by Lizzie Lamb
‘I want this. This. This. This!’ Her voice reached a crescendo as she climaxed and almost stopped breathing as waves of pleasure rippled through her. Ruairi pushed deeper inside her and she moved with greater urgency until she heard his groan of release and felt him pulse inside her. Then all was still.
‘God. Fliss… A chuisle mo chroí,’ he said. She laid her forehead against his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around her, supporting her slight weight on his knees until, reluctantly, he slid out of her. With one swift movement, he gathered her into his arms, carried her over to the bed, removed her soft dancing slippers and covered her with the tartan blanket. Then he walked into the adjacent bathroom and when he returned, he was gloriously naked. Grinning, he registered her hungry appraisal of him, raised a corner of the blanket and climbed into the bed beside her.
‘Spoons?’ he asked, turning her onto her side and snuggling into her back. ‘The bed won’t allow for anything more than that, I’m afraid.’
‘Spoons it is then,’ she yawned and wriggled her bottom until she fitted in the hollow made by his knees, which were drawn up in the foetal position. He laid one arm across her as if to ensure she didn’t fall out of bed or escape, and then he kissed between her shoulder blades as she squirmed with delight.
‘Fliss, don’t do that,’ he murmured against her left ear. ‘Especially as you’re still wearing those sexy stockings. Give me some recovery time,’ he nuzzled her neck again.
‘I’ll be as quiet as mouse and as still as …’ before she finished the sentence, she was fast asleep.
‘When Mitzi moves out and I get my room back,’ Ruairi said some hours later as he fed her a ham sandwich he’d brought up from the kitchen, ‘I’m going to invest in a new bed. The estate carpenter should be capable of dismantling The Laird’s Bed and rebuilding it round a new divan. Shouldn’t he?’
‘I should think so,’ Fliss replied.
The way she felt, everything seemed possible, especially after they’d made love for a second and then a third time. Giggling as the old brass bed moved in harmony with them, creaking with every thrust until they’d been forced to drag the mattress onto the floor and make love there. Or wake the whole house.
She didn’t know if he’d made love to Fiona in that narrow brass bed and didn’t want to. And in a way, it didn’t matter, those days were over. She focused instead on the wild, unrestrained lovemaking they’d shared last night. Maybe it was the romantic setting, the champagne. Maybe it was because she knew for certain that she loved him - had known for weeks, really - that she’d felt able to lose her inhibitions and make love in such an unfettered manner. She’d never acted like that with any other man, but somehow - like the memory of Fiona and what they might have done in this room, in that bed, none of that mattered, either.
‘Can I ask you what mo chridhe means? You said it several times last night.’
‘It means my love.’
‘And the other thing, a chuisle mo chroí?’
‘Pulse of my heart,’ he translated and continued tracing a leisurely line from her lips, between her breasts and much lower before his fingers came to rest in a soft, tantalising place.
‘Mmmm - and what else did you say?’ Fliss wriggled and pressed closer to his hand. ‘Sentences, phrases?’
‘Ah, that,’ he looked slightly embarrassed.
‘What?’ she demanded, laughing up at him.
‘I was reciting the periodic table in Gaelic, starting with alkali metals and working my way through to noble gases. I had to do something to slow myself down - oof.’
‘That is so not romantic,’ Fliss poked him none too gently in the diaphragm.
‘I also thought about redesigning the central heating system - very good for the concentration. That’s another job to be undertaken when Mitzi and the girls move out. Sorry. Plumbing, leaking roofs and ordering new bedroom furniture - it’s not exactly romantic talk, you’re right. It’s simply that I haven’t been able to make any plans for so long that …’
‘It’s, okay - I get it.’
‘And what’s the story behind your intriguing little tattoo. Carpe Diem?’ He’d traced it with his fingers last night, and then his tongue before moving lower - much lower.
‘What? You think we don’t use Latin in Pimlico? Speak it all the time for your information.’ She propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him, wonderingly. She still couldn’t believe that she was here, in his bedroom and they were together at last. ‘Becky, my best friend and I had them done when we were seventeen - after watching Dead Poets Society.’ She zoned out temporarily, remembering the night in the Elgin Square Gardens and Cat’s desire to have a tattoo.
She looked past his broad shoulders to where dawn was edging in through the half-open curtains. Should she creep back to the Wee Hoose, she wondered? Or would Ruairi install her at the breakfast table still wearing last night’s clothes and dare anyone to comment? She remembered her first breakfast at Tigh na Locha, the arguments, their stand up row in the library, him confiscating her contract and the cheque he’d written. It all seemed so long ago.
Move out. Moving on.
That’s what they’d come up here to discuss, wasn’t it?
‘Ruairi,’ she began tentatively. ‘Since we’re on unromantic things like plumbing and carpentry, you promised you would explain your reasons for asking Angus not to renew my contract. It’s nearly morning - so …’
‘I have a different position to offer you.’ He kissed her once on the lips, leapt off the mattress and strode over to the tallboy, completely at ease with his nakedness.
‘A better one?’ Fliss swallowed hard and made herself focus on her future. But she was distracted by the way his muscles moved under his skin, and how much she wanted him to make love to her - now!
‘I think it is; but I’m not sure what your reaction will be.’ He hunted around in the deep top drawer, eventually bringing out a tissue-wrapped parcel. ‘Almost dawn. A new day - the first day of the rest of our lives.’ He paused and looked out of the window and towards the loch. ‘And I want to ask you if - what the fuck?’ he exclaimed as something beyond the window caught his attention and made him lose his grip.
The tissue-wrapped parcel slipped out of his fingers and landed at his feet.
Chapter Thirty Seven
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Struggling to her knees, Fliss dragged the crumpled sheet off the mattress and wrapped it around her. Ruairi, seemingly rendered speechless, knelt up on the window seat apparently not caring that he was naked and in full view of anyone in the gardens. Joining him, Fliss looked over the rose arches and towards the loch. The only difference as far as she could tell, was that the ornamental gates were open and a lorry was parked on the gravel drive between them and the house.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The gates - they’re open,’ he said in a stricken voice. Fliss wrapped the sheet round them and pressed herself into his back. A cold feeling settled on her when Ruairi distractedly pushed free of the sheet and away from her.
‘Open? Is that a problem - I don’t understand.’ Her voice trembled and her post-coital, loved-up feeling evaporated. She was transported back to last night - Isla smoking the joint outside the marquee, the stressed-out event manager, the melting ice sculptures. Then, Isla’s ever - so - helpful suggestion: Tell her to open the gates … you know which ones I mean? And her, trotting back into the marquee happy to carry out Isla’s instructions to the letter.
‘The gates,’ Ruairi enunciated slowly, almost as if he was dragging the words out of his heart, ‘are only opened when the Laird’s funeral cortege passes through on its way to the church. They’ve remained closed since the day my father was laid to rest and should’ve remained closed until my -’
‘No, don’t say it; don’t even think it.’
Wildly, she turned her back on the wretched gates and threw her arms around him, trying to keep him safe. Unable to bear the thought of losing him -
just when they’d found each other. She’d lost everyone she’d ever loved and it had left her vulnerable and prey to everything life threw at her. She didn’t want to go through that again, not for a long, long time. She glanced up at Ruairi, his face was shadowy in the grey light and his eyes had lost their spark. He looked beaten and she feared for his welfare and - more to the point, his reaction when he learned of her unwitting part in the gates’ opening.
She said nothing for a few minutes as she tried to process the problem and come up with a solution. Even so, her heart was beating in her throat and she was filled with dread at his reaction. When she spoke, she weighed each word knowing she had to make it count.
‘Can’t the lorry be moved quietly and the gates closed before everyone realises what’s happened? No harm done?’ Ruairi’s incredulous look told her that she’d seriously underestimated the significance of the gates in Kinloch Mara folklore.
He drew his dark eyebrows together, rubbed his hands over his stubble and took a deep breath.
‘Fliss, last night someone wiped out eight hundred years of Urquhart history in a single stroke.’ She could tell he was eager to leave, keen to find out exactly how this state of affairs had come about. Retrieving his kilt off the floor, he pulled on a sweatshirt, tied the laces on his brogues and slipped the sgian dubh down his sock. ‘Whoever has done this, will be handed their P45 by the end of this morning and sent packing,’ he said forcefully.
Sent packing? Fliss’s stomach flipped over, not only at his clipped tone but at the way he thoughtfully fingered the sgian dubh’s ornate hilt. Ruairi might look every inch a man of this century with his Bang and Olufsen flat screen TV, iPad and the rest, but ancient warrior DNA was in his bones and at times like this - blood will out.
‘Ruairi …’ Last night’s tender, generous lover had vanished, replaced by the stern-faced Laird of Kinloch Mara who had woken up to find almost a thousand years of family obliterated. The colour drained from her face as she steeled herself for his inevitable reaction when he discovered the truth.
Plainly misreading the reason for her pallor, Ruairi tenderly brushed her tangled, bed-head hair out of her eyes. ‘I’m sorry the day’s been ruined, I’d planned it so differently. But don’t worry; this has nothing to do with you. Murdo and I will sort it out and then you and I can spend time together.’
She moved away from him, gathered her clothes together from the four corners of the room and laid them on the bed frame. She tried hard to hold onto the feeling of being loved, cherished and belonging she’d woken up with, but the feeling was fading fast - leaving only coldness and anxiety.
‘That’s just it, Ruairi. It has everything to do with me,’ she said quietly.
‘Of course, mo chridhe - that was thoughtless of me, you’re part of my life now and these events will impact on you, too.’ Sending her a contrite look, he rummaged under the bed frame and retrieved the radio handset, which had fallen off the bedside table last night.
… You’re part of my life now.
Fliss gulped, aware of the impact her next words would have on Ruairi - but knew she had to own up to her innocent mistake, even if that meant …
‘No, I mean - Ruairi, please listen. I told the event team to open the gates and park the lorry there.’
Ruairi turned round slowly, and looked at her perplexedly. ‘And why would you do that?’
‘I did it in error,’ she began, but he wasn’t listening. She could tell that his brain was racing ahead, trying to make sense of what she’d just told him and rationalising it.
‘It makes no sense. Unless,’ he paused and gave her a significant look. Occupied with getting dressed and pulling on her lacy stockings and silk undies, Fliss didn’t immediately register his change of tone or the inference in his unfinished sentence.
‘I was trying to help the party planner,’ she explained as she slipped on her shoes and made a mess of separating the crisscross laces. ‘And then Isla suggested - Oh.’
At last, pennies began slotting into place. Last night, Isla had been beside herself because of the changes to her trust fund and had thrown a tantrum at the dinner table. It was now clear to Fliss that Isla had exploited her ignorance of Urquhart tradition as revenge for - as she believed - Fliss having brought unwanted change to Kinloch Mara. And also on Ruairi for depriving her of the status and respect she considered her due as sister of the Laird.
‘Isla? What about her?’ Judging by his expression he thought Fliss was trying to shift the blame off her shoulders and onto his stepsister. ‘Why would she do such a thing? She’s an Urquhart through and through. She knows the legend - that a gheusaibh will fall on the Urquharts and all who claim clanship with them if the gates are opened.’
Last night Isla had been high on drugs, humiliated by her cousins and furious at having her trust fund arrangements handed over to Angus. Ruairi hadn’t seen her ripping up Angus’s card, crossing Urquhart out on her place setting and removing her clan sash in a fit of pique An Urquhart through and through? Only when it suited her, Fliss thought acidly.
‘A gheusaibh? What - is that like a curse?’ Distracted by trying to rationalise Isla’s behaviour last night, she raised a sceptical eyebrow without thinking.
‘I suppose all this must appear quaint to you. A bit of tartan kitsch on a par with Loch Ness Monster tshirts, choose your own clan on the internet and bottles of highland mist. But here in Kinloch Mara such things matter.’ Her confidence to explain herself disappeared before a man whose upbringing gave credence to curses, and who plainly believed in second sight and doom-laden prophesies over eight hundred years old. In the eyes of this community, that was roughly about - yesterday.
She could see that Ruairi was visibly distressed by the gates being opened and she knew she should cut him some slack. However, his instinctive championing of Isla over her and his scathing words, made Fliss answer more rashly than she’d intended.
‘Don’t start with the flash Londoner versus noble Highlander routine, again. It didn’t wash the first time and it won’t wash now. Maybe you don’t know your sister quite as well as you think.’ She didn’t stop to consider the picture she presented - hands on hips, wearing hold-up stockings and silk undies and with the sheet laying at her feet. Instead, she pressed on before she ran out of steam. ‘And what did you mean earlier when you said my opening the gates made no sense unless … unless what?’
‘Get dressed Fliss; I can’t deal with you when you’re half-naked.’ He turned away, making it plain that while he was devastated by what had happened, he nevertheless found her nakedness highly distracting and arousing. It was evident from his expression that he was torn between listening to her version of the story, ejecting her from his bedroom - or closing the curtains, drawing her onto the mattress and making love to her, all over again.
The belligerent light in Fliss’s eye soon squashed that particular train of thought!
‘Deal with me - how, exactly? Come on, spit it out. Why do you think I opened the gates?’ Then the scales fell from her eyes and she answered her question. ‘You believe I did it out of spite to get back at you for asking Angus to cancel my contract, don’t you? And that last night was my back-up plan, a way of hedging my bets? Know something? The Urquharts really are a piece of work,’ she choked out as she began searching round for her things, ‘and you’re welcome to your curses and each other. You’ve made it pretty obvious on several occasions that there’s no room for me in your life. I was a fool to think otherwise.’
Overwhelmed by hormones, emotion and with a champagne hangover, Fliss was finding it difficult to breathe. She had to get away from this room - from him – and as quickly as possible, too, before he saw her tears and put a cynical spin on those, too.
‘Fliss, look - it’s …’
Just then, the walkie-talkie on the bedside table came to life: ‘Ruairi - It’s Murdo; come in. I’ve got some bad news.’
‘I know, Murdo. I’ve seen the gates.’
‘But wh
o gave permission for the lorry to park there? The event management team won’t return until ten o’clock to start dismantling the marquee, so there’s no one to ask.’
‘Leave it for the moment, Murdo. I’ll explain everything later. I’m just - dealing with it. Meet you down there in five. Over and out.’ Carefully, Ruairi replaced the two-way radio back on the bedside table.
‘Dealing with it?’ Fliss asked. ‘I’m guessing that means me?’
Ruairi rubbed a weary hand over his eye and didn’t answer. He gave the impression he was exhausted and overwrought, too. But unlike Fliss, he clearly thought this wasn’t the time or the place to discuss unwitting mistakes, scheming stepsisters and gheusaibhs.
‘Look, I’ll sort this out and discuss it with you later. For the moment, I’ll have to concentrate on damage limitation and the fallout from the gates being open. Will you be able to make your way back to the Wee Hoose without -?’
‘Being seen? Embarrassing you further?’ she asked tartly, zipping up her skirt and wrapping the sheet around her like an oversized pashmina. The bubble of euphoria that had separated them from the rest of the world for the past few hours seemed to have burst. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fasten up the bustier without help, Fliss draped it over the bed frame and then placed the tiara and necklace on the window seat.
‘Make sure you put those in the safe. Or I’ll probably find Callum McDonald waiting for me down at the Wee Hoose with handcuffs and a warrant for my arrest, for unwittingly dissing yet another bloody Urquhart tradition.’
‘Now you’re just overreacting,’ he said grim-faced.
‘Coming from the King of Overreaction I’ll take that as a compliment.’
Opening the bedroom door, she checked that the coast was clear and the corridor deserted. She had her reputation to think of. It was one thing for everyone to know she’d slept with the Laird, when there had at least been a chance of them forming a relationship. But quite another thing for it to become common knowledge that they’d had a one-night stand. And that she was responsible for opening the gates and bringing a curse down on the house - days before flying home to Pimlico.