Forgetting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Autumn leaves whirled around their feet. It had been an excruciatingly long time since he’d had her alone. Nearly two months since the night of the ball. Two weeks investigating Pennyweather and another five to make all their arrangements: selling the house to Lady Ellington, acquiring their precious Percherons, and moving Virginia’s entire household to their new farm in Latheron. The whole time, Garfield and Lady Ellington had not allowed him to be with her without a chaperone.

  “I couldnae get near you for anything but a kiss with everyone keeping guard like you were the crown jewels.”

  “I’m sorry.” She laughed lightly. “A little too late, as I was already thoroughly ruined.”

  “Ruined?” he asked, feigning shock. “Ruined?” He grinned at her. “Lass, I havenae even begun to ruin you.”

  …

  Virginia uttered an involuntary, “Oh.” In response, Magnus rumbled a deep, delighted-sounding chuckle. And his words, dear Lord, they sent alternating shivers in her belly and pooling heat between her thighs. She remembered well what his body did to her body, and he’d just threatened to do it more, a lot more.

  “Aye, love. As soon as I get you to my den of iniquity, I intend to ruin you over and over all night long.”

  She said a little shakily, “You mean, you plan to…debauch me?”

  He bent and whispered in her ear, as if there was anyone to hear, “Aye, Viscountess. I’m going to debauch you until you forget your own name.”

  Virginia’s nipples tightened into painful knots and she walked faster.

  They rounded the last bend in the path and his cottage came into view. Their pace quickened almost to a run.

  He pushed open the door, set down the basket of victuals, and swept her into his arms. She barely had time to get her bearings before his lips covered hers in a joyful kiss. Yes, yes, this was joy. This is what it felt like. Real unfettered happiness. He released her suddenly, leaving her standing breathless in the middle of the room.

  She removed her cloak and gloves and untied her bonnet while she watched him light the fire and every candle and oil lamp in the cottage. When he finished, he shrugged off his coat and reclined on his mattress. He regarded her thoughtfully.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’m deciding what I’ll do with you first.”

  “Really? And what have you decided?”

  He folded his arms behind his head and stretched out his legs. “I should like to watch you undress.”

  They had been gloriously naked together before, but he’d never watched her undress. The notion was, as he promised, debauched, and positively thrilling.

  “Where would you like me to begin?”

  He tilted his head side to side thoughtfully, then pointed. “Take off that frilly thing around your neck.”

  He meant her chemisette, the sheer garment that covered her décolletage. She released the buttons in the back and pulled it off.

  “Better,” he said. “Now the gown.”

  “I’ll need help.”

  He crooked a finger. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited while he slowly, patiently undid every last one of her twenty-six buttons, never once uttering the slightest objection or frustration. He was good at undressing women. Experienced, no doubt. She should be jealous but instead, it excited her. And all the while his warm, steady breath tickled the back of her neck.

  “There,” he said, when he’d finished.

  She rose, pulled her arms from the sleeves, and shimmied it down her hips until it puddled on the floor. Then she straightened and waited for further instruction.

  “The petticoat,” he said.

  She untied the waist and let it fall, stepped out, collected the gown and petticoat, and draped them over a chair. Again, she waited for his next command.

  He took his time, admiring the view. “Now, that,” he said. “Take off that armor.”

  Her hands had begun to shake as she struggled with the laces, but she loosened them enough to wriggle out of her stays and toss them to the side.

  “The shift,” he said in an unusually low and raspy voice.

  She swept her shift over her head and let it fall leaving her completely naked from the waist up.

  He sucked in a breath and sat up suddenly. “What are those?”

  She looked down. “My pantalettes.”

  “Panta…”

  “…lettes, yes.”

  His breathing had become more labored. “Take off the pantalettes,” he choked.

  She smiled to herself as she untied the waist and slid them slowly, inexorably, over her hips, down her legs, then pulled them off one foot, then the other. She bent to untie her garter, but he stopped her.

  “No. Leave them,” he said, opening the fall of his trousers one button at a time. “Leave your stockings and shoes on and take down your hair.”

  She pulled the thousand or so pins that held her hair aloft and set them on the table. Once it was down, she arranged her hair around her shoulders as he had done that first time aboard the Gael Forss.

  Magnus rose from the mattress like a towering pillar of muscle and limbs, chest heaving, shoulders rising and falling. She stood before him, absolutely naked but for her silk stockings and shoes, while he was fully dressed. Only his aroused member jutted out from his trousers cradled in his hand. He advanced on her, catlike. She backed away, her belly and her breasts quivering with anticipation.

  “Are you ready to be ruined, love?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He released a deep chuckle, lifted her by the waist, and set her bottom down on the cold wooden tabletop.

  She gasped, “Good Lord.” He cut off further exclamation with a kiss, hot and determined. He slid his hand up the inside of her thigh until he reached her curls slick with wanting him, needing him.

  “Yes,” she cried. “Do it. Ruin me. Ruin me hard and fast.”

  He lifted her knees and she wrapped her legs around his waist and hooked them at the ankles. He plunged inside her with a groan and began to move, thrusting ever faster, his head bent, jaw working, breathing hard, until he cried out a joyful, “Ha!” He stilled for a moment, thrust again, once more, and exhaled her name. “Virginia.”

  For several minutes afterward, he pressed kisses to her lips, eyes, nose, ears, murmuring between each kiss, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  When she finally coaxed him into letting her down from the table, he undressed. Together, naked, they ate their wedding supper seated on a tartan before the fire.

  “Are you finished ruining me, yet?” she asked, and popped the last bite of raspberry tart in her mouth.

  He leaned over and licked the jam from the corner of her mouth. “Nae, lass. But dinnae fash. We’ve got years and years to work on thoroughly debauching you.”

  Epilogue

  Beltane, Five Years Later, Thurso Festival Grounds

  Virginia allowed her four-year-old-son Steven to stand on top of the stone fence so that he could see his father. Her four older foster boys tumbled about on the grass behind her, laughing, shouting, and scrapping with each other.

  “Behave yourselves,” she said. “Your father’s turn is coming up soon and you won’t want to miss it.” Her words had very little effect. She held sway over the boys in matters of meals, manners, skinned knees, and bedtime stories, but only Magnus could curb their unruly behavior with a look or a word.

  “Did you not hear your mother tell you to behave yourselves?”

  The boys froze in their tracks, and Virginia spun to search for the owner of the commanding yet familiar voice.

  “Ian!” Overjoyed to see her husband’s cousin, she held out her arms, welcoming his embrace.

  Ian practically squeezed the life out of her and said, “Och, it’s good to see you, dear cousin.”

  “When did you get back and where’s Peter?”

  “Dropped anchor in Thurso Harbour yesterday. Peter’s off chasing skirts, no doubt. I saw Da in town, and he said I could find Magnus here.�
��

  Angus, the smallest of the foster boys at age six, tugged on Ian’s coat. “Are you the captain what sails Gael Forss?”

  “Gentlemen,” Virginia called to her boys. “Be polite and introduce yourselves to Captain Sinclair.”

  A mixture of pride and love pulled at her heart as Angus, Martin, Gavin, and Tom stepped forward one at a time to solemnly worship at the feet of their hero and Balforss legend, Captain Sinclair. Ian indulged each boy in formal greeting, complete with a manly handshake and a good word.

  “And this must be Steven.” Ian scooped the mass of swinging arms and churning legs off the fence. “I havenae seen you in over a year, laddie. You’ve grown.”

  “Put me on your shoulders, Cousin Ian. I want to watch Da pull the horses.”

  Ian turned a puzzled look Virginia’s way.

  “We’re here for the horse pull,” she explained. “The next competitor is John Campbell.”

  Ian lifted a knowing eyebrow at the mention of Campbell, a distant cousin of Magnus’s mother and not Magnus’s favorite person, by far.

  “Magnus’s team competes after them,” Virginia said, trying to disguise the nervousness in her voice. “His is the last team of the day.”

  A sharp whistle and the crack of a whip signaled Campbell’s team had begun. The boys raced to the fence to watch.

  Steven squirmed. “I want to see. I want to see.”

  Ian swept him onto his shoulders and jounced him a few times before he settled.

  The object of the horse pull, as Virginia had come to understand, was to demonstrate the power of the animals as well as the skill of their handler. This, of course, could only be achieved through excellent breeding and careful training.

  The way the pull worked was simple. A handler hitches his team of draft horses to a sled loaded with rocks weighing approximately one ton. At the handler’s command, the team pulls the sled the length of the field, one hundred feet. At that point, as Magnus had explained to her, speed and skill come into play. The handler unhitches the team, brings them around to the backside of the sled, and hitches them up again. No easy task when one was trying to beat the clock. Once reattached to the sled, the team drags the load back to the starting line.

  The first team of the day had been removed from the competition when they couldn’t drag the sled farther than the middle of the field. The fourth team had been removed when the handler couldn’t get his horses in line to hitch them up for the return drag. The second and third had completed the pull, but without impressive times. The team on the field at the moment, John Campbell’s pair of Brabants, had won the pull last year. They were the team to beat.

  Campbell’s team were magnificent-looking beasts. They strained and leaned into their task, while John Campbell whistled, shouted, and cracked his whip continuously. Like every other team that had taken the field today, Campbell’s would only drag the sled ten feet or so before pausing to gather strength. After a minute, Campbell would repeat his shouting and whip cracking. Virginia found it agonizing to watch the draft horses struggle.

  At last, Campbell finished and Virginia could breathe again. But not for long.

  “Daaaaa!” Steven shouted from Ian’s shoulders.

  “Da! Da! Da!” the boys shouted. “Over here, Da!”

  Magnus lifted his head from a last-minute adjustment to one of the horse’s driving bridles and waved to his boys. All his boys.

  Her oldest foster son, Grant, now seventeen, and Cousin Declan held the team while Magnus finished his preparations. As Campbell cleared the field, Magnus shook his hand.

  Now it was Magnus’s turn. He led his team onto the turf, two perfectly matched dapple-gray giants with dark gray manes, tails, and feathering.

  Five years of work had gone into this event. She and Magnus and the boys had invested their hearts, their souls, and their entire savings along with a substantial investment from Bulford on the selective breeding and training of these hearty beasts. Magnus called his new breed of draft horse Pride of Scotland or Prides for short. In a few minutes, they would find out if their endeavor would pay out. If their team showed well, farmers from all around County Caithness would buy their horses. If the team failed… She couldn’t even consider that possibility or her stomach would end up in knots.

  The number of spectators had doubled since Campbell took the field. Word had spread and people were curious to see if Magnus’s Prides could beat Campbell’s team of Brabants. The crowd hushed, and the boys stopped their fidgeting. Magnus finished hitching the team to the sled, while Grant and Declan held the Prides steady. Her husband climbed onto the sled or stoneboat, as some called it. Unlike all the other competitors, Magnus never carried a whip. He said if a team wouldn’t respond to their handler’s voice, they hadn’t been trained right.

  Virginia’s lungs filled with love and hope as she watched her husband standing tall behind his team holding the reins like some ancient Roman warrior driving a chariot.

  Dear Lord, please let him win. Please let him win.

  When the Prides were calm and perfectly ready, he whispered one word to his team. They leaned forward, and for that half second before the sled moved, Virginia’s heart beat a dozen times. Then the sled released its grip on the turf, and the Prides began their journey down the field, Declan and Grant walking alongside. The Pride of Scotland dragged that loaded sled the entire length of the field without stopping once. When they reached the hundred-foot mark, the crowd murmured their excitement, but they didn’t cheer. Not yet. No one wanted to spook the team and risk an accident.

  Moving quickly, smoothly, economically, Declan and Grant unhitched the team, led them around to the back of the sled and hitched them up again, all in less than a minute. Butterflies danced inside Virginia’s chest. They were almost there.

  You can do this, my darling. I know you can do this.

  Again, Magnus calmed his team, whispered a word, and together they trudged the length of the field in one go. When they reached the finish, the crowd erupted into shouts and cheers. They poured onto the field to congratulate Magnus. The boys escaped over the fence. There was no use trying to stop them. Nothing could keep them from flinging themselves onto their father.

  Virginia was crying and laughing all at the same time. In short, she was making a spectacle of herself with such a public display. But her husband had done what no one thought possible. And their foster son Grant had been at his father’s side, helping him the entire way.

  Joy. Such joy. Thank you, Lord.

  “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” Ian said, his face a mask of wonder. “I dinnae think anyone has ever seen horse and handler work together like that.”

  “He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”

  Still perched on Ian’s shoulders, Steven called out, “Daaaaa!”

  “Shall we congratulate your da and Grant, then, Steven?” Ian asked.

  “Oh, aye.” Steven climbed down his uncle like a monkey, clambered over the fence, and sprinted toward the mob surrounding his father. Thankfully, Magnus spotted him and swooped him into his arms before he was trampled.

  Virginia composed herself in time to see Declan and Caya envelope Ian in a welcoming embrace.

  Ian slapped Declan on the back. “Congratulations, cousin. That was an amazing show.”

  “Aye. There’s no doubt now. Magnus has bred the best draft horses in all of Scotland.”

  “Och, I see you’re breeding too, Caya,” Ian said. “How many will that make? Three?”

  “Four,” Declan said. “She’s carrying twins.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He dreamed it, of course,” Caya said and wrapped an arm around Declan’s narrow waist.

  Magnus strode toward their group, Steven riding his back, a boy under each arm, and one wrapped around his leg. He was completely unhindered by the extra burden. Grant trotted alongside his father carrying Angus on his back. Her giant husband was lathered and blowing as hard as his horses, but he beamed with
triumph.

  He set the boys down and peeled Martin off his leg. “I’ve come for my victory kiss,” he said, and taking no note of anyone else in the world, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her soundly on the mouth. His behavior was disgraceful, of course, and she would have to scold him, but for now, all that mattered was his happiness.

  Magnus gave Grant a bear hug. “You did well today, son. You kept the Prides calm. You were fast on the hitch. I couldnae have done it without you. I’m proud of you.” Grant, not a young man given to speeches, reddened and mumbled his thanks.

  Virginia hugged Grant, too, not caring if she embarrassed him. All the boys needed love, and she gave it whenever they would let her. She handed him a shilling. “Take your brothers for a flavored ice. You all deserve a treat.” Her mob of sons skipped off without a backward glance.

  “I want the cherry kind,” Tom called.

  “No, I want the cherry,” Angus protested.

  “You can all have cherry, ye numpties,” Grant said.

  Declan dug into Caya’s basket and pulled out a bottle and some pewter cups. “I brought my best whisky. Shall we celebrate?” Declan poured while Caya passed them out. “To the Pride of Scotland.”

  “Slainte,” they toasted.

  Magnus asked Ian, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to see you, but what are you doing here? We didnae expect you until fall.”

  “I’ve got good news,” Ian said with his most brilliant smile.

  “Have you come to tell us you’re getting married, too?” Magnus swatted Ian on the arm so hard he staggered.

  “Dinnae be daft. I’ve got a letter from my former commander. I ken he’s got a commission for me.”

  Virginia stepped closer. “I thought you loved captaining Gael Forss.”

  “I do, dear cousin, and it’s my honor to be her captain, but it’s never been my ambition. I’m a military man. I’ve been waiting these long years to be called back.”

  Declan shifted, a perplexed look on his face. “So, you’re no’ getting married?”

  Ian laughed. “No. Never. That’s no life for me.”

  Declan’s frown deepened. “Then, what aboot the girl in the breeks?”