Highlander's Hope (20 page)

He raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across the knuckles. Turning her palm up, he pressed his lips to the pulse beating at her wrist. “I’ve missed you,
mon amour
. You’re recovering well?”

“Yes, I’m much better. Your mother and sisters have been most kind.”

Ewan settled himself on the settee, his thigh pressing against hers. He held her hand. Yvette didn’t mind. She gazed deep into his eyes, reading the message there. Her eyelids drifted closed, even as she tilted her chin upward in silent invitation. He pressed his lips to hers.

Yvette sighed in pleasure and angled her head to allow Ewan greater access to the recesses of her mouth. Inhaling, she savored his spicy smell, before reaching to cup the nape of his neck. She loved how silky his hair felt between her fingers.

He kissed her like a man long-starved, and she relished every moment of it. She explored his mouth, touching his tongue, retreating, then stroking it with her own once more. 

Trailing feather-like kisses across her jaw, Ewan whispered, “You cause me to forget my promises.”

Yvette arched her neck as his lips skimmed along the flesh below her earlobe. When his head continued descending, nipping and tasting her neck, her shoulder, the hollow where her pulse beat, she was undone.

Moaning low in her throat, she pulled him closer, a love-driven need she didn’t understand building within. His ravenous mouth returned to hers in an age-old dance of desire. His fingers skimmed the bodice of her dress, slipping inside the warm confines, delving deeper. She offered no resistance when he lowered his head, showering kisses on her breasts.

The sensations he aroused had her jumbled and muddled in a most delightful way. This wasn’t what she’d planned. She was supposed to demand Ewan make right their marriage debacle.

When had he lain her on the settee? She recalled unbuttoning his shirt and yanking it free of his breeches. The hem of her gown was hitched to her thighs, the bodice shoved low, baring her breasts to his smoldering gaze.

Shouldn’t she be embarrassed with his hot gaze roving over her? She was quite sure what she was feeling was not embarrassment.

Not like this.

This wasn’t how Ewan wanted to love Yvette the first time, rushed, half-clothed, on a cramped divan. She was scarcely recovered from a serious bout of ill health. Her first time should be wondrous, after he had driven her half-mad with desire. And, more important, secure in the knowledge she was married. Cherished. Adored.

Sucking in a great gulp of air, he sat up. He lifted Yvette to a sitting position, then began to straighten his clothing.

“Ewan? Did I do something wrong?” Confusion was written across her face.

He kissed her nose. “Nae, ‘tis precisely the opposite. You’re such a passionate woman, I . . . well, I explored much farther than I ever intended.” He chuckled in self-derision. Quirking a brow at her, he confessed, “I only meant to give you a chaste kiss,
chérie
.”

And that had been no chaste kiss.

Yvette stared at him, her eyes glazed with passion and her lips swollen from his kisses. Her breasts beckoned, taunting him.

Better get her done up before his resolve faded. He turned his attention to righting her clothing. She allowed his ministrations without argument. “I’m afraid there’s naught I can do for your hair.”

Shiny curls spilled to her waist. The rosebuds were crushed against the divan, and several hair pins were lying on the floor.

“‘Tis of little importance. I can arrange my own hair.”

He stood, putting on his waistcoat. Draping his cravat about his neck, he strode to the large looking glass above her dressing table. With efficient hands, he re-tied the neckcloth, then secured the stud before shrugging into his coat.

She watched him, all the while pinning her hair into a tidy bun on the top of her head. “Is it . . . ? Does everybody . . . What I mean is, is it like that for everyone?”

Ewan’s heart set sail. No matter how inexperienced, Yvette understood, at a fundamental level, what they shared was unique. She had not even experienced
that
and yet she sensed the unifying bond.

He sat beside her, taking one of her hands in his and rubbing his thumb over the tender flesh. He looked into her uncertain eyes. “Evvy, only a fortunate few experience what we have together. I must believe ‘tis God ordained. ‘Tis more than physical passion. ‘Tis what happens when two souls who care for each other unite with a connection more powerful and indestructible than mere carnal desire.”

A delighted smile lit her face. She bent forward, then kissed him full on the mouth.

It was his turn to be stunned, for he swore, the kiss she gave him was a kiss of wholehearted adoration. It was also the first kiss she had ever initiated. Ewan couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject at the forefront of his mind after her momentous kiss.

Tomorrow he would take Yvette for a tour of his castle and estate, introduce her to the staff and perhaps some of the locals, and show her some of his favorite places at Craiglocky. Then, he would talk of the worrisome matter plaguing his conscience. “Let me help you to bed. I want to show you off at supper tonight, and I think a rest is in order first.”

He tucked her into bed. After wrapping the coverlet round her shoulders, he placed a lingering kiss on her already rosy mouth.

She twisted her head away. “Ewan, we must tell the others we’re not married. I can’t continue to lie about it. I won’t keep on misleading them.”

He smiled at her, then tweaked her freckled nose. “‘Tis my plan to put things right tonight.”

“Truly?” Her sky-blue eyes held a mixture of hope and wariness.

The relief sweeping her face, gave him pause. Why was she so eager for everyone to know they weren’t married? Had he misinterpreted her kisses?

Chapter 24

Yvette stood outside the entrance to the Great Hall. It took her longer to find her way below than she had anticipated, and she feared she was tardy. From her vantage point, she could see Ewan deep in conversation with a group of men and women. Several men, wearing the McTavish colors and other bright tartans, lounged in the chairs and benches lining the walls of the Hall.

It was the massive table, easily seating one hundred, running down the center of the Hall that drew her gaze. Bronze candelabras at least four feet tall stood regally along the length, one dozen candles blazing in each. Horizontal to the long public table was the high table. On a raised dais, it was reserved for family seating, stating their positions of honor and privilege.

She laid a trembling hand across her frolicking stomach.

A rustling alerted Yvette to presences behind her. Isobel and Seonaid crossed the stone floor, their elaborate gowns shimmering in the candlelight. She wasn’t late after all. Embarrassed to be caught spying on those already assembled in the Great Hall Yvette shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “I’m afraid I’m having a fit of nerves.”

“Whatever for, Yvette? You look ravishing.” Isobel bent closer. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a gown that particular shade of ivory before. Tis iridescent, seeming to move of its own accord. And the gold inlay is stunning.”

Yvette fingered the material. “My father acquired it in India.” Dragging in a nervous breath, she confessed, “I thought by dressing in one of my finest gowns it would help boost my courage, but it hasn’t. I’m aquiver inside.”

Seonaid poked her head round the corner, then bobbed it back to face Yvette once more. “‘Tis only kin present. Well, the Scots aren’t all kin, but in Scotland, they’re treated as such. There can’t be more than twenty present. Oh, and their ladies, of course, though only half are married.”

Isobel linked arms with Yvette. She angled her head at Seonaid who looped her arm through Yvette’s other one. Flashing a brilliant smile, Isobel proclaimed, “We shall enter as one.”

Yvette curved her mouth in gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Wait for me.” Adaira hastened down the stairs, pulling on her gloves. Breathless she announced, “I couldn’t find my other glove. It was in one of my riding boots of all places.”

Isobel’s mouth curled. “Would that be because the last time you wore them you challenged Brayan McVey to a race? Mother nearly swooned when she saw you astride Fionn in your ball gown with your legs exposed for everyone to see.”

“They were not. I had on my riding boots. They come to my knees.” Adaira winked at Yvette. “I won the race and Brayan had to kiss Mistress Peeble’s prize sow.”

Dumbfounded, Yvette stared at Adaira. “Dare I ask what Brayan’s prize would have been, should he have won?”

“Why, a kiss from me of course. That’s why I
couldn’t
let him win.” Adaira shuddered. Leaning forward, she whispered, “He has great fat lips and smells of trout. Ugh!” She sucked in her cheeks while pursing her lips, smacking them in an imitation of a fish.

Yvette’s peal of laughter echoed throughout the Hall, catching the attention of everyone assembled. Smiling, she entered the room accompanied by Ewan’s sisters in what could only be interpreted as an entourage of acceptance and support.

Ewan excused himself, then made his way to her side. She smiled into his eyes. Pride and a nuance of something infinitely more meaningful warmed them. Bowing over her hand, he grazed the knuckles before tucking her gloved hand into the crook of his bent elbow.

Nodding a greeting to his sisters, he whispered in her ear. “Evvy, you’re a vision.” Drawing her farther into the enormous room, he began making the rounds with her on his arm.

A statuesque blonde stood next to Duncan. Yvette learned her name was Kitta. She met the new parents, Callum and his petite wife, Lilias. Ewan introduced her to several clansmen, whose names sounded the same to her untrained ear.

Separating themselves from a trio of chunky matrons, Gregor and Alasdair approached Ewan and Yvette. She caught Alasdair’s bold assessment. “Ye be lookin’ yer bonnie self, lass.”

She gave him a half-smile, the rakish look in his eye needing no further encouragement. Addressing his brother, Yvette said, “Gregor, thank you for tending me during my illness. I’ve been told if it weren’t for you and your healing skills, I may have perished.”

The gargantuan man blushed, shuffling his great, booted feet. “Ach, ye but needed a wee bit of help, ye did, lass.”

Hugh and Giselle sauntered toward the group, smiling and exchanging a word or two with several clan members as they passed by. Seonaid joined them halfway across the room. Smiling at Yvette, she whispered when close enough, “How are you faring?”

Yvette’s mouth tilted in appreciation. Seonaid was as sincere and kind as she appeared. “Wonderfully, thank you. Yon dragon,” She inclined her head minutely in Ewan’s direction, “is a diligent guardian.”

Seonaid giggled. Giving Yvette’s hand a gentle squeeze, she turned to speak to her mother.

Yvette took a moment to examine the rest of the Great Hall. She felt a familiar unpleasant tingle skitter to the nape of her neck. She turned halfway around to peer over her shoulder. Her gaze lit on a pretty young woman and the Scot Ewan had introduced as Frasar Campbell scrutinizing her.

The woman’s steely stare bored holes into her from across the room. Meeting Yvette’s eye, the woman’s face contorted into a disdainful smirk. She said something to her companion before turning her back on Yvette, cutting her.

Scorching heat flamed across Yvette’s face. She shifted her stance forward once more and tightened her hand on Ewan’s arm in distress. He looked down and smiled at her, engrossed in conversation with Hugh and his cousins.

A servant signaled Giselle. Supper was served.

Yvette seized the moment and touched Seonaid on the arm. She halted and cast a questioning glance.

“Who’s that woman with the saffron and green gown, the one with the reddish-gold hair?” Yvette asked.

Sending a fleeting look beyond Yvette, a shadow flitted across Seonaid’s features. “Aubry.” The one word response spoke volumes.

“She’s your cousin, is she not?” Yvette wanted to turn around and see if Aubry was staring at her. From the eerie sensation clawing across her flesh, Yvette would wager she was.

“Yes,” murmured Seonaid. She flicked Aubry another glance. “She only returned to Craiglocky late this afternoon. She was visiting relatives in Edinburgh.”

The two young women crossed to the table together. Yvette breathed a silent sigh of relief. Ewan had broken with tradition and had opted not to use the high table for the meal. Had he done so out of consideration for her? She liked to think so.

He stood behind a chair waiting for her. She took her seat. “Thank you.”

Yvette took a quick inventory of those around her. Her seat was one quarter way down the table, across from Giselle who was sandwiched between Gregor and Alasdair. Dugall sat to Yvette’s right, Isobel beside him. Adaira was placed to Yvette’s immediate left and Seonaid, a seat farther down.

“I’d rather you sat beside me, but Mother arranged the seating. ‘Scot’s dinner parties are a bit more informal than the English.”

Ewan whispered for her ears alone. “You’ll be all right?”

Yvette smiled and nodded. “I shall be fine.”

He squeezed her shoulder, then walked to the foot of the table, which was now the head of the table. Duncan sat at his right and Hugh to his left. Unlike the strict formality dictated by English society, there didn’t appear to be any hierarchy in the placement of the guests. Yvette’s gaze roamed the table. And, no one appeared to take exception to the seating arrangements either.

Adaira was already poking fun at Alasdair. She waved her gloved fingers at Yvette, and pointed to the other end of the table mouthing, ‘fish lips’.

Yvette’s gaze darted to the clan member indicated, and she had to choke back a smile. Good Lord, the man did indeed have fish lips. Her gaze met Adaira’s mirth-filled eyes.

“Glub, glub,” gurgled Ewan’s sister in Yvette’s ear.

Yvette bit the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing outright. Adaira was incorrigible, and utterly charming. Never before had she met such a free-spirited woman who cared nothing of convention or what others thought of her.

Eyeing his sister, Dugall bent near Yvette. “Addy be making the strangest sounds.”

Yvette placed her napkin in her lap. “Yes, it seems she’s taken exception to a young man with rather large lips.”

He nodded. “Ye be speaking o’ Brayan, poor bloke. Worse yet, he be fond of fishing. Never gets the bait off his hands.”

Yvette sent Adaira another sidelong smile. It was then she realized Aubry’s seat was next to her brother. She skewered Yvette with spiteful glares every few moments. Yvette’s smile faltered as the joy drained from her. Bewildered, she lowered her eyes to her plate. Why was Aubry so hostile toward her? They’d not even been introduced yet.

Several times throughout the extended meal, Yvette caught Ewan’s eye. He winked once, and she blushed before looking away. One such look lingered. A silent message between two lovers.

“Yvette, I asked ye if ye play any instruments,” said Dugall.

Yvette tore her gaze from Ewan, then smiled at Dugall. “I’m sorry, Dugall. Yes, I play the piano.”

“What are your other accomplishments, Yvette?” asked Aubry her voice laced with ridicule.

Startled, Yvette met her antagonistic stare. What an odd question. “I’m afraid I don’t . . .”

“What, no other accomplishments? Well then, what do you know of running a keep this size?” Aubry waved her hand to indicate Craiglocky.

Was Aubry always this rude? Yvette glanced Ewan’s way. He scowled at Aubry, his brows drawn into a vee. Yvette’s gaze shifted back to her. “Very little, I’m afraid. The largest household I’ve managed with my stepmother had only five-and-thirty staff.”

Dugall sent Aubry a mocking grin, then whispered to Yvette, “Craiglocky has but nine-and-twenty.”

She scanned the table. Only those seated closest to her were privy to the peculiar discussion.

Aubry persisted. “Would you agree, a lady of an estate the magnitude of Craiglocky should be well-educated, perhaps even fluent in another language?”

Yvette drew her brows together. Where was Aubry going with this conversation? Her questions seemed contrived and irrelevant. Unease slithered across Yvette. She dared a swift glimpse in Ewan’s direction again. He looked fiercer than before. His mouth was meshed into a line of irritation and fire smoldered in his eyes.

Aubry saw Yvette’s glance. Her mouth curled into a sneer and potent hatred simmered in her eyes. Yvette caught her breath. Good Lord, Aubry loathed her. But why? The conversations around them dwindled as others realized Aubry was haranguing her.

“Do you speak any other languages, Yvette?
Comprenez-vou Francaise
?”

“Aubry,” Ewan warned coldly.

Yvette stared at her, perplexed. Why is she asking such strange questions? Her gaze skimmed over Giselle and Adaira—both of whom looked ill-at-ease—before returning to Aubry. Perhaps she was touched in the upper works. Seonaid would have mentioned that wouldn’t she?

“Well, Yvette, do you?” Aubry demanded.

Yvette tilted her head, meeting Aubry’s agitated, feline gaze. “Yes, several actually. My father believed a woman should be as educated as a man.”

A disbelieving laugh trilled from Aubry. Was that a hint of madness flickering in her eyes? “Several?” she scoffed. “Come now, surely you exaggerate.”

Dugall growled at the insult. Isobel looked between Yvette and Aubry, a troubled frown marring her face. More diners began to take note of the discord.

“Indeed?” A smidgeon of reproach was detectable in Yvette’s voice. “Should I be so inclined, I might comment on the preferred manners of ladies and the treatment of their guests, only in languages I’m fluent in of course.”

“Please do,” Aubry mocked, “if you do know several. We’re waiting for you to impress us.”

“That’s enough, Aubry.” Ewan’s tone brooked no argument.

Aubry glared daggers at him but fell silent. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop, clearly vexed.

A clansman approached Ewan and whispered in his ear. He stood. “Please excuse me. There’s a matter that requires my immediate attention. I’ll return shortly.”

Yvette swore Ewan spoke the last words to her. Her gaze followed him from the room.

“We’re waiting, Yvette,” Aubry taunted the moment he’d disappeared from sight.

“This is nonsense,” said Adaira. “
We’re
not waiting. You don’t need to do any such thing, Yvette.”

“Of course you don’t, dear,” Giselle reassured her.

“Nae, ye don’t,” said Dugall, glowering at Aubry.

Did they think she’d exaggerated too? Her gaze traveled the table. It seemed to Yvette that everyone watched the exchange between her and Aubry with perverse fascination, unable to tear their gazes away.

A smile teased the corners of Yvette’s mouth as she tilted her head in acquiescence. She’d give them something to watch then. “As you wish.” She proceeded to do so in French, Italian, German, Latin, Spanish, and Greek.

His face split with a jubilant grin, Dugall held up six fingers and wiggled them at Aubry.

“And,” Yvette continued, “I’ve recently learned another. Scots.”

Up sprang another one of Dugall’s large fingers.

She smiled before softly delivering the
coup de grâce
. “
Ah would ne’er treat a guest sae awfu
.”

Aubry’s face mottled unbecomingly, her lips curling into a feral snarl. Titters echoed the length of the table.

“I’m sure you’re aware, Aubry, how important the custom of hospitality is to the Scots. After all, you’re a Scot,” Yvette said with a great deal of satisfaction.

Dead-silence filled the Hall.

The unqualified hatred in Aubry’s glare seared Yvette’s flesh. Sweet Jesus. She oughtn’t to have done that. What possessed her to be so prideful? She’d made an enemy this night. “Aubry, please . . .” she began.

Lips quivering, Aubry pointed at her. “You . . .” Placing her hands on the table, she shoved to her feet. “How could Ewan have married you, you bloody Sassenach?”