by Judith James
She murmured a protest, feeling embarrassed and exposed, but when she tried to pull them down he stopped her, and as his long fingers deftly spread her open and caressed wet curls, he shushed her with a kiss.
“Trust me, Catherine.”
She relaxed and followed where he led her, a shameless wanton, knowing she was his. She lost all sense of space and time or any world beyond the moment, and all that mattered was centered on his touch. As his fingers f licked and played, his teeth grazed her nipples and delicious waves of sensation pulsed and gathered, building at her center. When he brought his mouth, hot and seeking, to her private places, the dam shattered and she cried out as something inside her clenched and released, over and over, and waves of exquisite pleasure rocked her to her core.
He rose along her length, capturing her mouth and entering her in one f luid move. She was hot and wet and aching and he lifted her legs over his shoulders, thrusting harder and faster and deeper, moaning her name. Her fingers scored his back and she made animal sounds low in her throat as her muscles clenched around him and another wave of pleasure shook her, and then it came again. She f loated in an ecstasy beyond her wildest imaginings. It was everything she’d dreamt of and a thousand-fold more. It was perfect—all that was missing were three small words.
***
Jamie got up, stretched, and poured himself a brandy before stirring up the fire. An unruly gust of wind rattled at the windows and stinging pellets of ice skittered against the pane. It had been a harsh winter so far, but it was warm and comfortable in his room, with a fire blazing in the hearth and Cat Drummond asleep in his bed.
She still wore her gown, despite his best efforts to relieve her of it, and, passion spent, she’d turned shy and demure. I’ll have to work on that. He’d spent a long time after, kissing and petting her, hugging and holding her in his arms. But when he’d tried to speak, to praise and reassure her, she’d ducked her head, blushing and suddenly shy, as bashful and embarrassed as she’d earlier been wanton and bold. It was utterly charming. She’d been well worth the wait. He couldn’t remember ever being so satisfied or so deeply moved.
He watched her now with possessive pride. She lay across the creased and crumpled coverlet, her hair tousled and disordered, spread about her in sleepy chestnut waves. Her skin, illuminated by the glow from the fire, was without blemish, except where his lovemaking had left its mark: a rosy f lush still staining her cheeks, the rasp where whisker had brushed tender skin, here and there the imprint of impassioned fingers, and a slight mark where his teeth had grazed her throat. She looked achingly beautiful, vulnerable, and lovely, and he felt the urge to protect her against any who might harm her, including himself.
He moved to stand by the bed, and drew his knuckles gently across her cheek. She’d been trusting and responsive, curious and eager, and breathtaking in her innocence. “You disarm me, Cat Drummond. You’ve laid siege and you’ll conquer if I leave any chink.” He shivered, gripped by the same certainty that had seized him when he’d set out to follow her after she’d escaped him on the banks of the River Clyde, that he’d taken a turn, stepped onto a path, begun a new journey, and there was no going back.
Well then, that was that. No point fighting it. Best enjoy what couldn’t be changed. She wanted to learn, and he was the man to teach her. In return, throughout the cold and dreary months of winter, she’d be warming his bed. Tomorrow he’d have her girl Maire move her things. The thought of having her naked beside him, warm and willing, every night, made his palms itch to touch her again. His cock twitched, heavy against his leg, and he shifted, easing it. If he’d hoped a taste would lessen his thirst he’d been mistaken; it had only left him craving more.
Twenty-Seven
In the weeks immediately following her initiation to Jamie’s bed, Catherine could be found singing, humming, or whistling everywhere she went. Her heart raced whenever she saw him, and her breath quickened at the sound of his voice. She felt beautiful, desired, deliriously happy, and very much in love. Their days overf lowed with talk and laughter and at night he was a magician, turning her into a carefree wanton as he wove spells of sensual delight. Awakened to passion and her own earthy sensuality, she’d never been as comfortable in her womanhood or herself. Their new intimacy only added to what was between them, dissolving the tension and burnishing their friendship with a lustrous glow. Though he’d claimed friendship was all he had to offer, his look and his touch said otherwise, and for now she was content.
Nevertheless, there were storm clouds on the horizon and as a new season approached, they grew harder to ignore. They talked of many things—king and country, family and religion, their childhoods and their philosophies—but anytime she mentioned their relationship or the future, he changed the subject or walked away. Things were always pleasant between them—provided she didn’t mention the topics he wished to avoid. He used a sheath to prevent her getting pregnant, a thing she hadn’t questioned as she wasn’t eager for a child, but as time wore on she couldn’t help but wonder if he did it to keep their hopes for an annulment alive. The spring brought visitors and news from London. The king had concluded a naval treaty with France. Jamie appeared distracted, and though their lovemaking grew ever more wild and torrid, as the world outside intruded, she could feel him withdraw.
In June, Captain Carrot Top, the man who’d tried to interest Jamie in French harlots at Peg’s, came brimming with secrets and information. He greeted Catherine with polite disinterest and no sign of recognition, clearly eager to be rid of her so he could tell Jamie his news. She wished him gone and wondered why he and his London companions couldn’t leave them alone. She refused to ask questions, but the answers found her anyway. The king’s wife, Mary of Modena, had given birth to a son, James Francis Edward, in June—a male heir who would supplant his Protestant sister’s right to the throne.
“We won’t be able to stay out of it now, Catherine. It’s the Catholic heir they’ve all feared.”
“Not the Irish and my own folk back home.”
“They’d be wise to fear it, too. There’ll be trouble soon. Here, in England, and in Scotland. Trouble all ways round.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Anything I can to avoid it, I suppose.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult. We’re at a good distance and largely forgotten except by some few of your friends. We can be circumspect and neutral if only they’d stay away and mind their business. Tell them not to come. Tell them we want no more news from London. If we stock supplies and fortify, this place can weather any storm.”
“I meant there are ways to avoid a civil war, love. There are men with cooler heads than most, who see a way clear. William of Orange—”
She held up her hand to silence him. “And they’ve come to you for help, have they? Where were they when you needed help? Why would you risk Sullivan and his people? Why involve yourself? Need I remind you of your own precious rules? Watch and wait and don’t act unless it’s to your advantage. Or is there some grand reward? Something that glitters so bright it’s worth risking this place and these people? Your lands back, perhaps? A shiny new title? What’s the going rate to betray one’s king?”
“Perhaps I would do it for the good of my country,” he said quietly.
“That doesn’t sound like you at all.” She could see the hurt in his eyes, though it was quickly hidden. She told herself she didn’t care, he was about to embark on an adventure that might ruin them all. “Don’t tell me things I don’t want to know, Jamie.”
“And what would you have me do, Catherine? What would you do?”
“Honor forbids me from acting against the king. I concluded a treaty with him on behalf of clan Drummond. He’s honored his part. Our whiskey f lows through London, and Drummond coffers overf low with gold. We’ve promised him our allegiance. My father would have stayed to one side if he could. He’d have found himself terribly busy elsewhere, but he’d not have acted against the king. I’d do the
same were it my decision, but it’s not. If there’s war, the Highlands will rise to support him, and Donald and Jerrod will be among the first to join. I intend to stay out of it if I can, and I hope for all our sakes you do the same.”
Things were strained between them after that in a way they hadn’t been since leaving London, and though they shared a bed that night, they barely spoke. Catherine regretted having hurt him. She hadn’t known she could until she’d seen it in his eyes. She looked at him now, asleep beside her, and reached out her fingers to caress his brow. She knew he’d been grappling with a difficult decision, trying to find his way to what was right. I owe him an apology. I ought to have listened. I’ll tell him so when he wakes. But the next day, respecting her wishes, he left for Dublin without telling her why he was going, what he was doing, or when he’d be back.
The journey took him four days. The place he sought was a favorite haunt from simpler times. Down by the docks, nestled on the south bank of the mouth of the River Liffey, it was a private little corner in a thriving city that had been Ireland’s main port for hundreds of years. Variously held by the Irish, the Danes, and more recently, the English, Dublin was the commercial, industrial, and social center for the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, who’d displaced and replaced their native Roman Catholic foes.
Such matters were inconsequential to Moll. If a man wished to drink in her tavern, he left religion at the door. They came for privacy and discrete conversation, and the creamy dark stout that tasted better than anywhere else in the world.
Jamie stepped into the hall on a loud burst of laughter, tugging down the brim of his hat to hide his face. It was force of habit more than anything else. Only the regulars would recognize him here, and they didn’t concern him. Spies and assassins, smugglers and pirates, men of the sea and dogs of war, they were a loose brotherhood, and men of business first. Alliances changed—loyalties, too. A man fought who he was paid to fight, and did what he was paid to do. The fellow whose throat joined yours in drink and song today might be one whose throat you cut tomorrow. It was never personal, and you never betrayed a friend. It was a different circle than he frequented in London: rougher, dirtier, and altogether more trustworthy.
He eased into a seat and a moment later Molly herself sidled up next to him, pressing one heavy breast against his cheek and a tankard of stout into his hand. A good country lass with a sharp northern wit, she had a plump body that cushioned a man when he needed comfort, and comfort was something she offered proudly: good food, good beer, good company, and if a man wanted it, a very good time.
She motioned over a sallow-looking fellow with a lanky frame, coal dark hair, and cold black eyes. “Johnnie Mercer! Look over here! See what’s just returned from the dead and walked right through my door. Ain’t you been asking after him the past few days?”
The tall man spoke in a cultured voice, with a trace of an accent. “Molly, my dear, you’re the soul of discretion as always. Fetch us some bread and oysters, ma belle.” He rose and came to join them. “James! What a shock it is to see you looking so well! I heard you’d died a traitor’s death and been spread in four pieces about the land.”
“So sorry to disappoint, Johnnie. It’s just my restless ghost, you see.”
“Can an apparition share a pint?”
“Let’s try it and see.” They raised their mugs in a toast, and Jamie moved over to accommodate Moll and her oysters.
“And how fares your widow?”
“Blast it, man! How do you know about that?”
“I know everything. It’s why you come to see me.”
“Widow? Did you finally get your heiress?” Molly asked, bouncing and shoving her way onto his lap.
“Aye, Molly, I did,” he said, giving her a warm hug.
She sighed and leaned against him, biting his ear as one hand reached for the front of his breeches. “It’s nice to have you back.”
“You’re a naughty wench, Moll.” He trapped her hand in his and fended her off with a grin. “I’ve just told you I’m dead and married. Illicit congress under either circumstance would send you straight to hell. I must protect you from yourself.” He kissed her hand, and maneuvered her off his lap.
“Even married and dead you’re still functioning in all your parts. I’ve just felt the proof of it!”
“I assure you I wouldn’t be if my lady found out. She’s a quick-tempered Highland savage. Now off you go, love. Johnny and I don’t want to bore you with our talk.” He gave her a charming grin and she couldn’t help but smile back.
“Next time I see you I’ll ride you to a lather, Jamie Sinclair. Just see if I don’t.”
His cadaverous-looking friend stirred and stretched. “Dear me! I hope you didn’t stop on my account. I’ve never known you to be shy. Our business could have waited a few minutes more.”
“When I have business with a woman it takes hours, not minutes, my friend. Christ, Jean! I mean Johnnie, you look more like a corpse than I do. What happened to you?”
The man called Johnnie Mercer gave a Gallic shrug. “Louis is no kinder to Huguenots than your king is to those who sign the covenant. I was a guest on one of his galleys.”
“Louis made you a galley slave? I can’t believe he would dare!”
“It’s of no matter. I escaped. I have a new master now, and a new country.”
“You were a patriot, Jean. You fought for—”
“Please, it’s not what we’re here to discuss. Are you willing to meet the gentlemen I wrote you about? One of them waits upstairs.”
I wish I’d been able to tell you, hellcat. I pray you’ll understand. He followed Jean upstairs, meeting his London gentlemen and their Dutch friends, and then, with his business concluded, he started for home, still thinking about Catherine and hungry to hold her in his arms. He should have told her he was going, if not why. He should have said goodbye. She’d be angry, but he wasn’t unskilled when it came to women. He’d make it up to her. He’d make her purr and make her forget, and once he had her properly contented, he’d make her understand.
Twenty-Eight
Catherine sensed Jamie’s presence the moment he arrived. It was no surprise. She’d been worried and waiting from the moment she’d discovered him gone. She knew better than most that he was well able to care for himself, but Dublin would have been seething with rumors, rife with treason, and crawling with every species of revolutionary, fanatic, patriot, king’s man, and spy. She’d no doubt he would have enjoyed himself immensely, but somehow, in his absence, she’d become the creature she’d always despised, the forgotten wife stowed safely in her tower while her man lived his life and she waited and prayed for his safe return. Well, bollocks to that!
He was a deeply sensual man, and she’d come to understand the power she wielded. She’d wait for him to come to her. When he was hungry enough she’d insist on knowing what he was up to, where he placed her in his life, and what he expected from the future, and if he couldn’t tell her or he didn’t know, she’d know it was time to move on.
She poured a drink, preparing for battle. Leaning back in the chair, she tilted her head, eyes closed as she held the glass to her nose, savoring the scent captured in its depths: honey, barley, and the rich and musky Highland peat unique to her home. It transported her back to the innocent days of her youth, when her father was all-loving and all-powerful, the horizon stretched before her limitless and beckoning, and everything seemed possible. F leeting days, gone as quickly and surely as any pretty dream. A painful yearning gripped her and a lone tear escaped her tightly closed eyes.
“Missed me that much, did you?”
She opened her eyes and regarded him in silence. He looked rough and dangerous. He was clad in leather jerkin, boots, and breeches, and his hair hung loose in unruly tangles. He hadn’t shaved or changed, but had come to her straight from the road. Her heart, thumping slow and steady, was so loud to her ears it was a wonder he couldn’t hear. He took another step into the room, and she imagined for
a moment that he was as uncertain as she was.
“No? Do you cry for some other lover, then? I wouldn’t blame you. You told me not to tell you, mouse, but I ought to have said goodbye.”
He could see the hurt and anger in her eyes. Why had he left her that way? It had been thoughtless and cruel, things he seldom was with women. She sprawled in a plush leather chair, one magnificent leg hooked over the arm. A glass dangled from her fingers and she was naked beneath a silk chemise that was sliding off her body despite a desperate attempt to cling to every luscious curve. Everything within him stirred to life. Christ, she’s superb!
Riveted, he stalked her, hunger blazing in his eyes. In one quick move he knelt by her chair, gripping the legs and pulling it closer, making both her and the chair squeal in protest. Resting his head in her lap, he drank in her scent, musk and spice, heather and pine.
Unable to resist, she trailed her fingers through his hair, curling round the back of his neck.
“I missed you, Catherine. I missed you on the road, I missed you by my side, and I missed you in my bed. I thought of you every moment.” His voice was rich, deep, and slightly hoarse, and he used it as a caress. He brushed the inside of her thighs with cool fingers, lifting the thin chemise and opening her to his view. Embarrassed to be so exposed, she moved her hands to readjust it, but he muttered an incoherent protest and used both his hands to anchor her by the thighs. She was about to protest when he lowered his mouth to nuzzle her. She would have jumped from the chair if he hadn’t been holding her firmly in place. As it was, she let out a startled gasp. “Jamie, what are you doing?”
Ignoring the question, he continued to nuzzle her, rubbing his chin against the warm juncture between her thighs, feather-light, then harder, whispering tender words and apologies. “You’re so beautiful… so soft and lovely. I’m sorry if I upset you. I should have talked to you before I left. Don’t be angry with me, love. Let me make it up to you.”