Kathleen Harrington (32 page)

At Kinrath’s erotic words, Francine felt the shimmering sensation of carnal arousal rush through her veins. A slow, languid heat spread through her limbs, making it difficult to speak and even harder to reason. She intertwined her fingers with his and their gazes locked, as he tipped her back on the bed. She had wanted to tell him her secret. But every muscle in her body tightened with an unfamiliar longing. She’d been enchanted by a sorcerer’s spell. Could anyone blame her for her fall from grace?

Kinrath bent over her and pinned her hands to the coverlet on either side of her head. He traced a kiss with his open mouth, moving from the hollow of her throat down to her belly, where he dipped his tongue into her navel. Releasing her hands, he nudged her legs apart and sank to his knees in front of her.

He cupped her buttocks and pulled her closer to him. His fingers touched the curls at the juncture of her thighs. He parted her sensitive folds, sucking her fragile tissues.

Francine’s heart pounded. She gasped for breath. She had planned to tell him her secret, but she was unable to fight the pleasure he gave so freely.

Lachlan allowed Francine no chance to pull back from the brink. He took her to the edge of sexual fulfillment, until she was writhing and moaning beneath his sensual onslaught. He rose and pulled his shirt over his head, then unbuckled his sword belt, placing the weapon on the rug. He removed his kilt and let it fall to join his sword and dirk on the floor.

He lifted her up further on the quilt, till he could kneel between her bent knees. Bracing his weight on his hands, he moved over her, his sex hanging heavily between them.

“Touch me,
a ghaolaich
,” he whispered.

She reached toward him, fumbling slightly before capturing his thickened shaft in her hand. The silken feel of her fingers threatened to shake his control. A drop of his seed fell from the tip of his sex, and he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He was like a wild adolescent in the throes of his first sexual encounter.

Lachlan pressed his turgid sex against Francine’s moist, welcoming warmth and pushed slowly inside her. His heart thundered in his chest. She had the tightest entrance he’d ever experienced.

“Dear God,” he whispered. The exquisite pleasure threatened his plan to hold back, as he moved inch by slow inch deeper inside her.

To his surprise, Lachlan bumped against a barrier he’d never expected. “Francie,” he gasped, unable to keep the astonishment from his voice. “You should have told me.”

She looked up at him warily. “I tried to,” she said, “but you never gave me a chance. I’m a virgin.”

“I can tell that, darling,” he whispered, shaken to his core. A deep, reverberating thrill swept through his body and surged into his very soul. She was his and he would keep her.

Not giving her time to brace against him, he thrust deeper, breaking through the fragile maidenhead.

Francine stiffened and whimpered in surprise.

“That’s all there is to the pain,” he assured her. “Even had I realized you were totally inexperienced, darling, I couldn’t have spared you that.”

“I tried to warn you,” she said.

Lachlan laughed softly. “You certainly did. I’ll slow down now, love. Since it’s your first time, I want to make it all the more memorable for you.” He set a lingering pace, gradually increasing her pleasure.

Francine had never known such pure delight. The marvelous feeling of fullness brought an irresistible need to push up against him, to bring him deeper inside her. She felt him withdraw slightly, and she clutched his upper arms. “Don’t stop,” she begged, afraid he would pull away completely.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a soft laugh. He lifted his thick shaft up inside her, as braced himself on his hands and met her gaze.

Francine threaded her fingers through the chain on the holy medal that hung between them. “I . . . you . . .” she whispered in confusion, scarcely understanding what her body was telling her.

He smiled, his eyes filled with tenderness. “That’s right, Francine. You and I. Here and now. At long last.”

She tugged gently on the chain, bringing his lips to hers. He thrust his tongue inside her open mouth, imitating the penetration of his sex inside hers.

Kinrath moved his hips in steady, rhythmic strokes, till she was nearly wild with need; then he’d eased back, allowing her to catch her breath before building the tension once again.

Francine pressed her mouth against his shoulder to smother her sobs of pleasure. He reached between their bodies and gently played with her sensitive folds. She arched upward, seeking that peak of ecstasy her body demanded. As her swollen tissues convulsed around his thickened manhood, she surrendered to the rising tide of rapture that pulsated through her.

Lachlan heard her long, low keen of female orgasm and allowed himself to climax at last. He shuddered as he poured himself deep into her welcoming warmth, the pleasure so intense it was close to pain.

He turned to lie beside her, bringing her with him, his hand on her thigh as he caught his breath. When his heart slowed its tumultuous pounding, he gently withdrew.

He rose from the bed and walked across the room, where a pitcher and basin sat on a cupboard. Taking a piece of linen, he unfolded it and washed himself. The stain of blood on the cloth was clear proof of her virginity. Rinsing the toweling in the basin, he moved to the bed and cleansed her gently.

Francine sat up and looked at him with worried eyes. “You must keep my secret, Lachlan. You must. Promise me you will never tell anyone I was a virgin.”

He tossed the cloth in the basin of water and returned to the bed. Throwing the coverlet aside, he sank down on the mattress and rested his head on the pillow. Pulling her down into his arms, he brought her close and kissed her forehead.

“I gave you my word,” he said softly. “And I will keep it.”

Francine rested her on head Kinrath’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The relief she felt at his words brought tears to her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They laid together in comfortable silence, till she wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“Who was Angelica’s mother?” he asked quietly.

“My sister,” she replied. “She died of childbirth fever.”

“Of course,” he said. “That would explain the close resemblance between you. Was it your husband who fathered the child?”

Francine scooted up to sit beside him, horrified at his words. “Oh, God, no! Don’t ever say such a thing. Don’t even think it.”

Kinrath smoothed his hand up and down her bare arm. “Who was the father, then?”

Francine’s heart fell at the seriousness reflected in his eyes. Why would he care so much who Angelica’s father was? “Cecilia never told me his name,” she lied. “Her lover was a married man, and she wanted to keep it secret.”

“Did the man know he’d fathered a child with her?”

“I’m not sure,” Francine answered, avoiding Kinrath’s perceptive gaze. She frowned, annoyed at his needless persistence. “Why stir up the past?”

Kinrath lifted his brow in speculation. “I take it no one bothered to tell him. The man deserved to know.”

Francine tried to move away, tired of his questioning. He held her easily in place, her strength no match for his.

“My sister said he had a very large family,” she told him, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Cecilia didn’t wish to cause pain to his wife and children. What difference does it make now?”

Kinrath wound one of her tousled curls idly around his finger. “Even if her lover had ten children in his marriage,” he said thoughtfully, “the fellow deserved to know about Angelica’s birth. And even at this late date, he has a right to know his daughter.”

“Well, nothing can be done about it now,” Francine declared.

“Why not?”

“Because Cecilia never revealed her lover’s name. She took the secret with her to the grave.”

Kinrath looked at Francine as though searching for the truth in her eyes. “And you have no idea who this man could be?”

“Not the slightest.” Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision. “Mathias loved Angelica like a father,” she said, her voice trembling. “She believes that he was her father. Would you want to see my child taken from me and given to a stranger?”

Lachlan cupped Francine’s face in his hands and brushed her tears away with his thumbs. “Darling lass,” he said, “I will keep your secret. But will you swear to me that you have no idea who Angelica’s father is?”

“I swear it,” she said, her expressive eyes wide with relief. “I will swear to it on a Bible, if need be.”

He studied her perfect features, wondering what else she might be hiding. “And no more secrets between us,” he insisted.

“Oh, I promise. No more secrets.”

Lachlan lifted Francine up and settled her on top of him. He showed her how to straddle his bare hips. “Guide me inside you,” he murmured, as he lifted her up and slowly brought her down on his engorged shaft. He reached up to caress her breasts, making them sway gently. “I’m going to let you set the pace this time,
a ghaolaich
.”

Francine looked down at Kinrath in breathless delight, the feeling of fullness indescribable. She moved tentatively, gasping with pleasure.

“Do whatever feels good to you,” he urged.

“Do I bring you pleasure this way?” she asked, as she gently rocked herself on his thickened manhood.

“Every move you make pleasures me, love.”

Francine buried her fingertips in the mat of russet hair on his chest, smoothing over his flat nipples. She could feel his sex move deep inside her as she caressed him. She sighed with joy. She ran her hands across his powerful shoulders and down his upper arms, bulging with muscle, exploring his male body as he had explore hers. His naked masculinity threatened to overwhelm her.

She bent over him, her loosened hair falling down about them like a curtain. “What does the lettering on your armband say?” she whispered, as she moved rhythmically back and forth.

Smiling, he gently tugged on her nipples. “I already told you.”

“Only one. What does the other one say?”

“Victory or Death.”

She met his gaze, remembering how he’d fought his way through their enemies to reach her, seeing in the depths of his green eyes the sure knowledge that he would give his life to save hers.

They moved slowly, lingeringly, in an unhurried cadence. This time no longer frantic with need, they were able to draw out their mutual pleasure, till they reached fulfillment together.

Francine collapsed on Kinrath’s broad chest, spent and completely satiated.

“I hope my performance was more than merely adequate, sweetheart,” he teased, as he kissed the top of her head.

Francine bit her lip, mortified that he knew what she’d said about his skill in the bedroom. “Diana told you?”

“She told Colin, which is pretty much the same as telling me.”

“I had to say something,” Francine said, pushing up to meet his gaze. “I couldn’t tell her you were my guard and not my lover.”

He grinned. “You could have fabricated a bit and told her I was as ferocious as a lion in bed,” he teased.

“Now that I know your capabilities, that wouldn’t be a lie. I hope I didn’t embarrass you in front of Colin.”

“I’m fairly certain Colin doesn’t doubt my ability in the boudoir,” he answered with a deep chuckle. “But if you described my performance as merely adequate, he surely must have wondered about your former lovers.”

At the thought of Colin’s imaginative wanderings, Francine burst into laughter.

“Shh,” Kinrath warned, placing his finger to her lips. “You’ll wake up the entire household, if you don’t quiet down. Then we’ll have everyone wondering.”

T
hree days later, the future queen of Scotland arrived in the fortress city of York. Cart after cart carried her magnificent gowns and precious jewels. Her horses and litter were covered with the badges and coat-of-arms displaying her royal Tudor heritage.

The noblemen and women who’d accompanied her all the way from Collyweston rode horses bridled in rich trappings. Behind the princess came her minstrels, playing their sackbuts, trumpets, and drums. Above their heads, heraldic banners fluttered in the morning breeze coming off the River Ouse.

Since leaving Tadcaster, Margaret’s entourage had increased significantly. Two miles outside of York, the duke of Northumberland had met her, along with the chief lords and ladies of the region.

Still in his twenties, Harry Percy was the most powerful nobleman in the whole of North Yorkshire. He brought with him his Master of the Horse, his officers at arms, his knights and gentlemen, his henchmen, and his servants. He had come to escort the King of England’s oldest daughter into a walled city founded by the Romans and once occupied by the Vikings.

The inhabitants of York waited along the ancient streets lined with shops, cheering wildly. Townspeople leaned from windows that jutted out over the cobblestoned lanes and waved their kerchiefs in joyous welcome. Little boys scampered across the rooftops, hollering in their excitement to see a real, live princess of royal blood, soon to be crowned a queen.

In the center of the city, the archbishop of York and four orders of mendicant friars received Princess Margaret at the Minster, the largest Gothic cathedral in northern Europe, accompanied by the tolling of its great bells. A High Mass was celebrated in thanksgiving for her safe journey thus far and in intercession for her secure entry into Scotland. That night dinner was served to the royal party in the archbishop’s palace, where the duchess of Northumberland was formally presented to Margaret.

The following day Margaret Tudor went to York Castle, the home of the duke and duchess of Northumberland, for a festival of masquing and dancing. The York reception was the most brilliant of the journey thus far and a welcome rest from the days of travel.

For once, Francine held no responsibility for the banquets or spectacles.

F
rancine and Kinrath slept together every night of their stay at the Boar’s Head Inn. After each impassioned lovemaking, they sat resting against the pillows, talking.