The Last Heiress

by Bertrice Small

  “Very much,” he replied.

  “Then why don’t you?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

  “Did you not once tell me that kissing leads to cuddling, and cuddling led to passion?” he demanded to know.

  “I want you to kiss me,” she said. “I am twenty-two, an old maid with little chance of marriage, no matter what they say, and I want to be kissed, Baen MacColl. I want to be kissed in the darkness on Mid-summer’s Eve. But I want those kisses from a man I like and admire, as I do you.” She turned to face him, slipping her arms about his neck, pressing against him seductively.

  He could feel the pressure of her breasts against his chest. Her slender body against his hard body. He closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the sensations she was engendering within him. Her lips brushed over his.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered against his mouth. “Kiss me!”

  And he did. One kiss melted into another and another. She sighed, her warm breath touching his face. He caressed the sweet face he could not see for the pitch-black engulfing them. He took that face between his hands, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her chin before returning to her ripe mouth to drink the addictive nectar of her lips once more. It was a testament to his great restraint that he touched her with tenderness when he really wanted to push her down onto the meadow grass and possess her completely. Finally he groaned, “We have to cease, Elizabeth.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “I like kissing.”

  Gently he disentangled her from about his neck, and, holding her two hands in his, he pushed her gently away. “Because I am beginning to desire the cuddling,” he told her.

  “I think I am too,” she admitted boldly.

  He laughed. “You are becoming a very bad wench, I fear,” he told her. “What am I to do with you, Elizabeth Meredith?”

  “Kiss and cuddle me, Baen?” she suggested wickedly.

  “What if we find we want more than the kissing and the cuddling, lass? I could never shame you, Elizabeth. I have not the right to you,” he told her seriously.

  “Why not?” she asked defiantly. “No one else wants me.”

  “My birth does not match yours, lass. You know that,” he said quietly.

  “If I were one of the village lasses, Baen, would you take me further into the darkness and make love to me?” she queried him. She drew him closer, slipping her arms about his neck once more. Was she so unattractive that he could not desire her? And why did she want him to? She wasn’t a tease.

  “Elizabeth,” he said helplessly, feeling his need for her rising with every passing moment. Aye, if she were anyone else he would have her on her back in a trice!

  “Pretend I am one of them,” she begged him. “Do not think of me as the heiress to Friarsgate, Baen. Think of me as a pretty girl who would kiss and cuddle with you on Midsummer’s Eve. Is that so difficult?”

  He wasn’t a saint, damnit! And he wasn’t some green boy who couldn’t stop when the passion flamed too high. The wench wanted to be kissed and cuddled. She was desirable, and by the rood, he wanted her! Wordlessly he led her deeper into the darkness, past several shadowed haystacks, until at the far end of the meadow he stopped before the last cone of hay. He drew her down into the pile of sweet-smelling grass and began to kiss her once more: deep, passionate kisses that left them both weak with pleasure.

  The hard body pressing her down into the hay set her pulse racing wildly. His mouth demanded from her emotions so new she wasn’t certain she even understood them. His tongue pushed into the sweet cavern of her mouth, seeking, stroking, fierce with his need. She intertwined her tongue with his, moaning with a strange new need that was arising within her. She felt a sticky wetness between her thighs.

  Baen cradled Elizabeth in the curve of his arm. His fingers skillfully undid her shirt, and he slipped his hand within to caress her two small, round breasts. She gasped, surprised, but she did not pull away from him. The two breasts came alive within the enclosure of his palm. They grew firm, and the dainty nipples puckered beneath the stroking of his big hand. “Sweet! Sweet!” he murmured in her ear, and she sighed with her open pleasure. “You’ve never been touched before, have you?” he whispered.

  “You know I am a virgin,” she managed to say, although the actions of his hand were rendering her dizzy with enjoyment.

  “Some virgins have kissed and caressed, yet not permitted their maidenheads to be plucked, lass. You, however, have never known a man’s touch, have you?”

  “Nay,” she said. “Not until now. Is there more, Baen? Tell me there is more!” she pleaded with him. She had never imagined the feelings she was now experiencing, and she was certain she was going to die if he did not give her more.

  In answer he opened her blouse wider and lowered his dark head, his mouth closing over one of her nipples to suck.

  “Oh, God!” Elizabeth half sobbed. The hungry drawing on her breast sent a shudder of hot delight through her. She mewled with pleasure as his tongue licked at her, and with each stroke of that tongue she was drawn into a new world. “More! I want more!”

  He moved to her other breast and treated it as prettily as he had the first. He could feel her heart thundering beneath his ear. Unable to help himself, he slid his hand beneath her skirt and moved it up to brush the inside of her thigh with a sensuous motion. He expected to be rebuffed, but he was not. She pressed down hungrily against his hand as he cupped and gently squeezed her plump mons within his palm. And feeling the moisture on his skin from her, he knew he had to cease this love play or there would be no stopping for either of them. What madness had made him play this game with her? He was the older, the more experienced, she but an eager virgin. He should have known better, but the truth was, he could not resist the invitation she had so freely offered.

  “Elizabeth, we must stop,” he told her.

  “Why? Oh, please don’t stop, Baen! ’Tis wonderful!” she told him.

  Reluctantly he withdrew his hand from beneath her skirts and gave her lips a quick kiss. “Elizabeth, I want you. All of you! But I will not ruin you for the man who will one day have the incredible good fortune to be your husband, lass. This was Midsummer madness, but there is little harm done.” His strong fingers relaced her blouse shut. He stood up, pulling her with him. “Come. If we are gone much longer the worst will be thought of us. I will not have your reputation sullied, lass.” He was glad for the darkness, as walking was at first difficult.

  Elizabeth was not certain that she could walk at all. Her legs felt weak. She clung to his arm as they moved back across the meadow towards the fire. Her time in Baen MacColl’s arms had been a revelation to her. She realized now that she could never give herself to just any man. It had to be a man she liked. A man she could love. Flynn Stewart had been so charming. He had briefly stolen her heart. But Elizabeth knew now, as Flynn had gently pointed out to her, that he was not a man to settle down. And she knew that only a man who could love Friarsgate as she did would be the man for her. Was it possible that Baen could be that man? She was beginning to realize that they had more in common than she had previously considered. She understood her mother and her older sisters just a little better now, she thought. But would they understand her and the decision she would make regarding a husband?

  “Why do you say your breeding does not match mine?” she asked him quietly.

  “You know I was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” he began.

  “So were two of my great-uncles: Edmund Bolton, who is my steward, and his younger brother, Richard, the prior of St. Cuthbert’s. They are good men, and respected despite their birth. My great-grandfather recognized them both and gave them his name gladly. It was before he was wed to my great-grandmother,” Elizabeth said.

  “My mother was nothing more than a cotter’s daughter,” he continued.

  “Your father, who recognizes you, is the master of Grayhaven,” Elizabeth countered. “My father was a Welsh boy whose cousin, a steward in the household of Jasper Tudor
, took pity on him and gained him a place as one of his master’s pages.”

  “I was told your father was a knight in service of the Tudors,” Baen replied.

  “It took him years of devoted and loyal service to gain his rank, and he was landless,” Elizabeth explained. “When he met my mother he possessed naught but his horse, his armor, and his weapons. He was a poor man, Baen.”

  “I possess nothing but Friar,” Baen responded. “Everything else I have is my father’s. My horse, the clothing I wear.”

  “Yet you are respected and loved by that same father, who would, I suspect, give you anything you asked him for that he could give you without robbing your brothers. And your brothers accept and respect you too. You have said it,” Elizabeth said.

  “I owe my father my duty,” Baen told her.

  “I am pleased to hear it. I count loyalty among one of the greatest virtues in a man,” she told him bluntly. “Now please do not tell me ever again that you are not worthy of me, or of anyone else.”

  “Your kissing has improved,” he said mischievously.

  “Perhaps it is due in part to Flynn Stewart,” Elizabeth teased him back. “He was most assiduous in his instruction of me.”

  “I think no one has ever spanked you, Elizabeth Meredith,” he growled.

  “Fortunately for me, we are now back where all can see us, and so I shall be spared your further threats,” she mocked him with a grin.

  “One day . . .” he said menacingly.

  “I suspect I may look forward to it,” she told him wickedly. “Do you spank as well as you kiss and cuddle, Baen?”

  He roared with his laughter. “You will be the judge, for eventually I suspect you will force me to violence.”

  “Probably I will,” Elizabeth agreed sweetly.

  Thomas Bolton had watched them return with interest. He had, of course, seen them slip from the fire, as had many other young couples. He had never known his niece to leave the fire, at least according to Maybel, who had seen them go too. How far had the flirtation gotten? There was a bit a straw in Elizabeth’s hair, but she did not have the look of a woman satisfied. The Scot was a gentleman then, despite the temptation placed before him. Interesting. He would speak with Elizabeth in the morning. He had to learn whether her feelings made it worth pursuing his solution to the family’s problem.

  “You are plotting, Uncle,” Elizabeth said, coming to sit next to him on the bench.

  “What makes you say such a thing, dear girl?” he wanted to know. He patted her soft hand with his.

  “Your eyebrows are crinkled, as they always are when you are considering a problem,” she informed him. “Midsummer’s Eve is not a night for serious thoughts.”

  It was certainly after midnight. The morning of a new day. Time enough, he thought. “Do you like the Scot?” he asked her bluntly.

  Elizabeth smiled. “You saw us leave the fire,” she replied.

  “You have not answered my question, dear girl. Do you like Baen MacColl?”

  “Aye, I do, Uncle,” Elizabeth admitted honestly. “You know I have always had a weakness for Scots.” She chuckled.

  “Would he make you a good husband?” Thomas Bolton asked her candidly.

  Elizabeth colored, but then she said, “Aye, he would. But he is a Scot. Friarsgate must remain English, Uncle. I may play at kissing games with Baen, but even I understand this is just the same difficulty as with Flynn Stewart.”

  “Nay,” Thomas Bolton said. “It is not. Flynn is a son of the late king. Half brother to the current king of the Scots. He owes all his loyalty to the royal Stewarts. But Baen is the bastard of a man with less land than you possess. He may be the eldest son of his father, but he cannot inherit, for he has two legitimate younger brothers who will.”

  “His loyalty to his father is every bit as strong as is Flynn’s to his king,” Elizabeth said. “He told me he has nothing. That everything he possesses is his father’s.”

  “His father loves him?” Lord Cambridge queried.

  “Aye, he does,” Elizabeth said.

  “Then he should jump at the chance to better Baen’s position in the world,” Thomas Bolton said quietly. “He did not know this son until he was twelve, and though he has loved, taught, and sheltered him these past twenty years, Elizabeth, he might be willing to let him go if his going meant becoming your husband.”

  “What you mean is becoming the lord of Friarsgate,” she responded.

  “You will always be the lady of Friarsgate, dear girl, and Baen does not strike me as a man who would force you from your place,” Lord Cambridge observed.

  “Give me time to learn this for myself,” Elizabeth said. “He has just returned, and we have many months ahead of us to be together. I would be certain we are suited, Uncle. And I would want this knowledge you have gained between us alone. My mother and Logan should not know quite yet.”

  “I must inform your mother that you are home again sooner than later, dear girl,” he said. “You know she will be curious.”

  “Tell her you have an idea, Uncle, and ask for time to explore it,” Elizabeth replied with a little smile.

  “Now who is plotting?” He chortled.

  “Do you think he would wed me?” Elizabeth asked her uncle softly.

  “He would be a fool not to, dear girl,” Thomas Bolton replied.

  “Will you go home to Otterly soon?” she queried him.

  “I have sent William to see how far along the builders are. I fear I may be forced to rely upon your hospitality awhile longer, dear girl. Will you mind it?” He smiled at her warmly, his brown eyes full of his love for her.

  “Nay,” she answered. “I think I may need your guidance—and your protection when Mama and her Logan come over the border to scold me.”

  “Let us have it over sooner than later, my angel girl,” he said to her. “I will write her tomorrow. She will come, I am certain, for I cannot keep her away, but we will reassure her together. Then she will go back to Claven’s Carn, and you will have the rest of the summer and autumn months in which to seduce your Scot.” Lord Cambridge chuckled.

  “Uncle! What makes you think I mean to seduce him? I am a proper virgin,” Elizabeth declared indignantly.

  “Hah!” he barked a laugh. “You have a mother and two older sisters, all known for their passionate natures. And I know quite well that Banon and her Neville were sharing a bed in the months before their marriage. I turned a blind eye to them, for I realized Banon was binding her Neville with the unbreakable cords of love.”

  “I did not know that,” Elizabeth said slowly.

  “You were a little girl, and not supposed to know of such things,” he replied. “And your mother was in bed with Logan before they wed.”

  “I certainly did not know that!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  “You must follow your heart and your instincts where Baen MacColl is concerned, my pet. Neither will disappoint you,” he assured her.

  “Uncle, you surprise me,” Elizabeth said.

  Thomas Bolton chortled. “It seems to me that your mother and each of your sisters has said something along those lines to me at one time or another. I may have no wife or mistress, dear girl, but I understand love quite well.” He arose from the bench where they were seated. “It is growing damp, and I am too old to remain outdoors of a summer’s night. I am going to bed.”

  “I will come too,” she told him. “Tomorrow is not a holiday, though most will be slow to their tasks, I suspect. When do you think Will is coming back?”

  “He should be gone no more than a few days,” Lord Cambridge said as they walked towards the house. “I will send a message to your mother tomorrow, but I will word it in such a way that perhaps Logan will remain in his own home when she comes here to Friarsgate.”

  “It would be best,” Elizabeth agreed. “If my stepfather ever knew that I was considering a Scots husband he would have all his friends’ sons calling upon me.” She sighed. “He waited all those years for Mama, and
yet he does not understand that I want to love and be loved too.”

  “It is your mother we must convince, dear girl. She will make her own brazen Scot understand that your heart must lie where it must lie.”

  A messenger was dispatched to Claven’s Carn the following morning, and several days later Rosamund Bolton Hepburn returned to Friarsgate in the company of that same messenger. Her husband was not with her, but her stepson, John Hepburn, was. Lord Cambridge hurried to greet his beloved cousin, enfolding her in a warm embrace.

  “My dearest girl!” He kissed both her cheeks. “You are as radiant as ever. Welcome home to Friarsgate.” He led her into the hall, where Maybel was waiting to greet the woman she had raised. Lord Cambridge let them hug and sit together to chatter. After a short time, however, Maybel arose slowly.

  “I must see to the meal,” she said, and bustled off.

  Lord Cambridge now rejoined Rosamund, handing her a goblet of wine and sipping from his.

  “I suppose I shall need this,” Rosamund said quietly. “Where is Elizabeth?”

  “Out in the meadows making her weekly count of the sheep, as she should be,” he answered. “She’s a good chatelaine, cousin.”

  “Without a husband. Without an heir,” Rosamund responded. “Was there no one at court who would have suited? Whom my daughter could have accepted and loved?”

  “No one,” Lord Cambridge said. “She had a mild flirtation with a bastard of the late James Stewart who is his brother’s messenger to Henry’s court. The king sends you his regards.”

  “Not the queen?” Rosamund wondered.

  “The queen was not with the court, but sent to Woodstock. Mistress Boleyn rules in her stead. The king is utterly besotted,” Lord Cambridge explained.

  “Poor Katherine! For all her royal breeding, her great piety and devotion to God, she has had a far harder life than many a humble woman. I know she considers it a penance, and thinks her soul the better for it,” Rosamund said. “I am sorry for her. Had it been her court I have no doubt a suitable husband could have been found for Elizabeth. You say you have a possible solution to this conundrum. I beg you, tell me what it is.”