by Mary Daheim
She did not hear Iain Fraser come in. Cummings had told him that Mistress Cameron was waiting for him in the supper room, and while he had been surprised enough by that piece of news, he was even more amazed to find her sleeping in his favorite chair. He observed her in silence for a few moments, wryly contemplating the fringe of dark lashes on her cheeks, the slightly parted full mouth, the crazy tangle of brown hair, and the outmoded, crumpled mourning dress. Any other woman in the same place and situation would have tempted him into kissing her awake. Dallas’s reaction might prove a bit violent, however, so he merely gave the little supper table a shake, rattling the dishes and silverware just enough to rouse her.
Dallas awoke with a start, momentarily forgetting where she was. She blinked several times as she looked up at Fraser who was standing in front of the chair, his hands on his hips, one foot slightly in front of the other. He was dressed in courtier’s clothing, a black slashed doublet trimmed with gold, matching hose and trunks and shiny black boots of Spanish leather. He looks like the devil, Dallas thought dreamily, and the court sword on his left hip heightened the illusion.
“You’ve got a tail,” she murmured, making an effort to sit up straight.
“What?” Fraser turned to see the effect of his shadow, thrown long across the candlelit room. “Oh, aye,” he laughed, “like an Englishman. Isn’t it said they all have tails?”
“A rumor started by the French,” Dallas replied, rubbing her eyes with her fists, and looking like a tousled child. “Oh, I’m sorry I went to sleep—but it was so cozy in here ....” Her voice trailed off as she stretched and yawned. “You have a lovely home. Lord knows I’ve been here often enough in the last week or two.”
“So I’m told,” Fraser said, pulling up another chair and sitting down across from her. “And I must say, I’m intrigued by your persistence. Did you come to repay my loan or are you waiting for dessert?”
Dallas’s eyes snapped at him. “Fie, sir, I told you I’d not sell myself! I came on business.”
“I didn’t think it was pleasure,” Fraser responded dryly. “Well, if you didn’t come to ravish me, do you mind if I eat my supper?” He got up, rang the bell for Kennedy and poured himself a glass of wine. “And you?” he inquired, proffering the decanter.
Dallas shook her head. Kennedy came in with a tray full of food and laid it out on the supper table for Fraser. After clearing away the remnants of Dallas’s meal, he winked at her and left the room.
“Impudent,” Dallas muttered, but Fraser paid her no heed. She watched him cut up some pieces of pheasant and dip them in a rich brown sauce. Now that she was actually face-to-face with Fraser she wasn’t sure how to begin. Her obsession with asking Fraser’s assistance in securing an introduction to court now seemed lame; her fixation about making him tell what her father had said on his deathbed was a flimsy pretext since he had already refused; indeed, it suddenly occurred to her that her presence in his house was tenuous at best. Why had she come? She regarded Fraser with apprehension and felt the capon flutter in her stomach.
“Turnip?” Fraser held up a fork to Dallas.
She ignored the gesture but felt somewhat relieved. “What know you of the battle of Blar-na-Leine?” she asked without further preamble.
Fraser paused with the fork in midair. “I was fourteen when that battle took place. I wanted to fight with the rest of my clan, but they said I was too young.” His tone was dry, but the hazel eyes had turned frosty. “But after the battle—and the death of three hundred Frasers,” and here the bitterness was in his voice, too, “some of the Camerons came north, beyond Loch Ness, to pillage and burn. They went to the house at Strath Farrar where I lived with my aunt. After raping her, they took me captive. Then they stripped the house and set it afire. That’s what I know of Blar-na-Leine.” He picked up his silver napkin ring and examined it intently. “That is what Highland feuds are like, Dallas; senseless, wasteful things which a poor country like Scotland cannot afford. And yet even here in Edinburgh it’s this man against that, one faction ranked opposite another, eternal bickering over some trifle and always in the name of clan or family.” He hurled the napkin ring down on the tabletop where it clattered and rolled off onto the carpet.
Dallas had no adequate reply. “I’m sorry for what happened,” she said lamely, as if she might offer some sort of recompense for what her clansmen had done to the Frasers. “How did you get away?”
“I escaped, one night when there was no moon. ’Twas simple enough.” He poured himself a second glass of wine. Looking into the glass, he could almost see an awkward, lanky boy of fourteen, dressed in rags, crawling out the window of the crofter’s hut where they had kept him, and making his frightened way through the glens and forests to Strath Farrar.
“The Camerons took everything,” Fraser went on. “By the time I got back to Strath Farrar my aunt had died and my uncle had been killed in battle.” At last, he sat back, pushing the chair away from the table. “You know aught of my history, Dallas, besides what I’ve told you just now?”
“I’ve heard a tale or two,” she admitted. “About some strange doings near Inverness. I can’t help it—I had to ask once more what my father told you before he died.” Dallas couldn’t look at Fraser; she kept her eyes focused on the wine glass in his hand.
Fraser sighed. “I told you, I can’t say. I’m not being whimsical, there are good reasons why you should not know. Especially since what your father told me cannot be proved. At least as far as I can see.” He paused and frowned at his empty plate. “It wasn’t just a question of being curious about my parentage. As you know, under Scots law, an illegitimate son can neither inherit nor bequeath property. If I could prove who my father was, I could be legitimized. While I ended up with the land at Beauly, my hold on it is tenuous.”
“Yet it’s yours. That is, no one else has laid a claim to it thus far?”
“True. But the present Fraser chieftain is only a lad and God knows what some of the older clansmen might do. If I had proof of my birthright, I might be entitled to other holdings as well.” Fraser paused again. “Some day I may have heirs of my own,” he went on, his tone still serious. “I want Beauly for them, too. By Christ, I’ve earned that property over the years.”
Dallas knew well how a Highlander regarded his land, with an almost sacred sense of possession. She wondered if the holdings at Beauly were sufficiently bountiful to make Fraser rich. It was doubtful, she decided, since only an enormous estate could provide the fortune he obviously possessed.
“You spend time there then?”
“Aye, I go there two, three times a year. A widowed cousin cares for the house in my absence.”
It was clear to Dallas that Fraser would reveal no more to her. It also seemed clear that if she were ever going to ask him for help in getting to court this was the moment.
“I’ve been thinking about repaying your loan,” she began, but Fraser reached across the supper table and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Stop fretting over the loan, lassie. Once you’ve found a handsome husband with a fat purse, you can repay me.”
“With my luck, only the husband will be fat,” Dallas retorted. The little clock chimed ten and Dallas jumped. “Oh, Holy Virgin, I had no idea how late it was! The lanterns will be extinguished by now!” She looked frantically for her cloak and was about to snatch it up off the floor where it had fallen while she was asleep when Fraser came up behind her. He put one arm around her neck while the other encircled her waist.
“The offer of my body still stands,” he said in that indolent tone. “Believe me, Dallas, it would be a fine bargain.”
Dallas had gone rigid at his touch. “I’d argue that till Doomsday, Iain Fraser! Now leave me be, I must go home!”
“In time.” He brushed the thick hair aside and bent to kiss the nape of her neck. Dallas began to struggle, tugging at his hands, pulling her head away, wriggling to free her body from his grasp.
Bu
t his almost effortless strength held her fast. Fraser’s mouth strayed to the white flesh just above the high collar of her mourning gown; his hands caressed her breasts, moved to the flatness of her stomach, and then slipped between her legs.
Dallas screamed. Fraser quickly put one hand over her mouth while the other pressed against her thighs. “Oh, hush, lassie! My servants will not interfere with my pleasures. Besides, they’ll think you’re only protesting for etiquette’s sake.”
But Dallas’s protest had been evoked not just by Fraser’s boldness but by the unexpected fire she felt in the pit of her stomach. She tried to keep her legs tightly closed but the effort was making her lose her balance. Nor were her attempts at clawing his arms doing the slightest bit of good. Then she saw the fruit knife on the table; if only she could get just a foot or so closer ... she lunged suddenly, throwing them both off-balance. Fraser’s hand fell away from her mouth but he recovered instantly and grabbed Dallas tightly around the hips.
“Nay, lassie, you’ll not make mischief with my eating utensils.” He kicked at the table, sending it and the fruit knife well out of her reach.
“You savage!” she railed. “Let me go! I don’t want your wretched body, I wish I’d never taken your foul money, I’d like to carve you up like that stupid capon!”
“No, you wouldn’t.” He sounded so calmly self-assured that Dallas was galvanized into renewed vigor. Kicking, biting, scratching, pummeling, she fought with such fury that Fraser began to lose his own temper. “Enough, Dallas!” He grabbed a handful of her hair and dumped her into the velvet-covered chair. Then he fell on top of her and pulled both her arms behind her with one of his hands. Fraser rapidly undid the buttons of her bodice and before Dallas could do anything more than shriek in astonishment, he had freed her white breasts. With her arms held behind her back, the generous curve of her bosom arched forward as if in provocative invitation. Fraser grinned at the horrified expression on her face.
“You are bonnie in other places, Dallas. I’ve seldom seen such lovely duckies as these.” He took his time letting those mocking hazel eyes appraise her breasts. Slowly, his hand began to explore each one, gently at first, then with increasing intensity until his fingers tugged at her nipples and brought them to rigid, pink life. The knee he pressed between her legs sent a shuddering sensation throughout her entire body. Dallas’s incoherent protests had turned into moaning gasps, part pain, part outrage—and part something Dallas had never before experienced and was loathe to identify. She could scarcely believe the total helplessness she felt, and the sight of Fraser’s dark head bent over her naked breasts seemed utterly unreal. As his mouth covered her right breast and his tongue began flicking greedily at her nipple, she felt dizzy with emotion; she even heard a clamorous sound in her ears which grew and grew until suddenly Fraser stopped abruptly and stood up.
“Christ! The alarm bells! What’s happening?” He moved swiftly to the window and pulled open the draperies. Dallas sat as if in a stupor, her breasts still exposed, her hair in even more wild disarray than usual, her arms aching from the awkward position in which they’d been held, and her entire body trembling violently. At least, she thought dully, as the clanging bells continued to sound, I wasn’t hearing things ....
“Someone is coming here, on the run.” Fraser closed the drapes quickly and returned to Dallas. “There may be trouble, lassie. I’ll see that my men get you home safely.”
Dallas gaped at him, confounded by the sudden change from passionate ravisher to considerate host.
“Well?” He grinned at her with those mocking hazel eyes. “Though I much enjoy the sight of your delightful body, I’d have thought you too finicky to want my guest to see it half-naked, too.”
“Oh!” Dallas flushed crimson. With trembling hands, she began to fasten her gown, conscious of Fraser’s amused expression. “Oh, you fiend! I wish I’d killed you with the fruit knife!”
“Don’t fash yourself so, Dallas. You enjoyed it far more than you’ll admit. Now take some wine and push the hair out of your eyes.”
To Fraser’s surprise, Dallas did both. Before either of them could speak again, the door to the supper room opened unceremoniously and the Earl of Bothwell hurtled inside. Cummings was on his heels and quickly shut the door behind them.
“An informal entrance, to say the least,” grinned Fraser. “And who might be in hot pursuit this time, my lord?” Bothwell grinned back, strong white teeth flashing in the short red beard. He was of average height, with a stocky build and beefy freckled hands. Bothwell paused to get his breath before responding: “Half the town, sir—have you not heard those damnable bells?”
Even as he spoke the alarm died down. The earl sighed with obvious relief, then looked warily at Dallas, as if seeing her for the first time.
“I told him you were not alone, sir,” Cummings interposed.
“He seldom is,” chuckled Bothwell and bowed as Fraser introduced Dallas. She stared at the Border Lord, remembered her manners and made a quick curtsy. She knew what Bothwell was thinking about her presence in the supper room. With an enormous effort to hide the humiliation she felt, Dallas forced herself to look composed.
But Bothwell had already turned away and was pouring himself a glass of wine. “Such a night!” he exclaimed, draining the glass in a gulp, and going to the window to peer out. “No sign of the watch here. And no sign of ....” He stopped abruptly, eyeing Dallas.
“Oh, come, this is Mistress Cameron and if the watch is pursuing you, there will be no secrets by morning,” Fraser asserted. “Besides, I’d hardly let the lassie go home if I thought the entire city might be on the point of violence.”
“Scarcely that.” Bothwell sat down heavily on the settee and poured himself another glass of wine. “On the other hand, I’m not sure if it’s fit for a lady’s ears.” He eyed Dallas’s questioningly and she flushed furiously.
“Well, she is a lady—but she’ll hear it anyway, I’m sure.” Fraser glanced at Dallas and grinned. She wasn’t certain whose discomfiture he was enjoying more—hers or Bothwell’s.
The beefy hands set the wine decanter down on the carpet. “A silly thing, really. Alison Craik—you’ve heard of her?” He saw Fraser and Dallas nod. “Cuthbert Ramsey’s ward and a sweet little piece—pardon me, mistress,” he said to Dallas, though it was clear he didn’t give a fig for her pardon. “She is Arran’s mistress—and you know how those Hamiltons loathe me and my border kin. Well,” he continued, gulping down more wine, “Lord Johnny Stuart and I decided to kidnap the wench. We’d had some sport”—he paused to see what effect this statement was having on Dallas but she was keeping her eyes riveted on the bust of Augustus—“with her before and she hadn’t been unwilling. Lord Johnny is a likeable soul, quite a different sort of bastard half-brother the Queen has in him than in Lord James.”
“True enough,” commented Fraser, whose own face had turned grim at the mention of James Stuart.
“But I’ll admit we went a bit far—we decided on hurrying her leave-taking by tossing her out the window—it wasn’t far and Lord Johnny could have caught her easily.” Bothwell laughed aloud, apparently quite amused by their nocturnal caper. “But who should appear just as we were about to heave the delightful Mistress Craik through the casement? John Hamilton and some of his men, that’s who. Hamilton looked murderous and Lord Johnny and I decided to cut our losses and run for it.” He spread his hands in an apparent gesture of supplication. “What could we do? I like a fight as well as any man but we were outnumbered by at least six to two.”
Fraser was laughing by now, too, but Dallas still remained rigid with a faint look of distaste on her face. Bothwell and Lord Johnny might be a pair of knaves, but Alison Craik had gotten what she deserved by dallying with any of them, including the allegedly unstable Arran. John Hamilton seemed a cut above such outlandish doings.
Fraser and Bothwell were sharing the last of the wine between them. Dallas gathered her cloak around her and headed for the d
oor. “I must take my leave now,” she announced to no one in particular. Fraser looked up from his wine glass long enough to tell her that Cummings would escort her home.
“Good night, Dallas,” Fraser said calmly, as if the time she had spent under his roof had been a perfectly ordinary evening.
Dallas murmured a desultory farewell, sketched a curtsy to Bothwell, and was relieved to be in the solid presence of Cummings as they headed out into the sharp night air.
They were just coming out of Gosford’s Close when a group of men came hurrying towards them. Cummings paused in midstep and Dallas sensed that his hand had gone to his dirk. She stopped too, both curious and fearful, but as the little band came nearer she recognized John Hamilton in their midst.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, noting with some apprehension that Hamilton and the others were armed.
Hamilton made no effort to conceal his surprise at encountering Dallas at such an unlikely time of night. “You are out past curfew, mistress,” he replied. “Is aught wrong?”
“No, no,” Dallas replied vaguely. “I supped elsewhere tonight.” She shifted from foot to foot, noting that Hamilton recognized Cummings. Standing still made her more aware of the chill winds soughing among the rooftops and up through the wynds.
“I see,” said Hamilton in a voice which made Dallas think he saw a good deal more than she would have liked. But Hamilton was motioning for his companions to let Dallas and her escort pass. “Take care,” he said in a voice which made Dallas look at him closely. But already he and the other men were moving swiftly away and out of Gosford’s Close.