by Karen Ranney
His hips moved of their own accord, and his breathing accelerated, but she kept up the same slow exploratory rhythm, licking first the crown, then the sides, finally placing the head in her mouth like a treat.
She moaned, and the sound of it against his penis was too acute.
“If you keep on, I will not be able to satisfy you.”
“Then you will have to do so with your fingers, Moncrief. Or your mouth.” She began the soft licking rhythm again. “I know why people want to do this,” she added, speaking against his erection. “It feels unbelievably wonderful.”
“Catherine.”
“It’s all right, Moncrief.” She tormented him by taking him into the warm wetness of her mouth again. This time, however, she increased how much of him she took inside, until he was certain he was going to explode.
She reached up and gripped his hips, urging the rhythm to begin. At that moment, he knew what she wanted and what he couldn’t prevent.
“Catherine,” he said roughly.
She made a sound of assent deep in her throat, her lips pressing against him as she slid him in and out of her mouth.
He stepped back, freeing himself, and bent to her, nearly throwing her across an empty barrel. He lifted her skirts and entered her from behind. The barrel rolled a little, and he reached out his hands to steady it, and then slid slowly inside her. Her nails gripped the barrel so tightly that he wondered if she would get splinters, a question he forgot when he was rooted deep in her, his welcome eased by her incredible heat.
She made a little sound at the back of her throat, something like a whimper, a muted murmur so provocative and feminine that it aroused both a protective impulse and one to dominate.
He slammed hard against her, driving into her with a ferocity unlike him. She was sobbing now, insistent sounds that ground at his composure, ate away at the remnants of his restraint.
He felt her explode around him, her gasps transformed into a low moan, her convulsions shattering to become tight little shudders in the channel that surrounded him, grabbed him with greedy tremors, inviting him to surrender, Nature’s plea.
He didn’t last long, the combination of her teasing mouth and her hot welcome didn’t encourage restraint.
But he heard her sounds of pleasure before his world darkened.
Chapter 23
A week later, dawn found Moncrief awake.
He lay with his arms behind his head staring up at the ceiling. As the minutes passed, he watched as each successive portrait of an ancestor was illuminated by the golden fingers of the sun. Surprisingly, he rarely noticed any of them lately. They were simply ornamentation, something unimportant to be ignored in the face of more pressing matters.
Sometime in the night, Catherine had moved closer to him. Her hair brushed his side, her soft breathing warm against his skin.
He turned and faced her, watching as she slept.
If a man could choose one memory to hold with him for eternity, this one would be his.
There were many things about his life he could not change: the distance between him and his father, the fact he had never reconciled with Colin, his duplicity about Harry’s letters and a dozen other, less important, sins. But he had been given an opportunity to change the future when he didn’t think it possible.
He had known of Catherine’s intellect, her wit, her determination, and her obstinacy. He’d been enthralled by the strength of her character, by her beauty, by her dedication to each task she assumed, and her compassion. Yet he’d never thought that her passion might be the equal of his. She was always responsive, the most exciting lover he’d ever known.
Somewhere in his life, he had done something correct, or God was rewarding him now for future deeds performed.
He was, at the moment, supremely happy, blessed by what life implicitly promised him. At his side was a woman who might come to love him one day for who he was and not solely for what he could make her feel. But even that journey was proving to be an exciting one.
He leaned over and kissed her, and she sighed, then moved, settling on the other side of the bed.
He smiled and left the bed, caring for his morning needs.
Once dressed, he stood at the door to the balcony. Ice covered the ornamentation, and the far trees, making Balidonough appear like an enchanted castle in the midst of a magical winter kingdom.
The wind coming from the north was chilly, but for the first time in years he didn’t detest winter. There would be no need to find quarters in some overcrowded European city. Nor would he ever again have to crouch near a sputtering fire in the wilderness, praying for spring and war.
Instead, Balidonough was his haven; the outer walls keeping all who lived here sheltered from the worst of the winds. Winter was a time of peace and solace, for planning and respite.
As a child he could remember his father standing on the balcony just beyond the door, overlooking Balidonough. His father had never looked as if he were uncertain, or unsure of his role. Instead, the man appeared to know exactly what he’d wanted and how he wanted it to be achieved. It was that same aspect of his character that had allowed him to refuse to join the ’45. He and several other high-ranking Scottish nobles had stoutly refused to support Prince Charles’s assertion that his father was the logical heir to the Scottish throne. Instead, they remained aloof, neither aligning themselves with the English nor the Scots, but playing a very difficult game somewhere in between.
Because of his father’s decision, Balidonough had been left intact after the rebellion. Not for the first time, Moncrief wondered if that’s why his father had acted as he had. Another question that would never be answered.
The morning sky was a mix of yellows and blues and greens, the bright orange disk of the sun still demure on the horizon.
Today he would take Catherine on a tour of the home farms, perhaps solicit her advice about some changes he was making. After all, she’d managed Colstin Hall for years during her father’s illness, and it had been a prosperous estate.
He glanced to the left of the driveway, his attention caught by a movement.
In the dawnlight, he saw Glynneth attired in her traveling cloak and carrying a basket, walking swiftly down the drive. This was not a woman on a morning stroll, but someone with an obvious destination in mind.
“It’s a glorious day, isn’t it?” Catherine said from behind him.
He turned to find her attired in nothing but a sheet.
“You’ll catch cold,” he chided her, walking back to where she stood.
He wrapped his arms around her, and she gripped him around the waist, tipping her head back and smiling up at him.
“What were you thinking about with such a fierce glower on your face, Moncrief?” she teased. “The morning is too beautiful to have such a dour Scots look.”
“I was wondering where Glynneth was going.”
“Glynneth?” She looked past him to the figure growing smaller on the drive.
“She seems intent on an errand.”
“It’s her day off,” Catherine said, shrugging.
He turned and walked her back to the bed. “You need a dressing gown. Remind me to the tell the seamstress.”
“I believe she is working on an entire wardrobe for me, Moncrief. I beg of you, do not give the woman one more chore. I have been fitted until I could scream. Besides, I do not need you to tell her what I need. I’m perfectly capable of doing so on my own.”
“Yes, but then you would make it sturdy and warm, while I have other plans entirely.”
“You would make it transparent,” she said, smiling. She reached out and touched him through his trousers. “What is good for the duke is only fair play for the duchess.”
He laughed.
When she sat back on the bed and pulled the sheet around her, he debated joining her for a moment. But another problem still invaded his mind.
“Where does she go on her day off?”
Catherine gave him a quizzical look.
“I don’t know. Why?”
He shook his head, unwilling to say more.
“No, Moncrief,” she said firmly. “You will not do that.”
“Do what?” he asked, even though he knew full well that he was being less than candid with her.
“Retreat into silence. What do your suspect poor Glynneth of now?”
“Poor Glynneth?”
“She was newly widowed when she came to me, and I think she grieves still.”
“I can’t help but remember when I first met you.”
“A meeting I still cannot remember,” she said.
“Someone must have known how much laudanum you were taking, and my guess is that Glynneth was aware of it.”
“Are you accusing Glynneth of trying to hurt me? I have never heard of anything so ridiculous, Moncrief. She would not have. She was my companion for nearly a year. She could have harmed me at any time if she wished.”
“Like poison you with laudanum? Perhaps make you so addicted to it that you didn’t know when you were taking too much?”
“I didn’t try to die, Moncrief.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
He smiled as she began to frown at him. “Let’s say that I’ve revised my opinion. I don’t think you meant to take too much, but I don’t think it was an accident, either.”
She looked stunned. “Have you always suspected her?”
He nodded.
“And that’s why, of course, you barely speak to her.”
“Does she have any family?”
“No. It was one of the reasons I hired her. She and I were similar in circumstance. Alone in the world.”
“Has she any friends nearby?”
He walked to the window. Glynneth was barely visible.
“I don’t think so. She never mentions them.”
“Then why is she heading for the crossroads and the coach? Where’s she going with a basket?”
Perhaps it wasn’t his concern, but anything to do with Catherine was of interest to him. Nor had he quite forgiven Glynneth for her lack of care of his wife. There was the matter of the laudanum.
“You’re going to follow her, aren’t you?”
He turned, surprised. Had she learned him so well that she could divine his thoughts?
“I am,” he said, staring after Glynneth.
“Mrs. McClaren says that you have been a very good boy lately,” Glynneth said, ruffling her son’s hair. He looked so much like his father that her heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a fist.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he concentrated on the tarts she’d brought him from Balidonough.
“He’s a smart one, he is,” Mrs. McClaren said from the doorway. “The schoolteacher in the village said he’d be glad to teach him, private like.”
“When it’s time, I’ll bring some books from Balidonough for his lessons.” She ruffled Robbie’s hair again. “He’s growing so fast, every time I see him, there’s another change.”
Mrs. McClaren nodded.
He had learned to walk and had said his first word without her being there. She told herself that at least he was safe and protected, and with people who loved him. She had been able to give him that, at least.
“More,” Robbie said, thrusting a hand at her.
She smiled and shook her head. “Not until after dinner.” She bent and kissed the top of his head. He looked as if he would have liked to indulge in a tantrum, but one look toward Mrs. McClaren had him changing his mind.
Glynneth stood and walked toward the kitchen, where Mrs. McClaren was making a soup. The day had been a blustery one, and she wore her coat, still chilled from the long walk to the crossroads. Perhaps one day, she could even take one of the carriages from Balidonough.
As her position stabilized, so would her power. The only detriment was Moncrief himself. He didn’t like her, and she knew why. They each held secrets, but not from each other. She knew who he was, and she suspected he knew of her secret horror.
How foolish of Catherine not to know how much her new husband adored her. But there were other things Catherine did not realize as well, and Glynneth would just as soon she remained in ignorance of those facts.
“It’s a cold day all right,” Mrs. McClaren said. “And hardly fit for travel.”
“I don’t have to be back until tomorrow,” Glynneth said, unfastening her cloak.
“Well, that’s a blessing then. Sit down and have something hot to eat.”
She liked Mrs. McClaren; the woman reminded her of her own mother. Not for the first time, Glynneth wondered if her life would have changed if her mother had still been alive when Robbie was born.
Her mother might have softened her father’s stance, made him feel something for his grandson. As it was, her father had never been in Robbie’s company, and chose not to acknowledge him.
“Where is Mr. McClaren?” Glynneth asked.
“Off hunting. The man is fixed on a rabbit stew. Go and get me a rabbit then, I told him.” She grinned at Glynneth, who smiled in return.
The McClaren house was in a secluded area, surrounded by woods. They had few neighbors, which would be a drawback when Robbie was old enough to want a childhood companion. But for now, the privacy was perfect for her. Her arrival and departure weren’t noticed, and no one asked questions as to her identity.
A lesson from her father, that she was so circumspect even when there was no need.
“You’ll not shame me, Glynneth. Have you no idea of what gossip will do to a man in my position?”
She’d always found it sad that he thought more of his position than of her.
Over the next hour, Glynneth and Mrs. McClaren sat and talked, mostly of Robbie, who sat on his mother’s lap and shared her soup. When they didn’t talk of the little boy, they discussed Mrs. McClaren’s arthritis. Occasionally, the sound of shots in the distance interrupted their conversation. The older woman would always nod in satisfaction, proud of her husband’s prowess as a hunter.
Moncrief didn’t find it difficult to follow Glynneth. The only inconvenience was having to slow his horse and wait several times rather than overtake the coach. An hour later, the coach stopped at another crossroads and Glynneth and another woman dismounted. The driver handed down her basket, and Glynneth walked toward him.
For a moment, Moncrief was afraid she would see him, but she suddenly veered to the left, and walked into the woods. He gave her a few moments before he followed, urging his horse through the fallen leaves. A few minutes later he realized he’d lost her trail.
The forest simply grew together, without any vestige of a path. He dismounted, tying the reins of his horse to a tree and following on foot. A few minutes later he was in the middle of a thicket. In the distance was a house, smoke billowing from its chimney.
He stood there for some time, waiting for her to come back outside. When it was clear this was to be a lengthy visit, he went back to his horse, found a patch of green for him to graze, and settled back against the trunk of a tree, still watching the house.
If he’d brought a companion, he needn’t be so diligent, but he didn’t want to explain this errand to anyone. Nor did he want word of it to get back to Glynneth. Even Peter had a habit of being voluble now that he was no longer a colonel’s aide.
A twig snapped, and he turned, to face the barrel of a musket. Before he could explain his presence, before he could say a word, the gun exploded.
And then nothing.
“You were followed.”
Glynneth turned at the sound of Mr. McClaren’s voice. The older man stood in the doorway clutching his musket with one hand, the other braced on the doorframe.
“At first I thought he was a poacher, but he was dressed too well.”
“Did you shoot him, Simon?” Mrs. McClaren asked.
“I did. He was on my land.”
Glynneth stood, a sickening feeling overwhelming her. No one knew she was here. As usual, she’d been very careful
leaving Balidonough, making certain that no one followed.
“Show me,” Glynneth said.
A moment later she stood over Moncrief’s prone body, fighting back her nausea.
She knelt and put her fingers against his neck to feel his pulse. Thank God he was still alive.
“You have to take him back to Balidonough.”
Mr. McClaren shook his head.
“He’s a duke, Mr. McClaren. Do you think he won’t be missed? People will come looking for him. What are you going to do, let him bleed to death in your woods?”
“They’ll say I tried to kill him.”
She wanted to knock something against his head. “You shot him!”
“He was on my property.”
“Say it was an accident.”
He still looked mulish, but she had no other choice. Moncrief had to be taken home and tended to immediately. The only other option was to bring him inside the McClaren’s home and hope that he recovered quickly. When she mentioned as much to McClaren, he paled.
“I’ll take him back,” he said, “but I won’t be blamed for his own damn foolishness.”
“He won’t blame you,” she said, knowing it was the truth. Instead, Moncrief would find some way to lay his injury at her feet. He had disliked her from the first, perhaps rightly so.
She knew, in that moment, that more had changed than Moncrief being injured.
She helped Mr. McClaren load Moncrief into the back of a wagon, borrowing a coverlet and pillow in order to make him more comfortable.
Her prayer was simple and fervent. Help him survive until he reached Balidonough.
Chapter 24
Moncrief hadn’t returned home by gloaming, and Catherine was worried. He would have sent word if he was going to be delayed. That was the kind of man he was, considerate of others.
Three times she asked Wallace if any news had come, and three times, the majordomo shook his head.
Had he dressed warmly enough? Would he stay the night at an inn? Silly questions, to forestall herself from asking the one that truly mannered: Where was he?