by Judith James
“He knew, Cat. Of course, he knew! You were only doing what any worthy young heir should do, what he taught you to—standing up for yourself and fighting for what you thought was yours. He was probably pleased and proud behind his bluster.” He gave her a hug and the tears spilled down her cheeks.
“You see! This is why I don’t like to talk about it. Now look what you’ve made me do!” She dabbed at her eyes with her blanket, and pulled away from his arms. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was trying to seduce you. And look at me now. My eyes are red and puffy and no doubt so is—”
He growled low in his throat, spread his fingers though her hair, and pulled her mouth to his in a kiss that devoured her. She whimpered as he pushed her back into the mattress, covering her body with his own. His hands roamed her surface, rough and demanding, tugging at her blanket, bunching the material and rasping it across her belly and her breasts as he worked to set her free. She gasped and arched into him as it brushed across her nipples, sending an exquisite throbbing thrilling to her core. His tongue plunged in and out of her mouth in urgent rhythm, matched by the movement of his hips, and she sought eagerly to meet him, opening herself to him and following where he led. Nudging her legs open, he spread them wider with his knee. Wrapping one arm around her, he encircled her waist, jerking her hard against him and grinding his straining erection in the valley between her legs. Groaning his satisfaction when he found her naked skin through her blankets, he caught a nipple between his fingers and thumb. She moaned and rose against him, begging him for more, and he complied, his lips joining his fingers to tease and play.
She began to rock against him, clutching at his back, whispering into his hair, “Please, Jamie, please.”
He returned his lips to hers as his fingers tugged and tweaked, silencing her pleading with his kiss. She smelled like the Highlands, tasted as sweet as her whiskey and he—
“Damnation! Bloody hell! Ah good Christ, mouse, I can’t.” He let her go and sat up, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“I swear it’s true, Sinclair! You’re just like Lord Summerset—capable with every species of woman but your lawful wife!” she snapped, perilously close to tears again.
“I assure you I’m more than capable in your presence, love,” he said, clasping her hand and pressing it against his swollen penis, “but I’m reminded that you’ve drunk more than a few tots of whiskey. The last time we did this I don’t remember, and you won’t remember if we do it now. I’ve been an errant fumbler with politics and with women, and the only things I’ve excelled at are drinking, cards, and war, but I promise you this, when next I make love to you, it will be something you’ll remember the rest of your life.”
Though it almost killed him, he adjusted her blankets, and pulled the covers up to her chin, then gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “Now be a good girl and go to sleep.” He settled on the f loor beside her. What in hell is wrong with me?
“It’s cold. There’s room for you here if you like.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
They lay in silence, but for the sound of the slates vibrating on the roof, and the sleet and hail battering the windows.
“Jamie?”
“Yes?”
“How much have you had to drink?”
“Too much.”
“You won’t remember any of this in the morning, will you?”
“No, love. I won’t remember a thing.”
Twenty-Six
The next day’s journey began in awkward silence, progressing over time to nods, clipped questions, and one-word replies. Remembering how he’d made her beg and whimper, only to leave her pleading like a child, Catherine followed Jamie in stony silence. Recalling his mocking words in the coach and her own pleading ones last night, “Please, Jamie, please,” she clenched her fists and gritted her teeth, looking straight ahead. He plays with me! I’m a toy for his amusement. I hate him! I wish we were back on the mountain so I could push him off!
The storm had blown itself out overnight, but the ground was still wet and boggy, and as they left the mountains behind them, they squelched and sloshed over scrubby hills that soon gave way to squares of wood and fields. The weather remained undecided. The sky would darken suddenly, gushing rain, and a moment later the sun would return, changing it back to a brilliant cerulean blue. Just like him. Shining down on you in all his glory one minute, then pfft, gone, the next. I will never kiss him again. I will never touch him again. I will never drink whiskey again. She repeated the mantra over and over, using it to fuel her march.
Jamie made several attempts to engage her in conversation, pointing out interesting features they passed on the way, but she studiously ignored him. Heading east, they entered a fertile stretch of land he insisted on telling her was the Golden Vale, part of the basin of the River Suir, which crossed the county from north to south. Here, lush expanses of farmland were separated from each other by ranges of gentle hills, kissed by the heavy mists that rolled inland along the river. They passed through it on roads lined with ancient, twisted trees clothed in vine and moss, and bordered by stone-walled pastures.
By nightfall, the country was level and they’d reached the banks of the Suir. Jamie told her of a legend that the river began to f low on the night King Conn of the hundred battles was born. Curiosity piqued, she spoke at last, asking for the story, but he only shrugged. Sullivan had told him. He didn’t know the rest. Yet another disappointment, she thought sourly.
The property was on the north bank of the Suir. Comprised of five hundred acres of farmland and lush pasturage, it was crowned by a large, tower-house castle, surrounded by walls and defensive turrets, perched on top of a small rise. They approached through a park-like setting, down an avenue of ancient oak and yew, and entered the courtyard through a medieval arched gateway. Inside were several stone-faced buildings that included a stable for twenty horses. The house stood five stories tall and had numerous gun loops and four towers with a timber guard walk between them. Catherine was impressed. Though not as large or imposing as Castle Drummond, it did a more than adequate job of combining the virtues of a comfortable manor house with a formidable defense.
“This is a good deal grander than I was led to expect, Sinclair.”
“Just so. I apologize if I’ve disappointed some romantic notion about living in a hovel, but it doesn’t do to f launt one’s good fortune, lest some fool get jealous and attempt to take it away. Most gentlemen of my acquaintance lust after lands in England, not Ireland, and many who’ve been given land here have never been to see it. They rent it back to the original owners at exorbitant prices or sell it for development. Charles would never have given me this had he known its worth, but there’s been a tradition since Cromwell’s day to reward with lands the soldiers you can’t pay, and now they’re mine.”
“Will James strip them from you, as he has your property in London?”
“If he thinks of it he might, but I’m hoping if I stay out of sight and mind, my Irish properties and I will be considered too insignificant to warrant much attention. If not, I think I can persuade Dick Talbot to argue they be returned to Sullivan. It was an excellent idea you had… coming here. I was so… If you hadn’t talked some sense the other night, I’d be on my way to some meaningless campaign somewhere in Europe. I consider you a good friend, Catherine. I hope you know that.”
Catherine stopped in her tracks, astonished. Sometimes he said the most unexpected things. Just when she thought she had him figured out, she found she didn’t know him at all.
He continued on through a grilled door without her, and she had to hurry to catch up. They entered a large hall, paneled in Irish oak, that stretched over one hundred feet in length. It was hung with beautiful tapestries and boasted mullioned windows and a handsome limestone mantel. A spiral staircase led to the upper f loors.
“I thought you said you were poor.”
“I am. Selling this would pay off most of my debts, b
ut I’ve not wanted to take anything away from the place to use in England. I’ve kept my hands off for the most part, though God knows, mouse, there’s times I’ve been tempted. Sullivan manages the property and he’s got a good head for business, and Mrs. O’Sullivan, his mother, manages the people. Come, let’s find her.”
“Why do you call Sullivan and his mother by different names?”
“Because I don’t want my ears boxed. Sullivan is the English version of the name and Granny O gets piqued if one uses it in her vicinity.”
They walked through the hall and down toward the kitchen, a swell of excitement building in their wake. Servants came to greet them with curtseys, smiles, and handshakes, messengers left on the run, and dogs and children crowded around. The hubbub reached the kitchen before they did.
“Well, God bless and protect us all, ’tis the devil himself come to call.” A stout, motherly-looking woman, with piercing blue eyes framed by wire spectacles, stepped forward and enfolded Jamie in a warm embrace. “You might have sent word you were coming, Jamie lad, so we could have prepared a feast.”
“I do apologize, Mrs. O, but my wicked past overtook me, leaving deuced little time to write.” The children were clamoring around him, laughing with excitement, pulling at his pockets and jumping up and down. “Mrs. O’Sullivan, there’s a child attached to my leg. Kindly detach it.”
“Off you go now, the lot of you, before I find you work to do.” Mrs. O’Sullivan clapped her hands and shooed them toward the door. Calling them back, Jamie reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Passing it through a circle formed by his thumb and forefinger with a dramatic f lourish, he opened his hand to reveal several pieces of hard boiled sugar candy. They shrieked in delight as he tossed it to them one by one, and then they and the dogs tumbled out the door and into the kitchen garden.
“I feed them all candy so they won’t revolt and murder me in my bed—except for Granny O, who’s sweet on me anyway and likes to watch her figure,” he confided to Catherine with a cheeky grin.
“So you were chased out of England for some kind of mischief, then. Did my boy come with you?” Mrs. O’Sullivan peered over his shoulder into the now empty corridor.
“Alas no, Mrs. O. I left him cavorting with strumpets and hussies. He’s yet to produce a son and I thought it best. Your boy is forty-two years old. A bit of practice won’t hurt him. He’ll be along directly once he’s done.”
“You’re not too old to have your ears boxed, Jamie Sinclair. Who’s the girl then? Will she be staying, or should I be sending to the village? If you plan to keep her, be sure to tell her the way things are.”
The old woman gave Catherine a challenging look that would have made a lesser being quaver. All of a sudden, Catherine was acutely aware of her scuffed boots, torn shirt, and stained breeches, and she had to restrain an urge to fix her tangled hair.
“Now, now, Mrs. O. I admit she resembles a ragamuffin more than a lady, but I do intend to keep her. I’ll grant she’s a wanton bent on seduction, who clubbed me and beat me and won’t let me go, but that kind of thing appeals to me, you see, and I can’t seem to resist her wiles. She’s Lady Catherine Drummond, Countess of Moray, Carrick, and once Carlyle, and she’s my wife, and that’s the way things are.”
He turned to Catherine. “Darling? May I introduce Granny O’Sullivan, matriarch and queen of the O’Sullivan clan? I don’t know why they call her granny, as her lump of a son has yet to produce any children and she herself is eternally youthful, like an Irish spring.”
Catherine brushed by Jamie and offered her hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. O’Sullivan. Your son has been kind to me, and Ja… my husband, speaks of you with great fondness.” I don’t need to push him off a mountain. A battlement will do just fine.
Mrs. O’Sullivan returned the gesture, her face warming to a smile. “Welcome, my dear. So the lad’s finally done something right, has he? You must be his Highland lass, and every bit as fierce and lovely as he described. Come with me and I’ll show you the castle while the servants prepare your rooms.”
Jamie nudged Catherine, as they trailed behind her. “You’re shameless! It took me gifts and bribes and months of trying, and you’ve tamed the dragon with a few honeyed words. You must have stopped and kissed the Blarney Stone near Cork when I wasn’t looking.”
“I’m shameless? Where in heaven’s name did you get candy?”
“Like you, I’m very resourceful. You carry supplies to catch fish wherever you go, I, to lure small children.”
“You play so many games, Sinclair, I swear you remind me of a child yourself.”
“It’s not children’s games I play, love,” he whispered before stepping away.
Mrs. O’Sullivan was also resourceful, and that night the great hall rang with song and laughter as the castle inhabitants and local farmers and villagers came to celebrate and welcome Jamie and his lady. They sat around the edge of the room with their backs to the wall and feasted on salmon cooked over an applewood fire and mutton and pork spitted and basted in honey. Mead, sloe wine, and cold sweet ale added to the festive mood as they listened to singers and storytellers, harpers, fiddlers, and drummers.
“I swear I’m feeding every displaced farmer in County Tipperary. I wonder how I’m paying for it all,” Jamie said to Catherine under his breath, but his voice was amused, his posture relaxed, and his smile appeared to be genuine.
Singing and music led to dancing, which led to competitions. Catherine watched in amazed delight as Jamie accepted a challenge, removing his coat and leaping onto the table, arms outstretched and hair f lying, matching his opponent step for step in an intricate eight-bar dance as they battered their feet on the thick wood in a percussive rhythm like drummers. They went faster and faster and the hall erupted in whoops, cheers, and applause, until both of them jumped laughing to the f loor. Triumphant, Jamie strutted over to her through a backslapping, shouting throng, and pulled her into a wild reeling dance. She forgot her anger, she forgot her embarrassment, and she forgot all her good intentions. God help me, I’m falling in love with him. I’m well and truly lost. She threw back her head, laughing, and joined him in the dance.
Six days later, Sullivan arrived in the first of three large carts, all overf lowing with towering piles of furnishings and baggage. He informed them gloomily that the London house had been confiscated by the crown, but it was nothing they hadn’t expected, and looking at the mounds of rugs, tapestries, and furniture in the wagons, Catherine had difficulty imagining he’d left anything worth taking. He was accompanied by a beaming Maire McKenna, a grumpy Charlie Turner, two grooms, a frothing and fretting stallion, and six high-stepping mares. There was another feast that evening as the O’Sullivan scion was joyfully welcomed home.
It was a bustling, cheerful home, prosperous and well run. Catherine fell in love with it and its inhabitants and enjoyed the feeling of being surrounded by friends and family, something she’d been missing for a while. Taking her cue from Jamie, she participated where she was invited, which was often enough to feel welcome, and otherwise stepped aside. She watched with interest the subtle shift between Jamie and Sullivan. Though she’d noted in London that they were far more familiar than master and servant, in Ireland they met as friends, with Jamie and Kieran replacing Sullivan and milord.
If she’d not understood at first why Jamie had been so protective, leaving the place and its people untouched, she did now. He loves them. This is as close as he’s ever had to family, brothers and sisters and a mother of his own. She loved them for it, though sometimes at night it made her weep.
The constant buzz of activity reached a high point as the Yule approached. An army of workers and servants scrubbed, polished, beat carpets, and whitewashed walls, while the children scoured the countryside for crimson-splashed holly and fresh ivy boughs. Mrs. O’Sullivan oversaw the placement of candles and kept a watchful eye on the whiskey cakes, as Kieran, Mr. Turner, and Jamie settled the horses and prepared
for the St. Stephen’s day races the day after Christmas.
Catherine found it easy to settle into the life and rhythms of the castle—which were not that different from the ones back home—and harder to maintain her reserve around Jamie. By day, she was captivated by his teasing grin, easy humor, and ready smile. At night, asleep in her tower room, she tossed and moaned, caught in fevered dreams that left her soul and body aching. He was happy here in a way he hadn’t been in London, except when on an adventure. His eyes sparked with enthusiasm, his wit was warm and playful, and he charmed without calculation or guile. The London courtier is the mask. This is who he really is. I wonder if he knows?
They were friends again, back to the easy camaraderie they’d shared on their adventures and on the road, but things were different, too. As they sat together deep in conversation, or with heads bent playing chess, she was intensely aware of him. She watched him when he wasn’t looking, fascinated by the curve of his mouth, the sweep of his lashes, and a small tear-shaped scar high on his cheekbone just below his eye. His voice stirred her as surely as a caress, and her body thrilled to every inadvertent touch. A tap on her wrist to draw her attention, a hand on her back or waist to guide her through a door, his arm brushing hers as they leaned side by side at the paddock fence—they stole her breath and raised the hair on her arms in a crackle of anticipation.
***
The night after Christmas, with the St. Steven’s Day racing, mummery, and traditional feast over, Catherine relaxed in the sitting room adjoining her bedroom and Jamie’s. With its fanciful carved fireplace, painted sky ceilings, and a recessed alcove that abutted the river, it was one of her favorite places. The day had been full, and Kieran—how strange that sounded—had stolen the show on Jamie’s stallion, winning race after race. People had come from miles around to marvel at the son of Old Rawley. Catherine hadn’t missed Maire’s interest. She’d have to speak to Sullivan… Kieran… soon, about his intentions. She’d have to speak to Jamie soon about his, too. He was somewhere he belonged now, and it was time to make a decision to stay or go.