by Fiona Monroe
Sir Duncan ignored a few calls from the gathering outside, keeping his distance, and propelled her towards the old kitchen yard and into the castle through the little-used side door.
"You're a sight," he said curtly. "I don't want everyone seeing you in this condition."
She glanced down at herself and realised the truth of it. Her beautiful fine gown was half-ruined, covered in filth and torn from bodice to hem. It was evident why he had feared that Mr. Carmichael's attempt on her might have succeeded. If they were seen returning from the woods like this together, suspicions most deleterious to both would surely arise.
"This way."
She thought he was taking her back to her own room so that she could change her gown and wash, but instead he led her up a spiral staircase set into the wall of the old kitchen, which came out into an upper landing in the old keep. They were high above the great hall, where the revels continued unabated. A door, another staircase and a short passage, and Catriona realised that they were now in the modern wing, though it was a part of it with which she was unfamiliar. It was a corridor similar to the one leading to Caroline's apartments, and it was empty and quiet. She could still hear music and dancing, now far distant.
"I cannot deal with you in my study," said Sir Duncan, opening a door at the end of the passage. "It's right next to the drawing room. In here. My dressing room."
Catriona's stomach flipped at the words 'deal with', though she had known very well that she was in trouble. It was Sir Duncan's cold tone that really frightened her, though. Now that his wild anger towards her assailant had run its course, what remained seemed to be disdain and disappointment.
Numbly, she looked around Sir Duncan's dressing room. It was on exactly the same plan as Caroline's, with the same handsome windows and generous proportions; but whereas Caroline's room was a cluttered boudoir of feminine frippery, this was very much a gentleman's chamber. There was a dark wooden wardrobe, a tie rack, neat shelves of shined shoes, a leather-covered low stool, a shaving stand and a familiar silk dressing gown hanging on the inner door. The colours were rich and dark, and there was a tang of something spicy and pleasant in the air. In contrast to his study, everything was neatly arranged and clean. She supposed that his manservant was allowed to tidy in here.
He shut the door with a definite click.
Catriona hung her head and twisted her hands.
"Was everything you told me a lie?" he said, too quietly.
"Nothing I told you was a lie."
"Then why... why did you sneak away to meet with him, after you told me you wanted nothing more to do with him?"
"He sent me a note! This very night — just after we danced — a messenger actually came into the drawing room and found me."
"And did you not promise me that if he tried to contact you, you would tell me?"
"Yes. I ought to have done so. I know that now. But sir, his note — he thought I had written under duress, that you had ordered me dissolve the engagement. I had to make him believe that I was sincere! If you had interfered —"
"If I had not interfered, he would have ravished you!" Sir Duncan shouted, his calm breaking. "Good God, Catriona — when I heard you scream —" He choked on his words, looked aside and paced the floor. When he spoke again, there was a suppressed tremor in his voice. "I realised you had gone, almost straight away. One thing I assure you I am not is unobservant. Nor am I stupid. I suspected you might contrive to meet the scoundrel despite your assurances, perhaps to give him money. You are altogether too soft-hearted, Miss Dunbar. You would never have got caught up in my sister's home theatricals, otherwise. You are no very successful fugitive, either. Cruikshank and two other servants were able to tell me when you left the castle, and in which direction you went. I searched for some time. I wanted to make sure you were safe. I began to fear you might have run off with the fellow after all. I was about to head for the stables and search the road on horseback — thank God I passed the old mill and heard you."
"He would not accept his dismissal," said Catriona wretchedly. "He would not believe that I no longer loved him."
"How the blazes could you ever have loved that brute?"
"I... think in truth I never really did. But I did not know he was a brute until..." No, well before today. She had made excuses for him, but the only other time they had been alone he had tried to force himself on her, too.
"A man who takes a woman by force is a coward and a fool," said Sir Duncan. "A coward, because he doesn't dare to risk a denial, and a fool because a willing wench is a thousand times the greater pleasure. Let's hope he spends your coin on a whore when he gets back to town, and catches the pox."
"He threw my coin aside."
"Bigger fool yet."
There was a certain note of grim humour in his voice, and despite herself, Catriona smiled slightly.
Immediately, he was serious again. "Do you find it amusing, Miss Dunbar?"
"No, sir, I —"
"Is it amusing that you disobeyed me, that you deceived me—again—when the consequences to yourself could have been—damn near were—so severe?"
"No, sir. I'm sorry."
"Sorry, sorry, always sorry." He sighed angrily.
Once again she was standing before him, miserable with shame at her own stupidity and wilful misjudgement. Why had she not obeyed him, as she knew she ought and she had sworn to herself she would do after the last time? He had been more than forbearing, he had been positively kind and understanding about the business of her secret engagement. He had not in the end blamed her for concealing it, he had not attempted to insist on her dissolving it, he had even offered to put no obstacle in the way of her immediate marriage. In return, he had trusted her to tell the truth and follow his orders in the interests of her own safety.
"I truly am," she whispered, and a tear spilled silently from each eye.
"Lean over that stool," he ordered shortly,
It was long and low, upholstered in dark brown studded leather, with curved wooden legs. Biting her lip, Catriona knelt clumsily beside it and found that when she was on her knees the top of the seat was more or less level with her waist. She could lean across it from a kneeling position comfortably enough, elevating her bottom slightly; the seat was long enough to support her upper body. Hesitantly, she lowered herself across cushioned leather then glanced round and up at him.
She knew she would not be comfortable for long. In fearful anticipation, she gripped the wooden legs and wondered what punishment was in store for her.
"Unfortunately, the razor strop is hanging up in the study, where it is supposed to be to hand," he said. "I don't feel inclined to go and fetch it. And I would spare you the indignity of giving you a hiding within earshot of the entirety of clans Ross and Buccleuch. Besides, a good hard dose of that last time seems to have had no lasting effect on your behaviour at all." He drew his sword from its sheath.
For one startled moment, Catriona thought that he was going to strike her with that. She remembered reading a scene in some old romance where a squire was beaten by his master with the flat of a sword. But he laid the weapon carefully on a shelf, then shrugged off from around his shoulders the long belt that had held the sword in place.
It was a great loop of wide, flat leather, with hinged segments embellished with silver links and badges. He doubled it over so that the plain, unadorned section — the part designed to go unseen around his back — was coiled over in his fist.
It looked fearsome. Catriona squeezed her eyes shut so that she could no longer see what was coming, and gripped the chair legs even tighter in frightened anticipation of the first stinging lash. Would it bite sharper than the flat, rough razor strop, or would it be bearable? She had no thoughts this time of holding onto her tears. If it hurt, she would let him know that she felt her lesson sorely and was sorry.
She was waiting to feel him lift her skirts to bare her backside, so she was unprepared for the first stroke when he brought it down swift and hard ov
er the fabric of her gown. A jangle of metal was her only warning, and then a line of fire blazed across her nether cheeks. The surprise as much as the pain drove a startled yell from her, followed by another and another and yet another. She had scarce time to draw her breath to cry out before he had laid at least a dozen furious lashes across her upturned bottom, and it was all she could do to hold her position by clinging to the wooden legs.
He stopped, breathing heavily.
Perhaps he thought that because her skirts were in the way, he need not spare his strength. Perhaps he was simply angry enough to make sure this was a lesson she would remember and finally heed. But the fine silk fabric of the gown and the flimsy cambric slip below really offered almost no protection at all to her tender bottom, and when the belt rattled and swung once more — even harder than before — Catriona shot upright and put her hands to her stinging, aching backside.
"Oh," she groaned. "Sir Duncan, please — no more. It hurts too much, I cannot bear it. I truly am sorry for disobeying you, and — and deceiving you — and being so stupid. I know I deserve to be punished, but I have been, indeed. I am very sore. Please no more."
"Let me see." He took her hand and helped her to her feet, and then gently, for the first time, lifted up her skirts.
She felt the coolness on her legs and backside and felt no shame as he examined the damage the folded—over swordbelt had wrought through silk and cotton. Instead, the breeze was a momentary welcome relief to the fire blazing there.
"Aye," he said in a murmur. "That's a good enough lesson. You'll have a few bruises there to remind you."
She sagged in thankfulness, hardly able to believe that he had yielded to her pleas.
He let her skirts fall back down then enfolded her in a long, tender embrace. She clung eagerly to him, pressing her face against his neck, trying to ignore the throbbing sting in her backside. It was getting worse, not subsiding. The short, furious flurry of lashes must have slightly numbed her, but now the numbness was wearing off and it was becoming unbearable. She broke away from him and jumped and rubbed desperately at her backside, her face a grimace of pain.
"Hush," he said, softly. "One moment." He went to the dresser, opened a drawer and took out a jar of something. Then he took a towel from the rail by the shaving stand, folded it and dipped it in the basin. "Lie face down on the stool."
Doubtfully, she lay on her stomach across the length of the stool, and he helped her into position with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She felt him lift her skirts clear above her waist, then a blessed relief as he pressed the cold, wet towels against her burning backside. With his other hand, he stroked her hair so affectionately that she sobbed in gratitude, and dared to hope.
"Hush," he said again. He removed the towel, and before the sting could begin to build again, began to rub something unctuous and very cold into the throbbing welts.
The ointment brought immediate ease, and the firm yet gentle massaging fingers greater still.
"It's an unguent I keep for when I take a tumble from my hunter," he said. "It should draw the sting for now and prevent the worst of the bruising. I have never taken a swordbelt to a lady's naughty behind before, it bites harder than I foresaw. I should have bared you, for then I can judge how your pretty bottom stands the correction. But after what that villain nearly did to you—" His voice dipped to a growl and he did not finish his sentence; but his fingers worked harder into the flesh of her buttocks, until she uttered a yelp of protest.
He stopped, and patted her back lightly. "There. You should be more comfortable now."
She nodded, and slowly started to climb to her feet. "Should we return to the company, sir?"
"God, no. That is the last thing I want to—" He broke off again, turned around in an agitated manner, then said, "Catriona, sit down."
"I... would rather stand, sir, just now."
"Of course you would. Listen, then. Stand — and listen to me. I have never married."
"I know that, sir," she said, astonished.
"Listen, I said. I didn't say interject. I am thirty years old and I have never married because I have always known I would make a wife miserable. My father first and then latterly, of course, my mother would lecture me on the necessity of it — my duty to pick someone, anyone if I was not nice, and marry her simply to perpetuate the Buccleuch clan. God knows why my mother in particular wants the same fate inflicted upon some poor girl that she herself suffered at the hands of my father... and his first wife, I have no doubt, before her. But I would not do it. I would not pick out and charm some respectable, tender girl, full of romantic ideas and trust, and bind her to a man like me — a lamb to the slaughter, just to get an heir. I thought that I would never wish it — because, as I now realise, I had never been in love."
Catriona held her breath, hardly daring to believe that he was saying what she knew her certainly was.
"You are a terrible choice for the Laird of Lochlannan," he said. "What was your father? Apart from a libidinous music master, I mean."
"A tacksman's son, from Perthshire."
"Well, there you have it. Much as I value my own Angus MacAllister, I wouldn't marry his sister."
"My mother's family —"
"Were gentlefolk, I know. The Macleods of Skye. And where are they now? Another casualty of 1745. Your fortune is the last crumb of their wealth and consequence. And you — you were raised in an Edinburgh slum."
"I was not!"
"The wrong end of Souter's Close? There's scarcely a half-respectable family left in the Auld Toon these days, even at the better end. My steward met you at your home, remember, such as it was. And you turned up here in rags."
"My clothes were clean and mended —"
"Rags. I had the housekeeper burn them."
She was pretty sure that was untrue, and that a thrifty woman like Mrs. Brodie would have donated them to the poor or turned them into literal rags; but there was a twinkle in his eye now.
"In short, how can I marry you? And yet, having fallen in love with you — how can I not?"
Her heart was hammering in her ears. "You could not, sir, if I refused you."
"Yes, but you're not going to do that."
The momentary show of spirit dissolved into a smile that immediately betrayed her true feelings. She offered no resistance when he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, fully, tenderly, tangling his fingers in her hair and pulling down the curls that Mackenzie had so carefully pinned and arranged. Her body responded of its own accord, pressing eagerly against him, and when he caressed her bosom she did not pull away. She felt suspended in a trance, quite unable to overcome these delicious sensations with reason; the faraway rational part of her brain knew that it was not right that he eased down the lace at her neck to free one breast, but when he dipped his head and took the nipple in his mouth, she gasped out loud in delight.
And she knew she ought to tell him to stop when, after some time, he started to bunch up the skirts of her gown until he could reach beneath the hem, and stroke the side of her thigh. As he brushed against the edge of her injured bottom, she shivered; after the application of unguent, the pain had subsided to a warm tenderness, acutely sensitive to touch. But certainly, she knew that she should whisper a no as his fingers moved instead between her thighs, up and up, to touch her secret place.
Yet how could she say anything at all when her mouth was consuming his, and his fingers were circling her taunt nipple, and his other hand was touching the very centre of her being?
"By God, you are so wet," he growled, breaking the kiss but not releasing his gentle grip below. "So very ready for me."
Her breath was coming in short gasps, and when he began to stroke her there with his thumb, she parted her legs and moaned.
"We can be married in the morning if the minister hasn't got too bad a head," he said, in a low murmur. "We should wait for that. Perhaps?"
"No — Sir Duncan — please do not stop."
He looked deep into
her eyes, an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. Then he lifted her bodily up in her arms, and carried her through to the bedroom.
It was true after all, she soon discovered, what Highland men wore beneath their kilts.
She lay drowsily amongst skin and sheets, slick with cooling sweat, and told herself dreamily, I am ruined. I am ruined.
She could not make the fact have any reality. What was real was the ruffled dark head lying between her naked breasts, where he had fallen asleep — she thought from his stillness and quiet breathing — quite on top of her. She did have the feeling of being suspended over a tremendous drop, supported by an invisible hand. That protection from the fall below her was the promise of the wedding in the morning, she supposed, though she was far from sure how serious he had been about that. She ought to be afraid, but all she could feel was sweet, satiated peace.
And a little discomfort, because his sleeping weight on her was heavy and pressing her still-tender backside into the mattress. She ran her hand down the length of his back, wondering at being allowed to touch so much naked male flesh; reminding herself, that after all, it was not really allowed. He stirred and lifted his head, his eyes still dark with desire. Uttering not a single word, he nibbled at her breasts then kissed slowly down her belly until he reached the place that was no longer her secret. To her astonishment, he covered it with his mouth and with the tip of his tongue probed her hidden nub until she arched her back and screamed with joy. Then, as she shuddered, he was upon her again, thrusting hard into her, banging the handsome wooden headboard against the wall in the urgency of his passion.
Ruined, she thought happily, as they collapsed together.
It was still not really dark outside. Although there was no lamp lit in the bedroom, enough light fell through the tall window next to the bed for her to see his face quite clearly. He was watching her steadily as she shifted onto her stomach to avoid pressure on her bottom.