by Mary Daheim
Dallas looked questioningly at the Queen. “Then if you don’t mind, Your Grace, I’ll take my leave. I’m rather weary.”
Mary Stuart’s smile widened. “No need to make excuses, my dear, by all means, take to your bed.”
Turning away to leave the banquet hall, Dallas heard Patrick Ruthven snicker behind her back. Dim as his son, Will, she thought, and could not help scanning the room for a glimpse of Fraser. Sure enough, he was dancing with a radiant Delphinia Douglas, totally unaware that his wife was making her exit. Damn, she cursed to herself, he cares no more for me than for any other trifle who falls into his arms. Let him dally with his Delphinias and Catherines and whomever else; I’ll be hanged if he’ll ever know I care a jot about him.
Hamilton, however, caught up with her at the door. “Surely you haven’t let your husband’s return spoil your evening, Dallas?” he asked, putting a hand on her arm. “Bide awhile, I’ll get us something to drink.”
Dallas hesitated; perhaps it would serve Fraser right to see how she could enjoy herself with another man. But that was childish, she had no reason to think he’d care about what she did or didn’t do. Nor did she want to use Hamilton in such a selfish way.
She could not resist, however, putting a hand over Hamilton’s. “Nay, John, my mood is sour as week-old milk tonight and I am tired.”
Forcing a smile, Dallas let him kiss her fingertips and then left the banqueting hall, eyes straight ahead so that she could not look back at either Hamilton or her husband.
Flora, as usual, was waiting up. Dallas dismissed her peremptorily, and since Flora had grown accustomed to her mistress’s unpredictable ways during the last year and a half, she glided out of the room with only a curt goodnight.
Dallas pushed open the room’s one window; how could Flora keep from suffocating on such a night? she wondered. The faintest hint of a breeze was blowing up from the man-made lake down in the deer park. She didn’t bother with a candle but undressed by moonlight. Her hair freed from the confining combs, her bare feet sinking into the carpet, she was wondering whether to trouble with a bedgown on such a night when someone rapped at the door.
Grabbing the first robe she could lay her hands on, Dallas wrapped the garment around her and called out: “Who is it?”
“Flora, madame, come quick!”
Dallas pulled the door open. ''What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
Flora’s usual impassivity had fled. “It’s the Queen, madame! Come at once!”
Dallas started protesting that she had no slippers and was wearing just her robe but Flora was already down the hall. What now, Dallas thought, another sudden attack of nerves? Or mayhap Arran has gotten loose and is harassing the Queen.
The two women raced through the hallways, the stone walls illuminated only by a few guttering torches. They flew at such a speed that Dallas didn’t realize they had passed the turn to the Queen’s chambers until they stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the passageway. Instead of knocking, Flora opened the door and all but shoved Dallas into the room.
She was in the music gallery, now lying in shadow and apparently deserted. “Flora!” Dallas whirled around to discover that her maid had disappeared. The door was closed, the woman must have fled into the hallway. “Flora!” she cried out, suddenly apprehensive. Then a big hand clamped over her mouth as someone stepped out of the darkness.
“Hush, lassie, you’ll rouse the guard!” Iain Fraser turned her around to face him.
“You! What’s going on here?” she demanded. “Where’s the Queen?”
“Still dancing her dainty feet off and no doubt laughing at what a clever fellow am I.”
“I don’t understand,” Dallas said, but of course she did. Her breath seemed constricted and she felt a vaguely familiar ache in her stomach. “Iain ....”
He had her by the hand, half-leading, half-dragging her along the music gallery. At the far end stood two French doors. They opened at a touch and Fraser pulled her along down the terrace and out to the lawn.
“Where are we going?” Dallas asked, stumbling along behind him.
“To the lake,” he threw over his shoulder.
Five minutes later, they stood at the edge of the quiet water, moonlight reflected against the far shore. The trees rustled slightly above them and the night scent of roses was heavy in the air. The sound of laughter and music from the castle was just a dim hum.
Dallas noted that Fraser was as barefoot as she, and he had removed his black doublet. The white shirt gleamed in the moonlight as he stood, hands on hips, looking into the water. She pulled her robe more tightly around her, and though she wasn’t cold, she shivered.
“Iain …” she said in a low voice. “Iain?”
He turned slowly but, instead of walking towards her, moved a few paces along the edge of the lake. There, by some rocks, lay a bundle Dallas couldn’t identify. Fraser bent down and began taking the bundle apart. He pulled out a blanket and spread it on the grass, then arranged two pillows on the ground and pushed a second blanket aside. He stood up to look at her. “Our bower, madame,” he declared with a courtly bow.
“You’re mad,” she whispered and shivered again.
He had walked over to where she stood. “Nay, sweetheart, I’m not mad, save with wanting you.” She felt his arms go around her, pulling her close. Fraser’s kiss was gentle at first, then grew harder, fiercer, until Dallas realized she was answering him with a hunger as deep as his. Slowly, carefully, he brought her down onto the woolly Highland blanket. She felt Fraser’s lips seek her bare throat and travel searchingly to the opening of her robe.
In one quick motion, he undid the single tie and pulled the robe aside, freeing her arms from the sleeves. Dallas felt herself tense slightly as she lay naked on the ground before him. “Don’t be afraid, lassie,” he whispered. “I’ve thought about your lovely body all these long months, ever since our wedding night.”
Dallas felt his hands on her breasts, and under his exploring fingers, her nipples turned as taut and firm as the first time he had touched her. The trembling was replaced by a shudder of delight and from somewhere in the pit of her stomach the almost forgotten fire returned. Fraser’s hands moved to caress her thighs and the curve of her back. She arched towards him, her arms clutching at his shoulders. Fraser broke free just long enough to strip off his own clothes which he tossed in the direction of the rocks. Dallas stared at the hard, brown body and felt the fire in her stomach kindle into inferno proportions.
Sweet Jesu, she thought, is it possible that I can want this man so much? Fraser was beside her on the blanket, kissing her lips again, her forehead, her ears. His hand slid down her hip and came to rest between her legs. Tentatively, she touched his hand with hers; then, as if involuntarily, she pressed his fingers into the soft, throbbing flesh of her most intimate being.
Yet Fraser hesitated, and Dallas wondered if her reflex action had somehow been wrong. Confused by her new emotions and her husband’s reaction, she gazed wonderingly at the face which was only an inch or so away from hers.
“There is something you must know, Dallas,” he said in a quiet voice. She looked at him questioningly and was somewhat relieved to see him smile ever so slightly. “I love you, Dallas, I’ve loved you for a long time.”
Her confusion was replaced by astonishment. “You? You love me?” Dallas was wide-eyed and incredulous.
“You silly little goose, why else would I have married you?” Now the half-smile was transformed into the familiar grin and his hand tightened between her legs.
“I made you marry me, we had our bargain ....” It all seemed so long ago, and Dallas was having trouble concentrating on anything but Fraser’s touch and that raging fire which was demanding to be quenched.
He laughed delightedly and nipped her nose with his teeth. “I knew you’d say that. Nay, Dallas, I didn’t have to marry you—I could have pensioned off your whole family, found suitable husbands for you and your sisters, too. Y
ou were so obsessed by poverty that you would have settled for anything as long as it came in cold, hard coinage.”
His admission was almost too much for Dallas to take in. But she, too, had her own confession to make, words which she had once thought she would never utter: “I love you, Iain, I love you more than anything in the world!”
Unlike Dallas, Fraser expressed no surprise. “I know, I knew it long before you did. That’s why I’ve waited so long to make love to you.”
Now that they had made their mutual pledges, there were no further restraints between them. Fraser’s fingers explored her intimately; her hands clutched at his back, pausing only momentarily as she felt the scar from his wound. At last, he raised himself above her and gazed deep into the dark eyes. “This time it will not hurt,” he promised her. Dallas felt that strange sensation she had experienced on her wedding night as Fraser entered her body. But now she welcomed the probing hardness, she arched towards him, she felt the fire consuming her as Fraser thrust more deeply. Their bodies surged together, moving in an impassioned rhythm that seemed to overwhelm the darkness and blot out everything but the two of them. The fire engulfed Dallas, at first blurring her senses, then sharpening them suddenly in a devastating flash of ecstasy as Fraser plunged for the last time and then seemed to swallow her up with his own body.
“Oh, lassie,” he breathed into her hair, “you were well worth the wait.”
Dallas was too stunned to say anything at all. So this was what the waiting had been for, she thought with awe, and wished that Fraser would stay entwined with her forever.
PART THREE
Chapter 13
While the moon shifted in the clear sky and the breeze began lifting little waves on the glistening lake they slept in each other’s arms beneath the second blanket Fraser had brought. They were awakened shortly after dawn by a noise in a nearby thicket. Looking sleepily over their pillows, they saw a handsome doe with two speckled fawns staring at them. The animals stood in a motionless montage for a few moments, then sprung back into the thicket, long legs flashing out of sight.
Dallas lay down again, nestling back against Fraser. So this was why women did all sorts of foolish things at a man’s urging, she thought dreamily, why a Delphinia Douglas or a Catherine Gordon would shamelessly pursue a man like Fraser without even the faintest hope of marriage. But, she smiled to herself, he is mine. And he loves me! She purred as deeply as one of her Manx cats as Fraser began stroking the cleft of her buttocks. Dallas waited for a few moments, then rolled over to face him and wound her arms around his neck to kiss him fiercely on the mouth. She pushed her body against his until her breasts ached with pleasurable pain. It was as if once the dam of her emotions had been unlocked, she had become obsessed by her need for him.
But it was Fraser who demurred. “Dallas, I could lie here and make love to you until All Saints’ Day, but in case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining.”
During the night, the breeze had brought in a heavy cloud cover and big drops were beginning to splatter onto the lake and the surrounding greenery of the park. He got up and retrieved his clothes, dressed quickly, and then handed Dallas her robe. “Hurry, lassie, this is going to be a downpour.”
The French doors were open; in fact, the breeze had blown one of them ajar. Their feet made wet prints on the parquet floor as they hurried towards the passageway. No one in this part of the castle was astir yet. They slowed their pace as they moved down the silent corridor to Dallas’s room. Flora was not there; she had followed Fraser’s instructions perfectly.
Dallas folded up the blankets and laid them on a heavy oak chest at the foot of the bed. A small clock on the nightstand told her it was just after six. Fraser, shirtsleeves rolled back to the elbows, was washing up in a pewter basin. “I’m famished, lovey,” he declared, toweling off his face. “When do the kitchens start up here?”
“About now.” She was plumping up the damp pillows they had brought in from outdoors. Dallas turned to face him, her brows wrinkled with curiosity. “Why there—out by the lake?”
He tossed the towel onto the back of a chair. “Why not? Can you think of a more romantic site? Nor were we likely to be disturbed, with the revelry going on inside the palace.” He did not add that he would never have made love to her, not this special, precious time, in a bedroom which might have reminded her of their wedding night. During all the time he had waited for Dallas to acknowledge the depth of her feelings and desire for him, he had known that he would take her in some unlikely place. During the wait, he had also come to understand himself and his love for her.
The days which followed were the happiest Dallas had ever spent. Fraser took up quarters in her room where they made love each night in the too-narrow bed. Dallas would have requested a change in their living situation but knew that within a few days the court would be moving on. She also knew the courtiers were whispering about her marriage; that unconventional liaison which had caused so much gossip now appeared to have changed.
One night, as the late spring mists settled down on the Kingdom of Fife and Falkland Palace, Dallas asked a question which had puzzled her for some time: “Last fall at Inverness ... why did you avoid me after we’d ... after the Highland revels?”
Fraser was half-asleep, one arm flung across Dallas’s breasts. “Hmmmm?” He frowned slightly into the darkness before propping himself up on his elbow. “Oh, aye. George Gordon brought me fateful news that night. Afterwards, I had to face the fact that I might not survive the battle. As it turned out, I damned near didn’t—but not in the way I’d expected. Still,” he went on, his voice very serious, “I had no mind to leave you a pregnant widow. I kept my distance so I could keep my self-control.”
Dallas threw herself against his chest. “Holy Mother, I’d no idea you could be so noble!” She nuzzled against him, her hands caressing his back. “But later, at Corrichie Moor—you were so determined to leave in such a rush.”
Fraser kissed her bare shoulder. “That was hardly the proper place to consummate our passion,” he said dryly. “As I recall, you complained about my other wee bedmates—and the old couple stumbling over our writhing bodies would have dimmed even my ardor.”
“No doubt we would have shocked Cummings,” Dallas put in, lifting her face to kiss him soundly on the mouth.
“Hmmmm. Cummings,” Fraser said between kisses, “isn’t easily shocked. However,” he added, cupping her breasts together and kissing each one in turn, “you must remember that I wasn’t a well man.”
Dallas reached down to feel the renewed firmness of Fraser’s manhood. “I have a feeling you were well enough,” she declared, suddenly rolling over on top of him so that she could capture him between her thighs. “You were just hell-bent to go to sea again.”
“Not so,” replied her husband. He grasped her by the buttocks and squeezed hard until she let out a little yelp of pleasurable pain. “But if I had tarried with you then, I’d have never been able to leave. And I had to, if only to keep from murdering James Stuart.”
The words sounded well and Dallas savored them as they savored each other. But she wondered—how strong was her hold on this restless man? As much as he professed to love her, would Iain Fraser ever be content to stay in the circle of her arms?
On the last night at Falkland, the Queen gave a lavish supper and afterwards stunned the entire court by knighting Iain Fraser. As she lifted the sword of state she looked defiantly at Lord James and declared that Fraser was being honored “for his right, honorable and valorous service unto the Crown at Corrichie Moor.” James, as Dallas put it later, looked fit to spit.
But, as far as Dallas was concerned, the triumph was short-lived. The knighthood meant more than just a title for Fraser; it also meant the Queen had a task for him. Disappointed in Maitland’s mission to England, she was sending Fraser southward, not by sea, but by land. Fraser suspected the journey was not entirely Queen Mary’s idea; Lord James obviously wanted the newly made baron as far from cour
t as possible.
Dallas stormed about their chamber when she heard the news. “How can you leave me? We’ve ... we’ve had so little ....” She faltered, her hands twisting at a long rope of pearls which hung almost to her waist.
Fraser looked up from the saddlebags he’d been packing. “I’m going not because I want to. Only you and the Queen know in what special capacity I can serve her. And James no doubt is dithering because now he’s afraid to turn his back on me.” There was no point in burdening Dallas with the details. Mary Stuart wanted him to press for Bothwell’s release; she also wanted inquiries made about other possible suitors. The less Dallas knew, the better for her and everyone else.
“How long?” she asked, signifying her reluctant acceptance by folding some of his shirts and placing them in the saddlebags.
“A month or so, no longer,” Fraser answered. “I expect the court to be up north by then, maybe at Ellerig.” Fraser inspected a favorite pair of calfskin boots to see if they would survive the journey south. “What of your own packing? Aren’t you due to leave shortly?”
Dallas held up a black doublet slashed with cloth-of-gold, worn by Fraser for only the most important court functions. She could picture him sauntering about Whitehall or Greenwich in it, with the English ladies swooning over his hawklike profile and mocking grin. She rolled the doublet up in a big wad and flung it into the saddlebag.
“I packed last night while you were with the Queen,” she replied, pouting ferociously. She could not stop him from going, but she’d be hanged if she’d be gracious about it.
Flora came then to tell Dallas that the Queen awaited her. A page had come with the maid to fetch their baggage. Dallas indicated three trunks, eight hatboxes and two satchels for herself. There was one small carton for Flora.