“If you’ll excuse me,” Seonaid said, “I want to visit my menagerie. I’ve missed my pets.”
“A house party,” Mother announced, tapping her chin and slowly nodding, her blue-green eyes half-closed in deliberation. “Perhaps Hogmanay? Non, that’s next week. Much too soon to plan a proper gathering.”
“Pardon? A house party? Here?” Blast. Seonaid should have anticipated something of that nature.
“Oui. Travel might be challenging this time of year, but if I plan for early February, that might work. We rarely have much snow then.”
Mother’s face brightened, and she grinned, clapping her hands together once. “I have just the thing. A Valentine’s celebration. I’ll invite every eligible young gentleman we know in Scotland and England. Oh, and perhaps France too. It’s perfect, non? You’ll have your choice of a husband from amongst the most eligible men.”
Heavens, no. A quiet, gentle Scot would do Seonaid perfectly fine.
“I would much rather not.” With her luck, she’d have an episode in front of every potential beau, and they’d be kicking up their heels in haste, rushing to their chambers straightaway to pack. “It sounds too much like a High Society route or assembly.”
“Now, I must insist, ma chère.” Deep in contemplation, Mother stood, a finger pressed to her lips. “A list. I must start planning at once so the invites can be mailed soon.”
Arms folded, Father chuckled and shook his head, his longish hair scraping his leather vest’s collar. “Och, see what ye’ve done, lass? We’ll have coxcombs, twiddle poops, and jackanapes underfoot.”
“Do be serious, Hugh,” Mother admonished. “Seonaid wouldn’t marry a twiddle poop. She’s far too intelligent for that.”
Laughing, he winked and picked up a piece of toast. “Aye, that she be.”
“Are you going to mention on the invitations that I’m husband-hunting? So I can free myself from my second sight, and any unmarried men are potential candidates?” Seonaid had no idea what manner of wickedness prompted her to ask.
Consternation flickered across Mother’s pretty face. “You think they wouldn’t come if that were the case? You do yourself a disservice and the gentlemen, too. Besides, you’re the one who insisted we find you a husband, posthaste, non?”
Remorse pricked Seonaid, its pointed little talons jabbing deep. “That was uncalled for. Please forgive me.”
“Chérie. Are you having second thoughts already?”
“No, no, I do want to marry.” Not precisely true. She wished to abolish her second sight and that entailed marriage.
Mother shrugged. “There’s no other way to swiftly introduce you to a broad array of gentlemen from which to make your selection.”
“It’s a brilliant notion. Truly.” Summoning a cheery smile, Seonaid tried to appear enthusiastic.
Mother hurried to the cherry wood secretary desk beside the door, her violet skirts swishing around her trim ankles. After withdrawing a piece of foolscap, and unstopping the silver inkwell, she dipped the quill. Feather poised above the paper, she swung around.
“Seonaid, please find Ewan and request he meet me in my solar at his earliest convenience. I believe he’s in his study conversing with Monsieur le baron de Devaux-Rousset.”
Seonaid scrunched her nose, then quickly smoothed her features lest Mother or Father ask her to explain her displeasure. She’d preferred Jacques not be about, causing her emotions confusion and upset as she sought to speedily acquire a husband.
Why had he continued on to Craiglocky? True, his mining operation was somewhere nearby, but he might have stayed at one of Craigcutty’s inns.
She scratched her cheek before taking another sip of aromatic tea. Might as well take a look at his injured hand. The bandage hadn’t been changed since yesterday.
Ewan probably had wished to speak to him regarding Reverend Fletcher’s ugly accusations. Given their harried journey and the lack of privacy, it wouldn’t surprise her if he hadn’t insisted Jacques stay at the keep last night to discuss the matter with Ewan this morning.
“Tut, do inquire if Monsieur le baron is available, too, chérie.” Scribbling away, Mother murmured the request without looking up.
Wary, Seonaid slowly rose. “Might I ask why?”
Glancing up, Mother beamed. “Surely, he’ll know the finest French gentlemen I should invite.”
What Frenchman possessed with an iota of common sense—other than Jacques, that is—journeyed to Scotland in the winter?
In any case, Seonaid preferred to marry a Scot. At least then, if her visions continued and she hied to a mountain hovel or cave, she might convince her family to visit her once in a while.
“I’m loath to impose upon Monsieur le baron since he has other, more urgent matters on his mind. I’m sure you’re aware, he’s in Scotland conducting business, and no doubt is eager to be on his way.”
“Nae in that weather, he isnae.” Father interrupted his munching to point toward the window.
Confound it all, snow fell unceasingly—the most they’d experienced in years. Perfectly horrid. Jacques couldn’t leave and other suitors couldn’t call. “Well, as soon as the weather permits, then.”
A curious expression furrowed Mother’s forehead. “Chérie, I was positive you were aware. He’s residing at Craiglocky while in Scotland.”
Chapter 12
Two hours later, after having delivered the messages as Mother asked, changing Jacques’s bandage, and spending an hour visiting with Yvette and playing with Broderick, Seonaid secured her thickest pelisse’s clasps at her neck. Beneath the heavy double-layered wool, she wore a simple gown, far past its prime, but acceptable for tending her animals.
She wandered to her chamber window. The picturesque view brought a reluctant smile to her lips. Cocooned in pristine white, the peaceful scenery appeared untouched. Virginal.
Something she didn’t intend to remain much longer.
Raised around livestock and farm animals her entire life, she’d seen what copulation entailed. The actual act itself didn’t trouble her overly much, though why the Good Lord couldn’t have designed something a scant less noisy and awkward did perplex a mite.
Her choice of partner mattered a trifling more.
Fine then, more than a trifling.
He must be clean, both in person and clothing, with well-tended teeth, and not given to drunkenness. Wouldn’t do to gag when he exercised his husbandly rights. For her family’s sake, she’d try to marry first, albeit she might go mad in the meanwhile.
Dread drove her uncharacteristic rashness. How could she explain her desperation, the frantic need compelling her to take these extreme measures? How could she explain something she didn’t fully understand herself?
She wouldn’t intentionally bring disgrace upon her family, but eliminate the second sight, she must. No matter the cost. Slipping her hand into a glove, Seonaid grimaced. When had she come to be so calculating? So selfish and self-centered?
Tears blurred her eyes, and she wiped the moisture away before donning the other glove.
She didn’t like this woman she’d become, but she’d abhor the creature her visions would transform her into even more.
Why, a few minutes ago, while climbing the stairs to her chamber, yet another episode assailed her. The sudden increase in events boggled. What in God’s blessed name went on?
This vision hadn’t been terribly significant, but still important enough to prompt her to don her outer garments and trudge through the calf-high snow to the outbuilding housing her beloved pets. She’d be needed there soon.
A man would find a starving cat about to give birth. Because of his hat and greatcoat, as well as the snow spiraling around him, she couldn’t tell who. If her visions foretold things of this more pleasant nature, she wouldn’t resent them again. She could help a cat and her kittens. Deaths or tragedies, she’d no power over.
Minutes later, her head lowered against a biting, angry wind, Seonaid tramped her way to h
er refuge. Pushing the door open, familiar scents—animals, dung, straw, and medicinal ointments—engulfed her. So did a bone-warming peace.
She was home.
Everything remained as she’d left it weeks before. Healing herbs hung from hooks overhead, and a shelf beside the door held her assortment of salves, ointments, and tinctures. Inhaling deeply, she set the bundle she carried atop a low table and stamped her feet to loosen the snow clinging to her boots.
Sorcha had given her liver and fish to feed the mother cat.
Seonaid spent so much time in here, Father had insisted the miniature barn be insulated since a stove was dangerous and impractical. Square windows on two sides of the cozy closure provided grayish light, but she lit a lantern all the same.
In her absence, her menagerie had been well cared for. Unless the weather prevented it, as it did today, her pets wandered the bailey or nearby fields during the day, but always slept in here at night.
What would happen to them when she married? Or, barring finding a man willing to form a union with a peculiar woman who saw things before they occurred, she isolated herself in a reclusive hut?
No real reason she couldn’t take them with her. At least she wouldn’t be lonely.
Upon seeing Seonaid, an assortment of creatures, from doves to sheep, noisily greeted her.
“I missed you too.”
And she had. More than she’d realized.
Laughing, she removed her pelisse, the hem heavy with clinging snow, then hung it on a wall peg designed for that purpose. Her gloves and bonnet soon joined the wrap.
Yes, she most definitely would take the dears with her. Better ask her father to make that a marriage settlement stipulation. Her husband would receive a hefty dowry. She should be permitted her pets.
She squatted, and then buried her face in her beloved deaf Border collie, Chester’s, rough coat. He wiggled and whined, happily attempting to lick every part of her face. His ungentlemanly penchant for rolling in cow or sheep dung earned him banishment from the keep, but no foulness clung to him today.
Agnes, a ewe missing one hind leg, tottered to her pen’s opening and baaed softly. A dove flew to perch on Seonaid’s shoulder, while several cats, purring loudly, twined ’round her feet.
“We’ve a new friend coming soon.” Examining the empty cages and pens, Seonaid tapped her mouth thoughtfully. “Where shall we put her? She’s weak, and she’s having kittens.”
Deciding on a cage in a quiet corner, Seonaid pulled a clean towel from a neat stack on another shelf. After arranging the soft cloth into a sort of nest, she set about preparing the cat’s food. Once she’d finished, and was satisfied everything was ready to receive her newest guest, she went about properly greeting her other pets.
Bent over Milly, a crippled goat sharing Agnes’s pen, Seonaid scratched the doe’s ears and brushed her thick coat. “There’s a good lassie.” Agnes nudged her arm. “No, Agnes, you don’t need your wool combed. I’ll scratch your ears, though, jealous girl.”
The door swung open and the wind whipping into the warm enclosure lifted Seonaid’s skirts and sent a frigid chill skating up her thighs to her bum. Startled, she dropped the grooming brush. Bent over, she peered between the slats. A man’s shadowy figure blocked the entrance.
Chester barked a warning, the cats dashed to their usual hiding places beneath tables or shelves, and her pet doves flew to an overhead rafter.
Stretching over Milly to retrieve the brush, another blast of cold smacked her spine and bottom. “For pity’s sake, please shut the door before you cause us to freeze.”
“I cannot, ma petite. My arms are full.”
Seonaid whirled around.
Jacques held the emaciated cat, wrapped in his jacket.
“I didn’t expect you’d be the one who found her.”
Swiftly exiting the pen, she pointed to the table nearest Jacques. “You may lay her there, but don’t let go. She’s no doubt terrified, and she’s liable to bolt. I’ll shut the door.”
“You expected me? Here?” He gently placed the trembling cat atop the gouged, discolored surface, really more of a tall bench than a table. “A vision, I presume?”
Seonaid nodded and secured the door. “Yes. Here, let me unwrap her, but please stay where you are in case I need your help.”
This wasn’t the time to worry about propriety.
She wedged herself between him and the table, her rear pressed to his thighs and, despite her misgivings, enjoyed his cozy closeness and subtle cologne.
Gingerly unfolding the expensive coat, she gasped. “Poor thing. She’s nearly starved.”
Sparse black hair covered clearly visible ribs above a distended belly. White frosted the cat’s four paws and an oatcake-sized patch on her chest. Wary, tired amber eyes blinked up at Seonaid above twitching white whiskers.
Seonaid fed the ravenous cat a bite of fish, then another.
“I couldn’t leave her. I went for a walk, and I heard her pathetic meowing.” He ran long fingers between her ears, and the cat closed her eyes in contentment. “I think she’s in labor.”
“She is.” Touching his arm, she smiled up at him, momentarily surprised at the fleeting intensity in his gaze. She bent over the cat, cooing softly. “She likes you. That’s good. She’ll feel safer delivering her kittens with you near.”
“Non, ma petite, I have no skill with animals.” Seonaid’s tight, rounded buttocks jostled against Jacques’s groin, and he gritted his teeth against his manhood’s immediate and predictable response.
The earlier sight of her bending over, her lush rear pointed upward, popped to mind again.
God help me. Please.
“There’s no skill. Just kindness, gentleness, and love. All creatures respond to those three things.” Making more soothing noises in her throat, which unfortunately for Jacques’s swelling member sounded similar to a woman in the throes of ecstasy, she scooped the cat into her arms.
Seonaid’s derrière bumped firmly against his penis, and he closed his eyes against a powerful surge of pleasurable pain.
What had he done to deserve this torture?
McTavish had warned him to stay away from Seonaid, and Jacques had fully intended to. But everyone he showed the pathetic cat to had directed him to this small building.
“Do you want to name her?” Seonaid scooted past him as she asked the question. “You rescued her. I think you should have the honor. Something special since she’s been a brave darling.”
“Freya. It’s Norse.” Naming the amber-eyed cat Freya after the cat-worshipping fertility goddess of love and beauty probably wasn’t the wisest choice, especially considering his current aroused state, but he couldn’t summon another noteworthy feline name.
He supposed it fitting, however. At present, his mind seemed stuck fast on sexual musings. Taking advantage of Seonaid’s distraction with the cat, he discreetly rearranged himself beneath his greatcoat.
“Bring me what’s left of the fish, will you, please? I fear she’s too weak to give birth.” She gave him another radiant smile over her shoulder. “You might want to remove your coat. Birthing can get a mite messy.”
That wasn’t all he’d like to remove. Every stitch of his clothing. Then hers. At the image, his cock jumped like a dog performing tricks for a treat.
If she kept smiling at him like that, he’d either go blind, or toss caution and every ounce of common sense he still possessed to hell and tup her in the sheep’s pen.
Or against the wall.
That fresh stack of hay piled in the corner would do, too.
Mon Dieu. McTavish would slay him for his thoughts alone.
Jacques should leave. A prudent man would.
He’d done what he’d set out to do. Delivered the cat. Yet, he wanted this time. Wanted to savor every second with Seonaid. The two of them, sharing this special, intimate situation. He didn’t dare desire more.
If the mine is profitable, perhaps—
He squelched t
he notion, grinding it beneath his boot heel. Too dangerous, that thread of thinking. Nevertheless, he removed his greatcoat, and then rolled up his sleeves.
This warm, welcoming Seonaid, he couldn’t resist.
An hour later, he peeked over her shoulder, breathing in her light perfume, as they watched four tiny, mottled, and still-damp kittens nursing their purring mother. “I confess, I’ve not seen a cat give birth. I’ve never seen anything born before.”
Seonaid lifted her face, close enough the silvery and emerald specks in her wondrous, rich brandy-colored eyes glittered at him. “Never? Truly?” Her focus dipped to his mouth for a fraction. “I’ve seen all sorts of animals born, even humans. It’s quite an amazing experience.”
Her sweet breath caressed his face.
Once again, her lovely eyes sank to his mouth, and the tip of her pink tongue darted out to moisten her plump lower lip.
Anticipation gripped him.
With a groan, Jacques cupped her face between both hands and claimed her mouth. Nothing about watching four bloody, squirming masses birthed had been the least erotic, but he’d never been more aware of a woman before in his life.
Every nuance, every glance, each time she bent or twisted and her gown stretched taut across her breasts or cradled her delectable bum, he fell further under her seductress’s spell.
Standing perfectly still, one hand gripping his bare forearm, Seonaid didn’t resist.
Turning her in his arms, he slanted his lips across hers, lightly teasing the corner of her mouth with his tongue. How could a woman taste so splendid?
She released a long, shuddering sigh and, twining her arms about his neck, opened to his probing.
Groaning low, he swept his tongue over the honeyed cavern and nearly exploded in his pantaloons when she tentatively met his bold strokes.
He cupped her buttocks—they fit his palms perfectly—and lifted her against his rigid length.
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 11