Robert held her for quite a long time, feeling his heart pound, saying nothing. He was disturbed and distracted, unable to think of much beyond the yearning he felt for her. His thoughts were all directed toward one thought. She was his. He had thought of little else since the taking of her virginity. Even now, he wished to make love to her again.
He was surprised, when at that moment she lifted her head and stared up at him, turning those unbelievable eyes upon him. You are so lovely, so innocent, looking at me with heavy-lidded desire, he thought. I want you so much I ache. But, you are English and not to be trusted. Because of the man you were to wed, my sister is dead.
An eye for an eye…
Sweet little English witch, if you knew the truth, would you still want me? He could feel the soft weight of her in his arms, the firmness of her breasts pressing against him. His heart thudded with desire and left him dizzy from the effect of it. He saw she was looking at him in a way that was watchful and wary. Did she know what he was thinking, that he ached to take that yellow dress and rip it from her body, so he could see again what she was like beneath it? He threaded his hands into the red hair he found so intriguing, the memory of her sweet breasts burning into him.
His body hard and trembling, he had no control over himself now. He was unable to stop the arms that tightened around her, just as he was powerless to resist kissing the mouth that parted with breathless surprise. He kissed her hard, wanting to hurt her as she was hurting him, but it had the opposite effect, and he heard her moan as her arms went around him.
He broke the kiss long enough to open the door to her bedroom and close it behind him. He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Without taking his gaze from her face, he began to unbutton the yellow dress, pushing it from her shoulders, until it fell in a buttery puff on the floor. Her undergarments fell away next, until she was bare and beautiful, the lines of her body gleaming smooth and pale in the moonlight. He took a small step backward to get a better look at the full swell of breasts, unable to stop his hand that came up to take the full weight in his palm.
He kissed her with shattering intensity, tenderly and long, sensing her weakness to resist her overpowering desire to mate with him once again. He pushed her back to the bed, covering her with his body, knowing just how to kiss her and where to touch her to make her moan with wanting. Everywhere he put his mouth, she was smooth, fragrant skin and tightly coiled muscle, and she fitted against him perfectly, the sharp outline of him cradled against her belly.
Breath mingling with breath, his senses were dulled to inaction as if drugged with an opiate. The silky coolness of her hair fell away from her face and brushed against the heat of his arms, surrounding him with the scent of roses.
“I want you,” he whispered. “I want you, and I know you want me back.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “’tis true. I do want you.”
His lips skimmed over the softness of her throat as he whispered, “I have thought of little else,” and was surprised to discover what he said was true.
He had been called many things when it came to women—everything from a seducer to a magician—because he could bend their will to his so easily, but he found no pleasure in magic or in seducing her. He wanted to possess her, but not at the cost of her destruction. He knew now, that he could not punish her for what another had done. That was why he had not been able to bring himself to marry her before now. His motive was wrong, and something within him knew it.
Suddenly she was undoing his clothes and he helped her push them from his body. He groaned as her hand touched him and slid down, across his ribs, her touch fire and ice. When her hand reached out to take him, her eyes were intense and brilliant. He could not stop now any more than he could halt the cascade of water over a fall.
He kissed her one last time and stepped into warm, blessed peace.
He would remember forever the feel of her, the sharp rise and fall of her breasts, the deep, shuddering breath as she closed her eyes and went over the edge with him.
God only knew he had performed such dozens of times, with an equal number of women. So, why did he mark this time as different? There had been many before her, he could not deny that, but there had been none like her, and no one had left him feeling as he did now.
A pure and perfect peace settled over him, a quiet stillness that put to rest the turmoil and hatred that had lain so deep inside him. From the darkest center of his person, Robert could feel all-consuming peace, glowing like a red-hot coal at first, then growing hotter and hotter until it burst into a white and purifying flame. A feeling for Meleri he had never felt before settled deep within his innermost being, and he felt inhumanly close to her, as if he could not tell where one of them ended and the other began.
He had not meant this to happen, and yet it had, again. She was his now. He would marry her and soon. He would not have his sons born bastards. He would send word to the minister to set the date.
Soon, he thought and closed his eyes. Soon she will be mine, completely.
He slept for some time before he stirred and opened his eyes. He looked at the window where the last remains of the fading day filtered into the room, a murky gray haze, both stingy and sparse, barely enough to afford him enough light to study the woman sleeping quietly beside him.
The pale, faded hue of evening light worshiped her skin. She was so lovely, lying in blameless nudity, the softly rounded contours of long, luscious legs entwined in a spiraling curl of damp sheets. Even now, the lingering smell of ripe, mellow roses filled him with a longing to take her in his arms and make love to her again. Exquisitely lovely, even in repose, she lay in a tangle of rosy hair, one hand curled beneath her chin as she slept. The still-moist curve of full lips brought back a pleasure-flushed memory of what it was like to kiss her. He leaned down, his face so close to hers that the slight rush of his breath stirred the sweat-dampened hair that edged her face, and he wondered for a moment if he would be able to make himself leave her. Every slumbering inch of her called out to him, and he burned with a need to respond.
Enveloped in the gossamer hues of an indigo twilight, he searched his feelings, his motives, even the logic of what had passed between them, looking for answers, afraid of what he would do if he found them. He had never afforded himself the luxury of looking at the world with undefiled eyes. Everything he saw was edited by a definite set of rules, the cultivation of a lifetime of intolerance, bias and bitter hatred. Her innocence called out to him for protection, when he knew he would be wiser to guard himself against it. Emotion came in a painful flood, leaving him raw with the reality of how easily he could lose what he had so recently found. Life was tenuous at best, where every day’s blessing hung by the slimmest gossamer thread, as silken as a spider’s snare and equally entangling.
Gently, slowly, so as not to wake her, he leaned forward and kissed the dewy texture of her cheek, cursing himself as he did for his newfound benevolence that tempered the fire within.
He arose and dressed quietly, then drew the covers over her with great reluctance. Unable still to leave, he looked down at her, waiting for a calming of inner disquiet. He could not use her for his own shameful purposes and now even the thought that he had once been capable of such caused a burdening weight that sank like a cannon ball in an ocean of guilt.
He turned and left the room.
The dogs were waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, gazing at the painting with the missing earl with a comprehension and knowledge he could not discern. What was it they sensed about this painting? What drew them to this same spot, time after time, and held their attention? Always, this painting, he thought, and none of the others. He paused and looked up at the portrait, studying it in detail. He had grown up with this painting and could vividly remember staring up at it as a young boy. He could remember, too, listening to his father and Iain as they repeated the legend of the Good Douglas, the first earl, the Black Douglas and Douglas the Red.
He had never been afraid of the ghost and had, for many years as a youth, anxiously looked forward to his return, but over the years he had become disillusioned. Although, he knew that in spite of his anger at the old earl for not returning and giving them the Douglas jewels, somewhere deep within him he still did believe.
“Staring at the painting won’t tell you where the jewels are. I know, because I tried it. I also tried talking to it. That didn’t work, either.”
He turned to see Iain and the twins approaching.
Iain stopped beside him and the two of them stood gazing at the painting, but when Iain looked back at his daughters and saw their large, round eyes, he laughed and said, “I’m not going to tell you any ghost stories today, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“But…”
Catriona got out only that one word, before Iain told them to “run along and change for dinner.”
The twins giggled at something only they knew the truth of, then hitched their skirts and charged up the stairs.
“I’ll wait for you down here,” he called after them. They giggled again and kept on going. “I wonder if I’ll ever be able to make ladies out of them.”
“When the time is right.” Like Iain, Robert had watched them race up the stairs, never tiring of the sound of their girlish laughter. “They have brought many smiles to our dour faces. I never thought I would admit it, but I have truly enjoyed watching them grow up.”
“I don’t know how I would have survived Anne’s death if she had not gifted me with our daughters. Like you, I have enjoyed each moment I have had with them. Already, I begin to worry about what I will do when it comes time for them to marry.”
“That time will come sooner than either of us suspect. They are at an interesting age, no longer girls and not quite women.”
“Have you made love to her?”
Iain’s directness startled Robert, but he did not answer.
Apparently, he did not need to. “Have you taken leave of your senses? To use her this way is abominable! How long do you intend to allow this to go on without the union of marriage?”
“I intend to marry her,” Robert said simply.
“It better be soon. Have you thought about the possibility that you could get her with child? Is that what you want…for your son to be born a bastard?”
“Why don’t you shout, so everyone in the castle can hear you?”
“They will know soon enough, whether I shout or not. I am surprised at you, Robbie. I thought you capable of more self-control. I also thought you a man of more breeding than to use a woman for revenge. Your father would have never considered such.”
“What good is high moral standing, if it causes you to lose your life before your time? And what about Sorcha? Did her high moral standing serve her well in the end?”
Anger held Iain’s jaw in its grip. “Then consider this. She is English and titled to boot. While I have as much reason as you to despise them, I am a respecter of those in power. If the king gets wind of this, your goose is cooked and the rest of us will be tossed in to baste in the same pot along with you. You should put more thought into what you are about. Your casual fornicating could cost us all dearly.”
“I never fornicate without a reason,” he said with a ruthless disregard of his uncle’s position of respect. “I also have more to lose than anyone here, therefore I would suggest you follow your own advice and put more thought into what you are about. While we are at it, I will add that I have had about all of the interfering and meddling in my life that I intend to have. I can follow only so many dictates without losing my sanity.”
Iain lowered his voice. “I don’t mean to be overly dramatic….”
“A goal you have fallen short of.”
“In spite of what you may think, my purpose was well-meaning and…”
“Aye, like the streets of hell…paved with good intentions.” Robert made a move to leave, then checked himself and turned back to Iain. “Tell me something, Uncle, did you sleep with Anne before you were married?”
It was apparent that his words struck Iain with unexpected intensity and caught him off guard. “No. I didn’t make love to Anne until two months after our wedding.”
Robert regarded him in a new light. “Now, that must be some sort of record. Care to elaborate?”
“No,” he said, letting his feeling show in his choice of words. “One thing about love is that you can really make an ass of yourself.”
“You’re calling yourself an ass? For you, that is a milestone.”
“I’m saying I was foolish. I was a young lad, you see…younger than you. I was inexperienced, and a wee bit overeager. I went after her with so much enthusiasm I frightened her and she kicked me out of the bed.”
“And you waited two months because of that?”
“No, I waited two months because I broke my leg.”
When Robert stopped laughing, Iain said, “Seriously, I would not wait overly long to marry. Even the best-kept secrets have a way of surfacing. If Meleri should get even the slightest inkling as to the depth of your feelings about Sorcha’s death, it could mean the end of it. No lass, no matter how much she cared, would want to be on the receiving end of a marriage for the sole purpose of revenge. If that happened, there would be no way you could force her to marry you. English or not, there is not a minister in Scotland who would perform a wedding when the lass did not want to be married. You are running a great risk by waiting.”
“You underestimate me, Uncle. I have everything under control. There is nothing to worry about.”
“For your sake I hope you are right.”
Dinner that night was not bad, but it might as well have been for all the food Meleri ate. In Robert’s opinion, food was food. You ate what was in front of you and you were thankful that it did not bite you back. After watching her pick and poke at her meal, putting nothing more than a few sips of wine to her lips, he looked down at his plate with a more critical eye. Was he missing something? There was brown meat—possibly venison or jugged hare, judging from the vegetables around it. He decided it looked more like jugged hare…but even then, he was not certain. There was a white blob of something that might have been potatoes, and then again, it might not be.
The oatcakes were easy to recognize, though, and for that matter, so was the crannachan. He was not certain how it was made, but he remembered his mother mixing oatmeal, crowdie and raspberries together with a little whisky and honey, which she then left to steep overnight.
He looked down again and frowned. Crannachan was pudding, but it looked as though it had been left to steep for a month or so, and there seemed to be a scarcity of raspberries and an over-abundance of oatmeal. He supposed Meleri was accustomed to grander fare, and he stared with rueful apology at her sitting next to him, quietly giving the food in front of her a bewildered stare.
“What is it?” she whispered, looking down at her plate and giving it a poke before she turned a questioning face in his direction.
He looked at the brown lump on her plate. “It’s probably jugged hare.”
“Probably? You mean you aren’t sure?”
“Not completely, but don’t let that discourage you. The good news is I have narrowed it down to three or four possibilities. Beyond that, I’m afraid I’m no help.”
“Jugged hare,” she repeated as she picked up her fork and gave it another stab or two. “Why would anyone want to jug something that looks like this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were never interested in finding out?”
“I was never that curious about what I ate, apparently. For whatever reason, I never asked about it. Maybe you jug it so you don’t have to look at it.”
She shook her head. “It’s amazing what one can do to a piece of meat when one wants to disguise it.”
“Why don’t you try the oatcake?”
She wrinkled up her nose, not bothering to give the oatcake a glance. “I’ve eaten too many oatcakes lately.”
A short eruption of laughter distracted him and Robert looked off. When he returned his attention to Meleri, he saw her cast a quick and furtive glance about the table and saw, too, the hand that came up to snatch the oatcake from her plate, then disappear somewhere in the vicinity of her lap.
Beneath the table a few seconds later, the mad thumping of a dog’s tail told him she had passed the oatcake to Corrie or Dram. Obviously hearing the sound, she turned her head and stared up at him through curious eyes, a guilty expression on her face. Amused, in spite of himself, he feigned innocence and stared back at her in a guileless manner. Somehow, she made it through the rest of the meal, but she did not eat much or ask any more questions.
After dinner, the family members went their own ways, and Robert walked with Meleri to her room. When he opened her door, he chuckled at the sight of the dog lying on the floor beside her bed. He pushed the door closed and placed a caressing hand on her shoulder and lifted her chin, holding it in place between his thumb and forefinger. Her eyes widened as he then turned her face up to his. He kissed her cheek, where the delicate curls fluttered with his breath, working his way over the smooth expanse of forehead, over the brow and down her small, perfect nose. He kissed her soundly, her lips firm and trembling beneath his. When he broke the kiss, he saw her eyes were closed, the curve of deliciously long, dark lashes folded like a fan to rest against high cheekbones. Even before she opened her eyes, he saw the stain of red stealing over her cheeks.
“You aren’t embarrassed by all of this, are you?” he asked.
Her eyes flew open. “I am not exactly accustomed to this sort of thing, you know.”
It was said with such crossness that he wondered what he had done to upset her. “You aren’t worried about what happened, are you?”
“Oh, no, I am delighted. I have longed for the day I could be gainfully employed at the Lost Maidenhead pub.”
He started to tell her he would send for a minister on the morrow, but decided against it. It would be better to surprise her. He held her against him. “I wouldn’t report to work just yet, if I were you.”
She did not look at him but gazed into her room, where Dram sat looking at them, his head tilted to one side, as if trying to decide if they were going to enter or not.
“Dram seems to have formed a fondness for you.”
“Yes, he hangs around like a heavy meal.”
“You should be honored. He is not as easily swayed as Corrie. He does not take up with everyone.” He pulled her closer, pressing her lightly against him. “Your betrothed. Did he ever kiss you?”
“Once, but not the way you do.”
“Once? That was all? You were engaged for your entire life and he kissed you once?”
“Yes, when I was twelve or thirteen.”
“He was a fool.”
She looked down at her feet and spoke so softly he barely heard what she said. “No, I think he was afraid.”
“Afraid of you?”
“Yes.”
“Because the day he kissed me, I shoved him away so hard, he fell off the boat landing and into the water.”
“Why did you push him?”
“I didn’t like his kiss.”
“What was it about his kiss that you did not enjoy?”
She threw up her arms and walked away from him, giving him her back. “I don’t remember whether I enjoyed it or not. All I remember is that it made my heart sad.”
“A kiss made your heart sad?” he asked, trying to understand.
“Yes. I was sad because his kiss was not so wonderful as all the dreams I had. I was given disappointment, when I so desperately wanted something to recall.”
His heart seemed to light up from within. “Come here,” he said softly. “Come here and let us see if we can make a memory.”