The Last Heiress

by Bertrice Small

  “Nah, nah, lass!” he admonished her, but he was smiling, and he did not push her away when she snuggled even closer. “Would you cause a scandal?”

  “Do you think we could?” she asked innocently.

  “Elizabeth!” He unwrapped her arms from about his neck. “Here is Albert with your herbs. I think Maybel will feel safer once you have mixed your potion.”

  Elizabeth took the small container from Albert, giving him a wink as she did. The middle-aged man could not restrain his grin. “Thank you, Albert,” she said sweetly. Then she set to work adding just the right amount of a powered substance to the wine, gently shaking the stoppered carafe to mix it in. “I will take this to Maybel. Please remain in the hall until I return,” she told Baen. “We must talk further.” Then she hurried off, the carafe of wine in her hand. Reentering the bedchamber where her steward lay, she set the carafe upon a small table and poured a draft into an earthenware cup. She gave it to Maybel, saying, “See he drinks all of it,” and she waited while the older woman gently coaxed her husband to finish the wine. Elizabeth took the cup back and set it by the carafe of wine.

  Edward was quickly asleep, and Maybel turned to look at her young companion. “What is the matter with him?” Her voice quavered. “What will happen to him, Elizabeth? Is he going to die? And who will help you with Friarsgate now?”

  “Baen says he has seen this kind of thing before. It is an eruption within the brain. It will take many months for him to recover, but Baen thinks he will. Edmund Bolton is my blood kin as well as my steward,” Elizabeth said. “His position is his, but I have asked Baen to take over his duties until Edmund can manage them once again. Do you think I have made the right decision, Maybel? Edmund has never permitted anyone to help him, nor has he trained any to take his place one day.”

  “What man wants to think of his own mortality?” Maybel asked in a broken voice. “Baen MacColl is a good man. Edmund would approve your choice, Elizabeth. Thank you for your kindness, my child.”

  “Kindness? Maybel, you and Edmund are my family!” Elizabeth cried.

  Maybel shook her head wearily. “If you had a husband,” she said, “I believe Edmund and I would retire to that cottage of ours. But how can we leave you to manage Friarsgate alone?” She paused as if considering her next words, and then she said, “The Scot is a good man, Elizabeth. And I see that you like each other. Many a marriage has been celebrated on less than that. If your mother would approve it, child, Baen MacColl could be the answer to your problem.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I have Mama’s permission to pursue him, Maybel, and I intend on doing just that.”

  The older woman gave the girl a wan smile, and nodded. “Does he know it?” she asked. “He seems a strong and independent man.”

  “Not yet,” Elizabeth admitted with a twinkle, “but he will soon. I think he will be more comfortable, Maybel, knowing you approve my decision to put him in Edmund’s place temporarily. If I sit with your man will you go down to the hall and tell him?”

  Maybel arose from her place by her husband’s bedside. “Aye. He’s the kind of man who would not impose himself where he is not wanted. I will tell him I am grateful for his aid in our troubles.” She moved towards the door to the chamber. “I will not be long, lass.”

  Elizabeth sat by the bedside of Edmund Bolton. He was sleeping peacefully now, but the right side of his mouth was pulled down and crooked. His hands were frozen, partly open, the right one more so than the left. He did not move, and only by the rising and falling of his chest did Elizabeth Meredith know that her great-uncle lived. To see Edmund helpless and frail was somewhat of a shock, for he had always been so hearty and robust a man. But he was no longer young, Elizabeth realized. He was past seventy now by a good year.

  Elizabeth sighed softly. How foolish she had been. She had not taken the passing of time seriously. She had not considered that each year she added to her own age those around her were also growing older as well. Edmund and Maybel would not be with her forever. Had they not earned their rest in their own dear little cottage that they rarely visited these days? And Friarsgate. Her beloved Friarsgate. None of her nieces or nephews were suited to inherit it. What had she been thinking when she had so obdurately refused to consider marrying?

  Yet she knew. Her mother had found love thrice in her lifetime. Philippa and Banon had found love in their own marriages. And Elizabeth Meredith would not, could not settle for any less than what they had. But until Baen MacColl had come into her life she had seen no hope of finding a man to love, a man who would love her enough to accept her as she was. The lady of Friarsgate. However, Baen did. Now her only problem would be in convincing him to stay with her. She had her mother’s permission to bring him to the altar if she could. And even now Maybel was convincing him how necessary he was to Friarsgate, to them all.

  And indeed the old woman was. She had taken up his hands and kissed them both before bursting into tears. “Thank God and his blessed Mother Mary that you are here to aid us, laddie. We should be lost without you,” she told him, sobbing.

  Instinctively Baen had put his arms about the weeping woman. “There now, Maybel, do not greet. Your Edmund will be all right with God’s good help. I am here to help, and I will until he can get on his feet again. How is he now?”

  “Sleeping,” Maybel said. “Elizabeth gave him the draft and is sitting with him while I have come to thank you. But I must return now,” she said, moving from the comfort of his strong arms.

  “Is there anything we can do to make him more comfortable?” Lord Cambridge asked. He had come into the hall shortly after Edmund had been carried upstairs.

  “Thank you, Thomas Bolton,” Maybel said. “I believe all is being done that can be done for now.” Then she hurried back to her husband.

  “Well, dear boy, I thank heavens you are with us,” Lord Cambridge said. “For all the ladies of Friarsgate think they can manage, each has needed a man at one time or another,” he said. “Poor Edmund, but alas he is not a lad any longer, I fear. None of us is, of course, but he is the oldest of the Boltons.”

  Elizabeth returned to the hall and requested of Albert that the evening meal be served. Father Mata arrived from his church, where he had been schooling some of the younglings in the Latin of the Mass. Elizabeth told him what had transpired, and then said, “Eat first, Mata, and then go to Maybel. I know you well, and you will remain the night by Edmund’s side with an empty belly if I do not make you eat now.”

  The priest said the blessing, and then gobbled his meal of lamb stew with carrots and leeks, trout with butter and parsley, and bread and cheese. Then, rising, he made for the stairs. Several minutes later Maybel entered the hall, and Elizabeth beckoned her to the high board to eat. She finished her meal as quickly as the priest had, and disappeared back to her chamber, where Edmund lay silent. Thomas Bolton and Will Smythe excused themselves from the hall after a single game of chess, leaving Baen and Elizabeth alone. The servants cleared the remnants of the evening meal away, and the hall was suddenly empty but for the Scot and the lady of Friarsgate.

  “Let us sit by the fire,” Elizabeth invited him, offering the tapestried chair with the high back. When he had seated himself she sat down in his lap. “Isn’t this nice?” she asked him, snuggling against him.

  “Aye,” he agreed, his arms slipping about her. “Are you attempting to seduce me, Elizabeth?” The delicate fragrance from her hair was enticing. White heather, he thought, and smiled to himself.

  “Aye, I am attempting to seduce you, Baen,” she told him boldly. “Do you mind?” She looked up into his face.

  “Lassie, lassie,” he said almost mournfully, “I do not think this is a good idea.”

  “Why not?” she asked frankly. “Don’t you want to be seduced?”

  “If you were anyone other than who you are, Elizabeth, I would gladly succumb to your sweet blandishments,” he told her. Why was she torturing him so? And why was he allowing her to do so? He had to resi
st her.

  “I am no one special,” she countered. “I am just plain Elizabeth Meredith.” His arms were so warm and comforting. She could live in them forever, she realized.

  “You are a wealthy landowner, and I the bastard of a Highlander. We have been over this before, Elizabeth, and I know you understand what I am saying,” Baen replied, attempting to remove her from his lap, but, defying him, she burrowed deeper.

  “Of course I understand you, but it does not make any sense, Baen.” Her fingers played with the laces of his shirt. “I am wealthy and English. You are poor and a Scot. We both know it, but why should such a thing stop us from desiring each other and acting upon those desires?” The shirt laces loosened, and she slipped her hand beneath them to find the smooth skin of his broad chest and caress it.

  He felt her fingers stroking him. Then she twisted in his lap, and, lowering her head, she began to kiss his flesh and lick at one of his nipples. “Elizabeth!” he pleaded with her, but he couldn’t bring himself to make her stop. The little feathery kisses were exciting and oh, so sweet! Finally he pulled her up, and his mouth met hers in a fiery kiss. His big hand unloosened her single thick braid and tangled in her soft blond hair. He couldn’t stop kissing her. Their mouths fused together again and again and yet again until Elizabeth was moaning with undisguised satisfaction.

  Her lips felt bruised, and still she did not want him to cease. When he began to kiss her throat she could hear a roaring in her ears. She felt him opening her shirt as she had opened his. He was kissing her breasts, and she was crying out with the pure pleasure that was suffusing her whole body. “Oh, Baen,” she moaned.

  Why wasn’t she telling him no? Why wasn’t she defending her honor and crying for her servants to drag him off and beat him for his presumption? The scent of white heather arose up from her body to assail him again. He buried his face between her small breasts. “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” he whispered against her beating heart. God help him! He was falling in love with her. Nay! He was in love with her and had been for months. To be holding her in his arms, to be kissing her . . . it was more than he had dared to hope.

  Her fingers wove themselves into his dark head. The touch of his mouth on her skin was utterly intoxicating. And she wanted more. But what more was there? Could she tempt him tonight into revealing the mysteries of passion? She sighed happily.

  And it was that soft sound of utter contentment that brought him to his senses. He might be in love with her, but he had no right to make love to her. And he was an experienced man ten years her senior who knew that unless they stopped this delightful activity right now, disaster was going to befall them both, but especially Elizabeth Meredith. He closed his eyes for just one more moment of pleasure. Then, lifting his head, he said sternly, “Enough, Elizabeth. This can only lead to seduction.”

  “Aye,” she drawled. “Don’t you want to be seduced, Baen?”

  He laughed in spite of himself. “What am I going to do with you, lassie?” he despaired. “You surely know better.”

  “I only know what is best for us, Baen,” Elizabeth told him.

  “Us? There can be no us, lassie,” he said in a suddenly hard voice.

  She jumped from his lap, surprising him. “There most certainly can be an us, Baen MacColl. I am the lady of Friarsgate, and I want it! And I usually get what I want!”

  “Damn it, why will you not understand?” he demanded angrily.

  “Why will you not understand?” she snapped back, stamping her foot at him. Her hazel-green eyes scanned him, and she saw the hard bulge between his thighs. “You want me!” she accused him. “And if you dare to give one of my servants that which I want, I will murder the girl, Baen MacColl! Do you understand me? If you would satisfy that itch I have caused, you must satisfy it with me alone!”

  “You will kill me before this is done,” he said half angrily.

  “You must kill me with pleasure first, Baen,” she whispered against his lips, her hands reaching down to stroke him boldly as she slipped back onto his lap.

  “I don’t believe you are a virgin at all!” he accused her. “You behave like a wanton, Elizabeth Meredith!” He forced her out of his lap again.

  “There is but one way to find out, Baen MacColl,” she challenged him wickedly.

  “Go to bed!” he commanded her. God’s blood, how he wanted her!

  “Alone?” she asked softly, her lips pursing temptingly. “Would you not come with me, Baen, and lie by my side? I want you to make me a woman, and you want me.”

  In answer he flung himself out of the hall and heard her mocking laughter behind him. Damn her! Damn the little tease! What in the name of all that was holy was she thinking of, behaving so? If she kept up like this he was going to eventually succumb, but if he did it would be her own wretched fault. He rubbed his distended member, for it ached, but he would not satisfy himself on another.

  Elizabeth had watched him go, and she had laughed in hopes of forcing him back to silence her with his kisses. Kisses that would eventually lead to more. But Baen was an honorable man. Still, she had proved to them both that he could be tempted. Yet she had to admit she was satisfied with the results of tonight’s encounter. As unfortunate as Edmund’s sudden illness was for him, it had proved providential for her. Baen could not escape being with her now. She would have him. Oh, yes, she would!

  Outside there was a strong rumble of thunder. The storm that had been threatening all day was ready to break. There came a gentle patter of rain upon the windows that over the next few minutes grew into a hard downpour. Elizabeth moved through her house, seeing that all the doors leading to the outside were firmly barred, snuffing the candles, making certain the public fires were banked. The dogs in the hall didn’t even move as she stepped over them and, climbing the stairs, went up to her own bedchamber. Nancy was waiting for her.

  “You should have gone to bed,” Elizabeth said. “You know I can take care of myself,” she told her tiring woman.

  “But I’m supposed to take care of you,” Nancy replied with a smile. “You’re a grown girl now, and must accept all that goes with your position as lady of Friarsgate. Besides, ’tis my duty to look after you, mistress. If I did not have this duty I might be out in the fields or in the kitchens or helping the laundress. I prefer caring for you.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Very well then,” she acquiesced, and let Nancy prepare her for her bed.

  “How is Edmund?” Nancy asked.

  “I think in the morning we shall know better,” Elizabeth answered her, and explained what Baen had told her.

  “Poor old fellow,” Nancy sympathized. “Friarsgate won’t be the same without him. You have your work cut out for you now, mistress.”

  “The Scot will help. Edmund wants him to take his place until he is strong enough again to act for himself,” Elizabeth said softly.

  “He’s a right handsome lad,” Nancy responded with a small grin. “We’ve all flirted with him, but he don’t seem to like the lasses. Yet I don’t think him like Lord Tom and his William. Mayhap he has a sweetheart in the Highlands, and is being true to her, the lucky girl.”

  Elizabeth said nothing, getting into her bed and bidding her tiring woman a good night. She had never considered that Baen might have someone else. Well, it didn’t matter. He was going to be hers. Still, the thought niggled at her, and the next morning as they rode out together to the shearing sheds she asked him bluntly, “Do you have a woman of your own at Grayhaven, Baen?”

  “Nay,” he answered her, and then he realized that if he had said aye, she would have left him in peace.

  “Good!” she said sweetly. “I should hate to have her disappointed by you.”

  “If I had such a lass,” he queried, “how would I disappoint her?”

  “By marrying another,” she told him.

  “I will never wed,” he said quietly.

  “Why not?” Elizabeth demanded of him.

  “Because I have naught to offer a wife,” he re
sponded.

  “You are wrong,” Elizabeth said, “but I will not argue the point with you now.”

  “I am relieved to hear it.” He chuckled.

  “Do you know why we shear our sheep later than most?” she asked him, changing the subject completely and quickly.

  “Aye, but tell me again.” He was relieved to be off an uncomfortable topic.

  “The fleece is thicker, the hairs longer and stronger,” she answered him. “This allows the fabric to be woven tighter, which makes it warmer and more resistant to the rain. Our fabric is prized in northern Europe.”

  “Do I not recall Tom saying you regulate the production of the Friarsgate blue?” he asked her.

  “Aye. It’s a better blue than anyone else makes, and much in demand. We keep the price of it higher by making just a little each year. So far no one has been able to match the color. I’m thinking of trying the same process by which we get the blue with green and possibly a golden color as well,” Elizabeth told him.

  “Your eyes sparkle when you speak of your wool,” he told her.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Now you understand why a gentleman of the court would have made a disastrous husband for me. I must be involved in my work. Oh, I will give my husband children, and gladly. But I will never sit passively by a fire.”

  “It will take a rare man to live with you, Elizabeth Meredith,” he said.

  “It will take a brave man to live with me,” she admitted.

  “Aye,” he agreed, laughing, “it will indeed.”

  She left him at the shearing sheds to watch the process, and rode back to the house. The Bold Venture was due back from northern Europe soon, and Elizabeth was anxious to learn how the market had gone this season. She spent much of the rest of the day in her library working on her books. Now that Edmund was unable to do it the task must fall to her.

  The old man was showing small signs of improvement this day. His voice was stronger, and no longer strained. The paralysis in his left hand had disappeared, but his right hand was still crippled like a bird’s claw. Father Mata had carried Edmund to the hall and settled him in a chair. William Smythe had brought the game table forth and now sat playing Hare and Hounds with Edmund. Maybel, who had been up all night, was catching up on her sleep. She was not young either anymore.