“Donnan,” Bernadine whispered in his ear, her voice sweet like honey. “Why don’t we lie down?”
Donnan nodded, taking the lass’ hands from around his neck and clasping them with his. He led her to the bed.
“Lie down,” he instructed, pointing to the bed. Bernadine did as she was told. Donnan felt her eyes on him as he went about the room, dousing one candle after another until the room was shrouded in darkness, only the light of the moons shining through the open, uncovered window lighting her form as he lay down beside her.
Donnan settled himself on the blankets next to her, pulling her body into his, her back to his front, his arms wrapped around her waist. It was the position they assumed every night before sleep. Donnan would miss this, most of all.
He looked away as Bernadine stared at him, ashamed that she might see the tear tracks on his bearded cheeks. But as he turned his head, Bernadine reached out and caught his cheek, bringing it back to face her.
“Do not be embarrassed. It is a strong man indeed that can let his emotions loose in front of the one he loves,” she told him, caressing his cheek with her thumb.
Donnan did not accept this, but turned into her hand, nonetheless. He relished the feel of her warm palm cupping his face. He relished the feeling all the more when Bernadine used her soft grip on him to draw his face closer to hers, until their tips of their noses were touching, their lips only a whisper away.
A moan escaped his mouth when Bernadine leaned in to slide her lips against his, her tongue immediately slipping into his mouth. They were so adept at kissing now after these last few weeks together that they could practically predict the other’s moves, instinctively turning their heads this way and that to deepen the connection their lips made.
The kisses quickly went from soft and deep to hurried and shallow, Bernadine practically biting at Donnan’s lips as she drew him on top of her.
In his hurry to get to her, to feel the silk of her bare skin against his bare chest, Donnan ripped the neckline of her nightgown, the ripping of the fabric a tantalizing sound that went straight to his groin.
“Och, lass,” he muttered as he gazed at the beauty of her chest, trying to memorize the sight of her for the long, lonely nights ahead. Bowing his head, he sucked a pert, rosy nipple into his mouth, smiling against the bud as his actions were rewarded with a sharp cry from Bernadine.
“Donnan!” She writhed against him, leaning into his touch with an arch of her back, her hands threading in his hair to bring him even closer to her. He made quick work of one breast, using one hand to knead the soft flesh as the other dove beneath her skirt, sliding up her smooth thigh to the hot, wet center of her.
His hands expertly explored the depths there, moving among the familiar folds to find the button he knew begged for his touch. Rubbing in fast circles, his mouth transferring to Bernadine’s other breast, Donnan focused all his energy on her pleasure.
If this is to be our last time, I’ll make it a good one. One she won’t soon forget.
Chapter 18
Bernadine and Iris were of one mind as they picked their way through the trees, the horse able to predict her mistress’ commands a moment before they were spoken. Bernadine barely had to lift the reins before the mare was slowing down, turning the corner towards a clearing in the forest that would lead them back up the hill to Castle Venruit.
The trees all around them were fecund; lush with bright green leaves so full they cast the whole of the forest in shade. The smell of fresh, wet earth was all around them. Bernadine soaked it in with great gasping breaths, taking the Scottish air deep into her lungs, letting it fuel her as she tightened her thighs around the horse’s flank and rode on, not caring at the mud that spattered them of her skirts.
As they exited the forest, Bernadine could see the sun just above the hills, the golden light of dawn fading, leaving behind the bright blue sky of an uncharacteristically sunny day. There had been many of these in the last two weeks, and Bernadine liked to think that the weather knew of her happiness and had seen fit to mirror it with bright sunshine and few clouds.
The sky was a wide-open expanse of blue which she could gaze at endlessly as she and Iris thundered about the fields, grass flying up around them as they sped up and over hills, along rivers and, when it suited them, down to the sandy beach miles away. She had been surprised to find that the sand in Scotland was the same as that of Cornwall, soft, fine pebbled that squished deliciously between her toes when she kicked off her shoes and stepped into the dunes.
But while the sand might be the same as that of back home, nearly everything else, her morning rides included, was so different. When she had first arrived as Donnan’s prisoner, Bernadine had hated how different Scotland was from her home in England. The accents were odd, the brogue almost unintelligible at times, and even the meat tasted strangely gamier than what she was used to back home. But as she had transitioned from prisoner to free woman, from someone mired in hate to someone lost in love, Bernadine had come to appreciate Scotland for its differences.
Here, she could be herself, just Bernadine, not Lord Nibley’s daughter, with all the trappings that came with that title. There were no suitors to impress, no women to sidle up to in the hopes of ingratiating herself to them to avoid any idle gossip. In Scotland, Bernadine could live and love and laugh as she pleased without a care for anyone except herself and Donnan. It was a rather freeing way of life, she had to admit. And she rather liked that this life allowed her to ride out each morning for as long as she liked.
Therefore, over the last two weeks, Bernadine had taken Iris out for a morning ride every day, exploring the castle grounds and the hills beyond.
Donnan trusted her implicitly now, now that their love for each other was assured, and he did not worry that she would escape if she journeyed past the castle boundaries.
The guards had stopped glaring at her like she was a woman on the run, instead nodding their heads and smiling at her as she rode past, her hair whipping in the wind at her back, a carefree smile on her face.
Bernadine had never felt so insouciant in the whole of her life as she did then. She awoke with the dawn, saddled Iris, and rode until the sun, or at least the suggestion of it through the clouds, was high in the sky and her stomach was rumbling. Then, she and Donnan broke their fast together, replenishing the energy they had both exerted during the previous night’s amorous activities.
After that, she spent the rest of her day in the library, curled up by the fire reading her way through the many adventure novels that Donnan had stocked for his sister. At around seven of clock, dinner was served, and afterward, she and her lover adjourned to one of their chambers to spend the night kissing and telling each other secrets.
It was the life she had always dreamed of but never dared to hope for. She was loved, cared for, had access to all the literature she could consume, plus a horse that knew her nearly as well as she knew herself. In short, Bernadine was happy. Or rather, she was happy most of the time.
There were those moments during the day, when she was glancing out the window or perhaps staring into the fire in the hearth, book in hand, when she remembered her family. When she thought of Papa and Guinevere, back in England, no doubt worrying themselves sick about her. She thought of the empty seat at the table she was no longer occupying, the gardening that she had left Guinevere to do by herself. The hole she had left in their lives.
Bernadine knew she ought to write to them. She was no longer Donnan’s captive and was allowed to engage in as much correspondence as she liked.
“Write to yer family if ye like, lass,” Donnan had told her the day he moved his sister’s writing desk into her chambers. “I’m sure they’d verra much like to hear from ye.”
Bernadine had left the desk unused, its presence the source of much angst and worried contemplation. She rather hated the thing, really.
It mocks me, she often thought as she looked at the hulking piece of furniture, its surface so glaringly
free of paper, the pen and ink Donnan had provided her with, sitting untouched and staring back at her.
I just do not know what to say, she thought every time she glanced at the desk. Bernadine had neared the thing, even gone so far as to sit down at its chair, many a time, and yet she had never been able to bring herself to actually pen a missive to her family. Every time she tried, something stopped her.
It was fear. Fear that if she told her papa where she was, what had happened to her, he would be furious. And when her papa was furious, there was very little that could stand in his way. If Bernadine told him what had become of her, there was no way he would allow her to stay in Scotland, unmarried and living in scandal with Donnan Young.
He would almost certainly come to find her, and though Bernadine missed him and Guinevere terribly, and longed to see their faces, she did not want to witness the spectacle her father would make of himself and her when he inevitably stormed the castle and demanded her immediate return home.
She also did not want to witness her father’s expression when she told him that her home was no longer in England, but rather here in Scotland, with Donnan. It would break the man’s heart, and she could not bear to see that, because it would break her own heart as well.
Bernadine had wondered whether she ought to write to Guinevere instead, but she knew that while the woman was normally excellent at keeping secrets between them, she would not be able to resist telling Papa about Bernadine’s whereabouts.
Guinevere was the most morally upright person Bernadine had ever known, and there was no way she would be able to keep Bernadine’s location and circumstances to herself if the man was truly as worried as Bernadine suspected he was. No, she could not write to them.
Not yet, anyway.
But at that very same moment that Bernadine was contemplating all this, weighing up just what to do, Donnan was waging his own battle with himself over correspondence to her father. And his battle was, in many ways, far more treacherous.
* * *
Donnan stared at the blank parchment in front of him and fiddled idly with the quill in his hand. He had been trying to think of the proper greeting for the last fifteen minutes without much success.
Truth be told, he was not particularly adept at correspondence. Fergus normally handled the majority of his business affairs, which included writing letters to all the sundry acquaintances he had to keep in contact with. Donnan penned the odd letter to friends like Lord Hammilton, but he had never in the whole of his life had to write a letter quite like this.
What exactly was the correct thing to say to the man whose daughter he had kidnapped, subsequently fallen in love with, and now wanted to marry? What was he supposed to say to Lord Nibley that would convince the man not to immediately tear the paper apart and throw it in the fire?
Donnan knew he was far from the man’s favorite person, was probably in fact one of the man’s most hated enemies at that very moment, but that did not change the fact that this letter needed to be sent.
Donnan was happier than he had ever thought possible with Bernadine at his side. Having her willingly living with him in the castle, spending time at his side and showering him with kisses and praise rather than hatred and biting remarks was a bliss unlike any he had known.
The only thing that could improve upon their situation was securing Bernadine’s hand in marriage. As happy as Donnan was, he would be far happier knowing the lass was his not just in body and soul, but in the eyes of God as well. But before Donnan could ask that of her, he needed to gain her father’s permission. He needed to do things correctly. And therein lay the difficulty.
There was little possibility of Lord Nibley willingly giving Bernadine over to him, which meant that Donnan either needed to threaten the man, or somehow otherwise convince him that Bernadine’s place was here in Scotland with him, not home in England with her family. Could he tell the man of his love for his daughter, of how she enthralled him and excited him with each and every day they spent together?
Mayhaps that detail might incense him more, Donnan thought, dipping his quill in ink again. He had been sitting in contemplation for so long that the quill had dried out.
What would Faither have done? Donnan wondered. Though he had been young when his father died and his official training to take over the lairdship had not begun, the old man had seen fit to bestow a few nuggets of knowledge on Donnan before his passing. One such bit that came to Donnan now was something his father had told him one day after meeting with a neighbouring laird who had been stealing crops and sheep from the castle lands.
“Be firm with yer enemies, lad. Ye cannae show them any mercy. Ye must be clear with yer demands and daenae give them any room to argue.”
Perhaps the best way to deal with Lord Nibley was to be firm with the man, laying out his demands like a true laird would do.
With that in mind, Donnan set quill to paper and began to write. It took him more than an hour and three different drafts to perfect, but the end result was something Donnan thought his father would have been proud of.
“Worthy of the family seal,” in the old man’s words.
Lord Nibley,
You will be pleased to know that your daughter Bernadine has been under my care and attention this last month since the ball at the home of Lord Hammilton. I am sure you had suspected as much, but it is my pleasure to confirm your beliefs.
During this time, the two of us have developed a bond that is unbreakable, one born of friendship, and respect, and love. I now seek to solidify this bond with marriage and am here by writing to you to ask your permission for your daughter’s hand in marriage.
It is the least you can offer me after what transpired between us at Lord Hammilton’s ball. I will also be so bold as to ask for a written apology for the heated words exchanged on your part that night, words that disrespected not only my person, but my people, my country, all of which your daughter, with her infinite charity and open heart, has seen fit to accept.
I hope that in time you might be able to do the same. I await your permission and your apology.
Yours sincerely,
Laird Donnan Young
Donnan read over the words and knew they were perfect, or at least as perfect as he himself was able to pen. He heated the wax over the candle on his desk. The smell reminded him of many an afternoon spent sitting on his father’s lap while the man attended to his correspondence.
With his father in mind, Donnan pressed down extra hard on the wax seal of the letter, imbuing it with all the strength of the Young clan, the strength of his father and the men before him, who had gone against far more terrifying adversaries than a member of the Sassenach ton. Donnan could only hope he was as successful in beating this adversary as his ancestors had been against theirs.
If nae, I daenae ken what I’ll dae.
Chapter 19
“Sir, there is a letter for you,” one of the house’s footmen told Lord Nibley while he was finishing his slice of toast.
“Is it from one of the runners?” Lord Nibley asked, dropping his toast and beginning to stand from his chair. It had been a month since Bernadine’s disappearance, and though Lord Nibley had funnelled countless notes into the Bow Street Runners, the runners had returned to his door every day declaring no news of his daughter’s whereabouts. Still, every morning he woke hoping that today was the day he finally found out where Bernadine had been taken. And just as importantly, who had taken her.
He needed the name of the man if he was going to kill him with his bare hands. Lord Nibley he knew it was a man. No woman would ever commit such an atrocity. Only men were capable of such stupidity. The perpetrator of this crime was most certainly a man, and a clueless one at that, one who did not know enough about the Nibley family to fear them.
More fool him. The Nibleys were one of the wealthiest and most influential names in the ton, and Lord Nibley would not hesitate to use every ounce of his power to destroy whoever had taken his Bernadine from him.
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Lord Nibley looked at the footman, who was slowly shaking his head, looking too scared to voice negation that would no doubt displease his excellence. Lord Nibley collapsed back into his chair, sliding down in the seat and scrubbing a hand over his careworn face.
“Well then, who is the sender?” he barked, not bothering to school his tone into one that did not so plainly exhibit his impatience.
“I d-do not recognize the writing, sir, b-but the delivery boy t-tells me it’s from Scotland,” James stuttered, placing the envelope next to Lord Nibley’s empty teacup with shaking hands.
Lord Nibley stilled. “Scotland?” he breathed. He looked at the envelope, looking so innocuous, so innocent against the fine lace tablecloth Bernadine had helped him pick out months before.
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