When the Laird Returns

by Karen Ranney

  “Not there,” he said in a choked voice as he removed her hand. “Like you did with that damnable statue.”

  She flattened her palm against his stomach, fingers splaying to touch the greatest area. Iseabal had never thought of exploring a man the way she did a block of marble. Nor had she known that her imagination could sketch in details that her fingers only felt. There was the straight line that ran in the middle of his chest as if to delineate both halves. Here was the nest of hair that rested at the base of his erection, and although she wished to linger there, his indrawn breath warned her that such exploration was unwise.

  His thigh was hard to the touch, the muscles bunching beneath her fingers. His knees, his elbows, the bulbs of his shoulders, were all exquisitely formed. His flat stomach and broad chest were the reason his clothes fit so impressively. She had seen the same long line of muscle beneath the fabric of his breeches, but began to measure the corded length of his legs with stroking fingers. A moment later she felt the texture of the back of his hand, the strength of his arm, the warmth of a palm.

  She played her fingers lightly over his nipples, feeling them rise, surprisingly, to her touch. His breath was held in abeyance for her to continue, it seemed, and she did, delicately tracing a line from one nipple to the other, then traveling down his stomach.

  In such a way she was an artist of sorts, but instead of seeing the possibilities in stone, she traced the pattern of a completed masterpiece.

  “Iseabal,” he said warningly, as if divining her intent. But she could not help herself, fascinated as she’d never before been. Her hand closed around him again, measured his length, marveling at the firmness of him, as if he were, in truth, created from marble.

  “You’re the one who’s beautiful,” she said softly, remembering his earlier compliment.

  He reached out and placed his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her over to him in a sudden, unexpected movement. In an instant his mouth was on hers, his tongue dancing across the seam of her lips until she gasped and welcomed him inside.

  When the kiss was done, when both of them were gasping for breath, Iseabal lay at his side, whispering the words against his ear. “Touch me,” she said.

  For a moment she thought she’d shocked him in some way, because he didn’t respond.

  “Please,” she said. “I want to feel your hands on me.”

  He made a sound, an oath or a prayer. But he pushed her gently onto her back. His hands learned her, his soft exploration of touch a feast of the senses. Had she made him feel the same?

  Fingers lingering on the inside of her elbow and wrist caused her to wonder at the sensation. Even when he touched her there, almost innocently, her heart escalated and her breath tightened.

  When she’d looked at him aboard the Fortitude, aloft in the rigging or standing at the bow, she had felt her heart flutter. But that feeling was nothing compared to what she experienced now, her body heating until Iseabal wanted him to hurry and at the same time wished he would linger.

  One hand flattened on her abdomen, fingers trailing across the surface of her skin in an evocative exploration. He leaned over her, brushing the fingers of his other hand through the hair at her temple.

  She wished there were more light so that she could study the expression in his eyes, know the reason for that somber look. For a moment, heedless in its length, they stared at each other, husband and wife, lovers for the first time. Impatient and hesitant.

  He kissed her again, and she felt herself open up inside. Her heart seemed to expand to hold all these new, wondrous feelings. She’d never known intimacy, but at this instant of time, Iseabal felt it.

  One finger, tenderly intrusive, entered her at a leisurely pace, his thumb sliding through her intimate folds. Molten heat both marked his passage and escalated at his touch.

  “You’re ready for me,” he murmured, his voice sounding amazed.

  “I’ve always felt this way around you,” she confessed.

  Alisdair lay his forehead down between her breasts. “Iseabal.” Only her name, but he made that one word sound like a caress.

  He raised up, knelt between her knees, entering her slowly. The pain she expected to feel was no more than a dull ache. Closing her eyes, Iseabal marveled at all the various sensations she was experiencing at this moment. An almost wanton pleasure wherever he touched her, a vulnerability for being so invaded, a wish to welcome Alisdair into her embrace and her body.

  Once more his hands were on her, cupping her breasts and lifting them for the delicate branding of his tongue. He suddenly surged within her, and her body, knowing instinctively what he sought, rose up to meet him. Her fingers clenched on his shoulders as he filled her, her body accepting his presence in a muted delight and awed surprise.

  The discomfort eased, the pinching feeling remaining, but not unendurable. He invaded her, surrounded her, stripping every thought but of this moment and these feelings.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck tightly as a rhythm began, a thrust and capitulation. He was elemental and primitive. She was yielding and accepting.

  His head arched backward as Alisdair abruptly stiffened, a guttural moan escaping him. A moment later he placed his forehead on the pillow beside her, his breath harsh, his hair damp from exertion.

  Iseabal lay dazed, confused, and more than a little uncertain about what had just transpired.

  “Are we finished?” she asked hesitantly.

  He lifted himself up on both forearms, staring down at her. Once again Iseabal wished she could see his face.

  “For at least an hour or so,” he said wryly.

  She nodded as his thumbs stroked from the corners of her mouth to her temple.

  He slid his arms beneath her, rolling with her until he held her tucked against his chest. Iseabal rested her cheek against his skin, hearing the booming of his heart.

  Tears were oddly right at this moment, words being too much and not enough.

  Chapter 20

  A lisdair awoke to find Iseabal curled at his side, her hand curved around his body, a portion of which was fully engorged and eager.

  Aboard ship, he would be up and about his duties by now, but he was a bridegroom and as such allowed, even expected, to be indolent. Lustful thoughts kept him occupied for a few moments before he reluctantly slipped from the bed.

  Drawing open the curtains, Alisdair was surprised to discover a deep balcony extending the length of the room. Opening the French doors, he stepped outside, taking in the view.

  An early-morning sun illuminated the rectangular lawn, neatly cropped and framed on both sides with a series of conical-shaped topiary bushes. At the end of the expanse, as if to catch the eye, was a large circular pool dominated by a fountain of bronze fish merrily spewing water into the air.

  Perhaps this was why the room was called the royal chamber, he thought, smiling. The scene before him was fit for a king.

  The vista was not all bucolic, however. In the distance was the home farm, its fields ripening and soon to be harvested. A grove of trees hid the sight of the stables and the large enclosures where horses from Brandidge Hall were trained and run.

  All details he’d learned the day before, when he’d realized exactly what being the Earl of Sherbourne truly meant.

  Turning away from the scene, he entered the room once again, leaving the doors open behind him. For a few moments he watched Iseabal sleep, reassured that he hadn’t disturbed her.

  His wife. She now lay on her left side, her legs drawn up beneath the sheet. Her cheek was cradled on her left arm, her right hand stretching out as if her fingers were reaching for him even in sleep.

  At the moment, she looked like an innocent, yet she’d enticed him with the skill of a courtesan until he’d behaved like an untried youth. He’d taken more pleasure than he’d given, Alisdair thought.

  The sudden knock on the door was peremptory, an almost dictatorial summons. Alisdair crossed the room, annoyed.

  “A little less
noise would be appreciated,” he said, opening the door.

  Simon stood there, his expression inscrutable as usual. Beside him stood a fresh-faced young footman bearing a tray piled high with domed dishes, a large china teapot, and two cups. The vase of roses, Alisdair suspected, was Patricia’s addition.

  Simon glanced at him, then away, as if he had never before seen a naked man. The footman, however, began to grin before being chastised by the older man’s swift frown.

  “Your breakfast, my lord,” Simon intoned in that stentorian voice of his.

  “Thank you,” Alisdair said curtly, taking the tray. Without further comment, he closed the door with his foot. A sputter of sound indicated Simon’s indignation well enough, but at least the fool had the sense not to knock again.

  Halfway back to the table, he glanced toward the bed. Iseabal was awake, and leaning up on one elbow. Her hair was in disarray, a cloud of ebony falling over her shoulders, her eyes lambent pools of green. A beautiful woman, rendered doubly so by the faint morning light.

  “Breakfast,” he said, feeling absurdly awkward. “Would you care to join me?”

  “Must I be naked?” she asked, smiling.

  “It’s not a requirement,” he said. “But it might give new meaning to the word ‘appetite.’”

  She sat up, modestly arranging the sheet around her. He should have told her that her efforts were too late; he could still feel the heavy curve of her breasts, and the stiffening of her nipples against his exploring thumbs.

  “I have nothing to wear,” she said softly. Iseabal’s cheeks were deepening in color as she threaded her fingers through her hair. A siren, a Circe, a sorceress of the most elemental kind. One who could lure a man, seduce him from duty into pleasure.

  He was willing and more than ready.

  After placing the tray on the table, Alisdair walked to the armoire. Iseabal’s clothes had been placed beside his, a sleeve of her jacket brushing the cuff of his coat. Selecting the garment he wanted, Alisdair returned to her side, laying it beside her on the bed.

  “If nothing else,” he said, amused at himself, “the nightshirt will keep my mind on my breakfast.”

  She smiled at him in perfect accord, looking as pleased with herself as he felt.

  Iseabal donned the nightshirt hurriedly, one rosy nipple peeping from beneath the sheeting. Before she could cover it with the red wool, he bent over, cupping one hand beneath her breast and placing a kiss on its tip.

  “A good-morning kiss,” he said, explaining.

  Her blush deepened as his smile grew. Holding out his hand for her, he pointed the way to the dressing room, leaving her some privacy for her morning ablutions.

  When she returned, her face had been washed, her hair brushed. The collar of his nightshirt was neatly arranged, the laces done up and tied with a pretty bow. She walked toward him, her hands gathering up the material, her pink toes showing beneath the voluminous garment.

  He would need to add to her wardrobe and soon, he thought. Even a nightshirt was not covering enough.

  In her absence, he’d moved the table to the balcony, taking away the dinner dishes and replacing them with the breakfast tray. He’d also taken the precaution of donning his breeches and a shirt. He didn’t give a whit for modesty, but he wanted to restrain his physical reaction to her. Although, Alisdair thought as she smiled at him, it might well be that all he’d accomplished was to cause himself discomfort.

  Pulling out the chair for her, he waited until she sat before joining her at the table. She stared out at the view before them, as entranced as he had been earlier.

  “Can you truly leave all this?” she asked, awed.

  “It isn’t mine,” he said, having realized that before she’d awakened. “I’m only one of the Sherbourne earls. My chief duty, I believe, is to leave the estates in no worse condition than I found them. For our son and his son, and so on.”

  Her wide-eyed stare made him want to kiss her.

  “Had you not considered it?” he asked, concentrating on buttering his toast, thinking that he had been right in his prediction. The breeches were uncomfortable even now.

  She shook her head, then glanced behind her in the direction of the wall of portraits. “You’ll be there,” she said, her voice sounding bemused. “And our son.”

  Somehow it sounded different when she said the word, inviting. Alisdair wouldn’t mind beginning that particular son’s creation right at the moment. Perhaps practicing the endeavor over and over again until he felt less callow and more in control of his reactions to her. He’d even bring her pleasure, he vowed.

  He glanced at her, wondering how Iseabal would look when passion overcame her. Would she scream and hold him tight? Or would she simply hold herself restrained, feeling all those unbearable sensations secretly?

  Why was it so damn difficult to swallow a bit of toast?

  “Perhaps there is a gallery of Sherbourne countesses somewhere,” he suggested, turning his thoughts to something less visceral. “We shall arrange to have your portrait painted as well.”

  “I sincerely hope not,” she said, pouring more tea into her cup. She made a face at it, and he retaliated by dropping more sugar into the dark, bitter brew. “I’m not certain that I would want people to speculate on my life a hundred years from now.”

  “Then it is their loss,” he said affably, considering her. “Perhaps they’ll understand you if they look in your eyes. When you’re angry, they flash with lightning. Or now, when they’re soft and seem as deep as the ocean.” He tilted his head, a smile curving his lips. “What emotion is that? I wonder. Happiness? Or contentment? Or simply a good night’s sleep?” Not the afterglow of satiation, he thought, once again chastising himself. He’d been too quick last night, but at least he’d climaxed inside her. He’d had grave doubts about lasting that long.

  Her blush deepened, but she didn’t look away.

  He smiled, his hand pushing an errant lock of her hair behind her shoulder. “Perhaps my brother Brendan should paint you as you are now,” Alisdair said. “With your face lit by the sun, and the smallest smile on your lips, as if you cannot decide whether or not to smile or frown.” He continued to study her. Without warning, he leaned over and kissed his bride, surrendering to an undeniable impulse.

  The sun was muted behind his eyelids, his breath cut short by the tender placement of her palm against his cheek. Once again he felt lost in her kiss, transported into desire so effortlessly it was almost magical. Finally he pulled back, the gazes they shared those of startled wonder.

  She looked away, sitting back in her chair. Silence stretched between them, a thread so small as if to be invisible, but linking them all the same.

  When had Iseabal’s kiss become so necessary to him? Breath and food and water and Iseabal. From the first moment he’d seen her? Or at the first flash of her irritation at him? Or when she stood in front of him last night, silently encouraging him with her tentative smile?

  “Is your brother an artist?” she asked after several minutes, seemingly entranced with the view.

  “Yes,” he said, grateful for the change of subject. “He sketches and sometimes works in oils. Hamish plays the pipes, and Douglas is the troublemaker,” he added, thinking of his youngest brother. “In all fairness, Douglas is still too young to have formed his habits.”

  “A poet, a painter, a musician. Yet you all go to sea,” she said, glancing at him.

  “A man cannot provide for his family or his future without an occupation,” he said.

  “Yet you’ve given up yours,” she said. “All to rebuild a castle.”

  “No,” he said, gently correcting her. “A castle and a shipyard.”

  She was surprised once again. “A shipyard?”

  “The home of the finest ships in the world,” he said, smiling. “MacRae ships that can sail across the oceans faster than any others.”

  “Is it true that you were an explorer?” she asked, fingering the edge of her cup. “Or tha
t you found a continent?”

  “Ames’s words,” he said. “He took a bit of knowledge and expanded it solely with the intent of goading me, I think.” He uncovered a dome to discover porridge. Frowning at the two bowls, he covered them again. “I was part of the discovery, and a small one at that.”

  “Perhaps you’re too modest,” she said.

  “No,” he replied, “just truthful. It was an accident that I saw the peninsula. I was overdue for a meeting with my brothers and didn’t pursue the matter. I wanted to get to port before they sailed.”

  “Won’t you miss them if you live in Scotland?” she asked, tracing a delicate pattern around the rim of her plate.

  “Yes,” he said honestly, lifting the cup to his lips. “But Scotland is no more difficult to reach than China, so I expect them often enough at Gilmuir.”

  “And your parents? Will they come back?”

  “The Raven returns?” Alisdair smiled, considering the question. “I doubt it,” he said. “The danger for my father is still too great.”

  “Two more people to miss,” she murmured, studying the silverware with intensity. He wondered if there would come a time when she’d look at him with such directness. “Yet you think of Gilmuir as your birthright, not this place.”

  He nodded.

  “You love the Fortitude,” she added. “And the ocean.”

  “While you love rocks and stones and Gilmuir.”

  She looked startled, the expression summoning his smile.

  “We’re not quite strangers after all,” he said gently.

  She blushed, the rosy tint not hard to decipher. Last night they’d come to know each other well. “What is your favorite season?” he asked to ease her embarrassment.

  “All of them,” she replied. “Spring is new life, the lambing season. Summer brings warm winds and the fullness of the flowers. Autumn is a long farewell, and winter only makes you grateful for the other months in the year.”

  “Autumn is my favorite,” he said. “For the danger of it. Spring winds are gusty, but autumn brings gales and hurricanes.”