Highland Master (48 page)

In the meantime,
Suas Alba!

Scotland, Turnberry Castle, February 1402

H
er bare skin was as smooth as the silky gown she had worn before he’d helped her take it off. His fingertips glided over her, stroking a bare arm, a bare shoulder, its soft hollow, and then the softer rise of a full breast heaving with desire for him.

Cupping its softness, he brushed a thumb across its tip, enjoying her passionate moans and arcing body as he did and feeling the nipple harden.

Part of him had hardened, too. His whole body urged him to conquer the lush beauty in his bed, but although he was an impatient man, he was also one who liked to take his time with women. Experience—rather a good deal of it—had taught him that coupling was better for both when he took things slowly.

Neither of them spoke, because he rarely enjoyed conversation at such times. Preferring to relish the sensations, he favored partners who did not chatter at him.

Stimulating them both with his kisses, he shifted an arm across her to position himself for taking her. As she spread her legs to accommodate him, she caressed
his body with her hands, fingers, and tongue, sparking responses from every nerve.

Her motions and moans fed his urges, making it harder for him to resist simply taking her, dominating her, teaching her who was the master in that bed.

The bed shifted slightly on the thought, and he had a fleeting semiawareness that he was dreaming—fleeting because he ruthlessly shoved the half-formed thought away lest, if true, he might awaken too soon.

Somehow in that moment, in the odd way that dreams have of changing things about, the beauty had got to one side of him and he could no longer see her in the darkness. Ever willing, he shifted to accommodate the new arrangement.

Finding the warm, softly silken skin of her shoulder, he reached for her breasts again, rising onto his elbow and leaning over her as he did. He felt her body stiffen, and when his seeking hand found one soft breast, it seemed smaller than before, albeit just as well formed and just as soft. Sakes, but the woman herself seemed smaller. Most oddly, though, he touched real silk there instead of bare skin.

Undaunted, he ignored her increasing rigidity and slid his hand down to move the annoying silk out of his way and gain access to his primary objective.

As he did, her body heaved under him, a gasping cry sounded near his right ear, and in a flurry of movement, she slid from his grasp. Flying out of the bed, she managed on her way to deal him a stunning blow across his face. Then he saw only flashes of movement and light, and before he could collect wit enough to know that he was awake and had been toying with an unknown but very
enticing female in
his
bed, a sound near the door told him that she was rummaging through the kist there.

Leaping from the bed, he shot toward her, but the door crashed back just as he reached for her, clouting his outstretched fingers and hand hard as it did.

The glow of torchlight in the corridor revealed long, lush, dark-red hair; a drab robe hastily flung over a pink shift that barely concealed long, lovely legs; curving hips, and a tantalizingly small waist as she ran. His aching hand and stinging cheek provided excellent cause for retaliation, but he no sooner started to give chase than he recalled his own state of naked readiness and swiftly collected his wits.

Chasing a nubile beauty by dead of night in a state such as his own just then might find favor in some masculine establishments that he had visited. But his grace the King’s royal castle of Turnberry was definitely
not
one of them.

The young woman dashing up the corridor did not dare to look behind her, lest her pursuer know and recognize her. But as she gripped the handle of the nursery door, she could not resist glancing back and felt a surge of relief to see that the dimly lit corridor behind her was empty.

She had been sure that he would pursue her. But what a coil if he had and worse had he chanced to recognize her or seen her clearly enough to know her later.

Shoving the nursery door open, she whisked herself inside. Then, relieved, she quietly shut the door, eased the latch hook into place, and bolted the door, giving thanks to God as she did that Hetty had not already done so.

Glancing over her shoulder, she noted in the light of the single cresset still burning in the chamber, and the dimmer glow of embers from the well-banked fire, that Hetty was fast asleep on a pallet near the hearth. In the far corner of the room, the drawn curtains of a cupboard bed warned her to wake Hetty quietly.

Moving swiftly to the pallet, listening all the while for sounds from the corridor that might herald a search by the man who had been sleeping in Hetty’s bed, she gently shook the plump, middle-aged mistress of the royal nursery.

“Hetty, wake up,” she murmured. “Oh, don’t screech, but do wake up!”

The woman’s eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright. “My lady!” she exclaimed. Softening her voice, she added, “What are ye doing in here?”

Seventeen-year-old Lady Marsaili Drummond Cargill grimaced. “I could not sleep, Hetty. I went to your room and climbed into your bed as I have bef—”

“Och! Ye did nae such thing! Not tonight of all—! What time is it then?”

“I don’t know, after midnight I think. Oh, Hetty—”

“Good sakes, but his grace’s man did say—”

“Someone was
in
your bed, Hetty. A man!”

“Is that no what I was just trying to tell ye? His grace’s gentleman—”

“It cannot have been his grace’s man,” Marsaili said. “His grace’s man—”

“Whisst now, will ye whisst? I’m trying to tell ye, if ye’ll just listen to me. Sakes, but I thought ye’d learned to curb such foolish, impulsive—”

“Hetty, he was naked!”

Henrietta Childs, Mistress of the Royal Nursery, grabbed Marsaili firmly by the shoulders, gave her a shake, and looked into her eyes. “Now, Lady Marsi, have done! Ye’ll tell me right now, was the man awake?”

“Not at first.”

“At first!” Hetty’s voice went up on the words, and with a swift look at the curtained bed in the corner, she lowered it to a whisper to add, “What did he do?”

“He rolled over and… and, before I realized that it wasn’t you—”

“Ay-de-mi, did he touch ye?”

Remembering, and instantly feeling the strong, hitherto unfamiliar but most pleasurable sensations that his touch had first stirred in her, Marsi swallowed. But Hetty looked fierce, and Hetty had known her from her cradle and was reminding her of that with every word and look, so Marsi said, “He did, aye. But he did not see me, Hetty. I jumped out of the bed, snatched up my robe, and fled here to you.”

“Snatched up your robe, did ye? What more have ye got on under it?”

“My shift. But, Hetty, who is he?”

“I dinna ken his name, and I’m no to tell anyone about him.”

“Hetty, it’s me. Who would I tell? I haven’t a friend in this whole castle except you, and haven’t had since Aunt Annabella died. What’s more, they say that the Duke of Albany is on his way to Turnberry right now. He may arrive tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then on Tuesday. His grace warned me that the duke is most impatient to arrange my marriage and has no intention of waiting the year that I
must
wait, in order to mourn Aunt Annabella’s death properly.”

“My lady, I ken fine that the Duke of Albany comes to Turnberry. See you, that is why that man is in my bed now.”

“He is
Albany’s
man?”

“Nay, he is not.” Hetty looked upward, as if seeking guidance from above. Then, drawing breath and letting it out, she said, “I’ll tell ye, then, but only so that ye do not go about trying to find out for yourself, as I ken fine ye’ll do if I do not tell ye. But ye must no breathe a word to anyone else of what I say. Swear it now.”

“You know that I will tell no one,” Marsi said. “I keep secrets even better than I ferret them out, Hetty, and well do you know that.”

“I do, aye, or I’d no say aught of this to ye. Our wee laddie’s life may depend on it, though, so see that ye keep your word. See you, his grace did send for that man to take Jamie away from here to greater safety.”

“Away? But when do they go, and where will he take him?”

“Mayhap as soon as tomorrow, for I was to pack for him,” Hetty said. “His grace’s man did not tell me where we will go, nor were I so brazen as to ask him.”

“Aye, sure, his grace must mean for them to leave tomorrow if Albany is on the way. Dearest Annabella feared mightily that Albany would take Jamie in charge if he could but think how to manage it. But must you go with them, Hetty?”

“So his grace’s man did say,” Hetty said with a sigh. “I cannot say that I want to, for I ken fine that ye’ll miss me sorely, my lady. But if Albany does come, he will take ye both, and I’d have naught to say to anything that
he
might do.”

“Faith, but I did hope that he would just lecture me and say that I must obey him even though I am the King’s ward, not his,” Marsi muttered. “But I warrant you are right, that he will take us both in charge. As set as he is on marrying me to one of his toadies, if he takes Jamie, he’d be unlikely to leave me with his grace.”

“He might, though,” Hetty said. “His grace has stood against him before.”

Marsaili gave an unladylike snort. “Mayhap he has, once or twice. But you ken fine that his grace cannot hold out long against him if Albany gets him alone and says he must not. What can I do, Hetty? Albany terrifies me.”

“Aye, he terrifies most folks who have a grain of sense.”

“Come with us, Marsi,” piped up a third voice. “Wherever we go, it would have to be a happier place than Turnberry will be whilst my uncle bides here.”

Both women turned toward the curtained bed, where the tousled auburn head of seven-year-old James Stewart, Earl of Carrick, peeped between the blue curtains.