Enchanting the Duke

by Patricia Grasso

  Before dusk, the ship slipped from its moorings and began its journey north. While Isabelle slept, her husband’s ship entered the Irish Sea. Bypassing the Isle of Man, the ship sailed into the North Channel, sneaked through the Sound of Jura, and glided into the Firth of Lorne to Oban.

  The Saint-Germain ship had docked by noon. Isabelle and the others waited while John gave his captain instructions and walked down the gangplank to the ducal coach.

  “I want Harmony,” Lily said, when the coachman opened the door.

  “All of us desire harmony in our lives,” John said.

  Isabelle smiled at his misunderstanding. Apparently, her husband had no experience with children. She had no experience either, but some things in life came instinctively with women.

  “Who is Harmony?” she asked.

  “My pony.”

  Isabelle smiled. “Sweetheart, you don’t own a pony.”

  “His Grace promised to buy me one if I rode in the coach with Juniper and Dobbs,” Lily said.

  Ignoring the smiles of Juniper and Dobbs, Isabelle rounded on her husband. “Bribery? That is sinful.”

  John shrugged and gifted her with one of his wickedly devastating grins.

  “I’ll pray for your soul,” Lily piped up. “If you buy me a pony.”

  “I always keep my promises to little girls,” John said, crouching down to be eye level with her. “When we return to England, I’ll send to Dartmoor for one of their finest ponies. Will you trust me until then?”

  Lily nodded.

  “Let’s seal the bargain with a hug.”

  Lily threw herself into his arms and held him close. Before breaking the embrace, she gave him a wet kiss on his cheek.

  Since there was only the one coach, John elected to sit with the driver. Isabelle, Lily, Juniper, and Dobbs made themselves comfortable inside the coach.

  While Lily napped against her side, Isabelle gazed with interest out the coach’s window, and her spirits soared at what she saw. The horizon was a carpet of purple heather. Rising spectacularly in the distance, a thick blanket of trees painted the mountains green. A land of lonely majesty, this world felt more like home to her than the crowded, dirty lanes of London.

  Two hours later, Isabelle and the others alighted from the coach. Kilchurn Castle sat on a small promontory that jutted into Loch Awe. Magnificent mountains surrounded the castle and the loch. In the distance toward the northwest Pass of Brander stood Ben Cruachan, easily the tallest of all the mountains in the area.

  “Look at those big hills,” Lily cried.

  John smiled. “Those are mountains, not hills.”

  Isabelle turned in a circle to gaze at the view from all directions, saying, “I will enjoy summering here.”

  A late dinner awaited them in the dining room. Lily yawned after she’d eaten. Gesturing at Juniper, Isabelle started to rise, but John stopped her.

  “I’ll take them upstairs. Wait here, and we’ll walk to the loch.”

  “I’d like that.”

  John held his hand out to Lily, but she shook her head. “I’m too tired to walk.”

  “Then I’ll carry you.” John lifted the little girl into his arms and left the dining room. Mrs. Juniper followed behind him.

  Watching them, Isabelle smiled inwardly. Her decision to accompany him to Scotland had been wise. Her husband seemed to be warming to his daughter. It would be only a matter of time before he accepted her. And then she could resume her wifely duty.

  A few minutes later, John returned and the two of them walked outside. The day was a Highland rarity of blue skies and brilliant sunshine. Protected by the surrounding mountains, Loch Awe and the glen looked like paradise to Isabelle.

  “Summer in the mountains is much cooler than at home.”

  “Are you chilled?” John asked. “I can go back for a shawl.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “How clear the water is.”

  “Scotland’s lochs are nothing like England’s tired rivers.” John picked up a stone and tossed it, skimming it across the top of the water before it disappeared.

  At the water’s edge, Isabelle plopped herself down to remove her shoes and stockings. She stood then, hiked her skirts up, and waded a few inches into the water.

  “It’s cold,” she squealed.

  John laughed. “Be careful or the monster will get you.”

  Isabelle leapt back out of the water. “What monster?”

  “Sit over here with me, and I’ll tell you.”

  Side by side, John and Isabelle sat on the grass several yards away from the loch’s shoreline. When she looked at him, he tapped the tip of her upturned nose.

  “The monster is called the Big Beast of Loch Awe, but no two people can agree what it looks like,” John began. “Some say it’s like a horse, but others insist it’s a great eel with twelve legs. During the winter, cracks and rumblings are heard from beneath the loch’s frozen surface, and many locals believe it is Big Beast breaking the ice.”

  “I don’t believe there is a monster.”

  “As I always say, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  Isabelle giggled. “I’ve never heard you say that.”

  John put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Looking up at him, Isabelle became caught in the dark intensity of his gaze. She saw his face inching closer and closed her eyes, surrendering to the pleasurable feeling of his warm lips upon hers.

  Isabelle sighed against his mouth when she felt his free hand caress the side of her cheek. He gave her another kiss and then drew away.

  “You are lovelier than a violet in the snow,” he said, his voice husky.

  Isabelle stared at him. Once more, his words echoed Giselle’s prophecy. John Saint-Germain was the dark prince whose image she’d once glimpsed in the Avon River.

  “This changes nothing,” she told him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m keeping Lily.”

  “My kiss was not intended to change your mind about anything,” he told her. “Our discussion of the child can wait until summer’s end. Let’s relax and enjoy the moment.”

  Isabelle lay back on the grass and smiled up at him.

  “What are you doing?” John asked.

  “Enjoying the moment.”

  John lay on his side next to her and leaned his head against his left hand. “As boys, my brothers and I summered here every year. We’d ride into the upper pastures when the herdsmen and their families drove the cattle there for summer grazing.”

  “What special childhood memories you have.”

  “And you do not,” he said, leaning close to plant a kiss on her lips. “I could strangle your brother for leaving you at your stepfamily’s mercy.”

  “My childhood wasn’t that bad,” Isabelle said. “I didn’t know you had Scottish blood in you.”

  “Should I walk around saying, ‘Hoot, mon’?”

  Isabelle giggled. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the crisp mountain air. “I do believe I could be happy in the Highlands.”

  “Happiness is found in the journeying, not at the end of the road.”

  Isabelle opened her eyes and stared at him. “You sound like Giselle.”

  John shook his head. “Are we back to that again?”

  “For your lack of faith, John Saint-Germain,” Isabelle scolded him, “consider your soul one black stone heavier.”

  John laughed, stood, and offered her his hand to help her up. “You are incorrigible, Your Grace.”

  “How comforting to know we share a trait.” Isabelle lifted her skirts and cried, “I’ll race you home.” At that, she started running toward the castle.

  Isabelle hadn’t run more than ten steps when her husband caught up to her. Instead of racing past her, he lifted her into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of barley.

  “Put me down.” Isabelle began laughing.

  “Nay, lassie,” John said, imitating the Scottish burr. “’Tis Highland tradi
tion for a mon to carry his woman home like this. Hoot, mon, hoot.”

  Chapter 15

  Isabelle opened her eyes. The chamber’s dim light told her the hour was early.

  Rolling toward the window, Isabelle saw her husband’s side of the bed empty. A noise drew her attention, and she raised her head off the pillow to see what he was doing.

  With his back turned toward her, John splashed water on his face from the porcelain bowl sitting on top of the tripod-footed washstand. Filtered light from the newly risen sun played across the muscles of his upper back and shoulders as he moved.

  Isabelle slid her gaze from the sinewy muscles of his upper back to his tapered waist. Her husband was naked except for black silk underdrawers.

  Watching him through heavy-lidded eyes, Isabelle slid her gaze lower to his lean hips and muscled thighs. A melting sensation ignited in the pit of her stomach and spread throughout her body. A primitive feeling of being the only man and woman in the world overwhelmed her senses, and she yearned for . . . him.

  Isabelle knew she loved her husband. And now she knew desire.

  John reached for the towel to dry his face and broke the spell his maleness had cast upon her. Isabelle snapped her eyes shut. She didn’t want him to catch her peeking.

  Isabelle heard the muffled sounds of him dressing and then felt the bed creak as he perched on the edge. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, but couldn’t control the blush heating her cheeks.

  “Why are you blushing?”

  “I didn’t know you wore black silk underdrawers.”

  John raised his brows at her. “Were you peeking at me while I dressed?”

  “No, I peeked at you while you washed.”

  Her admission brought a smile to his lips. “I hope you enjoyed the entertainment,” he said. “I’m going for a ride. I’ll see you for breakfast later.” If his wife was peeking, she would soon be sleeping with him in the biblical sense. Scotland was already working its magic on her.

  Isabelle pulled the coverlet up and returned to sleep. This time her rest was not so deep and peaceful as before. Wearing black silk underdrawers and flexing his sinewy muscles, her husband paraded through her dreams.

  She felt his lips covering hers.

  She felt his hands caressing her flesh.

  She felt his muscled thighs pressing her down.

  Isabelle awakened with a start. “Make him gallop, Your Grace,” she heard Lily’s voice.

  “Only experienced riders are allowed to gallop.”

  Isabelle rose from the bed and, without bothering to don a robe, padded on bare feet across the chamber to the window. Leaning against its sill, she spied her husband and his daughter outside. Seated atop a black pony, Lily held the reins while John used a lead rein to escort them around the grassy area.

  Happiness and hope swelled within Isabelle’s breast. In spite of what he said, her husband was warming to his daughter.

  “Lady Belle, look at me riding,” Lily called, spying her in the window.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” John called, looking at her. “I hope all of your dreams were pleasant.”

  Isabelle leaned forward, giving him a spectacular view of her breasts. “You appeared in each of my dreams.”

  John smiled at that.

  “Did you dream about me too? Lily asked.

  “Yes, sweetheart, I did.”

  “What was I doing?”

  “You were riding a pony.”

  “What was I doing?” John asked.

  Isabelle blushed at his question, which made him smile.

  “I can make your dreams come true,” he said.

  Isabelle closed her eyes against her embarrassment and then changed the subject. “You said Lily had to wait for her pony until we returned to England.”

  “She does,” John answered, “but I own several Shetlands she can use for learning how to ride.”

  “Lily, promise me you won’t try to ride unless His Grace is with you,” Isabelle called.

  “I promise.” Lily looked at John. “Will you buy Myrtle a pony too?”

  “Do you really think Myrtle wants a pony?” he asked. “Tell me the truth now.”

  Lily gave him a flirtatious smile. “Myrtle would prefer a monkey.”

  “No monkey.” John looked toward the window and asked, “Would my two ladies like to learn how to tickle a trout?”

  “Yes,” Lily said, clapping her hands together.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Isabelle said. “I’ll bring my flute, and we’ll picnic at the loch. I’ll be down in a little while.”

  Isabelle turned away from the window. She took one step toward the washstand, but the little girl’s voice drifted back to her.

  “Your Grace, you are more fun than Myrtle,” Lily was saying.

  “Thank you for the compliment.”

  After washing, Isabelle chose a lightweight, black woolen skirt and scooped-neck linen blouse to wear. She brushed her hair back away from her face and then grabbed her shawl.

  “I told you he would come around.”

  Isabelle whirled toward the familiar voice. Giselle sat in the chair across the chamber. “Where have you been?”

  Giselle shrugged. “Here, there, and everywhere.”

  “Will you be joining us for the picnic?”

  Giselle shook her head. “Run along and enjoy your new family.”

  Isabelle crossed the chamber and knelt on bended knee beside the old woman. Lifting the gnarled hand, she planted a kiss on it. “You will always be part of my family.”

  “Child, we will always be together here.” Giselle placed her hand over her heart. “At the moment, the man and the girl need you to bond them together. Whenever you need me, I will be with you faster than an eye can blink.”

  “You know where to find us if you change your mind.” Isabelle leaned close to plant a kiss on the old woman’s wrinkled cheek.

  John, Isabelle, and Lily left the castle behind and walked to the loch. John carried their picnic basket, and Isabelle carried her flute case. Excited by their outing, Lily fairly danced down the path and sang a song off-key.

  Brilliant sunshine ruled the day. Summer’s lush wildflowers grew in abundance as far as the eye could see.

  Reaching the shoreline, John removed his boots and his socks and then rolled his trousers up over his knees. He started to wade into the clear loch water.

  “Look, His Grace has hairy legs,” Lily cried. “And knees.”

  Isabelle laughed.

  “Do you want to learn how to tickle a trout?” John asked, standing in water. “Or do you want to admire my legs?”

  “Tickle a trout,” Lily shouted, and removed her shoes and stockings.

  Isabelle helped her hike her skirt up. “Go on. I’ll wait for my turn here.”

  “Stand perfectly still,” John instructed Lily. “Ever so slowly, submerge your hand in the water . . . like this.”

  When Lily imitated him, John continued, “Fish are curious creatures like little girls. When one swims close to investigate, you stroke its belly with one finger. Once it’s paralyzed with pleasure, flip him onto the shore.”

  “And then what happens?”

  “You cook him up and eat him.”

  “You tickle him to death?” Lily asked, her green eyes large with horror.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I don’t want to tickle a trout,” Lily cried, backing away. She lost her balance, plopped into the water, and began to cry.

  John lifted her into his arms and carried her to shore. “You’re safe now.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me, Your Grace.” Lily wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse.

  “Let’s get her out of that wet skirt,” Isabelle said. “Do you have anything we can wrap around her?”

  “I brought an extra blanket.”

  Isabelle removed the little girl’s skirt and underdrawers. She reached for the blanket and started to wrap it around Lily, bu
t John stopped her.

  “Look at that.” He pointed to the child’s derriere. One of her cheeks had a small birthmark in the shape of a heart.

  “Yes, I’ve seen it,” Isabelle said, wrapping the blanket around the child.

  “No peeking, Your Grace,” Lily said.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” John apologized. “Someday in the distant future that pretty mark will be a wonderful conversation piece.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say,” Isabelle said.

  “I meant with her husband. Do you want to learn to tickle a trout Belle?”

  Isabelle shook her head. “I think I’ll pass too.”

  “You ate grilled trout the other night,” John said.

  “Please don’t remind me,” Lily said in a dramatic tone of voice. “I fear I’ll take ill.”

  John burst out laughing. Isabelle joined in the merriment, and Lily giggled because they were laughing.

  “The water warms once the dog days are upon us,” John said, sitting beside the girl on the blanket Isabelle had spread for them. “I’ll teach you to swim then.”

  “What are the dog days?”

  “Sirius is the Dog Star and rules the hottest part of the year.”

  “We need music,” Isabelle said, lifting her flute to her lips.

  Her melody contained a jaunty air. Then its tempo changed into spring’s tranquility, summer’s birdcalls, and autumn’s rustling leaves.

  When her concert ended, John asked, “Can you play a waltz for us?”

  Isabelle lifted the flute to her lips. At first haltingly and then more confidently, her flute vibrated with the smooth, rhythmic tempo of a waltz.

  John stood and bowed to the girl. “Mistress Dupre, will you honor me with this dance?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Anyone can learn to waltz,” John said, dismissing her refusal with a casual wave of his arm. “I’ll teach you.”

  Lily’s emerald eyes glittered with happiness as she leapt off the blanket. Holding his hands, she tried to follow his lead, but her tiny feet kept going the wrong way.

  “Place your feet on top of mine and hold on.” When she did, the two of them waltzed around in the grass.

  Watching them, Isabelle felt an insistent tugging on her heart and thought of her long-dead father. She and her father had danced together like that. Now John was doing the same with Lily. By slow degrees, her husband seemed to be accepting his daughter.