Chapter Twenty-Two

Diarmad stepped into the small room, the air redolent with the scents of soap, bathwater, and woman—Mara MacIvor, to be precise—which seemed to have a powerful effect on him. The last two strong pints he had consumed already rode his blood; the bath had taken some time to prepare, and he had passed the intervening time enjoying the landlord’s good ale. It might not be the best he had ever tasted, but it had to be damn close.

The two men conversing in the main room of the inn had left while he supped his ale, giving him close looks in passing. After Mara disappeared into the back with the landlady, Diarmad continued to linger, but not for long. Thoughts of what might be happening in back spoke far too potently to him. He imagined Mara MacIvor submerged up to her luscious breasts in a tub of water and eventually wondered why he should not be there also.

The landlord—a fellow large as his wife was small, with a craggy face and a fierce expression—glowered at him as he went.

“My wife is back there,” Diarmad explained a bit thickly. “Newlyweds.”

An unexpected grin spread across the landlord’s face. “Go ye on,” he bade Diarmad, “through yon door there. And enjoy it while ye can. The flames do no’ burn so bright the whole marriage on, ye ken.”

Aye, so, well, they roared now with searing intensity, Diarmad thought as he let himself into the tiny place and feasted his eyes on the sight before them.

He had to smile. By now he had seen Mara MacIvor in many moods: angry, impatient, frightened, determined, impassioned…indeed, a certain bliss came to her features when he plunged inside her. But naught to rival this. She looked like a woman transported to heaven.

She lounged with her head against the raised back of the tub, hair and limbs floating, her breasts—as he had pictured—teased by the surface of the water. Indeed, he could see her nipples like two tender buds awaiting the attentions of his mouth.

She opened her eyes and looked at him in surprise. He wondered if she would order him out, resent his intrusion on her few moments of peace. Instead a small smile came to her lips.

“I was just wishing for you.”

“Were you?” Diarmad’s pulse leaped, mirrored by a movement further down. He let his gaze caress her from her toes all the way up.

“Och, aye. Do you think there is room in here for two?”

Diarmad did not. She occupied the full of the tub with her sweet, white limbs. But he felt willing to try.

“Take off your clothes,” she bade, “and we will see.”

Ordinarily he would resent taking orders from her; in this case, his fingers moved in total obedience. His garments hit the floor as he moved forward, and he reached the tub naked.

“Step in,” she invited.

“’Twill be a tight fit.”

She gave him a wicked smile. “Tight is good.”

So it was. Caught in a haze equal parts ale and arousal, Diarmad stepped into the water—still warm. Mara made room for him, and he slid under her until her white buttocks came to rest on his thighs, with him facing her.

“Ah,” he groaned, sure he would come instantly.

She gave him another look. “Let me wash you, husband.”

She took up the soap and a scrap of cloth the landlady must have provided. That wicked smile still dancing about her lips, she began washing his chest, his throat, his arms, even as his manhood strained upright in the water.

“Alas, Master Ramsay,” she crooned, her voice as soft and caressing as her touch, “you are in sore need of a good scrubbing—everywhere.”

“As are you.” His immersion in the tub had raised the level of the water well above her breasts. He reached out and cupped one in each hand and let his thumbs caress her as they would.

“Master Ramsay, you are surely distracting me from my work.”

“Work, is it?”

“A consuming task, entirely.” She leaned forward and kissed him, a searing movement of tongue on tongue. At once she released him and pushed his head under the water, which forced his body further beneath hers; he came up with his manhood cradled between her thighs.

“Mara,” he said then, hoarsely.

“Nay, I am no’ finished.”

She began to soap his hair even as he prodded, searching, between her legs. If only she would part them and straddle his hips, he would be able to ease in.

He palmed her breasts and she caught her breath; her fingers fell away from his hair.

“You have a beautiful body, Mara MacIvor. In truth, you are a beauty withal.”

Her eyes widened. “Me?”

“You.” He dove forward and captured her mouth. Could she not tell how bonny he found her? Could she not feel the truth?

He lifted her body in the water and settled her where he wanted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms about his neck, their mouths fused.

No words necessary, then. He began to move in a slow rhythm, and she kept pace, the warm water lapping around them and threatening to spill over. Desire rose in a wild bubble to Diarmad’s head and exploded when he came inside her.

She clung to him, her body shuddering with pleasure, her face pressed into his neck.

“Ramsay.”

What did it mean, her whispering his name that way, like a word of a magic spell, like claiming? Tenderness for her assailed him, and he cradled her close, raining small kisses on her cheek.

She lifted her face, and they gazed into one another’s eyes, still joined below and her legs wrapped around him. Her lips moved as if she would speak, and some powerful emotion brimmed in her eyes, but no words came.

“What is it?” he murmured.

She shook her head, and for an instant a new emotion flickered in her eyes. Fear? Regret?

“I cannot seem to stop wanting you.”

“’Tis not a bad thing, that,” he told her. Or was it? Aye, the pleasure went easy with them now, but what of later, when they were forced to part?

Very gently, he withdrew from her and set her back in the water. “Perhaps we should try to control our urges.”

“Do you suppose we could?” She tipped her head and regarded him; her long, red hair trailed across her breasts and into the water, making him ache to touch. “I did make the attempt before, to no good effect.”

Manfully, he proposed, “We might resolve to try harder.”

“Aye. Seems a waste, though, when we are still together.”

“’Tis up to you, Mara,” he told her seriously. “I would do naught to trouble you, not now or later.”

She said nothing, and he stirred his limbs. “The water grows cold; I will leave you to finish.”

He scrambled to his feet, which brought his manhood into close proximity with her lips. An immediate test of resolve, he thought wryly, and ordered himself not to think about it.

Yet before he could step from the tub, she reached out and cupped him. His startled gaze flew to her; the wicked smile had returned to her eyes.

She leaned forward and tasted him with her tongue, rendering him instantly aflame.

“And where do you think you are going? Ah, no, Master Ramsay; we are no’ done.”

****

The soberly clad men were back at their table in the corner of the inn’s main room, and two companions had joined them. Mara strove to ignore how uneasy their presence made her and to concentrate on the pleasures at hand: a fine dinner of roast mutton and mashed turnips in front of her and Diarmad Ramsay across the table.

Both looked appealing—the hot meal because she had not enjoyed one such in many days, and Ramsay because she had. If she were for some reason required to forego one for the other, she would abandon the mutton and have him up the stairs so fast it would make his head spin.

The thought made her smile in satisfaction. She’d had his head spinning right enough in the bath earlier, when he stood before her—an unimagined pleasure. But it begged the question: what was the matter with her that she could not get enough of this man?

True, he cleaned up very well and looked so handsome in the leaping lamplight of the inn’s parlor it took her breath away. But she needed to keep her mind on the matter at hand—playing a part that would serve her country and her Prince.

She supposed, all in all, she should be ashamed of herself. True, in the past she had sometimes contemplated doing the things she now did with Ramsay—what lass did not? But it had been in a hazy, distant way that did not equate with truths such as the weight of him in her mouth when he stood in that water before her. She flushed hot just thinking of it.

He leaned across the table toward her. “Do not look over there, but yon men keep watching us. Who do you suppose they are?”

Mara flicked a glance that way. If she had to guess, she would deem them agents of the English Crown. But why would they be here?

Save looking for the Prince.

Another shiver traveled down her spine, this one not caused by pleasure.

Just then the landlady came to their table, bent on refilling their cups of ale.

In a low voice, Mara asked, “Those men over there, mistress—who might they be?”

“They do no’ say,” the landlady returned, her tone as guarded as Mara’s, “but I think they are hunters. Word came some days ago, you ken, that the Prince has been seen in the vicinity. They near missed him at Portree and followed a trail here.”

“Och!” Mara’s throat closed with dismay; she dared not look at Ramsay.

The landlady lowered her voice still further and leaned in. “I do no’ like giving them a berth, but they will burn the place down if we do no’. And there be a crowd of others just like them staying at the White Rose, up the road.”

Ill news, that. Nervously, Mara asked, “And has the Prince truly been seen hereabouts?”

“Who knows? They may be chasing ghosts. Or they may take him. I wish them all in hell.”

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed softly, and the landlady’s gaze focused on him.

Mara said, “We heard there is a braw price on the Prince’s head.”

“Whisht! Do not speak of it.” The landlady immediately broke her own ban by adding, “The sum of thirty thousand pound, ’tis whispered.”

“A great and terrible sum,” Ramsay murmured.

“Aye, but,” the landlady avowed, “no one here will betray him, even for that.”

“Men are greedy,” Ramsay put in.

“Not when it comes to the loyalty in their hearts.”

Mara thought of Archibald and MacNeal and shook her head.

The landlady laid a hand over hers, which rested on the table. “A poor time for a wedding journey, lass. If ye do no’ wish to stay here the night, we will understand.”

Mara looked at Ramsay. It might be as well to flee while they had the chance. But the prospect of a whole night spent with him in a bed spoke to her far too seductively.

Ramsay shook his head slightly. What did he mean to convey?

“We will think on it,” Mara told the landlady.

“You do that. Best not to take any chances”—the woman bent closer—“in your condition.”

She hurried off then, and Mara questioned Ramsay with her gaze. He shrugged in answer.

“’Tis your decision, lass. You are the guide.”

“Aye, then finish your dinner and let us hie upstairs.”