An Invitation to Pleasure

by Marguerite Kaye

  Susanna’s eyes narrowed. Had she noticed he spoke through gritted teeth? Certainly, she was no fool. Fergus took her hands in his. ‘It seems a shame for you to come all this way and miss out on the festivities. From what you’ve said, Christmas in London with your parents would be a driech affair.’

  ‘They are mourning Jason as if he was their son. I think Mama believes he would not have contracted the fever which killed him if I had been a better wife.’

  ‘I would not expect you to play the weeping widow, if you chose to remain here.’

  ‘But that is impossible.’

  What was impossible was her leaving, and it had nothing to do with the fact that his blood stirred at her proximity. He stroked her palms with his thumbs. Soft skin she had. His hands engulfed hers. In for a penny, Fergus thought ruthlessly. ‘You could stay,’ he said. He pulled her closer. Her figure was much fuller than he remembered. Decidedly curvier. He liked the way her hair tumbled like a live thing over her shoulders. He liked the way she smelled, of cold and salt from the journey, and flowers and lemon. He hadn’t really thought about enjoying the wooing, but wooing Susanna would be no hardship at all. ‘What if we pretended,’ he said. ‘Made the best of it?’

  She made no effort to pull free from him, so Fergus pressed on. ‘What harm is there in saying that we are betrothed, until Hogmanay? That’s the night before the new year, when the formal ceremony takes place. All you have to do is refuse me then, make a public break. You’ll have had a holiday from London, I’ll have saved face.’ That was three weeks away. A lot could happen in three weeks. Fergus slid his arm around her waist. ‘Say you’ll stay, Susanna. It will be…entertaining.’

  ‘Entertaining.’

  She said the word as if she did not understand its meaning. Fergus pressed home his advantage. It was underhand, but he was desperate.

  ‘You understand, I have no wish for a husband.’

  ‘You mean you’ll stay?’

  ‘Only until this Hogmanay ceremony. A public falling out, did you say?’

  Or else she would fall in with his plans. Fergus nodded, but was careful to make no promises. ‘After all, you’ll not likely get the chance again to see the beauty of the Highlands in winter.’

  ‘It is very lovely here.’

  ‘And I’ll do my very best to make your visit unforgettable.’

  Susanna laughed. ‘Oh, why not? I did not heed you three years ago, Fergus, but I have learned my lesson. I’ll stay.’

  And she looked so adorable, and Fergus was so elated at having persuaded her that he pulled her into his arms. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘do you think I can finally have that kiss I’ve waited three years for?’

  Soft, his mouth was, with the scrape of his stubble a tantalising, arousing contrast. He smelled nice. Soap and wool and leather. This close, she could see the gold rim around his iris, the faint trace of a scar along his hairline, a bump in his nose where it may have been broken.

  Warmth enveloped her as Fergus wrapped his arms around her. Susanna felt the thump of his heart. He kissed her again, softly still. And again, lingering a little, licking into the corner of her mouth, so that she opened to him, and he sighed and kissed her again. She grasped his shoulders to stand on tiptoe to kiss him back. Her eyes fluttered closed. Heat and soft skin and scraping bristle and the sweetly arousing lick of his tongue on her lower lip. It was delightful.

  Fergus’s hands slid down her arms, only to rest on her waist. He smiled, a slow curl of his lips which took its time forming. ‘I have to tell you, lass, I’m very much taken with the changes in you.’

  His chest rose and fell rapidly under the soft cambric of his shirt. His fingers were playing up her spine in the most delightful way. One of his hands tangled in her hair. She could feel the warmth of his palm on her scalp. Susanna shivered. She liked the way he looked at her. Wanting her. Jason had never looked at her in that way. Lustfully. The word made her skin prickle. There were golden glints in Fergus’s hair. It was surprisingly soft to touch. ‘I have to tell you, Laird, that I am very much taken with…the Highlands. And your people, and your castle, too. I feel as if I’ve been transported to another world.’

  Susanna turned away to hide her smile, and came back down to earth with a thump as she caught sight of the huge, looming four poster bed. ‘You were jesting when you said that it was expected you stay here in this room with me, were you not?’

  Fergus too, turned his attention to the bed. ‘I was not, but one thing is for certain, board or no board, I’m not sleeping in that with you.’

  His vehemence should have been reassuring, but Susanna decided she found it insulting. ‘What board?’

  Fergus strode over to the huge bed, and pulled back the top cover. Sure enough, a huge plank lay down the middle of the mattress, neatly separating it into two. ‘Your side,’ he indicated, ‘and mine. You’ll notice that it’s a very rough bit of wood. Anyone who tries to cross it will be sure to get a skelf. A splinter,’ he explained, seeing her confused look. ‘Walking out leads to bundling, in these parts. It’s our way of courting, allowing a couple to get used to each other on the understanding that if they get too used to each other then the wedding will take place forthwith.’

  ‘But we are not courting,’ Susanna said stupidly. Except, of course they were. Or they were pretending to be.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way now, but before you arrived here this afternoon, I didn’t think the bed would be a problem at all. I’ll sleep on the chair.’

  Susanna eyed Fergus’s large frame sceptically, unsure how to react to this most backhanded of compliments. ‘You will be very uncomfortable.’

  This time, his grin was positively wolfish. ‘I already am. At least we’ve proved we can put on a persuasive show when we need to.’

  She did not blush delicately, but turned a fiery red. ‘Will we need to?’

  ‘It will be expected, you’re the laird’s affianced bride.’

  ‘Until Hogmanay.’

  ‘Until Hogmanay, aye. Do you think you’ll mind a few kisses, lass?’

  Susanna stuck her nose in the air. ‘If it keeps your tenants happy, I expect I shall be able to force myself to bear them. What else have you not told me?’

  Fergus chuckled. ‘Isn’t Christmas the time for surprises?’

  Chapter Four

  The stirring of the pudding which would be eaten on the night before Christmas was the first of Fergus’s surprises. ‘It’s called Clootie dumpling because it’s cooked in a cloth. This is the same recipe as belonged to Mrs MacDonald’s grandmother,’ he translated for the cook, who beamed and nodded at Susanna. ‘We stir six times one way, and six times the other.’

  ‘Together,’ Mrs MacDonald, the doyenne of the huge stone-flagged kitchen, said in English, handing Susanna the wooden spoon.

  It was very hot, down in the basement, thanks to the huge open fire with its collection of spits and cauldrons, one of which contained the pudding ingredients. Fergus put his hands over Susanna’s. ‘Don’t ask me why it is six times and not five or seven. I’m sure there is a reason for it but I’m not sure that I want to spend the next hour listening to it. Are you ready?’

  She nodded, and they began to stir the thick mixture of suet and flour and dried fruit. She was fascinated by the contrast of their hands, his tanned, wholly covering hers, which seemed so pale. Perspiration beaded at her hairline, and trickled down the small of her back. There were surely enough ingredients in this pudding to feed an entire village. She very much doubted she’d have been able to move the spoon without Fergus’s help.

  Two times, three times, clockwise they stirred. Already Susanna’s arm ached. She braced herself, bending over the iron pot. Before she could straighten, Fergus put his free arm around her waist to hold her there. This time when they stirred the pudding, their bodies rotated together. Five times, then six. They paused to change direction, but he did not let her go. They stirred, and their bodies moved together, her bottom nestled into his thighs. S
lower, round again, and she forgot about her aching arm and thought only of the way he felt against her skirts.

  His hand tightened on her waist. His breath was sharp and shallow on her neck. Was he as enthralled by what they were doing now, in front of the kitchen staff, as she was? Their stirring slowed to a mesmerising, arousing rhythm.

  The applause startled them both. Susanna dropped the spoon, Fergus dropped Susanna. His cheeks were bright with colour. ‘I had not thought a pudding could be so captivating,’ he whispered amid the cheering. Handing the spoon back to the cook, she caught the woman’s knowing glance. Mrs MacDonald said something to Fergus which made him laugh, but he would not translate it. Instead he bowed, Susanna curtseyed, and the crowd dispersed.

  ‘Those kitchens were hotter than hell,’ Fergus said to her as they made their way through the warren of still rooms and pantries to the green baize door which marked the end of the servant’s quarters. ‘Though not as hot as the company.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Susanna replied with eyes downcast.

  ‘I doubt I’ll be able to eat a slice of Clootie dumpling again without thinking of you, now.’

  They were in the great hall, which was deserted save for the four sleek deerhounds snoozing at the fire. Susanna turned, trying hard to bite back her smile. ‘If that is meant to be a compliment, Laird, allow me to tell you that it is one of the most backhanded I have ever received.’

  ‘Aye, but it has the distinction of being the most unusual too, you’ll admit. And a mite more respectable than telling you what I was really thinking.’

  He had a wicked gleam in his eye. Susanna had not thought herself the type of woman who enjoyed flirting, but this was flirting that could lead nowhere. She liked the edge of it, and she liked that the edge held no danger, so she surrendered to the teasing look in his amber eyes and his curving smile. ‘What then, were you really thinking?’

  ‘That you have the most delightful curve to your rear. I was wondering if it was even more delightful without all those petticoats between us. That is something I’d dearly like to find out.’

  ‘A rounded rear being an absolute requirement for a laird’s wife?’

  ‘Such a necessity, I think I should maybe just see whether you fit the bill,’ the laird said, putting his arms around her waist.

  ‘Fergus, we are in the great hall, someone might see us.’

  ‘Isn’t that the point?’ he whispered wickedly.

  His hands slid down to cup her bottom. Susanna’s back arched of its own accord as his hands buried deeper into her skirts. Something that sounded shockingly like a whimper escaped her as his lips brushed the sensitive flesh just behind her ear. It was delightful. Too delightful. She wriggled free from his embrace. ‘Well, do I pass the test?’

  ‘With flying colours. But you are quite right,’ Fergus agreed, ‘we must not waste our act playing to an empty house. A walk in the snow will do us both good, and they are expecting us in the village.’

  Over the passing days, there were many customs and rituals, plenty occasions for public shows of affection. Kisses under the mistletoe that stopped only when their audience cheered. The throwing of the lucky horseshoe made by the smithy which, like the pudding stirring, seemed to require Susanna to be twined in Fergus’s arms, her bottom pressed to his thighs.

  Such a contrast to the nights. At first she could not sleep for the rustle and thump of Fergus trying to make himself comfortable. For several nights she listened to him shift about on the chair, then the floor of their chamber. Finally, telling herself she was simply being practical, she had ordered him to share the bed. ‘It is big enough to sleep an army,’ she’d said, ‘and I for one have no intentions of risking a skelf by crossing that bundling board thing. I am astonished that any courting couple do so.’

  Now, the mattress sagged when Fergus joined her, and it took her even longer to fall asleep. For some reason, she liked to listen to him breathing. She liked the solid weight of him beside her. But he made no move to cross the board, for which she told herself she should be grateful he seemed interested only in their public performance. As for her, the thrill she got from his kisses, from the brush of his hand, his thigh, the outrageous things he whispered in her ear, that was because she too was enjoying the performance. It had nothing at all to do with the man himself. Nothing.

  Lust fed on deprivation, that’s what she was feeling. Though never, not even in the first months of her marriage, had Susanna felt this tingling sense of anticipation. Even as she said her vows, she had withheld a part of herself. Jason’s expertise in the marital bed brought her no satisfaction, for it confirmed that these most intimate of caresses had been shared with any number of other women. Duty forced them to share their bodies, but there had been none of this constant urge to touch for the sake of touching. None of this wanting to know how would this feel, and this, and this.

  It was all delightful, this Highland Christmas, beguiling, like the scenery and the people and yes, like the man who was laird of it all. But it was not real, and soon it would be over. She may as well enjoy it while it lasted.

  * * *

  Day after day of passionate kisses and bodily contact were taking their toll on Fergus, as night after tortuous night he lay there beside her in bed, with only a bundling board and a nightgown between them. He feigned sleep, and he was pretty certain Susanna did too. Her breathing was too even. She lay too still.

  The night before last, he had woken near dawn to find he had worked his way over the damned board to drape an arm around her waist. Last night, it was his leg that had breached the barrier to lie over hers. He had the skelfs to prove it. She had slept through his incursion. Or pretended to.

  He had not forgotten his purpose in keeping her here, but he no longer believed in it. The more he knew of her, the more he realised that she meant it when she said she had no need of his rescue. She was witty, attractive and more importantly she seemed happy enough in her own skin. If he thought it a waste that such a woman should be so very set upon being alone, that was her business, not his. Where that left him, he had no idea, save that he was pretty certain Hogmanay was approaching far too quickly, and he was pretty sick and tired of the frustration he had to cope with as each night fell, and the day’s kisses left him like a pot of water kept continually simmering and never allowed to boil. There were times, usually towards dawn, that Fergus wished he could be just a bit more unscrupulous.

  Tonight was the feet washing. In the cottages and crofts, this was a ritual involving soap and scrubbing brushes which took place separately for the bride and groom, but in the castle the tradition had evolved somewhat. Fergus smiled to himself as he tried to picture Susanna’s reaction. His imagination moved on, to anticipating her slender feet in his hands, and once again, his blood rushed to his groin, as it seemed to do so often these days in her company.

  They dined formally in the great hall. After dinner was cleared, those of his villagers and tenants who wished to witness the ritual—and drink his whisky—arrived. Susanna, looking even more luscious than ever in a gown of her favourite midnight blue, turned to him questioningly as the crowd formed a circle.

  She stared in puzzlement as a large porcelain bowl was filled from a stone pitcher and placed at the foot of an ornately carved chair. ‘Is that wine, Fergus? Is this another toast?’

  He smiled at her, one of those wicked smiles of his that sent her pulses racing, and warned her to expect the unexpected. ‘It is wine, but it is not for drinking,’ he said, taking her hand in his. ‘This piece of whimsy is known as the Dooking Throne. You must curtsey to our audience, and place that most delightful rear of yours upon it.’

  She did as he bid her. Another of his surprises, this was. Was she to be crowned? But no, Fergus knelt at her feet, and to her utter astonishment and no little embarrassment, he removed first one, then the other of her evening slippers. ‘Fergus!’

  Another of those smiles. Cheers and stomping from their audience. His hand slid up her calf under h
er skirts, his fingers tickling the back of her knee. ‘Fergus, what on earth…’

  ‘It is called the feet washing,’ he replied, casting her a mischievous glance as his fingers untied her garter. ‘I do like these stockings. Are they silk?’

  ‘Yes.’ Susanna bit her lip to catch the tiny sigh that escaped her as his fingers left a trail of sensitised skin, unrolling her stocking back down her leg. He held the delicate item up for the audience to see, causing a burst of laughter when he draped it around his shoulder. She took a deep breath as he cupped her other foot, trying to ignore the shivering sensation as his fingers trailed up her stockinged leg, untied her garter, then went back down her bare skin. The second stocking joined the first around his neck. He took one of her feet in each of her hands.

  ‘Lift your skirts just a little, if you please. I would not like to stain them.’

  Her feet looked pale and narrow in his hands. What was it about a naked foot that was so intimate? Susanna cast a nervous look around the circle of the audience, but they all seemed to be finding the ritual amusing. She hoped they put her blushes down to maidenly modesty. Modesty was the last thing she was feeling as Fergus dipped her feet into the wine and his fingers worked their way over her toes. She no longer heard the laughter and shouts of encouragement which were probably inciting him to scrub harder, as he took a large cloth and began instead to stroke her instep in little circles.

  Her eyes drifted closed. There seemed to be no purpose to this ceremony, but she did not care. When Fergus finally lifted one of her feet out of the wine, Susanna jerked awake from her delightful daze. Her eyes flew open, meeting his. Dark, lambent and blatantly aroused, his gaze was. There was no doubting now, the purpose of the feet washing. She was hot and tingling herself, and it was not just her feet which were damp.

  The large square of linen turned pink as Fergus dried her feet. He surprised her once more when he fished in the bowl and what she had taken for a piece of wine sediment turned out to be a ring. ‘You must throw and whoever catches it will be the next to wed. Aim for Eilidh Fraser over there. I know she is courting, and there’s no harm in having it said that the laird’s lady has great foresight.’