Border Fire

by Amanda Scott

  “Don’t even think about swimming back,” he warned, wading toward her with the bar of soap in one outstretched hand. “You’d only wear yourself out.”

  She reached for the soap, but he held it away, out of reach.

  “Don’t tease me, Quinton. This water is little more than melted ice.”

  “Then the quicker we get you washed, the quicker you’ll get warm again. Stand up, lassie.”

  Involuntarily, she glanced toward the river bend and the thicket of trees that hid the castle from sight.

  “No one will come unless I shout for them,” he said. “Now then, you can stand up, or if you’d rather, you can go and cut me that switch.”

  “I left my dagger with my clothes.”

  “You can use mine.” He waited, arms folded across his chest.

  Slowly, grudgingly, she stood.

  “Hold out your arms.”

  Glaring now, she obeyed him, and he soaped her arms, beginning with the fingertips of her left hand and lathering soap to her shoulder. Then he did the same to the right arm.

  “You can put your arms down now, and turn around,” he said.

  Shivering, she obeyed. “Hurry up,” she said. “I’ll be a block of ice before you’re done.”

  “Then we’ll have to think how to thaw you out, won’t we?”

  The edge in his voice kept her silent while he lathered her back, buttocks, and thighs. Soon, despite the cold water swirling at her feet, the sun began to warm the rest of her.

  “Turn again.”

  She hesitated.

  “Now, Jenny. Turn and look at me.”

  She turned, eyes downcast at first, but when she saw that he was aroused, she looked up in surprise.

  He was grinning. “What you do to a man is probably proscribed by the kirk, lass,” he said. “Come nearer now.”

  She forgot the cold water, moving closer so that he could soap her breasts and her belly, thinking now only of the sensations he stirred in her body with the soap. He moved the bar lower, to the juncture between her thighs, and his fingers tickled and penetrated, making her moan softly and lean toward him. His free hand was at her right breast, sliding over the nipple, teasing it, moving to her throat and then down to the left breast. The bar of soap and the fingers of his right hand went on with their busy work, teasing her, making her squirm and arch against his hand.

  “We’ve got to rinse the soap off you, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I want to get inside where it’s warm to continue this.” With that, he picked her up and walked right into the deep pool with her, holding her close while he swirled water over and around them both to rinse away her soap. “Now, show me where my clothes are.”

  “Mine, too,” she said as he helped her from the water. Walking gingerly over loose pebbles, roots, and other debris on the riverbank, she took him to the tree where she had left the bundles of his clothing.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the shirt that Tip had sent for him. “Put this on.”

  “But my clothes—”

  “We are not going to tramp upriver to wherever you left them just to fetch those filthy clothes,” he said.

  “But—”

  “No,” he said flatly. “Tip can find them himself, and you are never to wear them again, Jenny. Do you understand me?”

  “Aye, sir, but please don’t make me go back naked.”

  “Then put on that shirt.”

  Reluctantly, she obeyed him, then chuckled when the hem of the shirt reached her knees and the ruffles on its sleeves hung inches below her fingertips.

  “You’ll set a new fashion,” he said, chuckling, too.

  “I am not decently clad, though,” she said, “and what will you wear?”

  “The doublet, breeks, and jacket will suffice. You can wear my netherstocks to keep your legs warm, and the cloak. No one will see that I am barelegged under my boots and breeks. Tip sent enough clothing for a midwinter’s night.”

  “I told him you would be cold,” she said as she sat on a boulder to draw the knitted hose over her legs. When she had tied them, he draped his cloak over her shoulders. Though knee-length on him, it hung respectably to her ankles. “I’ve got no shoes,” she said. “If you’d just be so kind as to fetch my boots and dagger—”

  “You won’t need them,” he said, fastening his breeks.

  “I can’t walk back in your netherstocks. They don’t provide enough protection for my feet. Moreover, I’ll snag them on things.”

  “You’d better not. That pair cost me five shillings!”

  “Well, but—” The protest ended in a shriek when he scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “Quinton! Put me down!”

  “I cannot have you snagging my hose, sweetheart. Be quiet now. You’re making my ears ring.”

  “I won’t be quiet! Put me down, sir!”

  In response, he smacked her backside.

  Gasping, she fell silent at once.

  “That’s better,” he said amiably. “You’d have had the garrison out with that screeching of yours. Now, see if you can behave yourself until we get back inside. I want to get warm again.”

  Comforting herself with the knowledge that her predicament could be much worse, Janet held her tongue, but she vowed that one way or another she would get even with him.

  She shut her eyes when they entered the bailey through the postern gate, ignoring the shouts and laughter that greeted them. Quinton carried her inside and up the twisting stairs. When they reached the master’s hall landing, she opened her eyes when a servant said, “Master, Cook says ye can ha’ your supper straightaway.”

  “Tell Cook to keep it warm,” Quinton said without pausing. “I’ve business with my lass before I eat.”

  Janet shut her eyes again tightly, fearing that if she did not she would see the lad’s look of astonishment or—worse—his amusement at seeing his mistress carried in buttocks foremost like a prize of war.

  Up more stairs they went until they reached Quinton’s bedchamber. Opening the door, he stepped inside, still holding her. “Go away, Tip,” he said.

  Wishing she were the wildcat he had more than once called her, so that she could growl and scratch, Janet scarcely breathed as she felt Tip pass them.

  “Welcome home, master,” he said politely. “Good evening, mistress.”

  The sound that issued from Janet’s throat in reply sounded more like a growl than any human comment.

  Quinton set her down. “I believe those are my clothes, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s see now. Shall I watch you take them off, or shall I do it for you?”

  Chapter 25

  “Come, hold me fast, and fear me not,

  The man that you love best.”

  JANET’S KNEES FELT WEAK, and she watched Quinton warily. “I do not know which you would prefer,” she said, striving to sound calm and scarcely able to hear herself over the thunder of her heartbeat.

  His eyebrows shot up. “So my preferences are important to you, are they?”

  “Quinton, I—”

  “Answer me, lass. Tell me how important my will is to you.”

  She could not follow his moods. Just before they left the river, he had seemed cheerful, but now she was not certain what he seemed. Swallowing, she reminded herself that he had been in prison for weeks. Not only that, but he had fought Hugh, had ridden from Carlisle to Hermitage and then to Broadhaugh, and he had taken a chilly swim before carrying her back to the castle. He could not have much strength left. Even if he were to punish her as he had threatened earlier, she would likely survive the ordeal with only minor bruising. And the plain fact was that he no longer seemed to be thinking about punishment.

  Drawing a deep breath, she said, “You are important to me, sir, more than you can know.”

  She saw his lips twitch, and she could definitely discern a gleam in his eyes, but he shook his head. “I do not hear you saying, however, that my preferences are important to you.”

  Reassured by the twitch and the glea
m, she took a chance. Meeting his gaze, she reached for the clasp that fastened his cloak at her throat, released it, and shrugged the garment off, letting it fall to a pool of dark wool at her feet. Then, holding his gaze, she lifted the hem of the shirt enough to reach the lace points for the baggy netherstocks, which she had simply tied round her thighs. A push sent first one then the other to join the cloak. Stepping out of the pool of clothing, she fingered the shirt lacing, then paused.

  The hunger in his eyes was clear. He waited.

  She did not move.

  “Take it off, lass,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps.” Still watching his eyes, she licked her lips invitingly and moved her hand from the lacing to touch her breast. Brushing one finger against a fold of the material there, she let her hand turn, so the backs of her fingertips brushed the nipple. She heard him inhale. The only other sounds were the movement of a curtain stirred by a breeze through the open window and the distant murmur of the river.

  “Come here,” Quinton said, his voice sounding lower-pitched than usual, as if it nearly had not made it out of his throat.

  “Perhaps,” she said again, her fingertips still moving gently as she reached with her other hand to untie the lacing. The opening of the shirt gaped. It was wide enough, she knew, to slip off her shoulders. Idly, she trailed her fingertips up toward her neck, playing with the narrow lace edging. With her other hand, one aglet at a time, she pulled the lacing free, letting the opening gape wider and wider.

  Quinton watched, transfixed. She saw the tip of his tongue slip out to dampen his lips, and she saw, too, that he was becoming as aroused as he had been at the river. No longer was he looking into her eyes. He was watching her hands.

  Slowly, slowly, she eased the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, letting it slip down her arms till the soft upper portion of her breasts showed above the lacy edge of the opening. Then, without another word, she lowered her arms and let the shirt slide down them and drop to the floor.

  Quinton was practically panting. Already he was reaching for the buttons on his doublet. She smiled and stepped forward, naked. “Let me,” she said.

  His eyes widened, but he did not speak, taking his hands away and letting them relax at his sides. She unbuttoned the first button, taking her time, knowing that the longer she took the more aroused he would become.

  He did not wait for her to finish. When she reached for the third button, he grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, hugging her tight and claiming her lips with his. He moaned deep in his throat when she responded, and a moment later, he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  She lay there and watched while he cast off doublet, breeks, and boots. His hunger for her was so plain that she wondered if he would fling himself on her and take her swiftly. Right up to the moment when he stood naked, looking down at her, she thought—even hoped—that he would, and her own desire ignited accordingly.

  He climbed onto the bed, but then, with a wry little smile, he hesitated. “You should take care, lassie,” he said, “lest you get yourself hanged for witchcraft.”

  “Art going to talk or make love, sir?”

  Chuckling, he licked a finger and touched it to the tip of one breast.

  She gasped and reached for him, but he leaned back. “It is my turn,” he said.

  Grinning, she said, “Do your worst, then. I’ll survive it.”

  His hand left her breast and moved lower to her belly and below. She closed her eyes, letting the sensations flow through her until his lips and then his tongue replaced his fingers, and she could no longer remain still. Following his lead, she began to try things she had never even imagined doing before, and when he claimed her at last, she felt as if they had tempted the flames of hellfire, but she did not seem to care. All she cared about was Quinton and what he could make her feel.

  He took her twice before they were sated, and when they lay back against the pillows at last, she felt as if every ounce of energy had drained from her body.

  “I’ll never move again,” she murmured sleepily.

  He did not answer for so long that she thought he might have fallen asleep. Then he said lazily, “Don’t count on that.”

  “Again, sir? So soon?”

  “Nay, but I’ve acquired a taste for your favors, lass, and I have missed you sorely. I’ll want to savor them again very soon.”

  “Good.” She did not have enough energy to say more, but when rhythmic scratching at the bedchamber door interrupted the silence, she started to sit up.

  “Stay where you are,” Quinton said. “I’ll let him in. I’ve missed him, too.”

  He let Jemmy in, then got back into bed and, pulling her closer, drew the covers over them. A soft thump at the foot of the bed and a purr announced that Jemmy had joined them, but Janet barely acknowledged him. Her head had settled into the hollow of Quinton’s shoulder, and a moment later she slept.

  Janet awoke to a tickling tingle that radiated through her right breast. A teasing finger caressed its nipple, and the tingling flowed through her like a river in spate. As she stirred in response, warm lips touched hers, and she opened her eyes to see her husband’s face against the gray light of dawn illuminating the room.

  “Good morning,” she murmured against his lips. “I don’t suppose it matters, but I was sleeping.”

  “It is time to wake up,” he said, as one hand moved over her belly and down, following the flow of the tingling river. His fingers teased for only a few moments before he was inside her and her body was stirring in response. When he relaxed again, he said, “This is a much more satisfactory way to wake up in the morning than Scrope’s way. I am very glad to be home.”

  Deciding that her tactics had worked wondrously well, she said demurely, “Then may I take it, sir, that you have decided not to beat me after all?”

  “I shall have to think about that,” he said, “but I believe I can collect all you owe me without a switch. I will enjoy growing accustomed to certain of the things you did for my entertainment last night that you had not done before.”

  Feeling heat in her cheeks at the memory, she said, “Perhaps we can make an agreement then.”

  “It is not agreement we need, sweetheart, but practice.”

  Hearing laughter in his voice, she said, “We can do as you like, sir, but take care that you do not overstep your mark. Recall that my temperament is not placid.”

  “Thank God,” he said.

  “There is one thing that I should tell you,” she said.

  “While I am in this exceptionally good mood?”

  “Aye. I talked a bit with Hugh yesterday after…”

  “Aye, and…?”

  “And he misses me, he says. He would like me to visit Brackengill. He says that he misses the music and the laughter.”

  “And you, Jenny lass, do you miss Brackengill?”

  “Not enough to want to return and live there, but I would like to visit from time to time, just to see that all is well.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then we will think on it together and not make a decision straightaway.”

  She nodded. “That is a good notion, I think.”

  This accord between them continued; however, ten days after their return from Carlisle, a messenger arrived from Hermitage with a disturbing message from Buccleuch.

  Sir Quinton and his lady were sitting companionably in the master’s hall, while she mended one of his shirts and he looked over his accounts to decide whether to subject one of his fields to the plow. After hastily reading the missive and dismissing the messenger, he said, “Apparently, Scrope sent his own version of the raid to Elizabeth and she is demanding Buccleuch’s head.”

  “Buccleuch?” Janet exclaimed. “I knew such a thing was possible, of course, and he did plan the raid. Still, it hardly seems fair for her majesty to be angry with him when she cannot know that he did and when he was not even there!”

  “According
to Scrope, not only was he there but he led the raid himself and did all manner of damage to Carlisle. Scrope told Elizabeth that Buccleuch was the fifth man into the castle, that he was actually heard to cry out threats to the garrison. Furthermore, Scrope wrote that there were five hundred in the raiding party, that they undermined the postern and got in and out before resistance could be made.”

  “He should be ashamed of writing such lies to his queen,” Janet said indignantly. “None of that is really true.”

  “There’s more,” Quinton said with a wry smile. “I am said to have given my word not to escape, which certainly is not true, and he blames the Grahams—”

  “The Grahams! Does he even blame Hugh?”

  “Nay. At least Buccleuch does not say so, and I doubt that Scrope would. He says Scrope called the Grahams caterpillars who gnaw at their own countrymen and a ‘viperous generation.’ And,” he added with a glinting look at her, “he suggests that it was a female Graham who learned the exact whereabouts of his prisoner. We have not yet discussed that particular venture of yours, have we, sweetheart?”

  “Did Elizabeth write directly to Buccleuch?” Janet asked hastily.

  “Worse,” Quinton said with a look that told her he knew she wanted to divert him from the subject of that first visit to Carlisle. “She sent her complaints to Jamie, and apparently Jamie has suggested that Buccleuch should answer them in person.”

  “In person!”

  “Aye. According to Buccleuch, who seems to be treating the entire matter as a jest, Elizabeth called him ‘God’s curse’ and even suspects him of popish” plotting. She demands that he be jailed forthwith.”

  “Godamercy, James will not cast Buccleuch into prison, will he?”

  “Buccleuch does not think so. He believes that we can trust Elizabeth’s ambassador, who is a shrewd and capable chap, to explain to her that Scrope understandably neglected to mention his own incompetence in representing himself as a mere victim of Buccleuch’s villainy. I doubt that anything will placate her, however. A royal fortress was breached, after all. She will not easily forgive that.”

  “What will she do?”