“Aye, that’s right,” he agreed. “The MacGregors are proscribed.”
At least the MacDonalds of Glencoe had received some reparation and had been allowed to return to their ruined homes after the massacre of many of their clan. But the Campbells had not only stolen the MacGregors’ lands, but because of their allegiance to the English crown, they’d also succeeded in obtaining an Act of Proscription against Clan Gregor. Proscription meant they could not use their own names, were not allowed to carry a knife with a point, could not meet in numbers greater than four. Now she could see why Alex and Angus had no fear of danger, and were willing to take insane risks in an attempt to restore the Stuarts to the throne and get the Act repealed. Their very existence as a clan depended on it. It also explained why they used the name Drummond.
She looked at him with new understanding, and he looked at her likewise. He had not known she was of the Glencoe branch of the MacDonalds. They smiled at each other. They were not united merely by religion and the Stuart cause, strong though that was. They had just discovered a new bond, a personal and justified hatred of Clan Campbell. And in that moment they both knew that whatever else happened in the future, however successful or disastrous their marriage turned out to be, that bond would remain, at least.
It was a good start.
* * *
At Alex’s insistence they abandoned all thought of rehearsing any more that day.
“We can practice some more on the way to Dover,” he pointed out. “Iain’s driving us there, so we’ll be safe from eavesdroppers. Once we’re in France, we’ll have to be more careful, as I’ll be hiring a postillion.”
Instead Alex bounded off upstairs to take off his paint and get out of the ridiculous red outfit, reappearing in the kitchen ten minutes later in time for a huge bowl of mutton stew, after which the household repaired to the library to play a chess tournament, armed with a bowl of plums and several bottles of wine.
Alex played Maggie, and Iain took on Beth, while Angus, who claimed to have no interest in playing tonight, hovered behind his brother, making helpful suggestions. In spite of his sibling’s assistance, Alex succeeded in beating Maggie, while Iain demolished Beth with insulting ease, before going on to thrash her husband in the final.
“I used to be footman to an old laird in Edinburgh,” he explained later over a bottle of burgundy. “He was a wee bit infirm, didna get out a lot, but he was awfu’ fond of the chess, and we used to play together of an evening. He taught me all I ken about the game.”
“Aye, he taught ye all ye ken about drinking and idling too. Fine figure of a man Iain Gordon was when I married him,” Maggie he winked at Beth. “Two years at yon lairdie's, and he’s an idle sot.”
“I’m no’ idle!” he retorted. He didn’t deny the accusation of being a sot, Beth noticed.
“Glad to hear it,” his wife replied, so quickly that it was obvious her insult had been bait of some sort, and he had taken it. She was sitting on the floor near his feet, her elbows resting on his knees, her luxuriant red hair, which was her only claim to beauty and of which she was justly proud, hanging loose on her shoulders. “Ye’ll have no objections, then, to chopping those logs for the fire in the morning, and fixing the snib on the privy door you’ve been saying you’ll get round to for weeks.”
“I’ve got to drive to Dover tomorrow!” he protested, wriggling feebly on the hook.
“Ye’ll no’ set off before ten, at the earliest,” his wife pointed out. “Plenty of time to chop a few wee logs.”
Iain groaned, remembering the enormous pile of wood in the yard. He glowered at Angus, who was grinning hugely.
“Aye, laugh while ye can,” he said with mock rancour. “You’ll be married one day, then you’ll ken what it’s like, and you’ll be sorry.”
“Not me,” said Angus, with the supreme confidence of youth. “The lassie I marry will be sweet-natured and biddable.”
“They’re all sweet-natured and biddable when ye marry them. It’s no’ till after you’ve made your vows that they become shrews,” he advised, glaring at Maggie.
His wife reached lazily back with one arm, and he ducked too late to avoid the deftly aimed ebony pawn which bounced off the top of his head and disappeared into the shadows in the corner of the room. He rubbed the sore spot with a bony finger and eased his angular body into a position more suitable for defence or retaliation.
“Any woman who has the misfortune to marry a Scotsman has to become a shrew, if she wants a decent roof over her head,” Maggie countered. “Otherwise she an’ her bairns’d freeze to death in their broken down huts while the men were out indulging in the national pastime of fighting. And when they’re no’ killing each other, they’re sitting idle, drinking and telling tall tales, and waiting for the next brawl.”
This was so accurate a picture of the traditional Highlander’s way of life, that none of the men present could contradict it. “I’m warning ye, Beth,” she finished. “Get out now before ye fall in love wi’ the wee gomerel. There’s no hope for ye after that.”
Everyone looked at Alex and Beth, who were seated, wine glasses in hand, side by side on the sofa. There was a small, careful space between the couple, all the more noticeable because the MacGregors were normally a very tactile family. Maggie observed it with a slight frown, and snuggled closer to Iain, who reached down to lift one of his wife’s fiery curls and wind it round his finger. He glanced back at the sofa. Next to her tall, well-built husband, Beth looked tiny, delicate. She felt relaxed, perfectly at home with her new family. Her cheeks glowed rosily with wine and happiness. She showed no signs of taking Maggie’s advice and running for the hills.
“Aye, she may look the picture of innocence and beauty now, but gie her a few weeks and she’ll be a tyrant, like all the rest of her sex,” Iain remarked sourly.
“Less than that, I hope,” said Alex. “I’m giving her three days, at the most.”
* * *
“They love each other, don’t they?” Beth said, as they climbed the stairs. Alex had offered to see Beth to her room, as he was tired too. They left Iain, Maggie and Angus in the library to finish off the wine.
“Aye. Verra much,” Alex replied. “That’s one reason why I’m taking Angus instead of Iain as my servant. Iain’ll no’ be parted from Maggie for so long, and she doesna like to travel. England’s as much as she’s willing to endure, and she’s no’ really happy here. Iain would be a better choice to take, really. There’s no family resemblance between us, although what wi’ the make-up and the fact that people dinna look at servants closely, that shouldna be a problem. But Iain’s older, and more level headed too. And he’s worked as a personal servant before, which Angus hasna.”
“What are the other reasons?” she asked.
“Angus is good at talking to people, at firing them with enthusiasm. He’s persuasive too, and he can speak French, which Iain canna. And I’d prefer him where I can keep an eye on him.”
They’d arrived at the door of her room.
“I’ll wish ye a good night’s sleep,” he said, taking her gently by the shoulders, and kissing her on the forehead. It was a friendly gesture, the sort you might make to a younger sister, perhaps. He turned away.
“Alex,” she began. He turned back, waiting politely for her request. What time is breakfast? Can I have another candle?
“Would you like to sleep with me tonight?” she blurted, then flushed instantly crimson. “Only it’s the last night we can be sure of being alone together, and undisturbed, for weeks, and I thought…ah…it doesn’t matter.” She turned away, fumbling blindly for the doorknob. She had interpreted his hesitation as reluctance, he realised.
He placed his hand over hers, gently prising her fingers off the handle.
“I would love to spend this night with ye,” he said softly. “But no’ if you’re only asking me because it’s the last chance we’ll have for weeks. I said I’d no’ touch you until you wanted me to, and I can wait weeks, months i
f necessary, until you’re ready.”
Could he? She is so beautiful. God, give me strength, he prayed.
“I’m ready,” she said. He closed his eyes, opened them again. She was standing there, still flushed, the pulse at her throat beating wildly. But her voice had held no doubt, and nor did her face. Shyness, vulnerability, but no doubt.
She turned from him, lowered the handle and went in, leaving the door open for him to follow. He did, standing just inside the threshold hesitantly, like a virgin schoolboy. His prayer did not change.
She busied herself lighting candles, tending the fire, turning down the bed. Then, when there was nothing left to do, she turned and looked at him helplessly. He had to take command of the situation, had to be gentle, careful. He was fully aware that if their marriage was to have any true chance of success then he had to erase the terrible experience she had had and replace it with something beautiful, although he did not know precisely what form that horror had taken, and therefore had no idea of what would recall that event to her mind, and what would not. He could not ask her. If he failed…
He would not fail.
He moved into the room, sat on the bed and patted the space at his side. She came and sat next to him, folding her hands demurely in her lap. He took one in his.
“You’re very tense. What are ye expecting of this night?” he asked. “Is it that it will hurt a lot and be over in seconds, as you said before?”
The corners of her mouth turned up slightly.
“No,” she said. “I don’t know what to expect, but I hope it will be something like I feel when you hold my hand, sort of warm and melting, only much more so.”
Her honesty was disarming. Her innocence was devastating. Accustomed only to whores and experienced women, Alex felt as nervous as his wife. He realised in that moment that although he had had sex with many women, he had never truly made love to one before. The realisation that he was about to do so was exhilarating. Terrifying.
He placed one arm around her shoulders, bent his head, and kissed her on the lips, gently at first, until he felt her yield to him. Then he deepened the kiss, parting her lips, and placing his free arm under her knees, he lifted her smoothly on to his lap in a soft rustle of silk. Her lips tasted sweetly of wine, and she wrapped her arms around his back, clinging to him. When the kiss ended they were both slightly breathless.
“I think we should undress now,” she said, surprising him; he had been wondering how to suggest that without frightening her.
He moved over to the far side of the bed to undress, turning his back to her in order to give her a little privacy. As he was only wearing shirt and breeches, disrobing would take seconds. He decided to take his time, lingering over every button, so that she could be undressed and decently covered by the sheets before he had finished.
He was just about to remove his shirt, when it occurred to him that she was wearing stays, and would need assistance with the laces. He turned round to ask her if she required any help and froze with his mouth open ready to frame the unnecessary question. She had known she would have no maid for a few days, and had anticipated the difficulty by buying some front-lacing stays, so that she would have no difficulties in dressing.
Or undressing. Alex was greeted by the totally unexpected sight of a perfectly formed naked young woman, her glorious hair cascading over one breast to her hips. He inhaled sharply through his mouth and turned away quickly.
“Don’t I please you?” she said in a small voice, hating herself.
He turned round again.
“Don’t you please me?” he whispered. “Ah, mo bhean bhrèagha, you are the most lovely thing I’ve ever seen.”
My beautiful wife. The words were like a benediction, and although she blushed, she also smiled as his gaze lingered on her, on the perfect breasts, the slender waist, the soft roundness of her hips, the…
“Your turn,” she said, and he realised he was still fully dressed.
He pulled his shirt roughly over his head, unbuttoned his breeches and slipped them off, giving her a momentary but gratifying view of his broad muscular back and taut buttocks. Then he slid into bed and pulled the sheet up to his waist. He didn’t want to frighten her with his erection, which was fierce, demanding. He determinedly ignored it, and smiled reassuringly at her. He leaned over to blow out the candle by the bedside.
“No,” she said. “Leave it.”
He hesitated, lips pursed, surprised. He had thought, being a little shy tonight, she would prefer the darkness.
“I want to see you,” she explained. “I want to know it is you with me. The dark can lead to…imaginings.”
Ah. He cursed silently to himself. But the dark had been imperative that night, when he had had to hide himself from her.
“Come,” he said. “Join me.”
They lay together in the bed, as they had lain to sleep on their wedding night, her head pillowed on his arm. It was relaxing, peaceful, non-erotic, he told himself forcefully. His erection did not subside
“One of the things your friends told you about the wedding night was true,” he said after a short silence.
“Which one?”
“It may hurt, but only a very little if we are careful, when I…”
“When you take my virginity,” she finished for him.
He nodded.
“Thank God for that,” she said. “I can take that. I thought you were going to say it would be over in seconds. I’m not sure I could bear that, after spending two days working out how to get you in bed with me.”
A snort of laughter burst from him. This woman never ceased to amaze him. He hoped she never would.
“No,” he said, leaning up on one elbow and smiling broadly at her. “It will not be over in seconds. Of that I can assure ye.”
He bent down to her, kissing her again, and this time her lips parted eagerly to receive him, and she wound her arms around his neck. After a long minute he broke the kiss, then, as he had on their wedding night, he delicately kissed her, forehead, eyelids, nose, then down her throat, her collarbone, leaving a slow trail of burning kisses. She shivered suddenly, though the room was warm, but showed no signs of leaping from the bed.
Just to be sure, he avoided touching her breasts, instinctively aware that part of her unpleasant experience had involved them. Instead his lips moved between her breasts, only his unbound hair trailing softly across her nipples, which hardened in response. She smelled very faintly of the jasmine soap she used, and beneath that… he inhaled, drinking in the exclusive, sweet female scent of her. He nuzzled gently at the pale, translucent skin. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on his back, and she gasped.
When he reached her stomach he paused, and placing his hands round her waist, slid her effortlessly higher up the bed, before moving his body over hers, spreading her legs gently so he was lying between them, his head level with her stomach, his burnished hair falling forward over her hips, hiding his face. He moved slightly, infinitesimally lower, and she flinched. Dizzy with need, he halted his progress and looked up at her.
“I can stop, if you want me to, at any time,” he said huskily. Oh, God. “You dinna have to feel obliged because you invited me…”
She reached down, and placed one finger on his lips. Her eyes were smoky, the pupils dilated.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered breathlessly. “Do anything, but don’t stop. Please.”
He didn’t. His strong fingers stroked gently down the side of her ribs, which were frail as a kitten’s, and his lips continued their downward progress, over the soft pale thistledown of hair and onward. His tongue teased out gently between her legs, and he tasted the sweet, musk scent of her. He sighed, deeply, contentedly, and bent to his task.
She made a deep guttural sound then, in the back of her throat, and arched convulsively away from him, but his hands were firm on her waist, holding her in place, and he made no further offer to stop, because the movement was a reaction to almost unbearable pleasure, and
he knew it. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his head towards her even as her body arched away, and she trembled from head to toe. His lips curved in a smile against her tender flesh. It was torture, what he was doing to her, and he felt her abandon herself to it, willingly, utterly.
This time the slight rush of moisture as her body prepared itself to receive him went unnoticed by her, although not by him. She was ready for him, breathless, flushed, almost, but not quite, at her climax.
As for himself, he was more than ready, and his body shook with the effort of restraining himself as he slid smoothly up the bed, taking his weight on his elbows so as not to crush her beneath him. Their bodies were joined from breastbone to thigh, and his arousal pushed eagerly against her. The urge to plunge himself inside her was almost overwhelming. Almost. With any other woman he would have given in to it.
He shifted position and eased himself slightly, a fraction of an inch, into her. He felt the tautness as her unaccustomed flesh closed around him, and he swallowed, hard. She raised her knees instinctively, opening herself to him, and he slid into her, one inch, two. It was unbearable. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles strained with the effort of holding himself back. Her head was thrown back on the pillow, her eyes unfocused, her breathing, harsh and ragged, matching his.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she lifted her legs and wrapping them around him, pulled him deep into her with one violent movement that lifted her off the bed. He felt the delicate membrane tear, heard her gasp of pain, and for a second her eyes looked straight into his, perfectly focused and perfectly happy. Then he was moving inside her, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed as her nails dug into his back and her hips intuitively kept rhythm with his, and his fragile control shattered, hurtling them both into sensual oblivion.
Afterwards they lay together for a short while, her head pillowed on his arm, as they had on their wedding night, but apart from their position in the bed, everything else had, irrevocably, changed. Long after her pulse had returned to normal, her breathing had slowed to the soft, regular sound that told him she had slipped into sleep, and the candle had guttered and died, he lay awake, smiling in the dark.
The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) Page 12