Stuart, Elizabeth (52 page)

"Here,
lass," Kate said, stepping forward out of the shadows. She held out a gown
of finest lawn, so sheer it seemed made of clinging cobwebs instead of cloth
and thread. "I've been busy at it since you came back to us," she
said, more gently than Anne had ever heard her speak. "I'd not have you
wed without a proper covering to come to your husband in. 'Twould be bad
luck."

Anne
caught the gown against her, running her fingers along the carefully sewn lace
trim of the bodice. Every stitch had been set with care and love. She bent to
kiss Kate's weathered cheek, tears sparkling in her eyes. "Thank you,
Kate. It's beautiful," she whispered, blinking rapidly. "God knows we
need no bad luck now."

Kate
suffered one quick hug, then turned away. "You'd best be into it and
wastin' no time," she remarked, her voice returning to its usual gruff
tone. "The lads below are no' so into the cups, they'll be long in
followin' ye."

With
Lady MacGregor's help, Anne slipped out of the gold silk dress she had worn for
her wedding day. Stepping carefully into the gown, she watched as Kate hung the
dress away, remembering the other evening she had worn it, when Francis had
first kissed her. So much had happened since then...

Kate
suddenly put a finger to her lips. "Listen! They be comin'."

The
rough laughter of half-drunken men sounded down the hallway, the off-key notes
of a ribald song raised above the din. As they listened, the noise grew louder,
the footsteps finally halting outside the door.

All
at
once, Anne's courage deserted her. She rose and fled behind the velvet curtains
of Francis's great bed, shivering a little with a sudden, ridiculous
nervousness. The door swung open and the room was filled to bursting with
laughing, shouting men. Francis was half dragged, half carried into the room
and dropped, unceremoniously, on the floor.

"Lass,
you must show yourself if we're to have a moment's peace," Francis called,
laughing.

Anne
drew aside the curtains and leaned out, thankful the side of the bed remained
in shadow. Blushing furiously, she slid her bare feet over the side and rose
gracefully to stand before them. The loud talk ebbed to a murmur. Then a low
voice muttered from the back of the room, "Damn the shadows, lads—what we
need is more light!"

"There'll
be no more candles lit here," Kate said, bustling forward. "I'll not
have you great fools goggling at the child." She gave Conall a push toward
the door. "Out with you; can you no' see you're not needed here?"

Francis
put an arm around Kate's shoulder, drawing her against him and dropping a kiss
onto her graying head. "Kate's right. Out, everyone, or I'll take my sword
to you. No, Robbie, you've had your look. Now be gone!" Enlisting Conall's
aid, Francis hustled everyone from the room, locking the door firmly behind the
last departing guest.

Slowly
he turned to Anne, light and shadow playing over his rugged countenance like
the brush of an artist. "You may come all the way out now, Lady
MacLean," he commanded softly. "I'd like to see if marriage makes a
difference in a lass."

Anne
stepped from the shadows, the lovely gown a gossamer shimmer that did little to
hide the beauty of the body beneath. "As you see, m'lord, I'm not dressed
to receive guests." She heard Francis's sharp intake of breath, watching
with quickened heartbeat as his eyes slid slowly over her.

"Kate
made the gown," she volunteered when he made no effort to speak.

"Kate's
determined to help provide Camereigh with an heir."

Her
own blood began to burn with the heat of his perusal. "Then you like
it," she said, turning in a slow circle.

"Aye,
though the garment has little to do with what I like."

She
stood before him, unmoving, while his right hand began a slow journey down the
back of her neck and along her spine, caressing the soft swell of one hip then
moving up along her side, passing lightly over her breast to cup her chin. A
slow trembling began deep inside her at his touch, and waves of increasing
warmth rippled from the path of his exploring fingers.

With
one curiously shaky hand, she began unlacing his shirt, finally tugging it from
his shoulders and dropping it to the floor. Stepping closer, she laid her face
against the warm flesh of his chest, marveling at the swift, steady beat of his
heart beneath her cheek. The beat quickened as her hands dropped to the lacings
of his breeches. Her fingers brushed against the taut muscles of his thighs,
quickly sending his breeches to join the rest of his fine garments on the
floor.

With
a groan, Francis gathered her into his arms, his mouth moving over hers with an
urgency that sent her senses cartwheeling against restraint. Her lips parted
eagerly for the bold stroking of his tongue, her entire body responding to the
feel of him against her. Her arms dropped from his shoulders to the rippling
muscles of his back then lower to caress the soft skin of his buttocks, drawing
him against her in an attempt to hurry the fulfillment of the urgent need she
was beginning to feel.

But
Francis was in no mood to hurry. The unexpected tryst the previous night had
taken the edge off his hunger, and he meant to enjoy his wedding night to the
fullest of every pleasurable second. He moved against her, teasing her with the
promise of his body, his mouth dropping to the hollow of her throat, while his
hands ranged with expert thoroughness over every sensitive curve.

The
sheer cloth of the gown was no hindrance. He pressed her against him, his
obvious desire quickening hers, his fingers expertly teasing the hardened
nipples thrusting impatiently against the confining lace of her gown.

He
stepped back unexpectedly. "Not so fast, lass," he murmured, holding
her away from him. Releasing her shoulders, he moved across the room to pour
two glasses of wine from the crystal decanter on the sidetable.

Anne
stared at him in disbelief, her own senses clamoring for fulfillment.
"Francis... what are you doing?"

Without
a trace of self-consciousness, he turned, holding out a brimming glass.
"I'm having wine, love. Won't you join me?"

His
eyes gleamed at her in amusement over the rim of his glass. Moving forward
suspiciously, she took the glass.

"Shall
we sit a while, Lady MacLean?" he inquired, taking her arm and drawing her
with him toward a chair.

In
spite of her amazement, Anne couldn't restrain a giggle. The sight of Francis
in all his naked splendor behaving as if he were coolly entertaining guests in
the parlor was too much for her.

He
sank into a chair beside the fireplace, pulling her onto his lap and settling
her against his chest. His fingers stole up her back beneath her hair,
massaging the stiffness from the muscles of her neck. Pushing away the golden
mass, his lips traced the route of his fingers, then lifted to find her eager
mouth.

Her
warm lips parted beneath his, luring him into her. She tried to shift sideways,
but his arm tightened about her waist to hold her motionless. His right hand
slipped beneath her gown, stroking upward in long, slow movements along her
thigh while she steeled herself against the shivering pleasure of his fingers.
"I'm not sure what you're up to, m'lord, but I tell you I like it,"
she whispered against his ear.

He
gave a throaty chuckle, shifting her in his arms so she reclined, half facing
him. "I'm enjoying my wedding night, sweet Anne," he replied.
"As my father told me years ago, 'Making love's like the brewing of
whiskey—the longer it takes, the finer the blend.'"

She
could see the tiny pinpoints of light dancing in his eyes as he bent his head
to kiss her again. She buried her fingers in his hair, clinging passionately to
him as he brought her to the edge of reason with his skillful hands and teasing
mouth.

Finally
he, too, had had enough of that exquisite torture. Slipping his hands beneath
her knees, he scooped her up into his arms, striding quickly across the room to
deposit her on her knees in his great bed.

With
an impatient movement of his hands, he had the gown from her. Seizing her
wrist, he drew her down beside him, measuring his powerful length against her
aching body. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his mouth seeking hers
hungrily as he shifted her beneath him, finally unleashing the passion he had
held in check while bringing hers to a peak to match his own.

In
the aftermath of lovemaking, they lay together, limbs entwined, a pleasurable
languor ebbing through their bodies. Anne felt the reassuring thud of his heart
against her breast and the even rise and fall of his chest with his breathing.
For a moment she thought he slept, then he shifted out of her arms and got up.

She
rose on one elbow, watching him move about the room extinguishing the candles.
The light of the dying fire danced across his bronze body and caught the deep
scarlet of the velvet bed curtains, making them glow like spilled blood. She
shook her head at the thought; she would allow no dark imaginings tonight.

Returning
to the bed, he slipped beneath the sheets, drawing her into the curve of his
shoulder. "Faith, if I'd known making love to a wife to be so pleasurable,
I'd have taken up the practice long ago."

"Poor
man," Anne mourned with mock sympathy. "What a miserable time you've
had with naught but mistresses to keep you company. Such a burden you've borne
all these years." She shook her head. "And such a cheerful face
you've managed to put on it, too. I'm sure no one suspected your
unhappiness."

"Aye,"
he said dolefully. "No one knows the misery of a man without a wife. Why,
I didn't even realize it myself till now."

"Your
misery is legend, Francis MacLean," she retorted, flouncing out of his
arms.

He
laughed and drew her down beside him. "You're not jealous of my past, are
you, love?" he questioned softly. "I promise there's no reason to
be."

The
words of Elizabeth Macintyre echoed through her mind. Had he ever lain with
her? Touched her with his knowing hands?

The
flicker of jealousy died a quick death. For whatever reason, Francis had chosen
her for his wife. His past did not matter any more than hers, and she needed no
reassurance other than his word.

Sighing
happily, she relaxed against him. "No, my love... only of our
future."

***

But
at Ranleigh, the future was a thing of dread, the present scarcely to be
endured. Bess cowered in one ill-smelling corner of her cell. The darkness
about her was a palpable thing, a damp, malevolent blanket of despair
effectively smothering every spark of hope. She wondered desperately how long
it would take her to go mad in the unrelenting blackness of the dungeons far
below the castle walls.

Something
rustled in the vermin-ridden straw nearby, and she stumbled a few steps away. Rats!
Dear God, she had always hated the things! Now she could not see them; she
could only hear their high-pitched cries and the scrabble of their tiny claws
across the stone floor of her cell.

She
put a hand over her mouth to hold in the scream building inside her. She knew
that if she lost her hold on herself, if she screamed just once, she would not
stop. She would go on and on, like the poor wretch she had heard days earlier.
The screaming had continued for hours— then it had ended as abruptly as it had
begun.

She
took a deep breath to calm herself. Charles Randall would help her; he had
promised she would come to no harm for aiding his sister. He had left Ranleigh
immediately after she told him about Campbell, but surely he would be returning
soon. The young lord was not one to give his word lightly, even to a serving
maid. He would come, she promised herself; he had to.

And
what of her dear mistress—where was she? Had she truly escaped Glenkennon and
Sir Percy? The thought steadied her. If her stubborn silence had bought her
lady a few days lead, it was well worth it. She would tell Lord Glenkennon
nothing, even though the bastard left her there forever.

From
far away, she heard the slamming of an iron door. The tramp of several pairs of
booted feet sounded heavily in the corridor outside, pausing before her cell.
Her heart began to pound with excitement. Charles Randall—he hadn't forgotten!

The
door creaked open and a blazing pine torch was thrust into her cell,
momentarily blinding her. "Here's the wench now, Godfrey," a harsh
voice remarked.

A
rough hand grasped her arm, sending her to her knees. "My lord
Glenkennon's done with waitin', girl. He'll have the answers he wants, or
you'll be wishin' fer death long before I grant it."

"But
I know nothing save what I've told him!" she gasped, blinking up at a
dark, bearded man in the blinding glare of the torch. "I can't give him
any answers unless I make them up!"

"Then
say yer prayers if you be knowin' any," he said with an ugly laugh.
Jerking her to her feet, he flung her ahead of him out the narrow door of the
cell. "I'll take her from here, Thomas," he said over his shoulder.
"And I doubt you'll be seein' the wench again. She doesn't look enough to
stand up to much."