by Lizzie Lamb
‘The event coordinator is looking for someone to advise her where to park the lorry with the backup generator. Have you seen Ruairi or Murdo lately?’
‘They walked up to the Big Hoose with Angus a few minutes ago.’
‘Oh, I wonder how long they’ll be. She said something about fridges and … ice sculptures being ruined?’
Isla shrugged disinterestedly and Fliss decided to cut her losses and return to the party.
‘Unless …’ Isla began slowly.
Fliss turned around, ‘Yes?’
‘Tell her to open the gates that overlook the loch. You know which ones I mean?’
‘The ornamental gates - with the gilded coat of arms and the Urquhart lion?’
‘The very ones,’ Isla smiled encouragingly. ‘I’d tell her myself but …’
‘You don’t want to face your cousins just yet?’ Fliss suggested sympathetically. ‘Don’t worry, I understand.’
‘That’s it, exactly.’
‘Fine, I’ll tell her.’ She turned away and started back towards the marquee. On impulse, she turned back: ‘Isla …’
‘What now?’ she asked with characteristic irritability.
‘I know everything’s changing - but it’s for the best. It’ll all work out in the end, you’ll see.’
‘You know, I think it just might.’
Isla gave a tight smile, took another long draw of her spliff, held onto the breath and then exhaled noisily over the loch.
Chapter Thirty Six
When Fliss returned to the marquee the Reel of the 51st Division was halfway through and managing quite well without her. She found Ruairi and when she asked for her dance card back, he refused to hand it over. His broad grin made it quite clear that she’d be spending the rest of the night with him, whether she liked it or not.
The look she sent him said that she liked it - a lot.
As the evening wore on, speeches were made, dinner was served and the programme of set reels danced through. By midnight, Fliss was feeling more than a little drunk, thanks to her champagne glass which had miraculous properties and appeared to refill itself. She wondered if she was capable of dancing the last reel - the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh - before breakfast was served at one o’clock.
‘This has to be the longest night of my life,’ Ruairi said around twelve thirty, sitting at her side, stone-cold sober, despite having knocked back his fair share of uisge beatha. He seemed transformed, lit from within and when he leaned towards Fliss and whispered: ‘I want to take you to my bed in Tigh na Locha, make love all night and watch the sun rise over the loch together,’ his eyes shone.
‘That’s an - interesting proposition,’ Fliss said in a professional tone, as though he’d just suggested some improvements for the therapy centre. ‘Be assured I’ll give it my fullest attention.’ Heart singing, a thrill of anticipation fizzed through her although she gave no outward sign of it. Sitting straight backed at the table - the bustier didn’t permit slouching - she watched the dancers and smiled at people she knew. Was it her imagination, or did the other guests keep glancing towards her and Ruairi as though they were the eighth wonder of the world? Teasingly, Ruairi tried to break her composure by detailing some of the pleasurable things he was going to do once they were alone
‘Will you behave?’ she begged, gasping as he traced circles in her palm underneath the cover of the linen tablecloth. Although she knew that if he did stop, she’d die from sheer frustration. She was glad that the rest of the family were dancing the Duchess of Perth and weren’t witness to their passionate handholding. Even Isla seemed in a happier mood since Murdo had leapt to her defence over the cousins’ improvised pole dance. She had joined in the dancing and was wearing her clan sash and brooch over her right shoulder, as was her birthright.
‘Mitzi told me that a Highland Ball was no place for sissies - I can see what she means.’ She yawned and leaned her head on Ruairi’s shoulder, feeling suddenly sleepy - despite her aroused physical state. Ruairi gave her a gentle shake when she yawned again.
‘Come on, Fliss. Hang on in there. They’ll be serving breakfast in half an hour - kedgeree and more whisky. The reels will go round on another loop until John Peel is announced around about three fifteen, signalling the end of the ball. Once we’re in Tigh na Locha, anyone who disturbs us - especially that idiot of an event coordinator - does so at their peril.’
Something deep inside Fliss tightened and released at his passionate words. She threw her head back in mock despair at the thought of waiting another three hours before they could be alone. She instantly regretted it because the room spun round in front of her before righting itself. To stay awake, she tried counting how many glasses of champagne she’d downed - and lost count after six. No wonder she had difficulty focusing on the dancers whirling around.
She frowned. There was something else - a little thought nibbling away at the edge of her happiness. Something she had to remember, whispered phrases about her contract … the new manageress … trusting Ruairi to make everything right. But she couldn’t remember the detail, or why it had seemed so very important at the start of the evening and now didn’t appear to matter. So she shook away the bothersome thoughts, surrendered to her inner hussy and trailed cool fingers along the inside of Ruairi’s thigh - which was far more pleasurable. Although his expression never altered, he gave a start as if he’d received an electric shock and then placed his hand over hers under the table to still her questing fingers. Fliss calmly picked up her champagne glass with her free hand and took a sip, revelling in her power to make him respond to her touch.
Around about a quarter to four Ruairi checked his watch and cast an eye over the diehards who were being politely ushered to their cars by an exhausted Murdo. Then, patently considering he’d executed his duties as Laird, he led Fliss out of the marquee and into the night. As they walked up to Tigh na Locha, he removed his black velvet jacket and draped it round her shoulders. The silky lining retained his body heat and she snuggled in to it as he put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her into his side.
Except for the stars, the night was ink black. Fliss was glad of the darkness because it allowed her to school her features; and the cool night air helped to sober her up as they zigzagged between the cars parked at the rear of the house. She was in a pleasurable state of turmoil as they entered the house - happy that he’d made his intentions clear, but anxious over how the evening would pan out. They walked down the long corridor that led to the kitchen and went through into the hall. It was quiet and welcoming with a peat fire burning in the large grate and low carbon wall lights casting shadows into the corners.
‘Everything okay?’ Ruairi asked, removing his jacket from her shoulders and draping it over the newel post.
‘Fine,’ she lied, unconvincingly.
Fliss was dismayed to find that her teeth were chattering and her hands were shaking. By returning to the house with Ruairi she was sending out a clear signal that she was cool with the fact they would be lovers before the night was over. However, it had been some time since she’d slept with a man, maybe eighteen months or more - and then it hadn’t been a great success. What if she was no good at this, what if she didn’t come up to expectations. What if -
‘That’s enough.’ Ruairi paused with one foot on the bottom tread of the cantilevered staircase, held her firmly by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake.
‘What is?’
‘You’re overthinking this. Let everything just be tonight, Fliss. We’ll thrash out the problems and settle all the questions in the morning. Can you do that?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. Her mouth was suddenly dry as his hands moved from her shoulders, framed her face and he kissed her once - gently.
‘We’ll go to my room, no one will dare disturb us there. Not if they value their head,’ he joked to lighten the atmosphere. Taking her hand, he led her up the stairs with its tartan runner fraying at the edges, ancient, rusting claymores arranged in
a circle round a targe on the wall - and generations of Urquharts looking down disapprovingly from dark family portraits.
Suddenly Fliss remembered something Isla had said in the conservatory and stopped half way up the stairs. ‘Ruairi - I just want you to know, I,’ she gulped and took in a breath. ‘I know Isla made out that I knew all about Tantric sex - but I don’t. Just in case you have expectations and are disappointed …’
‘Don’t worry, Tantric sex hasn’t made its way this far north yet,’ he said straight-faced, though he struggled to stop a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. ‘I put it down to a combination of the Free Church of Scotland keeping it secret, and our freezing cold winters. In Argyllshire, it’s considered daringly risqué if you make love without keeping your hat and gloves on - and possibly a fetching, woollen scarf.’ That made her giggle and they continued up the stairs. When they reached the wide landing, Ruairi paused. ‘Know something, Fliss?’
‘What?’
‘You are priceless.’ He drew her into his arms, leaned back against the carved mahogany bannister, and kissed her. Then he held her at arm’s length and sent her a burning, totally honest look. ‘You can say no at any time. You know that, don’t you?’
‘And why would I want to do that?’ This time her grey-green eyes sent out a bold message telling him how much she wanted this to happen. She wasn’t a shrinking virgin being dragged unwillingly to a marriage bed. She was nearly twenty-five years old for goodness sake. Women of her age normally needed a calculator to keep score of the lovers they’d had. In her case, the fingers of one hand would suffice.
‘Good.’ He led her past Mitzi’s bedroom - his room by rights, and then stopped at a heavy oak door, which had a flowered chamber pot strategically positioned outside it.
‘A chamber pot?’ Fliss questioned and raised an eyebrow.
‘Don’t worry; I don’t have an undisclosed medical condition - the chamber pot’s for the leaks. When it rains or when the snow melts on the roof, saucepans, buckets and chamber pots are dragooned into service to catch the drips. One of the first things I’m going to do when Cat and Isla’s money reverts to the estate, is have the roof replaced. I’ve already applied for a grant to help with the costs. Tigh na Locha is a listed building and we have to replace like for like, which works out expensive.
‘No more chamber pots?’
‘Unless you want to grow geraniums - isn’t that what people used to do?
‘I’m too young to remember the olden days,’ she laughed and relaxed, thanks to this inconsequential banter and Ruairi’s consideration for her feelings. He pushed his bedroom door open and waited for her to cross the threshold.
The room was much smaller than she’d expected and she deduced it had probably been the laird’s dressing room in the days when the lord and lady of the house slept separately after producing the required heir and a spare. It held a three-quarter brass bed deigned for a different generation of highlander and which was clearly much too small for Ruairi. The wallpaper - a faded vintage Laura Ashley design, reminded her of the décor in the Elgin Crescent house. Was this one room in the house Mitzi hadn’t been permitted to makeover, she wondered?
‘My inner sanctum,’ Ruairi announced, as if reading her mind. There was little furniture in the room apart from a small, prettily tiled fireplace, two crammed bookcases holding an array of battered sporting trophies, the obligatory mahogany tallboy and a heavily carved wardrobe.
‘It’s very Spartan,’ Fliss laughed, ‘almost monk-like, in fact.’
‘Ah, but with all mod cons.’ Pretending to be slighted by her comment, he proudly indicated a wall-mounted flat screen TV, iPad and docking system for an iPod. ‘As for it being monk-like, you’ll have to be the judge of that. Come here …’ He removed his sporran, and settled comfortably on a wide window seat built over a cast iron radiator which resembled a coiled serpent. Fliss joined him and he caught her by the wrists and pulled her into the space between his thighs.
For several seconds he looked at her without speaking as though he couldn’t quite believe that she was here - in his bedroom, at last. Then he gave a sexy smile, brought his knees together and held her there - running his hands from her wrists and along her forearms before coming to rest on her shoulders.
‘Madam, will you dance?’ he asked in a husky voice, sending her a look of such passionate intent that a frisson ran thought her and the room blurred round the edges.
‘With you - yes,’ she responded, eyes shining as he pulled her closer into his body. His kilt rucked up, and then there was nothing between them but a silk taffeta skirt and her underwear.
‘Now I know what a Scotsman wears under his kilt,’ she said huskily without taking her eyes off his face, as his penis rose up against her stomach. Her smoky look sent Ruairi an unambiguous message - she was ready to take this step forward, no matter where it led, no matter what the consequences.
‘There’s nothing worn under this kilt I can assure you, lady. It’s all in perfect working order,’ Ruairi quipped, laughing at the old joke. ‘Now shut up wumman and kiss me,’ he commanded in broad Scots. Fliss did as she was told, knowing he wanted her to make the first move and show him she had no second thoughts. Their first kiss was tentative – but as Ruairi slid the zip down on her skirt she pressed harder against him and deepened it. Vivienne Westwood’s finest couture slithered onto the floor and pooled at her feet in a rustle of blue silk and she stepped out of it.
She felt the warmth of the ancient radiator against her knees and the cool air of the bedroom around her as she stood before him - wearing nothing but hold-up stockings, bustier and thin silk knickers. She drew out of the kiss and opened her eyes to find Ruairi looking at her as though all his Christmases had come at once - which was exactly how she felt.
‘I won’t be needing this,’ he said and removed the ceremonial sgian dubh tucked inside his thick white sock. ‘And you don’t need this.’ He took the tiara out of her updo. ‘Or this,’ he unfastened the sapphire and diamond necklace and placed it on the padded window seat. ‘You don’t need any adornment, Fliss - you are beautiful just as you are.’ She made as if to say something but he placed his thumb on her lips. ‘No, don’t say a word, just stay there. Now it’s my turn …’
Moving away from her, he walked over to his bedside table, rummaged in a drawer and found a condom. Turning his back towards her, he slipped it on and then rearranged his kilt. Pulling a tartan comforter off the bed, he draped it round her with a theatrical twirl and then reclaimed his place on the deep window ledge and drew her back between his thighs.
‘Now, let’s remove that dangerous flower - it’s already speared me twice. And while I don’t mind being pierced to the heart in a good cause, I can do without it.’ As he said pierced to the heart, he turned her round and unfastened each tiny hook and eye of the bustier. He peeled it back, kissing her shoulders and then down the length of her spine. Fliss closed her eyes and leaned against him, holding the cashmere blanket in front of her for warmth and modesty. Although her innermost thoughts were neither chaste nor virtuous when her bustier joined the skirt on the floor, and his hands covered her breasts. She covered them with her own and enjoyed the delicious sensation of his thumbs caressing her nipples for several long, earth-shifting moments before she twisted round in his arms.
‘I think,’ she said softly, ‘that you’re slightly overdressed, Sir Ruairi.’
Standing in front of him, naked apart from stockings, dancing shoes and silk knickers, she pulled at one end of his bow tie to release the knot and then dragged it free of his winged collar. Next, she unfastened his shirt buttons one by one, discovered he was wearing an old-fashioned dress shirt and pulled it over his head. Without bothering to untie the laces of his brogues, Ruairi slipped them off and wrapped his stockinged feet round the back of her ankles, drawing her even closer - so that her breasts were pressed up against his chest.
She felt the hard planes of his body against her soft flesh, let out a
sigh and tipped her head back. Ruairi lowered his head and, supporting her with both hands, bent her back as he suckled each nipple in turn. Fliss gasped and pressed his head closer, closer, as though she couldn’t get enough of the rhythmic tease and pull of his lips and teeth. This went on for several pleasurable minutes during which she was dimly aware of calling out his name, as if she was in a waking dream. Then she stood upright and drew him into a kiss that took his breath away as her tongue touched and explored the warm, sensitive skin of his lips and mouth.
With a muttered imprecation, he span her round until she was facing away from him and could feel the urgent press of his penis against her buttocks. Then he slid his fingers inside her skimpy underwear and found her moist, secret place and she shuddered. He whispered some words in Gaelic, words she didn’t understand. However, that was almost immaterial because his tone - deep, sexy and full of promise, spoke for him.
She gasped as he stroked the sensitive folds of skin with one finger and instinctively fell into a rocking rhythm as he teased the tip of her clitoris with his thumb. She reached one hand behind her, pressed his face into the nape of her neck - and as words failed her, she moaned. ‘Yes?’ He breathed in her perfume, his breath hot against her skin, his stubble rasping against her neck. ‘Is this what you want, mo chridhe? And this?’ One finger slid inside her and began to move rhythmically but with greater urgently. When she could bear it no longer she turned round and saw his eyes were closed - as though that kept him anchored in reality and delayed his reaction to the delightful things he was doing to her.
‘And maybe this,’ she replied.
Showing none of her earlier hesitation or caring what tomorrow might bring, she stepped out of her knickers and pushed up his kilt. Climbing onto the window seat, half-kneeling, half-sitting on his lap, she straddled and enfolded him in one fluid movement. This time, he was the one on the brink as she tightened her muscles around his penis and moved along the length of him, holding onto his shoulders for balance. And, as he took her nipple in his mouth once more and sucked, she called out.