The Border Lord and the Lady (53 page)

He was so fierce, and yet he was gentle as well tonight. Cicely clung to him, loving the sensation of their bodies linked in passionate union. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She lifted her head to nip at his earlobe, and he laughed aloud, calling her his wee vixen. The sensations were building and building now. She wrapped her legs about his torso so he might delve deeper, and he did. “Kier!” she cried his name again.

And then the pleasure began to mount. His face above her was
set in rapt concentration as he worked to bring them to a fiery completion. Cicely closed her eyes and let herself be swept away on a tidal flow of lustful wonderment. She felt as if she were flying higher, higher, higher yet. Then the tremors began racking her body as they shook the core of her very being. It was too sweet! Too sweet! And then she felt him stiffen within her, his juices bursting forth to fill her full with his seed.

“Cicely!”
he cried out her name, but she barely heard it, for she was lost in a dazzle of sweetness that reached up to claim them both, enfolding them in warmth and darkness as they collapsed in each other’s arms. Exhausted from their labors, husband and wife fell asleep without speaking.

Kier awoke first as the night ended and the dawn was breaking. He felt relaxed, and certainly less irritable than he had been in recent days. Cicely lay next to him, snoring softly. He smiled down at her and, unable to help himself, drew her into his arms, spooning himself around her. Her fragrance rose up to assail him with its subtle scent. He stroked her tangled hair. He could never have imagined a wife like Cicely Bowen, he thought, smiling to himself as one hand closed over a plump breast to fondle it gently.

“Ummm,” Cicely murmured, feeling warm and safe. What a wonderful dream she was having. She pressed her buttocks against him.

Kier’s manhood responded instantly. He was suddenly as randy as a stag in rut. Pushing her legs apart as she lay on her side, he carefully found his way into her sheath and, satisfied, lay quietly.

She was being filled by a large cock. What a wonderful dream! Cicely smiled to herself. It was buried up to its hilt. She wanted it to fuck her, and not lay silent. She pressed her hips back into his groin to encourage the cock within to dance for her. And as she slowly wakened it did just that, probing deep and hard.
“Oh!”
Cicely exclaimed as her eyes flew open. This was no dream!
“Oh! Oh! Oh, Kier!”
she cried out, but she was not angry. She had simply been taken by surprise. She fell into a rhythm with him. The big hand on her breast
squeezed her soft flesh in perfect time with his cock. And once again they reached nirvana together, crying out as the pleasure reached up to claim them.

Afterwards he turned her about to face him and, taking her face in his hands, kissed her tenderly. “I like you too, madam,” he told her softly, nuzzling her tangled hair.

Suddenly Cicely wanted to weep. The passion he had shared with her over the last few hours was so different from their earlier couplings. What had changed between them, other than that they had admitted that they actually liked each other? She wasn’t certain, but Cicely decided that she wasn’t about to question this turnabout of fortune.

“I may wake you like this every morning,” Kier whispered in her ear, kissing it.

“I think I hope that you do,” Cicely whispered back. “I quite liked it.”

He turned and rose from their bed, going to the window to push open the shutters. “There was frost last night,” he said, “and a cold mist is still hanging on the hills, though the sun is coming up now. I’ll hunt again today, madam. The larder is but half-filled, and winter will be upon us soon enough.”

“I’ll go out with Orva and gather what plants I can then,” she said. “Mab is teaching me some fine remedies, and winter does favor sickness,” Cicely answered. “You are proving an excellent provider, my lord. You and the king brought in a goodly bevy of game birds, and a deer too.”

“One of the men spotted a boar in the nearby wood,” Kier answered her. “ ’Twill soon be time for slaughtering, smoking, and salting. I’d like to get that boar.”

They chatted back and forth as they washed and dressed for the day before going down to the hall. And suddenly in the days that followed it seemed that they had always been together like they were now. Kier and his clansmen hunted game in the daytime, the new
laird sharing the spoils with his companions. The great lords did not do this as a rule, granting hunting and fishing rights as rewards to their clanfolk, and then for only a brief, specified time. But the small border lords and their clanspeople depended upon one another for their very survival. If they took two deer in a day, one went to the village to be hung and butchered, then shared among all those on the hunt, as well as any widows.

They fished in the fast-flowing streams. Fishing rights were granted by the king, and all the waterways in Scotland were considered his. But the Stewart kings were wise enough to share with those who were loyal to them. And so the Douglases fished, and salted away their catch for the lean, cold months.

As the days grew colder and shorter, the livestock was brought in from the outlying fields and meadows. Unless a predator was on the loose, and as long as the snows held off, they would be driven out to near meadows in the morning, and driven back to their barns in the late-afternoon hours, before the sun set. The meadows across the loch were no longer used except in high summer. Kier wanted no more incidents such as had killed the previous laird of Glengorm.

November came. A few animals were slaughtered for food, the meat hung, some of it salted, some salted and smoked. The clans-women and their children spent their days now bringing in firewood for the laird’s house, and for their own cottages. There would be some turf, and some coal for the lord, but mostly it was wood that heated their dwellings. In the orchard every apple and pear had been gathered from the trees. The people of the village had been invited to glean what remained and had fallen to the ground. With Orva’s and Mab’s aid, Cicely had found, dug, and cut every medicinal plant that she could identify. Then she set about drying the roots and leaves, making salves, ointments, and pills so she could care for the sick come winter, as was her duty.

December came, and Johanna was now nine months old. She was crawling, had four little teeth, and babbled a stream of baby nonsense
constantly. Her eyes lit up with delight every time she saw Kier. Her first word, spoken on St. Thomas’s Eve, was
Da,
which she squealed at the top of her baby voice when Kier entered the hall. He grinned and picked the baby up, telling her what a beautiful little lass she was.

“Just like your mam,” Kier said, looking at Cicely, and her heart jumped.

“Da! Da! Da!” Johanna said, patting his face, and giggling with delight when he tickled her, chuckling. “Da! Da! Da! Da!” she sing-songed happily.

The laird grinned again, and kissed the soft cheek. “Aye, Johanna, I’m your da, and happy to be,” he told her. “And your mam and I are working hard to see that you have a baby brother in the near future.”

“Da!” Johanna replied, drooling all over his shirt.

“Orva, take her,” Cicely called, “before the little minx soaks him.” She was pleased that Kier so obviously loved her daughter. As to his remark about a brother or sister, she might have a happy Twelfth Night surprise for him. It would be a surprise to her if she were not with child now. Kier came to her bed almost every night now. She wondered how ardent he would be once she had given him a son.

They had moved into the new bedchamber behind the hall. In the spring a new chamber would be build above it, and the upstairs hall extended to lead to it. But for now they were content to have removed from Cicely’s small bedchamber. There was more room for the tub when it was needed. The hearth was larger, and they had found fabric that matched the bed hangings stored in the attics that Orva and Cicely sewed into draperies for the window. The new bedchamber was therefore warmer.

They had a Yule log in the hall hearth, and a feast on Christ’s Mass. The clanfolk had come into the hall that day to celebrate with them. Cicely had distributed gifts to all. There had been packets of fabric, threads, and small lengths of lace for the women. The men had
received quivers of new arrows and leather for new boots. The children had not been forgotten. The boys in the village had each been given a small wooden sword. They spent much of their time that day in mock battles with one another. The girls had been gifted with new chemises and bright ribbons.

Cicely had meant to keep her news from him until Twelfth Night. But when Mary Douglas asked loudly what the lady of Glengorm was gifting her lord with this day, Cicely had looked at her husband, saying, “I fear he will have to wait until late June for his gift, Mary.” And then she laughed at the look upon Kier’s face as the hall erupted in cheers.

“You’re with bairn?” he said, almost disbelieving, though, considering their almost nightly bedsport, he didn’t know why he was surprised. He was virile, and she had proven fertile when she had given Ian wee Johanna.

“I will give you a child after Midsummer Day,” Cicely told him, smiling. “Does that please you, my lord of Glengorm?”

He pulled her into his arms, kissing her heartily, and their clanfolk cheered even louder. “A son!” he said to them. “I shall have a son!”

“A baby,” Cicely corrected him. “Only God knows if we are to be blessed with a son, my lord.”

“It will be a lad,” Kier told her firmly. “God will surely not deny the Douglases.” Then, bending down, he whispered to her, “Thank you, madam.”

“It seems I can deny you little these days,” Cicely teased him, silently reminding him of the passion they shared daily. “Remember that I like you, my lord.”

And Kier Douglas laughed. “Nay, madam, you
love
me!” he told her boldly.

“Aye,” she surprised them both by saying, “I do love you, though why, I do not know. You are arrogant and difficult, yet you have charm, Kier Douglas. But you love me as well, my lord, though you will not say it.”

He flushed. “I
like
you,” he told her. She would not weaken him. No woman would ever weaken him again. And to admit to loving a woman was a dangerous weakness no man could afford.

Cicely laughed up into his eyes, but her heart hurt. She had admitted her love for him, but he could not admit his for her.
But you will one day,
she thought silently.

January came. The snows piled up on the hillsides and around the house. The livestock spent some of the time in outdoor pens, but mostly remained safe in the barns. Kier Douglas was not of a mind to lose any of his animals. On St. Agnes’ Eve all the young women of the house looked deep into a small mirror belonging to their mistress, and then walked backwards to their pallets, for legend said if they did that they would dream of their true love that night.

February came and the ewes began lactating almost immediately in preparation for the birth of their lambs. Cicely distributed a goodly supply of fine beeswax candles on the second day of the month to Father Ambrose, walking down to the village church with Orva, each woman carrying a basket containing the tapers and larger lights. Cicely now had a belly, and Ambrose blessed her belly, which brought tears to her eyes.

“He wants a son so desperately,” Cicely told the priest. “I hope I do not disappoint him. Ian, God assoil him, did not care, but Kier does care.”

“He wants a son for Glengorm,” Ambrose responded. “It is a natural desire with all men, no matter their status. A son carries on your name and gives you immortality of a kind. You will not repeat that, however, for it does not hold with Church doctrine,” the priest said with a small smile upon his lips.

Cicely returned his smile. “I will not repeat it, Ambrose. You are very learned for a cleric in a border village.”

“I had the good fortune to study in France for a time. ’Twas where I took my holy orders, Cicely,” the priest told her. “Then I came home shriven and shorn, to my sire’s outrage.” He chuckled. “I disappointed
him greatly, for in my youth I showed a predilection for wenching even as he did. Still, he loved me well, built me this wee church, and saw that I had a living. I should not want to be anyplace but Glengorm.”

“Neither do I now, though if you had asked me three years ago I should have made mock of anyone who would have told me I would come to love a little Scots border village, and be content to be the lady of the manor,” Cicely said.

“You feel well?” he asked her gently.

“Aye, I do,” she answered him.

“And you have truly come to love him, as you declared on Christ’s Mass?”

Cicely nodded. “ ’Tis odd, but aye, I do, and I know he loves me, though he will not admit to it.”

Ambrose Douglas smiled and nodded. “He’s a stubborn man, my daughter.”

Cicely laughed aloud. “Aye, he is stubborn,” she agreed.

March came, and it seemed the spring would come earlier than later this year. The snows began to fade from the hillsides. The puddles were no longer freezing over at night, and snowdrops bloomed by the kitchen door. Cicely and Orva removed the dressing of hay they had put on the little herb garden last October. They loosened the soil gently, and left it to the open air. And after several days the plants began to show signs of life again, small nubs of green beginning to peek through woody stems and through the soil itself at the base of the plants. The winds blew daily, but they were not so sharp as they had been in January. At the end of the month they celebrated little Johanna Douglas’s first year of life. She had been born a healthy infant, and she remained one. She now tottered about the hall on surer legs, and spoke several words,
Da
being her favorite, and when she addressed Cicely, Johanna would say, “Ma.” Orva was “O” and Mab had been christened Abby. The old cook’s face lit up each time Johanna addressed her.