Wolf, Joan

by Highland Sunset

  "I walked back from the stables." He let her slide the jacket off his shoulders. There was blood as well as water on the sleeves. His shirt was wet as well. Van went to add another log to the fire.

  As the flames blazed up she turned to look at him. "What happened?"

  He was staring down at his muddy boots. His shirt was open at the neck and the firelight glimmered on the strong, smooth column of his throat. "The foal was in the wrong position," he said in a strange, dull voice. "We couldn't get it rotated. She was trying so hard that we couldn't turn him. One of his legs was caught." He leaned forward and pressed his knuckles against his eyes. "She just couldn't get him out," he said, his voice muffled. "Christ. It went on so long."

  Van's throat hurt with the tears she was trying to suppress. She left the fire and came over to stand beside him. "I'm so sorry," she repeated, feeling how woefully inadequate the words were.

  His fists tightened and the motion set the muscles rippling along his arms and shoulders. The wet shirt was clinging to his skin. Van drew her breath in sharply. "I had a feeling about this foal," he was saying. "I just had a feeling."

  "There was nothing you could have done," she said. "Edward." She knelt so she could see his face. "You tried," she said. "There was nothing more you could have done."

  He dropped his hands away from his face. The heat of the fire had begun to dry his hair and the loosened strands that slanted across his forehead were turning a coppery gold. She continued to kneel beside him, her face very close to his. She scarcely saw his hands move to reach for her, and then his mouth was coming down on hers, crushing, urgent, merciless. Van flung her arms around his neck. She felt his body rock-hard against hers, his strong arms lifting her up. It was a savage, searing kiss, one that should have frightened a girl of Van's inexperience. What she felt running hot through her veins, however, was not fear, but desire.

  His mouth left her lips and moved to her throat, her breasts. She could feel the fire of his kisses through the silk fabric of her blue gown. She slid her fingers into his disordered wet hair. "Edward," she whispered in a shaking voice. "Edward."

  She felt his entire body tense. He pulled away from her a little and lifted his head. If taking her would ease his pain, Van thought, she wouldn't stop him. He read the thought in her eyes and drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Van," he said in an unrecognizable voice, "this is not a good idea."

  She didn't reply and, without another word, he set her away from him, stood up, and walked to the far side of the room. Van ran her fingers through her disordered curls and sat back on her heels.

  "I can't bear to see you so unhappy," she said in a small and wavering voice.

  He was breathing as if he had been running, but he had got his voice under control. "Is this true?"

  She ran her tongue around suddenly dry lips. "Yes."

  There was a very long silence. Van found herself listening to the tick-tocking of the clock in the corner. A log fell on the fire, sending up a spray of sparks.

  "We don't even like each other," he said at last. There was a look about his mouth she had never seen before, not even for his mother. Van's heart began to pound.

  "Viking," she whispered. "Sassenach." At that he crossed the floor back toward where she was still kneeling. When he reached her he held out his hands and drew her to her feet. Then he bent his head and kissed her again.

  It was not so frantic this time, but long and slow and remarkably thorough. Van melted to him, answered to him, her body pliant and yielding against his. When finally he raised his head, she found herself trembling. He held her close against him and she leaned her cheek against his wet, warm shoulder. His back felt so strong against the palms of her hands. She closed her eyes.

  "That settles it then," he said in a deep voice. "You'll marry me."

  Van's eyes flew open. "Marry you?" she said, clearly startled. Then, as his words registered, she stared at him out of wide and frightened eyes. "I can't marry you, Edward. My father would never allow it."

  The eyes that met hers was burningly intense. "I'm not interested in your father," he said. "At the moment I am only interested in you. Do you want to marry me, Van?"

  His eyes were so blue. She said, on an audibly caught breath, "Yes. Oh, yes, Edward. I do want to marry you!"

  That look was back about his mouth again. "Van," he said. "The most honest woman in the world."

  Her whole body was aching for the feel of his hands. She forced herself to move away from him and ask, "Why do you say that?"

  He smiled, that beautiful tender look still about his mouth. "You never pretend," he said. "Not even to yourself. That time I kissed you at the Evesham ball— any other woman would have blamed it on me. But not you."

  "But, Edward," said Van, "I kissed you back." He laughed and the fireplace flames danced in his brilliant eyes. "You see what I mean?" he said. "You admit it."

  Van gave him a long, considering look. "You sound as if that sort of thing has happened to you before."

  He chuckled. "As it happens, I don't make a practice of kissing girls in anterooms."

  "Well, I should hope not!" she said forcefully, and he chuckled again.

  "I have been trying so hard not to think about that kiss," Van said.

  "I have been trying so hard not to do it again," he returned with amusement. Then, a serious look coming over his face, "But it was not until this afternoon that I realized how much I loved you."

  She gazed up at him out of wondering eyes. "This afternoon?"

  "Mmm. When you said you couldn't abide Richardson's Pamela. I knew then. I had known for a long time, of course, but I wouldn't let myself know I knew." He smiled faintly. "If that makes sense?"

  Van smiled up at him tenderly. "It makes perfect sense. I have been telling myself that my feeling for you was only a physical attraction."

  His eyes began to dance. "Well, there is that, of course."

  She ignored him. "But tonight, when you were so hurt, / hurt too."

  He cupped her face in strong, gentle hands. She gazed up at him, her eyes full of trouble. "Edward," she whispered, "I cannot marry you without my father's permission."

  He sighed. "I know, sweetheart. I know." He kissed her forehead and dropped his hands. "We'll get his permission."

  She looked at him doubtfully. How was she to explain her father to a man like Edward? "He is not very... flexible, you see," she began. Her narrow, sensitive lips quivered faintly. "He is never going to understand my wishing to marry a Sassenach!"

  "If I understand correctly, he married one himself," he said dryly. "Sit down, sweetheart, and let's talk this out."

  Obediently she moved to the sofa he had indicated. Then, when they were seated side by side, "Dhé! What if there is a French landing?"

  "There won't be a French landing," he said calmly and convincingly. "The French are far too busy consolidating their gains on the Continent. Perhaps, if Louis XIV were still king, he would send an army for the Stuarts. But this king won't. He proved his lack of interest when he gave in to English demands and forced the Pre... ah, James to move his court from France to Rome."

  Van believed him. They had been waiting since 1715 for the French to send an army, she thought. Why should it happen now?

  "But, Edward, my father still thinks there is a good possibility the French will come."

  "What does your mother think of all this?" he asked.

  "Of the possibility of a French landing?" Van thought, her brow furrowed. "Mother never says very much about it," she answered at last, slowly.

  "Would your mother object to our marrying?"

  Van thought of how her mother had deliberately deceived her father about the Linton political affiliations. "No. I don't think she would object."

  "Well, then, I suggest that you write to your mother while I write to your father. From what I gather, Morar took your mother from parents who were fully as unhappy about him as he is likely to be about me."

  Van gave a sudden deep chuckl
e.

  "We won't make any mention of my political party," Edward said dryly.

  She looked at him, suddenly somber. "I will never curtsy to the elector, Edward."

  He was equally serious in reply. "I would never ask you to." He raised her hands to his mouth and kissed her fingers and then her palms. "I think you had better go on up to bed."

  She closed her fists over his kiss, as if to hold it safe. "Good night," she said softly. "M'eudail."

  They stared at each other. "You and I," he said at last, and the familiar amusement was back in his voice. "Who would have ever thought it?"

  Van rose to her feet. "Well, I know someone who is going to be delighted," she informed him. "Your mother. She has been praying for years for you to get married!"

  He began to laugh, and after a light, proprietary touch on the top of his now-dry gilt hair, she went upstairs and got into bed.

  Lady Linton was more than delighted; she was ecstatic. As Van finished her letter to her mother, she found herself wishing that her own parents would react to the news with such wholehearted approval. Her mother very well might, but there was no disguising from herself the fact that her father was going to be furious.

  She wouldn't think about it, she decided, after she had given her letter to Edward to be franked and posted. There was nothing else she could do, so she might as well stop fretting and enjoy the time she had with Edward. The time seemed even more precious because of the half-buried fear of her father's reply.

  It was astonishing, Van often found herself thinking, how brilliant and beautiful life could be when you did even the smallest, most trivial thing with the one you loved.

  A thought similar to this came to her one afternoon as she leaned against the paddock fence and watched Edward work Marcus. As always, the grace of the huge stallion, the complete harmony between horse and rider, brought an ache in her throat. Then Marcus began to come down the center line of the paddock toward her at a slow canter. As Van watched, he began to change leads at every step. Her eyes widened with sheer astonishment.

  "What was that?" she asked Edward when they had halted in front of her. "It looked as if he were dancing!"

  "Flying changes of lead on every step," he replied. "It's difficult to do." His blue eyes laughed at her and he grinned like a schoolboy. Van's heart turned over. "We were showing off for you," he said.

  "It was beautiful." Her voice was very soft. "Can you do it again?"

  "Of course," he replied cockily, and turning Marcus to the diagonal line of the paddock, he proceeded to do so.

  Van drew a deep breath. This is happiness, she thought. Standing here, with the sun on my head, and Edward and Marcus showing off for me. No matter what may happen, this is a moment I will always have. Nothing can take it away from me.

  The spring weather was beautiful and for the week they were at Staplehurst they were almost always outdoors. One afternoon Edward took Van fishing at a small secluded lake a few miles from the house.

  "I know it's nothing to compare to Loch Morar," he said to her, "but I spent a great many happy childhood days at this lake."

  They had finished fishing and were picnicking on some cold meat and fruit Edward had brought along with them. Van's white teeth bit into a perfect peach from the Staplehurst greenhouse and she looked thoughtfully around the small, glassy lake on whose shores they were so comfortable reclining.

  "It's very pretty here," she said, and meant it, "But, no, it's nothing like Loch Morar."

  "What is Morar like?" he asked, his deep voice curiously quiet.

  "Morar is beautiful," Van answered. "The loch is surrounded by mountains." She looked around. "Nothing is green, as it is here. It's all jagged cliffs and purple heather, and the sky, on a clear day, is blue as cobalt. When you look in the waters of the loch you can see the mountains as if in a mirror." She rested her chin on her up-drawn knees. "At the end of the loch is the sea." Her eyes were focused ahead, on something quite different from the placid waters of Staplehurst's little lake "When you look across the sound, you can see the Cuillens of Skye."

  He was leaning up on one elbow, gazing at her averted face. When he didn't answer, she turned to look at him. His long body was stretched comfortably on the grass, his eyes half-closed against the brightness of the sun.

  "You can see the loch from your home?" he asked.

  "Yes. From two sides of the castle, at any rate. The other two sides look out only on the mountains." She smiled at him. "Mother called it the most beautiful place in the world. I think she's right."

  He smiled back almost imperceptibly, and putting his hand on her wrist, levered her back until she was lying beside him on the grass. She looked up into his eyes, now so close to hers. "It's nothing at all like Kent," she said softly.

  The smile had completely left his face. It was serious, concentrated, intent. "You have your mother in you," he said, and his low voice held a note that Van could feel in her stomach. "Her music, her intellectual curiosity. But the fire and the passion—they are from Morar. You're the perfect mixture, Van. Sassenach and Celt. Did you know that?"

  She didn't answer. Her eyes were locked on his mouth, which was coming closer to hers, and closer still.... She stretched her body all along the length of his, her arms around his neck, her breasts crushed against the hard wall of his chest. When his tongue came into her mouth she shuddered a little and arched up against him. His hand moved on her back, her waist.

  It was agony when she felt him pull away from her. "Almighty God," he said. "This is a very dangerous activity for the open air."

  Van lay back on the grass where he had left her and stared at him. He had opened the neck of his shirt earlier against the heat and she could see a pulse beating wildly in the hollow of his throat. He was so beautiful, so strong. She wanted to see him without his shirt, wanted to run her hands along the smooth skin that covered the hard muscles she knew were there in his back and arms and shoulders.

  Dhé, thought Van a little wildly. I never knew I was such a wanton woman.

  Her hair was disheveled, her mouth a little swollen from his kisses. Her eyelids looked heavy. "If we don't get out of here immediately," Edward said, "I won't answer for the consequences." He ran a hand over his own sun-bright hair. "Get up, Van," he said, almost irritably. And she moved to obey him.

  On the way home they went by the paddock, where Marcus was turned out with one of the mares. Edward stopped the trap he was driving.

  "I thought Marcus was always turned out by himself," Van said, puzzled.

  "It's time Aurora was bred," Edward replied. He was staring at the two horses in the paddock.

  Van looked too. Stallion and mare were galloping around, the mare seemingly trying to avoid him but unable to do so. He nipped her flanks and herded her from one end of the paddock to the other until, finally, he had her cornered. At that point, the mare gave up.

  Van stared at the spectacle before her with a pounding heart. She had seen dogs mating before, but it had never been anything like this—powerful, primitive, grand. The mare, once caught, had been totally receptive. As Marcus slid out and brought his forelegs back to the ground, Van's eyes flew to the man beside her. He glanced at her face very briefly and started the trap forward. "A good one," was all he said. Van clasped her hands together in her lap to conceal their trembling.

  Two days later they all went back to London to await word from the Earl of Morar.

  CHAPTER 10

  Spring had come to the Highlands as well. Frances MacIan sniffed the air with pleasure as she bent over a bed of daffodils in the walled garden Alasdair had built for her some years ago. She finished her gardening and walked slowly back to the house, gazing around her with intense appreciation for the sun-bathed landscape of mountain and loch. All of the hardships of her life in the highlands had always been mitigated by this great natural beauty among which she lived.

  She came into her own small sitting room, stripping off her gloves and throwing them down on a table. It
was a moment before her eye spotted the letter on her writing desk. Frances recognized the signature of the Earl of Linton on the frank and smiled with pleasure. Van had been rather dilatory about writing recently. Frances took the letter over to the window and opened it.

  She read it through completely three times. Then she folded it and stared blindly out at the mountains that loomed so closely behind the castle.

  Van and the Earl of Linton. Frances couldn't believe it. The thought, of course, had crossed her mind once or twice, idly, speculatively, but she had never considered it at all seriously.

  Good God, Frances thought distractedly, what was Alasdair going to say?

  She looked down at the letter once more. "I know you will all find it difficult to believe," Van had written. "But I love him, Mother. I love him—and where he is, that is where I want to be also. You, I think, will understand that."

  Frances let out her breath and began to pace the room, her brow furrowed. If Van felt like that, then she must marry Linton. In fact, Frances thought ruefully, were it not for Alasdair, she would be delighted by such news. Van was far more suited to be the Countess of Linton than she was to be Lady MacDonald of Lochaber. Of course, Alasdair would never see that.

  Alasdair. It all came back to Alasdair. He would be furious at this news. Furious at Van and furious at her. Frances shivered. In all their married life she had never had anything from Alasdair but tenderness and love. How could she possibly oppose him on this matter of Van's marriage?

  She would have to. She knew, unerringly, that his instinct would be to demand Van's immediate return home. Her daughter was counting on her for help. Van's letter had made that clear.

  Van had said that Linton had written to Alasdair. God in heaven, Frances thought with cold horror, what if Alasdair also found out that Linton was a Whig? Van had to know, although she had never written a word on the subject. Everyone in Britain knew of the Romneys, Frances thought a little wildly, everyone except the chiefs of the Western Highlands, to whom the English nobility were as alien as Turks.