The Highlander's Yuletide Love (10 page)

He chuckled. “You
say that very well,” he murmured. Then his lips trailed down her neck and
across the tender skin of her chest, and she forgot how to form a coherent
thought. Everything seemed to have been reduced to this moment, to the
sensations he was creating in her as she strained against him, craving a
satisfaction she did not fully comprehend. His hand grazed her breast and then
cupped it, and, when she did not protest, he kissed and then licked at the full
top of it as it strained for release from her bodice. He pushed the fabric
lower, attempting to free the engorged buds that were enticingly outlined
against the thin muslin of her gown, as Sophy moaned and grabbed handfuls of
his coat, bunching the fabric together in her fists as she drew him closer.

“Easy,
sweetheart,” Ranulf murmured as he finally exposed one nipple and took it into
his mouth, drawing on it delicately as Sophy trembled with pleasure. His other
hand explored her waist and ribs, finally pushing away the other side of her
bodice, allowing Ranulf to lave that breast with pleasure as well. As his hand
drifted lower across her abdomen, she felt a powerful yearning to rip Ranulf’s
shirt from him and run her hands over his chest. Lost in a haze of sensation, Sophy
canted her hips upward while she pressed urgently at the small of Ranulf’s back.
“Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?”
he asked teasingly.

“I don’t know,”
she said with an edge of irritation in her voice. “But I am somehow sure you
do.”

Her response,
and its unknowing reference to her innocence, gave Ranulf pause, and he raised
himself, looking down into her flushed face. “Indeed I do. But, Lady Sophia,
you have reminded me that I have grossly overstepped my bounds.”

To Sophy’s
displeasure, he made to raise himself from her, and she tightened her grip.

“No, my dear, I
cannot take you this way, like a dairymaid in a field,” he said.

She flushed
crimson as reality crashed in on her. What must he think of her? Perhaps that
she had the morals of a dairymaid. She released him and watched as he sat back
on his heels, regarding her gravely.

“Are you unhurt?”
he asked.

“How am I to
know?” she said crossly.

“I should not
have kissed you like that. Please accept my apologies.” His voice was
chastened.

“You should not
have kissed me?” she repeated, dazed.

“I am completely
at fault. You are far too inexperienced to know what might happen next,” said
Ranulf. He took her hand in his and raised her to a seated position. “I would
understand if you never wished to see me again.”

“Inexperienced?”
Sophy felt a rising sense of outrage.

“Very.” Ranulf
rose to his feet and then gently helped her to stand. “Can you forgive me?”

Sophy glared at
him, mortification and anger coursing through her in equal parts. “Colonel
Stirling, I—I don’t know what has happened here, but I think it best we forget it
entirely. Clearly, we were—we are—I am—”

Ranulf looked
stricken. “My dear child, please know that this will not happen again,” he said
in a low voice.

Sophy trembled
with fury. “Child!” she almost shrieked.

Ranulf’s eyes
widened, and he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Lady Sophia, please
understand me. I have allowed my admiration for you to lead me into behavior unfitting
for a gentleman. It was wrong of me, and I will make any amends you choose.”

“Take me home,”
said Sophy abruptly.

“Lady Sophia—”

“I said, take me
home!” Sophy turned away, her cheeks flushed with anger.

Ranulf looked at
her, assessing her mood, and apparently judged that it was not the time to
pursue the conversation. “Very well,” he said. He retrieved her horse from
where it was tethered and loaded it up with her tools. Then, silently, he
tossed her up into the saddle and fetched his own bay. He pulled up next to her
as she glared at him and then, as she moved her mount forward, followed in her
wake.

Harriet rapped
at Sophy’s bedroom door, and a startled Wallis opened it. Inside, her young
mistress was wearing only her stays and a chemise covered with a wrapper,
clearly finding it difficult to choose between two dresses spread across the
pale blue silk coverlet on her bed.

“Whatever is
making you so late, Sophy?” the countess asked. “Our guests will be here at any
moment and you are not yet dressed?”

Sophy flushed. “I
was late returning from painting by the river this afternoon,” she muttered.

“That may well
be—indeed, I am not surprised at all.” Harriet shrugged. “But that is no reason
to make yourself even later by dawdling over your toilette!”

“I cannot decide
between the primrose and the green,” Sophy gestured at the dresses helplessly. “What
do you think, Mama?”

“I think that
they are both charming and wonder why a little family party should thrust you
into such a fog of indecision! You always have very strong opinions on your
clothing!” Harriet exclaimed. She glanced over at the dresses. “Dear me, child.
The green silk is a bit formal for dinner with the Exencours and then a bit of
dancing in the drawing room with the neighbors. It is something you might wear
to Carlton House. Wear the primrose, and those pretty amber beads and earrings
your papa gave you for your birthday.”

“It is not just
family--Colonel Stirling will be here,” Sophy countered.

“So he will, but
I consider him quite one of us. You should be well used to him by now; he is
constantly underfoot.”

“He always seems
to be laughing at me,” Sophy protested.

“I’m sorry he
has put you out of countenance, my love,” Harriet replied. “But do finish
dressing and come to the drawing room. It would be very rude of you to be late,
and dear Ranulf would have every excuse to look at you censoriously!” At
Sophy’s stricken look, she gave her a little hug. “You will look perfectly
lovely in the primrose, but do make haste,” she urged, before turning and
leaving the room.

“There, Lady
Sophia, wasn’t I just saying that I thought the primrose would do nicely?”
Wallis asked.

“Yes, you did,”
Sophy agreed in a harassed tone. “It’s just--”

“Put your arms
up now,” Wallis interrupted her, as she approached Sophy with the dress in her
arms. Sophy ducked instinctively, and seconds later, the primrose dress covered
her, and Wallis was deftly adjusting the tapes in the back. She circled Sophy
once, adjusting the twin rows of deep gold
broderie anglaise
trim that
framed her neckline and puffing out the primrose gauze sleeves shot with gold,
before steering her towards the cheval mirror.

“There, Lady
Sophia. You see, Lady Glencairn was quite right. You look lovely.”

As Sophy gazed
discontentedly at her reflection, Wallis returned with the amber beads and
fastened them around her mistress’s neck, and then placed the earbobs in her
ears, before proffering a pair of gloves. Sophy put them on absently as the
maid gazed at her critically.

“I have just the
thing,” said Wallis, and reached into the wardrobe, emerging with a twisted
wire hairband of gold ornamented with spangles. She threaded it around the topknot
from which glossy ringlets fell about Sophy’s lovely face. Finally, the maid
draped a silk Norwich shawl across her elbows and steered her to the door.

“There you are
Lady Sophia. I haven’t heard a sound from the front of the house, so if you
hurry, you should be in time to please Lady Glencairn,” Wallis said, barely
refraining from shoving Sophy out of her bedchamber.

Sophy found
herself standing disconsolately in the hall, and, with nowhere else to go, she
set out reluctantly for the drawing room. She had assiduously avoided Ranulf
since their kiss at the old Roman fort, and she wasn’t sure how she could face
him now, with her whole family in attendance. She contemplated returning to her
room and telling Wallis that she felt unwell, but she knew that the maid would
greet that gambit with scorn. There was nothing for it, she realized, but to
acknowledge that she must encounter Ranulf now. It would have to happen
sometime.

She entered the
drawing room to find her father and stepmother already there, but Kincraig was
still absent. She was relieved not to be the last family member to arrive, and
when her scapegrace sibling appeared, she allowed Harriet’s gentle
remonstrances to float past her as she pondered the imminent appearance of
Ranulf Stirling. The kiss they’d shared a week ago was burned into her memory,
but so were his slighting words. He had called her a child, she thought
angrily—though he had hardly treated her as one.

As she fretted,
the door opened, and the butler appeared. “Lord Exencour, Lady Exencour,
Colonel Stirling,” he pronounced.

Sophy gave a
little start and turned away to compose herself as her parents welcomed their
guests. By the time she had greeted Francis and hugged Isobel, she was able to
acknowledge Ranulf with tolerable composure, but turned toward Isobel again as
quickly as good manners allowed.

“It has been
some time since I have been to your excavation. Would you like me to come and
sketch for you tomorrow?” she asked.

Isobel looked a
bit surprised. “I thought you were working on a painting up on the moor.”

“I—I haven’t
been back to the moor,” Sophy said, aware of Ranulf’s gaze on her. “I’ve been
painting by the river instead.” She glanced briefly at the colonel, and noted
his raised eyebrows.

“I thought you
were intent on the moors.” Isobel looked perplexed “You waxed rather poetic
about that painting last I saw you—the wind, the sun, the wildness of the view.”

“It can be
finished another time,” said Sophy hastily. “For now, the river is—is closer to
Glencairn, and more peaceful.”

“I know nothing
about painting, so if you say that is what you want, I cannot disagree,” Isobel
replied with a laugh. “It’s also true that it would be helpful to have a new
sketch of the dig, as we have just finished exposing another section of the
footings that I have been working on this summer.”

“I will come
tomorrow then,” Sophy replied.

“What do you
plan to do tomorrow, my love?” Harriet asked, having overheard only Sophy’s reply.

“Oh, I am going
to sketch the dig for Isobel instead of painting. She is in need of my
assistance.”

 Ranulf looked
faintly amused at this remark and gave her a look so meaningful that she found
herself flushing for what seemed to her to be the tenth time that day. It was
true, she acknowledged to herself, that her sudden interest in assisting Isobel
and her abandonment of the moors arose primarily out of a desire to avoid
encountering Ranulf alone.

“What an
excellent notion!” exclaimed Harriet. “I’m so pleased you will be spending time
with friends instead of painting away all day on your own! And you must need
some exercise. You should ride with Colonel Stirling and Douglas one day.”

With relief
Sophy saw MacDonald approaching, and his announcement that dinner was served
saved her from having to respond. The little group entered the dining room. Harriet
kept a very good table, and the table groaned under its load of turtle soup,
salmon fresh from the sea, preserved fruits, venison, peas, and sweetbreads au
jus. To Sophy’s great relief, Ranulf was not seated next to her, and she gave
her full attention to Francis, who sat on her left.

As the first
course was removed, Harriet turned to Ranulf. “I know that Spaethness lies
farther north, because of course, it could hardly be farther south, since
Glencairn is in the Border country. But I do not know precisely where it is.”

“Have I not told
you before?” Ranulf said with mild surprise. “Spaethness lies in Argyll, near
the Trossachs.”

“The Trossachs? “
Harriet exclaimed delightedly. “The wild country of which Sir Walter Scott has
written so eloquently?”

“I am not very
familiar with his works, I fear,” Ranulf began.

“Oh, how can you
not love
The Lady of the Lake
?” Harriet broke in. “It takes place in the
Trossachs, you know where,

‘
The
stag at eve had drunk his fill,

Where
danced the moon on Monan's rill,

And
deep his midnight lair had made

In
lone Glenartney's hazel shade
.”

She
looked questioningly at Ranulf, as though she expected that at any moment he
would tell her Spaethness was only a matter of five miles from Glenartney. Instead,
Ranulf looked a bit nonplussed. Francis, stifling a smile, intervened.

“I
fear that both of us were somewhat lacking in access to the latest poetry when
The
Lady of the Lake
was published,” he said.

“Oh,
indeed, you were in Spain! How remiss of me not to consider it.” Harriet
sounded contrite. “I am very sorry, Colonel Stirling. Nonetheless, I envy you,
for I have longed to see the Trossachs ever since I read those lines.”

“It
is not a long trip, should you wish to visit Spaethness,” Ranulf responded. “Only
a matter of two easy days in good weather, and there is a very pleasant inn at
Kirkmuirhill at which we could spend one night.”

Sophy
watched Harriet’s joyful reaction to this burgeoning plan with horror. “Aren’t
you worried that traveling again will bother little Euan?” she asked. “He did
not do well on our trip from London; he fretted so at being cooped up in a
carriage while Douglas and I rode.”

“Oh,
it is nothing,” her stepmother said airily. “It is such a short distance, I’m
sure it will not bother him.” She turned her attention back to Ranulf. “Of
course you must consult with your father to make sure that a house party would
not inconvenience him, but I would find it beyond anything to see the
Highlands, which I have often wished to visit. And the Trossachs! Nothing could
be better.”

“I would love to
visit Spaethness!” declared Douglas. “I’d give something to see your stables,
Ranulf!”

“That is
certainly a simple proposition,” replied the colonel. “You are all more than
welcome; it is time I saw how my father goes on, and tend to some matters with
the bailiff. Having my friends with me will make my return home even more
delightful.”

“What a pretty
thought,” said Harriet. She looked at her husband. “What say you, Glencairn? May
we visit Spaethness?

The earl looked
at his wife’s and son’s eager faces, and inclined his head. “I don’t see why
not. It is high summer now, and the tenants seem to have things well in hand. I
could spare a few weeks from my duties.”

Harriet clapped
her hands with delight, but Sophy’s eyes widened in alarm. “I—I must stay here
and work on my paintings,” she protested. “Perhaps you should go, and I will
stay here with Isobel. There is room at Dargenwater Cottage, and I can more
easily assist her this way.”

“Not at all!”
said Harriet. “Isobel and Francis must come as well. They also have never
visited the Trossachs! We will miss them sorely if they do not come. I know you
will wish to stay with your excavations, Isobel, but only think, such
beauty—Glenartney, after all! And Sophy, you will of course wish to make
sketches for future paintings. The landscape there is far lovelier than ours!”

Isobel glanced
from Ranulf’s amused face to Sophy’s anguished one, and then turned to her
husband, a little smile on her lips. “What say you, my dear?” she asked.

Francis returned
her look. “I think we must all go to Spaethness. I have a very lively curiosity
to see it now, after Harriet’s encomiums.”

“Then we shall,
of course,” agreed Isobel. She shot a quick glance at Sophy. “I’m sorry my
dear, but I think your mama is right. Think of the vistas you will have to
paint at Spaethness. It will be something new for you, and an artist must
always seek out varied experiences.”

Sophy had turned
a bit pale, but, realizing that all eyes had turned to her, she arranged a
smile on her face. “Of course we must go,” she said as lightly as she could. “I
just thought—but it is no matter.”

She looked down
the table in Ranulf’s direction and caught the sardonic gleam in his eye. She
narrowed her own briefly, and then turned back to her food with grim
determination. As the second course was served, the conversation turned
naturally to the coming trip, the plans for travel, and the anticipated
delights of Spaethness. While Harriet waxed rhapsodic about the possibility of
picnicking on the moor, Douglas peppered Ranulf with questions about the salmon
and trout to be found in Loch Lomond, and Francis and Glencairn discussed the
possibility of purchasing a mare from Ranulf to improve the earl’s breeding
stock. Sophy poked at her food in silence, eventually turning to Isobel.

“What a pity
that you must abandon your work,” she said. “The Romans never went so far north
as Argyll, I believe.”

“It is indeed
well past the Antonine Wall, although quite a number of forts were north and
east of it,” Isobel agreed. “But a week or two away from my excavations will do
no harm. After all, what has been buried for centuries can wait another few
days.”