? Jamie was so intent on discovering the answer that he’d immediately ridden in the direction of the Brodie lands.
He sighed and looked at the neat little thatched-roof cottage. It was set back against towering firs on the edge of a small field where chickens wandered about, pecking at the ground. The cottage had been whitewashed and the fence recently mended, judging by the fresh yellow lumber. A wiggen tree, which superstitious Highlanders often planted near their cottages to ward off witches, shaded the front garden, and in one open window loaves of freshly baked brown bread were cooling.
It was idyllic, the sort of tidy vista that had lately brought Englishmen flocking to the Highlands.
The woman, however, was not what Jamie had expected. Old Willie had said she was English, but he’d not mentioned her gray hair or her rounded middle. Jamie had expected a vixen with a sultry gaze and curving figure, a woman who was a master at depriving men of their money.
This woman looked as if she ought to be waulking wool.
Jamie lowered his hands. “I am Jamie Campbell, Laird of Dundavie.” He waited for her inevitable gasp of alarm when she realized she had done the unthinkable by threatening a man of power and means.
She did not gasp. She hoisted her gun up a wee bit more. “That means naught to me. There are more Campbells roaming these hills than there are trees. Go on, then—off with you. I think it best you not be seen on this side of the hills,” she said. “The Brodies have no love for the Campbells.”
“The feeling,” he said, a little miffed that she would so eagerly embrace the Brodies’ side, “is entirely mutual. Nevertheless, I have come in search of a woman who has become financially involved with my uncle Hamish.” He cocked a brow at her, silently daring her to deny it.
“If you mean to imply that I am involved with him, I am most assuredly not.”
She was quick to deny it, wasn’t she? And a wee bit nervous, as well, which Jamie read as guilt. “Might I at least know to whom I am speaking?” He took a step closer, putting his hand on the swing gate.
