White Regency 03 - White Knight (30 page)

Grace threaded her hands through the
thickness of Christian’s hair as he slowly rubbed his fingers over her,
stroking her, seducing her at the very center of her desire. He felt her body
tighten beneath his touch as she knew the beginnings of sexual pleasure. He
released her mouth to kiss downward over her neck and shoulder to her breast.
Grace arched against him as he suckled her, drawing in her breath and
tightening her fingers in his hair as she lost herself to him. “Oh,
Christian, it is so…”

Christian nuzzled her belly, knowing what
he would do to her, how he would make her body respond to bring her sensations
she had only just known a hint of. He kissed her belly and nibbled at her hip
as he slid
further
downward, parting her legs as he moved between them. He drew her hips upward
then, gathering her against him, and lowered his head to taste her.

He felt Grace stir, uncertain at such an
intimate caress, until her own untested sexual instincts overcame her
hesitation and she eased beneath him. Christian worked his mouth over her,
tasting her, teasing her with his tongue, tantalizing her as she drew close to
her climax. He felt her legs tighten against his shoulders as she sought that
which she had yet to find, heard the soft pleasured breaths she gave as each
sensation rippled through her. He took her closer, again and again until she
cried out and he felt her body shudder against him on the wave of her release.

Grace watched him with eyes that were
filled with the wonder of new passion as Christian eased her hips to the bed.
He slowly slid his body upward, the muscles in his belly clenching when he
touched her with his hardness. He struggled to hold himself in check. He took
two deep breaths and slowly, gently entered her, drawing in another slow breath
as he buried himself within her. It was the most incredible feeling he’d ever
experienced— the tightness of her around him, the joining of their bodies as
one—and he drew her up against his chest as he sought to command his desire.

Perhaps it was an unconscious fear of
harming the babe, or that he had exorcised the demon of his grandfather from
his life, but when he began to move, Christian did so with total control over
his body. Each movement of his hips carried him deeper and deeper inside her
warmth. His movements began to quicken and he felt Grace lift her hips to meet
his every thrust, her fingers gripping his forearms as he rose up over her,
entering her deeply, fully, completely, over and over until he felt her take
her second climax. He buried himself within her and his own release took him so
strongly, so absolutely, that he shouted out words he had no recollection of
immediately after, spilling his seed deep within her womb.

“Oh, God, Grace, I love you,” he
moaned against her neck as he rained gentle kisses over her, tasting the
saltiness of her heated skin as they lay with their bodies still joined amid
the confusion of bedclothes beneath them. Some time later, after the fire had
dimmed and the night slowly began to give way to the dawn, Christian drew Grace
up to him with her back against his chest and her buttocks settled snugly
against his hips. He set one hand against her belly where their child lay and
brushed the soft tangle of her hair onto the pillow above her head. Clasping
the fingers of her hand with his he breathed in the sweet scent of her neck as
together they drifted off to a lover’s sleep.

The next days were like living a dream for
Grace and Christian as they thrilled in the rediscovery of one another. Their
waking hours were filled with the warmth and laughter of a Skynegal summer,
their nights wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing tender kisses and ardent lovemaking.

Robert and Catroina had gone to Rosmorigh
in the south, taking a number of the Highlanders with them. Robert had arranged
for a sloop that would carry some of them farther south to Mallaig, others onto
the islands of Mull and Jura and to a landing point where they could find land
transport into Glasgow. Still more would continue to the Borders and to
England, to live at the duke and duchess’s estate, Devonbrook, in Lancashire.
Before they had gone, Christian and Robert had drawn up a proposal they planned
to present at the next sitting of the House of Lords. Christian and Grace
realized that presenting the proposal would necessitate that Christian return
to England. He had decided, however, to wait until after their child was born.

Since Skynegal had become such an
important part of their lives, they made plans for extending the castle with an
additional wing to the eastern side. Grace began drawing up preliminary
sketches that they would use as a guide while Christian set to making inquiries
in Edinburgh for an architect. The mare Jo came into foal and Grace and
Christian had watched as the tiny roan-colored newborn had stood for the first
time on his spindly legs, taking his first uncertain steps amid a chorus of
cheers from those looking on. Every day at sunset, Grace and Christian would
walk
along
the shore of the loch with Dubhar ambling beside them, but Grace’s most
treasured time with her husband was late at night, after they had made love
before the light of the fire. He would draw her body close to him, his arms
wrapped protectively around her increasing belly. They would talk sometimes
until the early hours of morning, about their childhood and about their hopes
for the future—the future they would share together.

This morning Grace was seated in the
estate office with Dubhar warming her toes beneath the desk. Christian sat
across from her, checking the list of provisions for McFee and McGee, who were
to leave for Ullapool later that morning.

Grace had just finished her morning cup of
tea when she glanced up and saw Eleanor standing in the doorway.

“Oh, Eleanor, good morning,” she
said, “won’t you come in?”

Eleanor’s expression, Grace noticed, was
unusually serious.

“I was hoping I might have a private
word with my brother.”

Grace glanced at Christian, who was
watching Eleanor closely, then stood to leave. “Of course. I was just
going to go through the last of the trunks we found from the garret.”

Grace left the room, calling to Dubhar
before closing the door quietly behind her.

High in the south tower there was a small
chamber that looked out over the restless waters of the loch. Too small to be
used as a bedchamber, Grace had begun using the place to organize some of the
heirlooms she had discovered while foraging through the castle. As the collection
had grown, the chamber had become a gallery of sorts in tribute to her
ancestry, spanning nearly the full chronology of Skynegal’s history.

Each of those ancestors had their own
place where their particular contribution was displayed in a makeshift visual
biography. There, near the door, was Hannah MacRath, a young bride who had come
to Skynegal from the Lowlands in the days of Queen Mary. Her
petite figure was
preserved in the small embroidered shoes she’d once worn, with cork wedges
placed into the heels to give her added height. Amazingly, Hannah had brought
eleven children to adulthood and had lived to the age of ninety-three. Hannah’s
legacy to Skynegal was a small, leatherbound herbal journal and numerous small
bottles in which the ladies of Skynegal had kept dried flowers and leaves to
use as medicine.

Sir Roger MacRath’s display was situated
beneath the window. He had been a fourteenth-century poet whose lyrical verses
were scribbled upon everything, from parchment to several window panes. A portrait
of Sir Roger’s only child, his daughter Mhairi, hung nearby, her thoughtful
expression framed by a linen caul. Mhairi was one of Skynegal’s most noteworthy
residents, for she had made it her life’s work to preserve the legend of the
“winged” castle and its foundation in the myth of the goddess
Cliodna. Some said it was Cliodna herself who had charged young Mhairi with the
duty in a dream when she’d been only twelve. Whatever it had been, for the
eighteen years afterward, Mhairi had passed every night weaving a tapestry from
the finest threads of gold and silver into an image of the castle with the
goddess Cliodna watching over from above while her servant birds soared around
the castle towers.

According to the legend, on the night
Mhairi had fixed the last thread, completing the tapestry, she had gone to her
bed never to rise again. That same tapestry stitched by her dedicated hands now
hung in a place of honor beside her portrait. It was alleged that as long as
the tapestry was kept at the castle, the people of Skynegal would remain under
the protection of the Celtic goddess and her mythical birds, safe against any
threat of invasion, destitution, or plague. Indeed, thus far, the prediction
had held true.

Up in the tower this morning, Grace set
aside a small costumed fashion doll that had once been her grandmother’s and
peered inside the trunk to see what else was contained inside. A small book of
sonnets with an embossed cover lay tucked away near the bottom. Grace took it
up, reading the inscription inside.

For Grace of Skynegal, you shall forever
be the only lady of my heart. Your Devoted Knight, Eli 1768.

Grace drew up, reading the inscription
again. Eli? But her grandfather’s name had been William. Surely this was her
grandmother’s book, for it had her name inscribed inside with the date that
would put her near her sixteenth year.

As she turned to the first page, something
slipped from inside the back cover. They were letters addressed to her
grandmother at Skynegal, several of them, tied together with a ribbon. Grace
unfolded the first of them, dated April of the same year inscribed in the book.

My
love, I find myself counting the days until we might see each other again. I
long for the slightest glance from your eyes, the softest touch of your hand. I
am sending this book in the hopes that someday I might hear your sweet voice
reading from it to me. I am lost without you… Your Adoring Knight, Eli.

The next letter, dated six months later,
seemed to indicate that some sort of response had been sent from her
grandmother. The script of this letter was decidedly more formal in tone.

I
will not, it seems, be able to travel to the
Highlands as I had planned. Family matters have developed which will require my
presence in London. It is, unfortunately, beyond my control. Know I am thinking
of you and hoping your are well. I will count the days until I can see you
again. Devoted and Frustrated Knight, E.

The next letter was dated early the
following year. The handwriting, while still that of the previous author, was
less elegant, more of a scrawl.

It
is with great regret and a heavy heart that I must inform you of my inability
to continue our relationship. Circumstances have arisen that prevent my
pursuing anything more than an acquaintanceship with
you. My happiest days
will always have been during our time together for despite the duties I must
assume, my heart will forever remain yours alone. Your Knight, Now and Always,
E.

When she reached the final letter in the
stack, Grace saw that it was not a letter after all, but a page from a London
news sheet. It was dated April of 1769. She scanned past the events of that
year, noticing nothing of significance until she reached the very bottom of the
column where an announcement had been printed.

It
is hereby announced that on Saturday last, the
2
nd
day of April at St.
Paul’s, the heir to the Duke of Westover, Elias Wycliffe, Marquess Knighton,
did wed Lady Lydia Fairchild, eldest daughter to the Marquess of Noakes.

Grace looked again at the inscription in
the book and the name written there.

Eli.

The truth came suddenly clear. Through all
the years Nonny had spoken of her “one true knight,” Grace had always
believed him to have been her grandfather. But it had been Christian’s
grandfather, the duke, all along. So many things made sense to her then—the
duke’s lifelong bitterness, his preoccupation that first day in her uncle’s
study with her grandmother’s portrait. Had they planned to marry? Had his
family prevented it?

Grace struggled to her feet, taking up the
book of sonnets and the letters as she hurried off to find Christian. She
wanted him to know the truth about his grandfather so that perhaps he might
find some way to better understand.

As she skipped down the tower steps, Grace
nearly collided with someone climbing up in the opposite direction.

“Oh, goodness—Eleanor.”

Eleanor’s eyes were red from crying, her
cheeks stained from her tears. The moment she saw Grace, she collapsed against
her, sobbing into her shoulder.

“What is it, Eleanor? What has happened?”

It took her several moments to respond.
“Oh, Grace, it is Christian. He has forbidden me to wed Lord Herrick. He
refused to listen to reason.”

Grace tried desperately to calm her,
patting her gently on the shoulder as Eleanor leaned against her. “What do
you mean? Lord Herrick has asked you to marry him?”

Eleanor nodded. “Before we left
London, he indicated he had something of importance to discuss-with me. I
received a letter from him just this morning formally proposing marriage. I
took it to Christian, but he has refused to give his consent. And Mother has
said she will not oppose his decision. I knew Christian and my mother had held
some reluctance toward Lord Herrick, but I thought with his proposal, they
would see that his intentions are only honorable. No, there is some other
reason for their refusal. The worst of it is, Christian won’t even tell me why.
I know I have not known Lord Herrick long, but I can only think that were we to
have more time together, my regard for him would only grow. Christian had
promised me,
Grace, that
I would be given my choice to
marry freely. Why would he do this to me now when I have already made my
choice? Why?”

Grace shook her head, clasping Eleanor’s
hands in hers. She looked at her closely. “I don’t know, but if you would
like, I will see if I can talk to Christian.”

Eleanor sniffed into her handkerchief.
“Would you?”

“I will go to him right now.”

A small smile broke across Eleanor’s teary
face. “Thank you, Grace. Perhaps he will listen to you.”

Grace squeezed Eleanor’s hands
reassuringly. “You go to your chamber now and lie down. I will come to you
there after I have spoken with Christian.”

Lady Frances was just leaving as Grace
approached the door to the office. The dowager marchioness looked to have been
crying as well, but she smiled softly to Grace before continuing out of the
room.

Inside, Christian sat alone.

Grace closed the door behind her.
Christian looked up at her, his expression stricken and pained. It was killing
him to make Eleanor so unhappy. Surely he must have a reason for his refusal.
Perhaps Herrick was a blackguard and Christian was simply trying to spare his
sister the heartache.
Whatever his reasons, Grace decided not to come at Christian about Eleanor
immediately, but instead approached the subject from a different perspective.

“I found something in the garret that
I thought you should see.”

She placed the book of sonnets and the
letters she had found on the desk in front of him. She watched as he took them
up and read through them, allowing him time to come to the same conclusions she
had.

When he was finished, he looked at her.
“Where did you find these?”

“They were in a trunk with some of my
grandmother’s things. I think she might have left them for me to find one
day.” She paused. “It is your grandfather’s handwriting, is it
not?”

Christian nodded. His expression was
troubled as his lifelong opinions about his grandfather were suddenly
challenged.

“Perhaps now you can understand some
of the reasons for his bitterness.”

“Perhaps. But what I fail to
understand is why—if he was made to marry someone other than your grandmother,
whom he clearly loved—would he then repeat that by arranging a marriage for
me?”

Grace came to stand beside his chair,
resting her hand on his shoulder. “I wondered that same thing. Perhaps, in
his way, he was seeking to right the wrong he had done my grandmother in
abandoning her by bringing us two together.”

“Perhaps.” Christian was still
staring at the letters, no doubt thinking about the man—so different than the
grandfather he had known all his life—who had written them so long ago.