Kissing the Countess

by Susan King

  But for these few moments, he could not help but love touching her, kissing her, so long as she would accept it.

  Slipping his tongue between her lips, he felt her sigh and soften. Tracing his mouth down, feeling the warmth of his own breath mingle with her heat, he nuzzled her throat, her ear.

  The way she arched in his arms was a natural invitation, and when he slid his fingers along and down to find the high slope of her breast, she moaned softly, writhed a little, so that she shifted to let him feel the pearled nipple through cloth.

  Teasing with the open palm of his hand, he felt her give way in his arms. He felt himself tighten so much that he caught his breath, and once again captured her lips in a deep kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, soft and yielding, pressing her body to his.

  He knew and his body knew the lusciousness of her. Wanting that again with her, he felt his heart pound like an engine. Another moment and he would scarcely be able to control himself. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew a long breath.

  Then she pulled away abruptly to stare up at him, her chest heaving, her lips full from kissing, her breasts nudging deliciously through the fabric of her nightgown.

  "Not now," she said breathlessly. "Not yet. We must—I think we should see where this goes of its own accord."

  "I think we both know where it would go of its own accord, madam. We are extremely... compatible." But he inclined his head and stepped back, feeling cool air slice between them. His body burned hot, cloaked in silk folds. He stepped back again.

  "As you wish, madam," he said, mastering his breath. "We can start again. Court, if you will. But I will not mince about playing games. You know that I am willing." He reached out to stroke her arm, his thumb brushing the side of her breast lightly, moving past, though it drove him mad. He wanted her. Courtship and delay was madness. "Choose, Catriona. That kiss and all that comes with it—or none of it."

  "N-none?" She blinked at him.

  "No games, no insincere vows, neither of us imprisoned in an unhappy marriage. You will have to choose that last kiss—or life without it. Take marriage in full, as Countess of Kildonan, or go back to being Miss Catriona MacConn. I will accept nothing that is in between, and I trust you would feel the same. Either way, I will honor my vow to take care of you," he murmured, and brought her hand upward to kiss it slowly. "But decide. Will you trust me and accept what I offer, or not?"

  Every part of him burned for her like a fine shivering of flame within. He let go of her hand. "We both need some rest. If we are to begin again... let it start with a good night's sleep."

  He turned away, though the sight of her face was haunting—eyes so blue, cheeks flushed, lips moist and half-open, hair rich as flame. His body pulsed, protested, but he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Since last night all he had wanted was to feel her heat and fire again. Now, to quell the craving, all he would think about was a cooling bath.

  Chapter 13

  Catriona woke with a start, realizing that she had slept deep into the morning, and heard a knock on the door that preceded Deirdre carrying a tea tray. Within moments, the maid filled a washbowl with steaming water, set out towels, and asked what Lady Kildonan wanted to wear that day, before Catriona had managed to take more than a sip of her tea.

  Thanking her, Catriona dismissed the girl quickly, appreciating her efficiency but not comfortable with help for tasks she normally did herself. After a quick wash to rinse the sleep from her eyes, she turned to choose her clothing from among the few outfits she had brought.

  Days ago—though it seemed like a lifetime—she had promised to meet Morag MacLeod today by the old bridge. Dressing quickly in warm petticoats under a gray wool walking skirt, she also donned a linen blouse over a chemise and loosely fitted stays. Aware that she would be doing a lot of walking, she chose the sturdy brogans she had brought from Glenachan.

  So much had happened since she had last seen Morag, she thought, buttoning her blouse. So much had changed. She felt changed, and she wondered how to explain it to her old friend.

  Catriona had always thought of herself as strong but unremarkable, dedicated to serving her family and devoting her modest talents to her heart's work of learning the beautiful old Gaelic songs. She had never thought to marry—certainly not in such a way, to such a man.

  A whirlwind had blown through her life with that ice storm, and she was still trying to figure out where it had tossed her.

  Catching sight of the same paisley shawl that she had used to cover herself the night before, she folded it carefully and set it in a drawer. Remembering Evan's kisses, she stroked the pretty cloth for a moment, amazed that such passion and promise had entered her quiet life.

  She must decide whether to accept the risk Evan offered her and step into the unknown with a man she did not know—or to go back to her familiar life. But that old door might not be open to her any longer. The family that had shaped and defined her now judged her to be of disappointing and unacceptable character. Aunt Judith and her father did not want her back in their house—at least not for a long while.

  Sitting, she gazed in the mirror over the dressing table. Adventure and sexual awareness had not altered her, though her eyes did seem a more vivid blue, her pale skin creamier, her cheeks and lips more flushed. Her bronze-bright hair was still unruly, but she liked its wild gloss as never before. In some ways, she looked almost bonny, she told herself.

  Yet she sat too tall in her chair, and her shoulders were square and capable, not delicate. Her bust was rather full, and though her waist and long legs were nicely slim, she was glad that the sensible cut of her clothes hid the flare of her hips. Catriona Mhor, she had always been called, Big Catriona—taller than most men she knew. Such a girl was not lovely, she thought.

  Evan's offer last night had surprised and touched her. The Earl of Kildonan could claim any woman he wanted, she was sure—besides a titled fortune, he had keen intelligence, quiet, captivating charm, and good looks. Last night she had expected him to propose a delay of a few weeks or months before they went their own ways, but his suggestion had astonished her.

  Fate and a supposed obligation to her had brought the earl a plain, gawky, fire-haired Highland countess, and yet he was willing to honor the marriage. Frankly, she was amazed. While she understood his sense of obligation, she had not expected him to want to remain married regardless of whether or not she carried a child—and she would not have an answer about that particular matter for at least three weeks, she thought, pausing to rest her hand on her abdomen.

  Still, Catriona was not sure she could trust him. He had not mentioned selling off parts of the estate, as Grant had indicated, although he had mentioned his intention to leave Kildonan soon. Perhaps she would discover that he was like his father after all, once he had settled the affairs of his Highland estate. She certainly would not go south with him, dooming their marriage to a split sooner or later.

  Shaking off her thoughts, she twisted her hair into a simple low knot and secured its weight in a black net with a velvet bow. Deirdre had told her that the others were having breakfast in the small dining room, with food available until ten thirty that morning. It was nearly ten now by her little silver pocket watch, and she was honestly hungry. She hurried out of the room.

  The wing that contained her room connected to the central tower by a long whitewashed, windowed corridor. Once she reached the old tower keep, the small drafty corridors and multitude of old oak doors seemed mazelike. Turned around at first, Catriona found her way to the main foyer, where she encountered Mrs. Baird, who led her up some stairs to the small dining room.

  Entering, Catriona saw a dark room whose coziness came from sunlight, old red brocade and worn rugs, polished walnut furnishings, dishes gleaming on a huge sideboard. The four people seated at the table turned as she came in. Lady Jean, Sir Harry, Arthur Fitzgibbon, and Evan all looked toward her. While the men stood, Jean hastened forward, smiling.

  "Come in!
We're on our own for breakfast—it's our custom here." She drew her toward the table. "Evan, your sleepy bride is finally awake!" She beamed at both of them.

  "So I see. Good morning, my dear." Evan came around the table toward her to take her hands and give her a light kiss on the cheek. She felt it all the way to her toes.

  He smelled so good, soap and starch and a hint of sweet coffee, and something else that was wholly Evan, that reminded her of the clean air in the mountains. Catriona smiled at him shyly, then blushed as she saw the others watching them.

  She sat when Evan pulled out the chair beside his own and thanked Jean, who brought her a cup of steaming coffee. Although Catriona liked tea in the morning, a sip of the stronger brew's fortifying effect seemed to be just what she needed. Going to the sideboard, she served herself porridge and bacon from warming dishes, then resumed her seat.

  "I trust you slept well, Lady Kildonan," Sir Harry said. Jean must have kicked her husband under the table, for he winced and glanced at his wife.

  "Quite well, thank you," she answered.

  "You're dressed for walking, Lady Kildonan. What's on the agenda for today?" Arthur asked. She had liked Fitzgibbon the moment she met him—a square-jawed man of average height with a strong, athletic form, his thick brown hair forever falling over his brow, his eyes china blue. He often smiled, and though he sometimes babbled on about subjects not of tremendous interest to others, he was obviously a valued friend here.

  "Walking?" Evan said. "Mr. Grant did recommend that Lady Kildonan and I both rest after our ordeal on the mountain and yesterday's stresses. I thought you might appreciate a quiet day exploring the castle, my dear," he said to her, "and I thought to spend time with the account books and the estate records."

  "Rest? But you know what today is," Jean said. "It's your Walking Day, Evan." She glanced at Catriona. "You two were married last night. I know it was not the most typical of weddings, but there is a lovely Highland tradition whereby the bride and groom walk out on the day following their wedding and greet the local people. Catriona deserves to have some wedding traditions to remember."

  "Aye, she does," Evan agreed.

  "Then you must honor Walking Day. It's so fitting for your wee Highland wedding." Jean smiled.

  Evan looked at Catriona. "What do you think, my dear? Are you aware of the tradition?"

  "I am," Catriona said. "On the day after the wedding, the bride and groom go walking through the village to greet everyone. But the nearest village is several miles from here, and since we did not have the usual wedding... I do not think Walking Day is really necessary for us." Or appropriate, she thought, glancing down at her half-empty plate.

  "Take the ponies and call it Riding Day," Sir Harry suggested, chuckling. "The estate encompasses all of Glen Shee and more—some eighty-two thousand acres," he added for Catriona's benefit. She nodded.

  "I'm sure my bride knows the history of Glen Shee better than any of us," Evan remarked, glancing at her.

  "Was your family always here, dear?" Jean asked.

  "MacConns have been in Glen Shee for hundreds of years," Catriona answered. "Long before the Mackenzies were earls."

  Evan cleared his throat and set down his coffee cup. "No doubt, since my grandfather was the first Earl of Kildonan. Before that we were untitled lairds outside this glen, until the Kildonan lands were acquired through marriage in the seventeenth century. So, are you interested in a Walking Day with your groom, madam?" he asked.

  She sensed some tension in his voice, but she was sure the others had not noticed. They were a blithe trio, chatting away contentedly—but the newlyweds were not a blithe duo, Catriona thought. Last night's tension still echoed between them.

  "I have an obligation every Wednesday," she answered. "I supervise a knitting scheme."

  Evan looked blank. "What the devil does that mean?"

  "Silly," Jean answered for her. "A knitting scheme is a project done in the community."

  "A scheme of knitters—sounds like a female conspiracy," Arthur said, chuckling at his own jest.

  "In a way." Catriona smiled. "I am a member of the Ladies' Highland Association, and we have devised a few projects to help the people of the remote regions who have suffered in the changes of the last decades. The knitting scheme is one such project. Yarn is supplied to the croft wives, and then one of the local women and I go around and collect what they have made—socks, mittens, and scarves. Then more yarn is given them, and so on."

  "What do you do with these things?" Evan asked.

  "We send them to Lady Saltoun, the wife of the chief of Clan Mackenzie. She collects the knitting and sends the items to the Highland regiments. We have a contract for a thousand pairs each of socks and mittens and five hundred scarves. Most of the items will be shipped to India and some to Canada. Then a little money is paid to the croft wives, who have little other source of income now."

  "Very commendable," Evan said, nodding.

  "Excellent charitable work," Arthur approved. "Lady Kildonan has the makings of a fine countess." He smiled at both of them.

  Catriona reached for her coffee cup when Evan reached for his, so that the clink of china was the only sound for a moment. Again, no one seemed to notice their brittle moods.

  "I agree, Fitz," Evan said. "My dear, if you would like to combine your Walking Day with your Knitting Day, I shall go with you to meet your friend. What do you say?"

  She gulped, then nodded. "I'll fetch my plaid."

  * * *

  An old woman waited not far from a stone bridge that led toward a high, forested hill. Evan and Catriona walked toward her, their long sticks in hand to aid them in hiking over the hills. The woman watched them, frowning a little.

  She looked like a grandmother, Evan thought, for she was elderly, and though she looked strong and stocky, her skin was weathered and her hair gray beneath a faded plaid shawl that hung to the hem of her dark dress. She wore patched leather shoes and gripped a long gnarled stick. On her head was a mutch, a cap of pleated white linen gathered at the top with long side pieces, rather a pretty thing, which he knew was worn by married Highland croft wives. Her appearance had such a medieval air that Evan was almost surprised when she spoke, as if she were some ghostly visitor.

  "Catriona Mhor," she said in Gaelic, "is this your new husband? He's a very fine man to look at."

  Understanding most of the words, Evan glanced at Catriona, bemused. "I am?" he murmured.

  "He is," Catriona answered, and she blushed. "I mean, he is my new husband," she amended while Evan laughed. "We'll speak English now, Morag, if you please. Lord Kildonan, this is my friend Mrs. MacLeod—Morag MacLeod, wife of John MacLeod, a crofter who lives on the lower slopes of Beinn Alligin."

  The old woman studied Evan with a sour, doubting expression. He inclined his head and offered his hand. "It's Evan Mackenzie, Mrs. MacLeod. I'm pleased to meet you."

  "Why?" she said suspiciously.

  "Morag," Catriona said in a warning tone.

  "Pleased to meet you, sir," Morag said, giving him a bold stare. Then she looked at Catriona. "Countess of Kildonan now, eh? I will congratulate you on your marriage, though it is a wonder to me why you did it. And I will call you Mrs. Mackenzie, for that is what you are now."

  "Just Catriona, as always," she said.

  "If you were a crofter's wife, as you might have been one day, I'd be putting the mutch on your head today, with a new plaidie for your shoulders," Morag went on. "But now that you are the lady of Kildonan, you will lose that fine plaid you are wearing and put on stiff little bonnets and lace."

  Catriona lifted a hand self-consciously to her bare head, her hair covered only in a fine black net and partly draped by her long, lightweight plaid shawl of cream, blue, and brown. "I suppose I do look like a Highland wife."

  "You have married a Highland earl," Evan said reasonably.

  "So," Morag said, looking up at Evan. "You're Mr. Mackenzie—I do not call you 'lord,' for we are not fond of ti
tles here," she added bluntly.

  "That's fine, Mrs. MacLeod. I prefer Mr. Mackenzie."

  "Tall enough for you, girl, and that is good," Morag observed, looking him up and down. "And what a tale! Fell from the mountain right at your feet, I hear, that day you and I were walking out in the mist. And he would have died if you had not taken him to safety in that old shieling and kept him alive through the night!" She peered at him. "He looks bonny enough now. That was fine nursing, eh?" She winked.

  "He was not that badly hurt," Catriona said.

  "She did indeed save my life, Mrs. MacLeod," Evan said. "And I asked her to be my wife to pay my debt of gratitude."

  "I hear her wicked auntie will not have the girl in the house now. You must have been generous indeed, Catriona," Morag said. "And who would not be, with such a beautiful man?"

  "Morag!" Catriona said, while Evan smothered a grin. "Where did you hear this?"

  "From my daughter this morning. She is Mairi MacAuley, who runs the inn," she told Evan. Her English was surprisingly good, though accented lightly. "I heard it from Mr. Finlay, too, when I saw him in the hills early this morning."

  "Finlay was here?" Catriona glanced around.

  "He came up to see my old John MacLeod. But he's ridden off to Inverness by now. Said he would be there for a day or two. The news is traveling fast about your wedding," Morag went on. "My two married daughters are buzzing with it, and the word is running from house to house in the glen. What's left of us who still live here, Mr. Mackenzie, if you know what I am saying."

  "I know exactly what you are saying, Mrs. MacLeod. And aye, the wedding did come as something of a surprise."

  "A surprise," Morag repeated. "I told you not to go out in the bad weather that day, Catriona Mhor," she said. "I had a strange feeling that day, and see what happened."

  "I hope it was a good feeling," Evan said.

  "I cannot always tell—they are just feelings and could be something foul or something fair. I am not a seer. But I will tell you that being called Countess of Kildonan will not sit well with many. What are your plans, sir?" she asked Evan abruptly.