Once Upon a Plaid (8 page)

“Katherine.” His voice called her back from the dark place to which her mind had wandered. “Can ye not give me a simple kiss?”

His fingers toyed with her nipple, tugging and circling. His need fed her own. She still loved him so much, it hurt to breathe.

“Aye, Will,” she said, choking back a sob. She hadn’t given him much of anything for the last few months, not since she’d withdrawn from him, hoping to keep her latest pregnancy from failing. “I can give ye a kiss. And a wee bit more.”

As she leaned down to kiss him, she also reached under the soapy water and found his cock. When she slid her palm down the hard length of him, he groaned into her mouth.

He cupped the back of her head, deepening their kiss. She stroked his cock in rhythm with the thrusts of his tongue in her mouth, first slow and languid, then hot and frenetic. The way he tormented her nipple with his other hand sent jolts of desire streaking from her breast to her womb.

Body and bones, she ached. She was as empty as a hollowed-out gourd. Need long denied roared to life and she nearly lifted her gown and climbed into the tub to mount him.

But this was about William. Not her. About what she could give him. Lord knew she couldn’t give him much else, couldn’t fill his quiver with the sons every man needed, but she could grant him this blessed oblivion.

She shoved back his foreskin with each stroke and tormented the spot at the base of the head that she knew was most sensitive. He groaned again and broke off their kiss long enough to say, “Harder. For God’s sake, harder.”

She took his mouth again while she whipped him into a helpless frenzy. Then she slid her gown off one shoulder, baring a breast and pressing it to his lips. He sucked so hard, her eyes rolled back in her head and she was passion blind for a moment. Her world narrowed to disjointed elements.

Pleasure a knife’s edge from pain. Joyful aching. Hurts that heal.

Water surged over the sides of the tub, soaking the front of her gown, but she didn’t care. The heat of him in her hand warmed her more than a fire. His mouth at her breast made her womb clench.

Once. Twice. She was almost there. Any moment now and her insides would dance with lust even without him touching her secret place or seating his thick self between her legs.

Then he erupted in her hand. When his release came, William gave a low growl, a feral sound that made Katherine tremble with need. He bit down on her nipple till she thought she’d unravel simply at that, but somehow her own completion, which had seemed so very near, now slipped away. Bliss left her behind while William’s body arched.

It had been that way for a long time. She couldn’t seem to find release while she was trying so desperately to conceive.

He was still pulsing in her hand beneath the surface of the water, all that life-giving substance wasted.

Though no more so than if he’d emptied himself into her.

When it was over, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into the tub with him, settling her on his lap. She needed to be near him too much to protest, to feel his wet skin against her, even if the fabric of her leine still separated them. The warm bathwater rushed over the sides of the tub in wavelets. William’s breathing was ragged, and when he gentled her head to rest upon his chest, his heart pounded in her ear.

“Oh, Kat.” He stroked her hair and pressed a kiss on her crown. “I’ve needed you, lass.”

Her insides still raged. She was still empty. Still wanting. It had been so long, tears of frustration gathered at the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever aching this much, but she couldn’t ask him to—

He reached under her hem and slid a hand up her thigh. She brought her knees together. Despite her longing for him, she still needed to find a way to dissolve their marriage. With such unwifely thoughts, she didn’t deserve his touch. It would only make their parting harder.

“Let me, my dear one,” he whispered. “I love ye so. I canna bear not holding ye.”

Her thigh muscles relaxed and his big hand cupped her sex with such gentleness, it made her weep.

What a mercy to be held so. To be cherished in her most unproductive part. William took her disappointment, her failure, her broken promise in his hand and loved it in spite of her.

She ached so, teetering on the edge of that blessed cliff that would send her spiraling to joy.

He slipped a fingertip between her folds and her insides tightened. Then he grazed her secret place and she came completely undone. Her body bucked with the force of her release and she cried out his name. Not once, but many times.

William.
Her determined protector. She chanted it. She practically sang it. When the last convulsion died, she was still whimpering her husband’s name.

Katherine collapsed bonelessly back onto his chest and let him hold her as their breathing fell into rhythm with each other. Her spirit seemed to float above them, oblivious to time or place or the fact that she was thoroughly soaked.

There was no need to speak. No need to think. If only they could stay this way forever. . . .

“My lady!” The sharp voice echoed up the spiral staircase that wound between the family chambers. “Oh, Lady Katherine, ye’re needed right quick.”

It was Dorcas.

Katherine scrambled out of the tub and bent to wring as much water from her hem as she could. She still dripped onto the stone floor in a regular patter, but by the time Dorcas appeared in the chamber, she’d donned her arisaid over the top of the wet leine.

“Oh! Beggin’ yer pardon, I’m sure, Lord Badenoch.” Dorcas bobbed a curtsey at the open doorway and averted her gaze.

“Dinna mind me, lass,” he said wryly. “In the grand scheme of things, what’s a naked man more or less?”

It was a measure of the seriousness of her visit that Dorcas’s round face didn’t pinken in the slightest.

“’Tis Lady Margaret. There’s trouble. Two of the men are bearing her up the stairs in a sling. Oh, come quick, my lady. She’s bleedin’.”

“Ye mean her waters have broken.”

“Nay, she says not, and she’d know, her having birthed five bairns and all. If that doesna make her the knowledgeable one, I swear I dinna know what would.” Dorcas finally ran out of steam and breath at the same time. Her face crumpled and she twisted her fingers together. “Please, my lady, I dinna know what to do.”

Katherine’s heart sank to her toes. Bleeding, with no onset of labor. She knew all too well what that might mean. “Fetch fresh linens and a pan of hot water. Send for the midwife in the village and I’ll be with Lady Margaret directly.”

Dorcas disappeared back down the steps with a rustle of her skirts. Her little yelping apologies as she squeezed past the men bearing Margaret up the narrow staircase echoed back to Katherine.

She turned to face William. “Can ye—”

“Aye, Kat, I can shift for myself. Go to Margie.” But when she made to go, he caught her wrist. “But we are not finished, ye and I. Not even close.”

He pressed a lover’s kiss on her open palm and let her go.

Heart pounding and sick with dread for her sister-in-law’s situation, Katherine hurried to the stairwell in time to precede the men bearing Margaret up to her bed.

—From “Coventry Carol”

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Eight

“I dinna know what all the fuss is about,” Margaret was saying as she rose from the sling chair and waved away the men who’d carried her up the stairs. They fairly bolted out of the room, but she waited till they were out of earshot before she continued since men were notoriously squeamish about the details surrounding childbirth. “I spotted a bit of blood with Tam too. ’Tis not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” Kat said. “Ye’re white as a ghost.”

Her good-sister’s skin had a translucent quality, and the blue vein that ran down the side of her neck was more stark than usual. Katherine walked around her under the pretext of helping her out of her clothing. Blood had seeped through Margie’s gown to leave a ruddy stain as large as her palm.

“Arms up, dear,” Kat said, trying to hide her growing alarm. “We’ll get ye changed into something more comfortable.”

Margie obeyed, but after Katherine pulled her gown over her head, she gasped at the rivulets of red snaking down her inner thighs. Margie’s knees seemed to give way and she had to sit suddenly on the edge of the bed, which Katherine had already covered with a thick pad of cloth. “Och! ’Tis a good bit more blood than I had with Tam.”

“Have ye any pains?”

“No, none at all.”

Katherine wanted to ask when was the last time Margie had felt the bairn quicken, but the words cleaved to her tongue.

Stephan had stopped moving the morning she began bleeding.

Dorcas returned, muttering under her breath. She helped clean Margaret and dress her in an old linen nightgown. There was no point in wearing one’s best to childbed, where it might be stained beyond reclaiming. She disappeared down the spiral stairs with Margaret’s soiled clothing, grumbling about how best to clean them without fading the dye in the fabric.

Katherine spread an extra couple of absorbent sheets over the bed. “Lie flat,” she said as she eased Margie between them. She gave her sister-in-law a wadded handful of linen to pack between her legs and plumped the pillows to elevate Margie’s feet.

The midwife had tried this when Katherine showed blood with Stephan. In the end it hadn’t helped her little mite, but it was something to do and anything was better than standing about wringing her hands. In Margaret’s case, it did seem to improve the color in her cheeks.

Beathag Hardie, the midwife, bustled into the chamber then and, after a quick look around, nodded approval at Katherine’s ministrations. Old Beathag was trusted by all the women of the surrounding glens and had been bringing bairns into the world since before Katherine’s mother was born. The woman’s face was as shriveled as a piece of weathered leather and her eyes were nearly opaque with cataracts, but she had a kind, albeit toothless, smile.

“Let us have a look-see, my lady, and then we’ll ken what’s what, aye?” She examined Margie intimately, pressing on her belly with gnarled fingers and feeling for the position of the bairn, nodding and clucking her tongue as she worked.

“The head is down. He’s ready to make his journey into the world,” the old woman said. “No pains yet?”

Margaret shook her head.

Beathag’s mouth pulled tight across her face, making her look very like an old potato with a spade cut across it. “Weel, that could change any moment. Believe it’d be best for me to stay in the castle instead of down in the village so I’ll be to hand when ye’ve need of me.”

She pulled a vial filled with green, nasty-smelling liquid from her small satchel and put it to Margaret’s lips. Margie made a face, but she drank it down, as dutifully as an obedient child.

“Rest ye for now, my lady. That’s the main thing. The time will come soon enough when ye’ll have no rest at all.”

When Margaret sighed and closed her eyes, Katherine pulled Beathag across the room and mouthed, “How is the child?”

Fortunately, though the old woman’s eyes were going, her hearing was still keen. “He pushed back when I examined my lady. He’s still moving.” Then her wiry grey brows knit together over her sharp nose. “But I’ll not say ’tis not serious. There’s a poultice I can apply that will help stop the bleeding but it’ll take a bit to prepare. I don’t expect Cook will appreciate me in the kitchen. Is there a stillroom?”

“Aye, off the solar. Lady Margaret keeps it well stocked with medicinal herbs and such.”

“Good. I’ll nip down and see about it then. She’ll sleep now. Wish I could.” Beathag yawned hugely, every one of her years etched plainly in her tired face. “I’ll take meself to Jamison before I return to see can he find me lodging here. Ye’ll stay with her, aye?”

Katherine nodded.

“Call for me if the bleeding worsens.” She lowered her voice. “Or if she no longer feels movement.” The old woman toddled off to find the stillroom.

Katherine went over and perched on the side of Margaret’s bed, then took her sister-in-law’s icy hand in hers. She’d have Dorcas stoke up the fire if the gabby goose ever returned. The girl didn’t seem the sort who’d be especially helpful in a sickroom without a lot of direction, but at least she had a willing spirit.

Margie’s eyes opened slowly and she squeezed Kat’s fingers. She ran the fingertips of her other hand in slow circles over her distended belly. “I feel much better now.”

The pupils of Margie’s eyes were so dilated, her expression so flat and unconcerned, Kat was certain that green stuff Beathag Hardie had given her was some sort of poppy juice.

“I think we should send for Donald,” Katherine said.

Margaret’s eyes flared wide at that. “No. I dinna want him to see me like this.”

Katherine bristled. “If my brother saw what you go through to give him children, maybe he’d be more attentive the rest of the time.”

“No, I dinna want him to think I’ve been complaining.”

Katherine knew she shouldn’t speak ill of her brother, but she was so afraid for Margie, if Donald were in Glengarry now, she’d be tempted to box his ears. “By the Rood, ye’ve reason to complain. As ye said yourself, the man canna be bothered with his own family for longer than it takes to get ye with—”

“Hush, my dear Kat.” Margie reached up and stroked her hair as if Katherine were one of her brood of children. “Dinna fret yourself. ’Twill be all right. Ye’ll see. I’ve wide hips, ye ken. Like a brood mare, Donald says. I’ve yet to have trouble birthing a bairn.”

Then between one breath and the next, Margaret’s eyes drifted closed and she fell asleep. Katherine ventured a hand on her belly.

The child made his mother’s abdomen undulate under Kat’s palm.

“God be praised,” she murmured. The miracle of another life gave her palm a little kick.

“How is she?”

Katherine startled at the soft masculine voice behind her and turned toward the sound. It was William. She hadn’t heard him enter the chamber. For a big man, he could be as quiet as a cat when it suited him.

“Sleeping. The bairn is still . . .” Somehow saying the child was alive now made the possibility that later he might not be more real. “I felt movement a moment ago.”

“Good.” He nodded curtly and went to stir up the fire without being told, bless him. “Is she sending for Donald?”

“No, but I think she should.”

His eye was still bruised, but thanks to Margie’s leeches, it was less swollen. William came over, stood beside her, and peered down at his sleeping sister-in-law. Margaret’s lips still had an unhealthy blue tinge.

“Donald should be here,” Kat said. The court would always be there. Margaret might not be.

“If ye want, I’ll see to it.”

“No, Will, don’t go to Edinburgh. I mean . . .” She bit her lip. The words had tumbled out before she could catch them. She should want him to leave Glengarry. If there were no more incidents like the shattering one in William’s bath, no more times when she succumbed to her need to touch him and let him touch her, it would be far easier to send that annulment request to Rome after Christmastide was over.

But the thought of cutting her remaining time with him short made her chest constrict. If these were the last days she might have with William, shouldn’t she wring every drop of joy she could from them?

He smiled at her. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away, sweeting. No, I only meant I’d send someone to fetch Donald home. Of course, I’m staying.”

He bent down and pressed a kiss to her crown. A fresh whiff of clean male skin emanated from him. Katherine tipped her chin up and he brushed her lips with his.

But before the kiss could ripen into something more than a peck, Dorcas bustled through the open doorway, linens crammed under her armpits and her hands bearing a pot of water that sloshed over with each step.

The girl cleared her throat loudly and, to Katherine’s mind, accusingly.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lady,” she said with a sniff. “I brought ye what ye asked for. Now what should we do for Lady Margaret?”

Katherine tossed him an apologetic glance. “Will, if ye please—”

“I know, I know. There’s no place for a man at a time like this.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll see ye after, wife.”

 

 

Ranulf MacNaught refilled the drinking horns of his compatriots—Filib Gordon, Hugh Murray, Ainsley MacTavish, and Lamont Sinclair—and swept an appraising gaze over them. Since they each owed him a debt they couldn’t repay, they were likely enough allies. All of them were minor gentry—landholders who had tenants and kinsmen beholden to them, but not enough to qualify for even a “Sir” before their names.

Not that they weren’t ambitious enough to be working toward it.

His little band didn’t include the heroes he’d hoped to draw to his standard, but they’d do.

The rest of the castle was quiet, all the drinking and revelry of the holiday season burned out for the night, like a guttered candle. Ranulf reckoned there was a fuss going on in Lady Margaret’s bedchamber after the way she’d been carted from the great hall, but that was only the province of women.

Ranulf was more concerned about his men.

They all nursed new wounds and bruises, courtesy of the quick fists of William Douglas. Ranulf tongued the empty place in his gum where an eyetooth used to be and cursed Lord Badenoch afresh.

“Aye, MacNaught, we’re with ye on that point,” Filib Gordon said as he rubbed his purpling jaw. Even outnumbered, Douglas had gotten in several good licks before Gordon had bashed him over the head with that chair. “We all agree the Laird of Badenoch is a misbegotten bastard, but talk willna change a thing. It certainly doesna do your cause any good.”

In England, succession to a title and estate was only a function of bloodlines, as if people were damned livestock, but the folk of Scotland were more practical. All things being equal, the best leader should rule.

And Ranulf was satisfied he was that leader.

Since Lord Glengarry had had that apoplectic fit last winter, Ranulf had been doing all he could to improve his chances of filling the old man’s shoes.

“Dinna fret. Bide your time. Your uncle Glengarry is failing,” Sinclair said, peering at Ranulf through only one eye, since the other was swollen completely shut.

They’d taken a drubbing and no mistake. Still, there had once been a time when Lord Glengarry could have disrupted the beating of his son-in-law with just his own hard fists. This time, the old man had to call on some of the onlookers to come to his aid while he broke up the gang attack on William Douglas.

“Ye’ll get your chance soon, Ranulf,” Ainsley MacTavish piped up. He was a bit of a brownnoser, but it pleased Ranulf to surround himself with MacTavish’s brand of uncritical devotion. “Another fit like the one he had last year will carry his lairdship off to his reward, like as not.”

“Not fast enough to suit me,” Ranulf said sullenly. “Glengarry deserves a young hand on the reins.”

As the old laird’s nephew, Ranulf was not a natural choice for purists who liked to ape English sensibilities and held to niceties like bloodlines. His mother, God rot her miserable, neglectful soul, was only Laird Glengarry’s sister, after all. Ranulf was brutal when he needed to be. Benevolent when it suited him. Both traits he shared with his mother, now that he thought on it.

But more importantly, he knew how to rally men to his side—the all-important quality for a leader.

“But what about the laird’s heir?” Always the pessimist, Hugh Murray had to bring up the obvious flaw in Ranulf’s plans.

“Donald?” Ranulf waved away his rival with a flick of his hand. “He’s mincing about at court with the rest of the fops. He knows how to bow and scrape and how to pick a French wine. I know the men of Glengarry.”

“So when the time comes, what do ye intend, Ranulf?” MacTavish asked.

He rose and paced the length of the solar. “When the time comes, when the times comes,” he repeated. “Ye know, I’m sick of waiting.” Besides, a tough old boot like Lord Glengarry could linger for years yet, even if he had another bad spell or two. And in that time, Donald might come to his senses and come home for good. “I’m thinking we ought to make our move before there’s need to be concerned about the succession.”

“What have ye in mind?” Gordon asked. “I know ye’ve gathered a good bit of support among the laird’s men who are unhappy over Donald’s absence, but we canna start a melee within these walls. The laird still holds the advantage, and many a man who’s shared a horn with ye and spoken of being dissatisfied will turn back to aid his laird in a pinch. They did take an oath, ye ken.”