The Highlander's Yuletide Love

by Quigley, Alicia

  Instead, she held him closer, and allowed herself to adjust the painting in her mind’s eye, thinking of the colors and shading required, as the new vision formed within her. Minutes ticked past as she thought. Eventually Ranulf hugged her more tightly for a moment before loosening his hold.

  “I wish we could stay her longer, but we will be missed,” he said in a regretful voice. “I told your brother I would go down the burn a ways with him to do a little angling this afternoon.”

  Sophy surprised him by seeming quite cheerful about this. She popped up from his arms and looked about for her dress and chemise. “I’m sure Douglas will enjoy that,” she said in a muffled tone as she pulled the chemise over her head. She picked up her discarded gown and looked at him playfully. “I will need you to be my lady’s maid, I fear,” she added as she struggled to gather it sufficiently to slide over her head.

  Ranulf arose, tugging up his pantaloons and buttoning them, and Sophy gave a little sigh at the sight of his powerful torso. She reached out to touch him, but he caught her hands in his.

  “That way lies another hour on the settee—not that I wouldn’t enjoy that,” he said. He smiled at her look of disappointment, and then helped her arrange the wide skirts of her dress and drop it over her head. She began to button the bodice, but he pushed her hands away.

  “A lady’s maid would do that as well,” he said, and took the opportunity to stroke her breasts before he slowly closed the bodice. Sophy felt them peaking again, and a familiar tingle between her thighs, and wondered at her constant ability to respond to him.

  After a few moments spent adjusting Ranulf’s cravat and waistcoat, rearranging Sophy’s hair, and brushing a few wrinkles from the back of his coat, the pair left the dower house, Ranulf carefully locking the door and returning the key to its hiding place. “Another fond memory to add to those of afternoons with my grandmother,” murmured in her ear, before drawing her to him and kissing her.

  “I am sure your grandmother would have disapproved,” Sophy said.

  “Perhaps not; I did tell you she had little time for retiring women who refused to seek what they wanted.”

  There was a pause. “I hope you and Douglas find the fishing good,” said Sophy in a cheery tone.

  Ranulf glanced at her. “Are you not sorry I have no more time for you this afternoon?”

  “Oh, not at all. I am going to my studio. I still need to complete your portrait after all.”

  He surveyed her with some confusion. “You don’t wish me to accompany you?”

  “Oh, I will need you very soon—in more ways than one.” She glanced at him flirtatiously. “But now I really must work on the portrait. This afternoon has given me some ideas.”

  “Please reassure me that I will remain fully clothed when it is completed,” said Ranulf with a little smirk.

  Sophy grinned. “Unfortunately, yes. Though I’d like very much to have you model nude for me.”

  “I don’t think we’d get much done.”

  “Not much painting, perhaps.” Sophy smiled. “Will you come to the studio in the morning?”

  “Of course. Will you walk with me to the dower house again afterwards?”

  “Of course.”

  They shared a smile. “Sophy, are you sure—what we did—are you sure you don’t need me to be with you?”

  “I’m not such a ninny as that,” said Sophy cheerfully. “I should thank you, after all, for obliging me in this way.”

  “Thank me?”

  “Indeed. I had absolutely no idea what it was that Mama and Papa and Isobel and Francis always seem to be so pleased about. Now—well, I can understand.”

  “I beg of you, don’t share your newfound knowledge with them,” laughed Ranulf as they emerged from the birch wood at the edge of the Spaethness Castle gardens,

  “What a pity I cannot. For now, I must be content with sharing with you. I know I was a bit nervous at first, but I think I will be a very apt pupil, if you are willing to be my tutor. But now, I really must paint. Go find Douglas. I can make my way back to the terrace.”

  She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his chin, then turned away, heading down the path. Ranulf gazed after her, both mesmerized by the sway of her hips under the charming yellow dress and somewhat alarmed by what he seemed to have created. Lady Sophia might be a bit of a handful.

  For her part, Sophy hastened into the house and up to her bedchamber, ringing for Wallis the moment she entered. In short order she had shed the walking dress that Ranulf had enjoyed unbuttoning so much, exchanging it for a rather worn, faded blue round dress and hurried to her studio. When she opened the door, the frustrating portrait stood covered with the drop cloth, waiting for her as though it were a living thing.

  She stepped forward, and drew back the cover, looking at the likeness of Ranulf with disfavor. But, instead of the dissatisfaction that she had felt when viewing it over the past weeks, she was filled with excitement as the missing elements coalesced in her mind. She went to her workbench, pulled on an apron and set to getting her paints and brushes ready.

  Hours later the studio door opened, and Wallis appeared.

  “Lady Sophia, I’ve been waiting to dress you for dinner. You’ll be late if you don’t come upstairs right away,”

  Sophy looked up from her canvas, her expression vague. “Oh dear, Wallis, I’ve lost all track of time, I fear. You will have to give me a few minutes to put my things away, and then I’ll come up.”

  “Hurry my lady. You’ll be late enough as it is.”

  The maid disappeared, and Sophy hastened to put her materials away. When she was finished, she paused to look at the progress she had made. For the first time, a genuine smile lit her face as she inspected it, before dropping the cloth over it as she left the room.

  Chapter 22

  Over the following days, Sophy spent nearly all her time with Ranulf’s portrait. Once she required his presence, but for the most part she worked alone. When he did come to sit, he found her charming and friendly, but ultimately distracted. When he took her in his arms and kissed her, she was willing to indulge him in a passionate tryst in the studio, giggling as she attempted unsuccessfully to remain quiet. But she was steadfastly focused on her work and none of his blandishments or caresses could distract her from returning to it. Ranulf left the studio in an irritable mood, half convinced that, although she had enjoyed their encounter a great deal, Sophy had given in to his advances in only so that he would leave her in peace. Frustrated, he sought out Francis, whom he found at the stables.

  “She has been painting every moment of every day,” he said as he led his horse to the mounting block. “Except when we are at dinner, of course.”

  “What of it?” Francis waited for Ranulf to mount. “She wants to finish your portrait. She is doing what artists do.”

  “Yes, but it is all she does. She has no time for, well…” his voice trailed off, as the two men walked their horses across the stable yard.

  “No time for you?” Francis asked, a note of amusement coloring his voice.

  “When you put it that way, it does sound a bit, a bit--” Ranulf cast about for a word.

  “Childish? Petulant? Demanding?” Francis offered.

  “Damn it, Exencour, I’ve never had a woman who wasn’t constantly seeking more of my attention, and I’ve certainly never known one who ignored me!”

  “This is your opportunity to grow accustomed to it then,” his friend observed. “I can assure you that if you can’t tolerate her independent ways now, you will be far less pleased after you have wed her.”

  “Does your wife treat you in such a way?”

  Francis raised his eyebrows. “I have developed ways to distract her, but yes, when she is particularly intent on something she has unearthed, she is difficult to engage. I’ve found that picnic lunches at her excavations are welcome to both of us. When you are married to Sophy, she will be with you always, and it will be far easier for you. Hiding a tryst, while ex
citing, can also be nerve-racking. Only think what it will be like when she is sharing your house and your bed, when you eat every meal together and do not need to make up reasons to be in her company.”

  Ranulf considered Francis’s words, and had an agreeable vision of taking Sophy in the dining room after breakfast. He grinned. “I suppose you are right. If I wish to marry an artist, I must learn to accept her eccentricities. After all, at some point, even artists come to bed.”

  They had reached a farm track that stretched flat and straight between two fields towards the towering hills in the distance. Ranulf looked at Francis and grinned, then clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and set off at a gallop. Francis, nothing loath, took off after him.

  When everyone met in the drawing room before going in to dinner that evening, Isobel broached the topic of their return to Glencairn.

  “I know that Harriet would cheerfully spend the rest of the summer here,” she said, “But we have been here three weeks now, and I must get back to my excavation very soon if I am to have a enough new material to write a paper this winter.”

  “My bailiff is a good man, but it is but harvest time is getting close, and I should return home,” the earl agreed.

  Harriet looked disappointed, but assented, noting that the gardens at Glencairn must be prepared for the coming autumn.

  Sophy stared at the toes of her slippers and said nothing. She would miss Ranulf, but didn’t wish to for their liaison to be discovered, and possible be forced into an engagement for which she was unprepared. Leaving before the situation got out of hand seemed a good alternative.

  Ranulf glanced at Sophy, but she was determined not to meet his eyes. “I know you cannot stay, but before you leave, let us have a dinner party with the neighbors and a little dancing to celebrate,” he suggested.

  “A party – that is the very thing!” Harriet exclaimed. “It would be delightful to spend an evening with all the new acquaintances we have made here before we depart.”

  “Then we shall do so,” said Ranulf. “I will speak to the housekeeper. Perhaps we shall have it a week from tonight, and then you can depart a few days afterwards.” He looked again at Sophy, but she had suddenly become extremely interested in a porcelain shepherdess that ornamented the mantelpiece. “Is that agreeable with you, Lady Sophia?”

  “What? Oh yes, of course. It will give me time to finish your portrait before we leave,” said Sophy, finally looking at him.

  “I look forward to seeing it,” said Ranulf.

  “As do we all,” said Harriet. “Only think, you will have something to remember this visit by.”

  “I hope there will be more than one thing,” Ranulf said.

  The next morning, Sophy entered her studio and approached her portrait of Ranulf. She had finished it the day before, but had told no one, wondering it was indeed complete, or if it needed more work. She lifted the canvas cover with some trepidation, fearful that she might be disappointed. But, as she examined it, a slow smile crossed her face. The elements that had been missing from her original portrait, the hint of vulnerability, the shadow of pain and loss, and the vigor, strength and determination of the man somehow all shone through. This was Colonel Stirling, the soldier and future Laird of Spaethness, as well as Ranulf, the man whose touch could bring her to the very height of passion. It was a complete picture of him, and she was both pleased and amazed that she had been able to create it.

  There was a knock at the door, and she turned hastily, dropping the cloth back into place. Isobel stood in the entry, an inquiring look on her face.

  “Good morning, my dear,” she said. “I was wondering if you would care to walk down to the loch with me? You cannot spend every minute of this glorious day with your portrait of Ranulf.”

  Sophy smiled. Completing the portrait seemed to have released her from some sort of spell; before it was done she could think of little else, but now her mind turned to other things, including seeing Ranulf in the flesh. She felt a tingle down her spine at the thought.

  “I would love to,” she said. “The portrait is done.”

  “It is! May I see it?” Isobel stepped into the room.

  Sophy hesitated. For some reason she was reluctant to share it, even with such a good friend as Isobel. She finally shrugged; she could not hide it away from others’ eyes forever.

  “Of course.” She raised the cloth, revealing the portrait.

  There was a long moment of silence as Isobel contemplated the painting. Ranulf, dressed simply in riding dress, sat in a chair, his face in partial profile, his gaze looking out into the distance, his expression thoughtful, yet determined. Sunlight flooded the room behind him, touching his dark curls and illuminating his handsome features.

  “Oh,” said Isobel. “Oh, my.”

  “You don’t like it?” asked Sophy, alarmed.

  “On the contrary, I like it very much. You have certainly captured Ranulf’s personality.”

  Sophy gave a sigh of relief. “Then why did you say ‘oh, my?’”

  “I should not have said that. It is beautiful, Sophy. You have truly come to understand him, I think. This reveals his tenderness, but also the underlying steel. You have outdone yourself.”

  “But you did say it,” persisted Sophy. “I am glad you like it, but something seems to have dismayed you.”

  Isobel turned to look at her. “I am not dismayed. On the contrary, I am delighted. The portrait, my dear, shows how very much you love him.”

  “Oh, no.” Sophy turned to the portrait, looking at it closely. “It cannot! I don’t love Ranulf. I—I like him very much of course, as all of us do, but love—that is not to be spoken of.”

  “Why not?” Isobel put a hand on her shoulder. “Is it such a terrible thing to be in love?”

  “Of course it is!” said Sophy. “He does not love me, you know.”

  “Nonsense,” said Isobel. “I have no idea what he has told you, but his expression when he looks at you is that of a man with very deep emotions.”

  “He hasn’t shared those emotions with me,” said Sophy.

  “What if he did?” asked Isobel. “How would you respond?”

  “I don’t know.” Sophy clasped her hands in front of her and stared down at them. “I did not come to Spaethness meaning any of this to happen.”

  “Very few people set out to fall in love. I certainly did not mean to love Francis, but I could not help it. Don’t look so tragic, child. You are very fortunate to have a found a man of Ranulf’s caliber.”

  Sophy shook her head, searching for the words to explain herself, though she was aware she barely comprehended her own thoughts. But before she could speak, male voices were heard in the hall, and she quickly dropped the cloth back over the painting. She spun around to see Francis and Ranulf entering the studio.

  “There you are!” said Francis. “I have been looking all over for my wife. Don’t tell me that you mean to immure yourself in the studio with Sophy all day!”

  “No, indeed,” responded Isobel. “Sophy need not do so either. She has finished the portrait!”

  Sophy made a quick gesture as Isobel spoke, hoping to stop her, but then subsided as Ranulf turned his gaze to her. She flushed.

  “You’re finished?” he asked.

  Sophy nodded.

  “May we see it?” asked Francis.

  Sophy tried to hide her alarm. Somehow, it had not occurred to her that Ranulf would want to see the finished product. “I—well, perhaps I should do a bit more work on it,” she said quickly. “I’m not sure it is quite right.”

  “He must see it sooner or later,” observed Isobel gently. “Show him the portrait, Sophy.”

  Reluctantly, Sophy raised the cloth and stepped back, looking away as Francis and Ranulf viewed the painting. There was a long moment of silence.

  “It’s perfect,” said Francis finally. “Ranulf, I believe that Lady Sophia has your measure.”

  Sophy looked at Ranulf, trepidation in her eyes. He was g
azing at the portrait as if mesmerized.

  “Yes, I think perhaps she has,” he said finally. He turned to Sophy, and their eyes met. “I thank you for this.”

  She blushed furiously. “Oh, it is nothing at all,” she said hurriedly. “I hope I will be able to do a great deal better one day.”

  “If you can do better than that, I would like to see it,” said Francis. “You have truly captured the spirit of the man.”

  “She has indeed,” agreed Isobel. She gave her husband a meaningful look. “Francis, if you would not mind, I need some assistance in the—in the drawing room.”

  “Where?” asked Francis, surprised.

  “The drawing room,” repeated Isobel, nodding her head to where Ranulf and Sophy stood, staring at each other across the portrait.

  “Oh yes! Assistance—in the drawing room,” said Francis. “If you will excuse us?”

  “Certainly,” murmured Ranulf, not turning his head.

  Isobel and Francis beat a hasty retreat, and Sophy found herself quite alone with Ranulf. She turned away and moved to the table where her paints stood, fidgeting with them nervously.

  “I’m glad you like the portrait,” she said, not caring for the silence in the room.

  “Of course I like it. It is far more than I expected, or deserve.”

  She felt him come up behind her, and she turned, finding herself suddenly chest to chest with him. He put his hands on her shoulders and then ran them down her arms, taking her hands in his.

  “It is nothing, really,” she protested.

  “Sophy, you cannot say that painting is nothing.”

  Ranulf leaned toward her and she gave a little sigh as he put his hands on her waist, lifting her so she sat on the table, and then stepping between her thighs.

  “Stop hiding from me,” he said, and leaned in, pressing his lips to hers gently, persuasively. Sophy closed her eyes, sinking into the moment, amazed by her instantaneous response to him. She had thought her feelings for him were well under control, but his hands and his lips robbed her of all coherent thought as she opened her mouth to him, meeting him stroke for stroke as their tongues slid together.