The Beauty of the Mist

by May McGoldrick

  Walking past a small child-sized easel that stood beside a larger one, Maria paused to feel the soft bristles of the brushes that filled a bowl-shaped table nearby. Against the far wall there were at least two dozen paintings leaning one behind the next in three rows, each row carefully covered with a tarp.

  “May I look at these?”

  Pieter smiled happily as he removed the coverings. “I know Lady Elizabeth would be delighted.”

  Maria took her time and studied every painting in detail. “How many children do they have?” she asked. She knew she was prying, but there was so much about these people that fascinated her.

  “Three,” the man answered. “One girl and two boys. Though their daughter, Mistress Jaime, is as much of a handful as the two boys. She has got a lot of spirit, that girl. Just like her mother. Ah yes, this one...” The steward pointed to a portrait. “This one is of Jaime with her baby brother, Michael, in her lap. This was, of course, before little Thomas was born.”

  Maria looked over the painting, but then smiled with pleasure. The little girl’s dark and beautiful eyes were flashing with mischief, but her facial expression showed her self-restraint, as the little boy attempted to crawl all over her.

  “We had a devil of a...” Pieter stopped. “Excuse me...a very difficult time getting them settled long enough for Lady Elizabeth. They have great energy, the children, and are a source of constant joy...and work...for us.”

  The steward smiled, continuing to talk about the children while Maria’s mind drifted to the thought that here was another thing she would never experience. Motherhood. She knew she could not bear children. After four years of marriage to Louis, she’d been declared barren by the royal physicians. Before now, she had never grieved over her inability to produce offspring. But now, standing in this house, feeling the sense of family that surrounded her, seeing the happiness that suffused these works, she felt suddenly at a loss.

  “Ahh, this fortress in the background here, m’lady, is Benmore Castle. The clan seat of the Macphersons.” Pieter was holding a painting in his hand. “I’ve seen it only once, but it is a magnificent place. Strong and quite comfortable with its modern renovations.”

  Maria gazed at the building in the painting. “Tell me...Tell me what you can about the Macpherson brothers, Pieter.”

  The steward stared at the young woman for a moment. Then, he replaced the painting and began to talk of the three brothers.

  Maria listened intently, amazed at the bonds of love and loyalty that tied the three brothers together. She also learned that in what John had told her regarding his position as the third son, the Great Michael’s commander had grossly understated his own worth. John Macpherson had been the only one of the three sons who had followed in their father’s footsteps. The only one who shared in the old man’s love of the sea. And John had made a fortune in following that path. But none of that mattered a bit to her. It perplexed her, though, to reflect on Caroline Maule’s inability to appreciate him for who he was. Maria shook her head, reminding herself that she should thank God for the woman’s lack of judgment.

  When the steward had finished speaking, answering Maria’s questions cheerfully and directly, a comfortable silence fell, as the you woman continued to admire Elizabeth’s work. She paused at a portrait of a young queen praying before a cross. The cross had white and red climbing roses curling up the rough wood, and a trio of magnificent angels hung in the air, watching over the scene. Maria sighed deeply.

  “Do you think Lady Elizabeth would mind, Pieter?” she asked hesitantly. “Do you think I might just have a few moments alone up here?” The solitude, the refuge that the room offered was what she needed right now.

  “I am certain Lady Elizabeth would be quite content to know that you asked to spend time up here. She herself spends many hours up here.” The steward started for the door and then stopped. “I believe the mistress–in a way–draws strength from this room.”

  After Pieter had closed the door quietly behind him, Maria stared out through the glazed panes at the city before her. The city folk were, no doubt, crawling into their beds for the sound, untroubled slumber of honest souls. She looked out at the thousand darkened buildings, and sighed again.

  The young woman turned and surveyed Elizabeth’s workplace. Something about the studio struck a chord in Maria’s soul. It was a place where another woman– a woman perhaps not so different from herself–created masterworks of art. Maria wandered about, enraptured both with the idea of the artistic effort, and with the place itself. Other than some simple drawings that she’d done in Hungary to pass the time, the only kind on representative art she’d ever done was the collaborative stitchwork that eventually became huge tapestries. But it seemed that fewer and fewer women were doing that kind of work. She pondered that for a moment, lifting a brush and running the soft bristles over the palm of her hand. Maria had always been impressed with people who could create images, whether in word, or song, or picture. Perhaps she, too, could learn to paint. Indeed! After all, who knows what talents she might have lying dormant within her?

  Glancing into one corner of the room, Maria spotted a row of canvases that she hadn’t looked at, leaning against the wall. Pulling off the tarp, she looked at the first two. They were unfinished. All of the paintings in this group were unfinished. Curious about the creative process, Maria studied the way Elizabeth constructed her compositions. There were quite a few works here. Looking them one by one, she marveled once again at the different types of painting that Elizabeth obviously took on for the challenge. She certainly didn’t seem to limit herself only to portraits. Maria stared at a flower jar and a bouquet of fresh cut spring flowers, then she moved on to look at a number of battle scenes, then to a wild looking landscape with a castle and a breaking storm. Even in their unfinished form, each of the paintings showed superb artistry, and Maria could feel the incredible power that emanated from each of them.

  She came, finally, to the last painting in the pile. Her heartbeat quickened as she looked into the deep blue eyes that so much resembled John’s. Though the background was the only thing left to do in this portrait, Elizabeth had truly captured the essence of her subject here–the man in the painting was obviously enchanted with the painter. Maria’s gaze took in the softness that showed around his eyes, the half smile that tugged at his full lips. She decided that this had to be a portrait of Ambrose. With the exception of the scar on his forehead and the blond locks which differed so from John’s jet black hair, the resemblance between the two was undeniable. Maria’s eyes surveyed the rest of the painting. Ambrose was dressed only in a kilt, one high booted foot on a boulder, his muscular arms resting on his knee, a massive sword held loosely in one hand, its point lying on a shield at his feet. Behind him, Elizabeth had begun a castle that loomed on a hill in the distance. He had no shirt on, and Maria’s eyes ran the length of his impressive build.

  “He is taken. On the other hand, I am not.”

  Maria whirled around excitedly at the sound of his voice. Quickly, she searched his face for some indication of what had occurred, some sign that might betoken his evening’s exchanges with Charles. But there was no hesitation in his voice nor in his deed as he opened his arms to her. “I missed you,” he growled.

  They met in the middle of the room, their arms encircling one another, their bodies molding as one. His mouth slanted over her upturned lips and their kiss ignited in a frenzy of desire.

  John leaned his head against her forehead and smiled. “I couldn’t wait to get back. I’ve been bewitched, I know it. Your eyes were before me everywhere I looked. When I conjured your eyes even in the Emperor’s, then I knew that I had enough–I needed to get back to you.”

  “And that’s why you are back so soon?” She breathed into his ear as his lips grazed her neck. “You found yourself becoming attracted to the Emperor?”

  “Aye, my sweet. He’s a bonny lad, indeed,” John answered as his hands started undoing the laces at the back o
f her dress. He had to restrain himself from ripping the gown off her body. He could feel the warmth of her body pushing against him. Her hands were pulling up at his kilt. “But truly, love. I have great news.”

  Maria glanced at the door. It was closed. She knew what he wanted and she wanted it, as well. They would make love here, she thought joyfully. What better place. “Tell me your good news,” she said, unpinning the brooch that held his tartan in place.

  “We’ll be here a fortnight, at least.” The Highlander slipped the leather belt that crossed his chest over his head and dropped it to the floor.

  The tartan billowed around their feet, and she pulled his shirt out of his kilt and pushed it back over his shoulders. She covered the sinewy muscles of his chest with kisses.

  “Our future queen, in all her reverence, refuses to travel with Holy Week approaching, and has decided to seclude herself until after Easter.” The laces undone, John pulled her dress down to her waist, pinning her arms. “The saintly lass would not even see us.”

  She gasped as he dropped to one knee before her and suckled her breast through the thin cloth of her chemise. Running his hands over her buttocks, he pulled her hips against him. The restraint he had shown before, he now cast to the wind.

  “I was not certain how I would feel about her before,” he said hoarsely as he reached up and peeled the chemise from her shoulders. As her full breasts emerged in the candle light, John ran his fingers over the velvet skin, tenderly kissing the subtle curves. Maria gripped his hair and his lips took a hardened nipple, eliciting a groan of pleasure deep in her throat. His hands stripped the dress and chemise from her, and as she stepped from the clothing, the Highlander encouraged her to kneel, as well.

  “Aye,” he continued vaguely, running his hands over her skin, smiling at the small shudders that his touch evoked. “I know my feelings for her now.”

  Maria allowed him to lay her head back on the pile of clothing beneath them. As her eyes watched him remove his kilt and boots, the young woman shook out the thick braid of hair. He was magnificent. The most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze locked on his arousal. “How...how do you feel about her. Tell me.”

  John paused, his look washing over this vision of perfection. Maria’s ebony locks tumbled like a wave over one breast. As she looked on questioningly, he abruptly turned and crossed the room, blowing out all but one of the candles lighting the studio. He moved with the grace of a huge cat. Finally, he turned the portrait of Ambrose to the wall and returned to her, a wry look on his face.

  “She is shy and hesitant, I am told. Just a wee thing, they say.” He lowered himself onto her and moved between legs that opened to him. Her body was warm, her arms inviting. “A woman of few words...and fewer passions beyond her solitude and her prayer beads.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, loving the feel of his weight. The intimacy of his manhood pushing against her juncture of her thighs felt so right. She moved beneath him, almost unable to breath with anticipation of what was to come.

  “Couldn’t...couldn’t a woman have many passions?” she asked breathlessly.

  Surprised by her question, John lifted his upper body and looked into her face. “Of course. A real woman will, indeed, lass.” Sliding his weight downward, his tongue flitted teasingly at first one breast and then the other.

  “Then you don’t like her?”

  John slipped off of Maria, and lay his head on her breast. He could hear her heart drumming in her chest. “Nay, Maria! I’ve decided I like her very well!” His hand followed the curve of her breast, down past the rippling lines of her ribs, over the downy mound of her womanhood, and into the soft folded, already wet with desire. Gently, he stroked her as her fingers dug into his broad back. “With those interests, Maria, she’ll be a far cry different from those in power now. Aye, she’ll do quite well as my queen. And...she’s given us a fortnight here together!”

  Maria closed her eyes as the waves of excitement began to build within her. John’s lips were now latched to her breast. She could feel his tongue swirling about the nipple as he suckled. Deep within her, molten tremors shook her with their force. She lifted her hips with a sharp cry as a shower of colors filled her brain.

  “Take me, John,” she whispered raggedly. “Please, take me!”

  The Highlander drew back and stared into her fiery eyes. “I love you, Maria.”

  Her heart soared at the sound of his words. His eyes, clouded with passion, carried as well the intense truth of his avowal. She had to force back the tears of happiness that were about to spill from her eyes.

  “Before we make love, I want you to know my feelings for you.”

  “Aye, John Macpherson. I love you, as well.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “And I want you to know my feelings, whatever tomorrow might bring.”

  “Only happiness, my love. Only happiness,” he said as he lifted himself onto her once again.

  “Only happiness...” she breathed, lifting her knees and opening herself to him.

  Maria could feel his throbbing manhood pressing against her moist opening and lifted her hips to take him in. In a single motion, he buried himself completely within her.

  It seemed for so long he had waited for this moment, for this sensation of her closing around him. His vow aboard the Great Michael had kept him from this, and now his spirit soared. Never in his life had he been a man to wait patiently for anything. Indeed, John Macpherson had always taken what he wanted. But the tortuous, delicious, maddening delay that his promise had brought about only served to intensify the thrill of this moment. Raising himself on his hands, he gazed down on her perfect body, into her eyes, so filled with desire. John fought the urge to withdraw and thrust, again and again. To fill her with the essence of his manhood.

  Instead, the Highlander withdrew, though not completely, sliding from her with deliberate, excruciating care. John wanted...no, needed...to go slowly, to give them both the chance to enjoy this first time, but he felt the flames of need licking incessantly at the edges of his control. Ever so slowly, he strained, probing, sliding into her with short, steady strokes. Her breaths were coming as pants, now, and her low, throaty moans were beginning to tear at his shredding discipline. He nibbled hungrily at her earlobe, shaking with his efforts to hold back, but the tightness of her, sheathing him, was nearly too much for him to bear.

  Deeper and deeper he drove with each stroke. Maria wrapped one leg around him, taking in as much of him as he could give. Her nails raked at the muscles of his back. Her body rose to his, her hips moving rhythmically with every thrust. Waves of white, pulsing heat were washing through Maria now, flashing and exploding within her as he tried to touch her innermost core. Higher and higher, together they climbed, teetering at last on the edge of oblivion. Together then, they soared, their climax taking them into the realm of ecstasy.

  In the volcanic blast of heat and color, Maria was no longer conscious of the room about her–only of him. Like never before, she and her love simply floated in a sparkling world of warm, fluid air and golden light.

  Moments later, she nestled against him as he talked. Though she already knew quite a bit, he told her of his family, of Benmore Castle, and of the Highlands. He told her of where they’d go once they arrived in Scotland, of what they would do once he’d accomplished his mission. He spoke of taking her back to Denmark to make arrangements with her family.

  When John asked her about her relatives, Maria spoke as much of the truth as she dared. Of her parents, she told him that her mother was the only one still alive. But when he asked her whom he should visit–to ask for her hand in marriage–Maria could no longer hold back the emotions that had lain so close beneath the surface.

  John held her close, thinking them tears of happiness.

  Maria let herself weep, for she knew they were the first of many tears she would shed for the two of them. For the future they would never share.

  And then he had gathere
d her into his arms and carried her to her chamber.

  Chapter 17

  Janet hardly knew what it was that induced her to follow Caroline. Gliding through the elaborate halls of the Palace, Janet kept to the shadows, avoiding the passing servants and officials. As she passed one gathering of guards, the young woman smiled innocently and continued on. When she again caught up to her stepmother’s fleeting shadow, Janet realized the older woman was simply returning to her bedchamber. But why had Caroline acted so mysteriously in the hall at breakfast?

  The change in her stepmother’s manner had been as abrupt as it was enigmatic. Watching as Caroline disappeared into her chamber, the young woman considered what she’d seen. Seated between Janet and her father, Caroline had been expounding on the greatness of the Douglas clan, sprinkling her speed with words of praise for magnificence of the Emperor’s liberality, when suddenly Janet had seen Caroline’s eyes rivet on something on the wall at the far end of the hall. Caroline’s silence was complete, and Janet peered at the thing that had diverted her so entirely. In spite of her nearsightedness, the young woman could see her stepmother’s eyes had fixed upon a decorative shield that hung atop a crossed pair of brightly colored banners. Janet had glanced around the hall. There were perhaps fifty such decorative shields on display in the hall, so she had looked again at the shield, trying to make out the crest. It hadn’t been a Scots coat of arms, of that she was certain.

  When Caroline had complained of a ‘sudden illness’ and marched from the hall, Sir Thomas, to Janet’s surprise, had showed little interest and no compassion toward his wife’s sudden infirmity. The young woman, mumbling an inadequate excuse of her own, had followed her step-mother out.

  Now, Janet squinted at the closing door. Her room and the one occupied by her father and Caroline were adjoining, and a door connected the two chambers. Once Caroline was safely in hers, Janet slipped quietly into her chamber and eased the door shut. Something was amiss, and Janet knew it. Caroline’s abrupt departure had nothing to do with illness, and Janet was determined to find out what her stepmother was up to. Moving quickly toward the heavy door adjoining the chambers, Janet carefully lifted the latch and pushed the door open a crack. As she peered in, her mind raced, looking for some excuse if she herself were caught.