Kathleen Harrington (38 page)

“I’m happy to learn that you’re feeling so well,” he said as he led her onto the dance floor to the strains of the lavolta. “Because I’d like to take you on an excursion tomorrow. There’s a beautiful stream not far from here that runs through a stand of giant oaks. We could take a basket of food and enjoy eating al fresco.”

Francine smiled, sincerely pleased by his thoughtfulness. “Angelica would love that.”

“We can take the wee lassie another time,” he said as he lifted her up and twirled her around in the exhilarating steps of the dance. “Lady Joanna and my mother would like to entertain Angelica tomorrow. If that’s acceptable to you, of course.”

Francine searched Kinrath’s gaze to find only lighthearted enjoyment in the dance. There was no way on earth he could suspect she was pregnant at such an early date. She’d sworn Lucia to secrecy. It seemed to Francine that men usually didn’t pay attention to those things until it was time for the baby to arrive. Then they took all the credit.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll instruct the innkeeper to prepare a midday meal for us.”

“No need,” he said. “I’ve already taken care of everything.”

As the strains of the lavolta died out, Kinrath took Francine’s hand and guided her toward the dais on which James and Margaret sat to receive the English nobles who’d attended the young bride-to-be on her journey.

“Your Highness,” Kinrath said, “may I present Lady Francine, the dowager countess of Walsingham.”

Francine dipped in a low curtsey. “Your Highness.”

James’s smile was genuine. “Lady Walsingham, I understand that it was your late husband who conferred with my emissaries, the bishop of Moray and the earl of Dunbarton, to bring about our coming nuptials and the treaty of peace between our two countries.”

“I am most humbly honored to say that is so,” she replied.

“Princess Margaret tells me that you have helped the Master of the Revels create the spectacles and pageants that entertained so many on her journey northward. I’m told, as well, that Laird Kinrath participated in several of those spectacles, upholding the honor of Scotland and his king.”

Kinrath cleared his throat, as though about to demur about any outstanding feats that might have been mentioned.

Francine smiled. “I have found the earl of Kinrath to have many talents,” she said, avoiding her lover’s gaze. “Least of which was the ability to fight as a gladiator in the arena and exhibit at archery with the legendary skill of Robin Hood.”

James laughed, his brown eyes sparkling. He had a broad forehead, high cheekbones, and a reddish-brown beard. And a natural charm that put her immediately at ease.

“You have put your finger on my point, exactly,” he agreed. “But did you know my friend here has composed some of the most stirring love ballads ever written?”

Francine nodded. “Yes, your highness. Laird Kinrath played and sang for me once. ’Twas a ballad which he claimed to have composed. I must admit I was entranced, though I doubted at the time that he truly had such amazing skill in composition.”

“Then we shall have him play and sing for us now,” James declared, “and put all doubts to rest.”

He turned to Kinrath, who immediately nodded his agreement.

At the king’s signal, a musician provided Kinrath with a lute, and he sat down on the steps of the dais. The entire assembly grew quiet, as he strummed and tuned the strings.

Kinrath’s magnificent baritone, accompanied by the haunting strains of the lute, filled the room. He sang a ballad of exquisite yearning and ultimate fulfillment, the lyrics and melody perfectly blending into a heart-touching composition of incredible mastery.

As he sang, Kinrath looked directly at Francine. Growing increasingly self-conscious, she gradually became aware that Lady Joanna had come to stand on one side of her, Lady Emma on the other.

The strains of the music faded, and everyone applauded.

For whatever reason, Lady Emma took that moment to enfold her in her arms. Then it was Lady Joanna’s turn to embrace her.

Confused and embarrassed, Francine found herself at a loss for words. But her silence didn’t seem to bother either woman.

Fortunately, few seemed to notice her discomfiture, for the king and his gentlemen proceeded to entertain the English princess and her ladies by playing and singing for the rest of the evening.

F
rancine looked around, enjoying the peaceful setting. Seated on an outspread red-and-black tartan, she gazed at Kinrath. He lay stretched on his back, his arms bent and his hands stacked under his head. As always, his broadsword lay beside him. His eyes were closed, and the filtered sunlight played over his perfect features. He seemed utterly content.

Once again, his sculptured face reminded her of the statue of the Archangel Michael, holding his sword high, ready to vanquish the forces of evil. In a way, Kinrath was like that prince of heaven and holy warrior, who’d rescued the other angels and Creation itself from the dark foes that sought to destroy it. For by protecting her and Angelica from the traitorous nobles, he was saving the treaty of peace and, thereby, preventing the deaths of thousands of people, both English and Scottish.

Overhead, the leaves of the oaks rustled in the breeze. The nearby stream splashed joyously, as it bubbled over the rocks on its way to the River Esk and eventually to the Firth of Forth. This shady bower was not unlike the Garden of Eden, Francine thought. She smiled to herself, wondering what Kinrath would say, if she told him her fanciful thoughts.

Earlier, they’d removed their shoes and socks and gone wading along the stream’s edge, then shared the basket of raison scones, thick slices of cheese, and apple tarts. They’d washed them down with clear spring water.

As though aware of her scrutiny, Kinrath rolled onto his side and propped his head on one hand. He smiled, his sun-bronzed skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

“You look tantalizing sitting there on my tartan,” he said, “with your gorgeous legs and your toes bare.”

“Shame on you for saying so,” she replied, though she couldn’t help but smile in return at his teasing. She was dressed as his gillie. “When you handed me one of Roddy Stewart’s shirts and kilts this morning, I suspected you’d lost your senses.”

“’Twas the only safe way for us to ride off alone, even at daybreak. And I hoped you’d be amenable to wearing the disguise of a lad, after choosing of your own accord to parade around as Cupid at Pontefract Castle.”

Francine leaned back on the plaid, propping herself on her elbows. She looked up at the canopy of leaves, which seemed to float like a green cloud above them. “’Twas fortunate I kept that pair of drawers,” she admitted with a soft chuckle. “This kilt is even shorter than Cupid’s tunic.”

The now familiar feelings of desire swirled around them. Whenever she was with him, the longing for Kinrath seemed nigh unquenchable. How could she defeat this need he’d created within her? Until she found the answer that would unlock her enchantment, she’d remain enthralled by his touch, his kiss, his very presence.

Kinrath was studying her beneath half closed lids. That same glow of happiness she’d recognized the evening before shone on his face.

“You seem very pleased with yourself this morning,” she said softly. “Is it the skill in music which you demonstrated so ably before the king and his bride-to-be?”

“Nae,” he said huskily, “’tis not me I’m so pleased with, but you, darling.”

“Me?” she asked in surprise. “What have I done to make you look so happy?”

He leaned over her and brushed his lips across hers. “Just by being your perfect self,” he replied.

The now familiar intoxicating combination of breathtaking excitement and dreamy lethargy spread through her. He removed the Scottish bonnet she’d worn to hide her long hair. Her curls fell down about her shoulders, and he ran his fingers gently through the tangled strands.

“Your hair is like spun gold,” he said, “reflecting the shafts of sunlight streaming through the leaves.”

“No wonder you write such beautiful ballads,” she teased. “You’ve a poet’s flight of fancy in your words.”

A smile played about his lips. “With such inspiration, any dolt could create a masterpiece.”

Lachlan eased Francine’s shirttails out from under the belt that secured her kilt. Aside from the boy’s drawers, she wore no undergarments. He smoothed his hand beneath the shirt and cupped her breast. Every fiber in his being twanged with sexual energy, as his manhood lurched insistently beneath his kilt.

He planned to move slowly and gently, so as not to disturb the baby sleeping in her womb.

His child.

His child.

The words had run over and over in his mind like a wonderful melody that couldn’t be forgotten.

Holding himself on a tight leash, Lachlan pushed her shirt up to bare the lush globes with their delicate pink aureoles. Laving first one nipple and then the other till both were erect buds, he slid his hand under her kilt and cupped her mound, which was covered by the drawers. He caressed her through the fine linen.

“Someone might come,” she protested.

“Not today,” he assured her, as he rose to his knees to pull his shirt over his head. “’Tis far too secluded. We’re deep in the king’s hunting preserve. And King Jamie has other things to occupy him this afternoon than chasing after a hind.”

Her brown eyes, fringed with their long thick lashes, grew wary. “Still, I can’t undress out here in the open.”

“There’s no need, love. Since we’re both wearing kilts, we just need to dispense with your drawers.” He untied the strings and slid the undergarment down her legs and over her bare feet.. Then pushed her kilt up to her hips.

At the sight of the creamy skin of her thighs and the nest of golden-brown curls, sheer male lust brought a feverish heat to his veins, threatening his self-control. Every muscle and nerve in his body ached with the need to take her.

He would go slow.

He would be careful.

But he would have her.

Lachlan caressed her feminine folds till her breath came in quick, short gasps. Crouched on his haunches, he positioned himself between her bent legs, lifted her round buttocks in his cupped hands, and probed her delicate flesh with his tongue, using the moist warmth of his mouth to bring her small female nub to erection.

“Lachlan,” she cried softly. Her body grew taut and straining for the ecstasy she sought. She flung her arms out on the MacRath tartan, signaling her complete surrender to his erotic persuasions.

Francine gave herself over to the pleasure Kinrath sought to give. Dazzling currents of exquisite delight radiated through her. She climaxed beneath his skillful caresses, as he enhanced and sustained the vibrations of deep, surging waves of pleasure.

Through half-closed lids, Francine watched Kinrath rise to his knees and bend over her. He braced his weight on his hands, positioned on either side of her head. He brushed kisses on her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her chin.

“My darling lass,” he said tenderly. “My sweet love.”

She could feel his powerful thighs brushing against the inside of her bare legs. She reached beneath his kilt and took his hardened sex in her hand. She lightly touched the sensitive tip with the pads of her fingers, and heard his quick intake of air. He groaned softly as she cupped and stroked him.

“I’m going to come inside you slowly and carefully,” he rasped. “Dinna be afraid that I will be too rough. Now guide me in, love.”

Francine brought his thickened shaft to her pulsing female center. As he carefully inched deeper and deeper inside her tight sheath, a marvelous feeling of fullness brought the pleasure to a new height.

“Oh, Lachlan,” she breathed on a deep exhalation of air. “I, I . . .”

“Tell me what you feel,
a ghaolaich
,” he whispered.

“I want you so much, the desire is nigh overpowering. I feel as though I shall never get enough of you.”

Lachlan smiled. The words weren’t the ones he longed to hear, but they were very sweet, indeed.

Once sheathed inside her, Lachlan held himself taut and still above her, keeping his weight on his forearms and hands. He gazed into her large brown eyes, wonderstruck with the pleasure he was giving. She was flushed with passion, her lips parted slightly.

She smoothed her dainty hands across his shoulders and over his upper arms, brushing his flat nipples with her trembling fingertips. She started moving her hips rhythmically, pulling him deeper inside her, her moist delicate tissues clinging to his hard, hot flesh.

Before Francine had come into his life, Lachlan had never experienced such a mind-shattering need for a woman. Now, knowing she carried within her, nurtured and sustained in her womb, the seed he’d planted so lovingly, he felt his heart swell with joy.

She was whimpering now, pleading for release. She gently bit his shoulder, her fingernails raking his back. She wanted him to hurry the pace, to bring her to a shattering climax once again.

Instead, Lachlan moved in slow, steady, purposeful strokes, remaining in control, though he felt as though his heart would burst.

“Take your time, love,” he breathed in her ear. “We’ll get there without my pounding frantically into your fragile body.”

“Now, I want it now,” she insisted.

He continued his relentless, unhurried pumping, nudging her bit by tiny bit to the culmination she sought with such wild abandon.

She bucked her hips and sobbed in pleasure as she reached the orgasm she craved so desperately.

Even then, Lachlan kept himself well in check, moving with deliberate restraint until his body convulsed, as his seed spurted into her welcoming warmth.

He carefully rolled to his side and brought her into his arms. He kissed the top of her head.

“Marry me, Francie,” he urged. “For you must know that I love you.”

Francine lay in Kinrath’s arms, gasping for breath, her heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm, as he waited for her answer.

“I can’t marry you,” she said, in a calm, reasoning tone. “I must return to England after Margaret’s wedding. King Henry expects it.”