Kathleen Harrington (43 page)

It was midwinter, and the wind coming off the loch was chilly and damp. Lachlan draped a wool cape over his wife’s shoulders and pulled the hood over her golden-blond curls. Together they walked across the bailey toward the stables.

“I’m pleased that you’re trying to learn my language,” Lachlan said. “Dinna let their teasing discourage you,
a ghràidh
. You can’t expect to be perfect in only a few months.”

Francine peeked up at her husband from the corner of her eye. She’d already learned the meaning of that particular endearment. He’d just called her his sweetheart.

But he had no idea of the real reason she was studying so hard, although it seemed less and less likely her knowledge of the Gaelic would do her any good. She’d searched the books in the extensive library every chance she got, to no avail.

On her arrival at Kinrathcairn, Francine had been astonished at the sumptuousness of the castle’s interior. She’d gained an inkling of her husband’s incredible wealth following their marriage. Lachlan had presented her with a deed to one of his five castles as a morning gift after their wedding night. ’Twas a Scottish custom, he’d explained, to show the bridegroom’s pleasure in his wife.

They entered the warmth of the stables, where Walter and Colin were hovering over the newborn foal. They looked up with pleased expressions.

“Mother and baby are doing fine,” Walter said. He grinned, his chipped front tooth making him look younger than his years.

Colin rose to his feet. He ran a clean cloth over the colt’s smooth coat, making certain it was dry and warm. “You’ll have to think of a name for him, my lady,” he said. He met Francine’s gaze, his blue eyes thoughtful. He’d matured since the day she’d first met him. No longer painfully shy, he rarely stammered.

“We’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted,” Walter said. He gave his son a sly wink, and the two of them left the stables.

Francine went into the stall. She touched the colt on his soft, velvety nose, and the mare whinnied proudly. “Oh, he’s beautiful,” she assured the new mother.

After the fire at Castle Dalkeith, Lachlan had replaced Francine’s lost horses, including her spirited barb and Angelica’s Welsh pony.

“Aye, he’s bonny,” Lachlan agreed. He drew his wife gently to him and kissed her cheek.

Francine responded to his touch as she always did, the need for him inexhaustible. Turning in his arms, she lifted her face for her husband’s kiss.

T
hat evening in their cozy bed, Lachlan brought his wife’s enticing backside up against his rigid sex, enjoying the marvelous feel of her curvaceous bottom pressed against his taut groin. He wrapped his arms beneath her full breasts, careful not to press against her rounded belly. Cupping his hands, he played with her nipples, larger now as her body became ready to nurse.

“You look beautiful swollen with my seed,” he told her huskily. He breathed in her marvelous scent, that intoxicating mixture of lavender and roses and woman.

“Mm, I’m glad you think so, Lachlan. For you’re the only one who would.”

He smiled to himself as he pushed her tangled wealth of curls aside and nuzzled her neck.

Not the only one, by far.

She wiggled her round buttocks against him, enticing him to go further. His thickened sex moved against her satin skin with a will of its own. He played with her delicate folds, touching her lightly with his fingertips, stroking her until he felt her tissues grow moist and swollen beneath his deliberate ministrations.

“Tell me you want me inside you, darling,” he whispered.

“Oh, Lachlan,” she said with a low moan of mounting frustration. “Come inside me this minute or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

He chuckled softly as she rubbed her mound involuntarily against his fingers, searching for even greater pleasure. He lifted her thigh, giving him better access, then slowly and carefully slid his shaft inside her moist, welcoming sheath.

“Oh, yes,” she encouraged. She purred with pleasure, as she tipped her head back, resting against his shoulder. “Why can I never get enough of you?” she asked. “’Tis as though I have sipped from an enchanted cup.”

Lachlan nipped her earlobe. “Then we are both enchanted,
a ghràidh,
” he said. “For I shall never get enough of you.”

Francine could feel the great care Lachlan was taking as he thrust in and out, moving with unhurried expertise. Vibrant, radiating currents of pleasure continued to build, until she felt herself responding to some ancient, primal instinct deep within. Male and pregnant female. Life calling to itself for renewal and rebirth. With a sense of breathless urgency, she gave herself over to him, accepting without reservation the dazzling erotic sensations he awakened within her. She gave a long, low keen of surrender, as the thrill of consummation reverberated through her.

Lachlan clenched his jaw, holding back from pounding inside her, keeping himself under tight control as the release of sexual climax throbbed through him.

He slowly withdrew, and she turned in his arms to look up at him. Her wide brown eyes were full of wonder.

“I love you, Francie,” he whispered, before he could stop himself. Damn. He knew she thought he believed that the only reason she’d agreed to their marriage was King James’s declaration that the winner of the combat would take her home as his wife. And the fact that, if she’d tried to flee to England, he would have followed and brought her back. Which, of course, he would have.

They’d been married in the chapel at Holyroodhouse a week after the royal wedding. His family and friends, including their two elderly mentors, the earl of Dunbarton and the duke of Beddingfeld, attended the celebration.

During the ceremony, Lachlan thought his heart might burst with happiness. His pregnant bride, however, stood before the high altar so tense and stunned she could barely repeat the vows. Angelica had to nudge her mother several times before they reached the passage where the archbishop intoned “till death us depart.”

Francine, at a loss for words, ran her fingertips lightly along her husband’s jawbone. She knew he was disappointed by her silence, but she couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. Not unless she could say it of her own free will.

’Twas why she was studying his language with such diligence. For Fingus Mackay had told her that a sorcerer’s book of spells would be written in the Gaelic. Though she’d had no success finding the book, she planned to continue her search till she did.

“Lady Emma is certain I carry more than one child,” she whispered. “And Signora Grazioli agrees with your mother.”

He didn’t act a bit surprised. ’Twas as though he’d known it long before now. “Dinna be afraid, love,” he reassured her, his deep green eyes filled with tenderness.

She couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then on the tip of her nose. “I’m the one who’s rubbed that special ointment on your belly every evening to keep your skin supple and smooth, remember? Either you’re carrying more than one bairn, or I’m going to have a child with a couple of extra feet.”

“You could have told me,” she scolded.

“I won’t allow anything to harm you, Francie, I promise,” he said. He caught her fingers and brought them to his lips. “What happened to your sister will not happen to you.”

Francine lifted her brow, uncertain how he could promise any such thing. Her husband held her close in his arms, till she fell asleep.

T
he next afternoon, Lady Emma sat down beside Francine on the window seat in the library. Francine had been searching methodically through all the volumes crowding the shelves. She’d found a locked cupboard the first day she’d searched. She’d tried every key that hung from her girdle without success.

Lady Emma took Francine’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She looked around the room at the tomes that had been left out of place or stacked haphazardly on the library table.

“I see you’re somewhat of a scholar,” Lachlan’s mother said. “Your husband always had an interest in history and science, even as a boy. We almost lost him to a terrible illness,” she continued in her calm manner. “He was an adolescent when a scourge swept through our valley. It was particularly hard on the older lads, leaving some of them unable to father children. The physician told us that Lachlan might never have a family of his own.”

“I didn’t know,” Francine said. “Was that why everyone was so thrilled when they learned of my pregnancy? I thought at the time his family’s happiness bordered on delirium.”

Lady Emma smiled, her soft, rounded features filled with understanding. “We were ecstatic for him. And for you, dear. We assumed that you were just as thrilled. We were astounded to learn you had refused his offer of marriage. Of course, we may be prejudiced, but we assumed that you would fall in love with him. And I knew, Francie, that if you gave Lachlan a child, he would lay the moon and the stars at your feet, should you ask him.”

Francine looked away, not knowing how to answer her.

A hush settled over them, as they sat side by side in a comfortable silence, each one following her own train of thought.

“Do you believe in sorcery?” Francine blurted out.

Lady Emma didn’t seem astonished at the question. But instead of answering, she asked one of her own. “Did Lachlan ever mention his first wife?”

“No!” Francine couldn’t hide her dismay. “Did he love her?”

“Oh, deeply.”

“Was she so very beautiful?”

“Aye, she was bonny.”

Francine bit her lower lip and stared down at her lap. She was gripping her hands together so tightly, her knuckles were white. “Did she die in childbirth and leave him heartbroken?”

“Ask him about her,” Lachlan’s mother suggested.

T
he next day, Francine and Lachlan came out of the kirk of St. Ninian, where they’d both lit a candle for the safe delivery of their babies. The weather that January morning was mild and sunny, and they’d taken the opportunity to go for a ride to the nearby village of Strathlachlan. Francine would soon be too uncomfortable to go riding, even on her mild-mannered mare.

“Let’s stop at the graveyard,” Lachlan suggested to Francine’s surprise. “While we’re so close, I’d like to pay my respects.”

“Of course,” she agreed, curious to know if Lachlan planned to stop at his first wife’s grave.

Francine had wanted to ask about the poor woman, since her conversation with Lady Emma the previous day. But she’d held back, not certain if he’d be willing to talk about her.

They left the horses tied to the iron fence by the gate and wandered amongst the graves. A light covering of snow capped the headstones. They came to a statue of an angel keeping guard over a stone bier. An image of a Scottish warrior had been etched on the stone.

Francine read the inscription.

TORQUIL ANROTHAN M
AC
RATH

CHIEF OF CLAN M
AC
RATH

1426-1497

REQUIESCAT IN PACE

Lachlan stood staring down at the image on the bier, lost in reverie.

“Was he your father?” she asked quietly, uncertain if he wanted to share his thoughts.

He shook his head. “My grandfather.” He moved to a stone bench and swiped off the snow. “If it’s not too cold for you,
a ghràidh
, I’d like to sit here for a moment.”

Warmly dressed in hooded cape and gloves, Francine nodded her agreement. Once she was seated, Lachlan dropped down beside her. She waited in silence, thinking he wanted to meditate and pray.

“God, how I hated that old man,” Lachlan said at last. He put his arm around Francine’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Mother told me she talked to you yesterday about Mirren.”

Francine looked up to see the sadness in his eyes. “If you do not wish to tell me; if it’s too painful for you . . .”

“Nae, darling, my sorrow is for the years I detested my grandfather, not for the lost sweetheart of my youth.”

“Did she die in childbirth?”

Lachlan kissed Francine’s forehead and smiled at her tenderly. “Mirren and I were young and deeply in love. We wanted to marry. But because of an illness I’d suffered as a youth, neither my grandfather nor her father were in favor of a formal marriage. The two interfering men insisted that we be hand-fasted for a year and a day. If no child was conceived by that date, the union would be dissolved.”

“And did Mirren conceive?”

“Nae.” He shrugged and gave her a wry smile. “Though I can assure you it wasn’t for lack of trying. I knew that Mirren longed for a child. A child I was unable to give her. When the year was up, she was torn between her love for me, her love for her parents, and her unfulfilled longing to have a bairn. So for her sake, I agreed to let her go. I outfitted the
Sea Hawk
and joined my brothers in protecting our Scottish ships from piracy. I was gone for two years. When I returned, Mirren had married and was expecting a child.”

“Oh, Lachlan,” Francine said. “What a heartache for you to bear.”

She understood more clearly than ever why he would never have allowed her to take his child from him and return to England.

“Grandfather came to see me when he heard I’d returned. He insisted that the year of hand-fasting hadn’t proven I couldn’t father a child. Only that it was unlikely Mirren and I would have ever produced an heir who’d one day be the chief of Clan MacRath. He wanted to arrange my betrothal to a widow who’d already borne several children. I was so angry, I knocked the old man down.”

“Not without some justification,” Francine said indignantly.

Lachlan smiled. “Thank you for your support,
a ghaolaich
. However, my grandfather has been proven correct, in the end, hasn’t he? How I would like to apologize to him now.”

“Perhaps he knows,” she suggested. “Perhaps he’s looking down at us at this very moment.”

“If he is, he’s shouting with joy at the prospect of the coming births.” Lachlan kissed Francine, a long, lingering, kiss filled with joy and thanksgiving. “Very soon, ’twill be me shouting with joy, right along with him.”