The Spitfire (15 page)

“Flora, you run up and down those stairs like a young girl,” Arabella said as she turned around, and then she shrieked loudly, clutching the scrap of towel to her as her light green eyes focused upon the earl. She was pink with embarrassment, the color made all the more vivid by her pale hair.

Tavis Stewart flushed himself and found himself momentarily at a loss for words. He had but come to see that his reluctant guest was as comfortable as she might be under the circumstances. It had never occurred to him that she might be bathing. His personal knowledge of women was limited to that of a son, a brother, and a lover. He had been practically grown when Ailis had been born, and living at Dunmor while his sister had been brought up in her own house at Glen Ailean. He had never kept a mistress at Dunmor, for this would be his wife’s home one day, and he did not want it tainted by a lesser woman. He was, therefore, not particularly familiar with a woman’s habits, and right now he was not quite certain where to look and where not to look.

The furious girl was simply lovely and appeared far more mature without her clothes than with them. Her legs were much longer than he might have thought for one so petite, for Arabella Grey certainly stood no higher than five feet three inches. Her breasts, however, were small, but they were also magnificent, high cones of pale ivory flesh, each one topped with a bright berry of a nipple. Her narrow waist slid down into well-rounded hips and slender, but firm thighs. He couldn’t stop looking.

“M-Madame, I beg your pardon,” he finally managed to say, trying desperately to tear his eyes away from this glorious sight, for the tiny towel did little to hide her splendor.

“Get out!”
Arabella gasped, as surprised by his appearance as he was by hers.

“I but came to inquire if ye were comfortable,” he attempted to explain his sudden arrival.

“Get out!”
she shouted, and threw the cake of soap at him.

Ducking her accurate aim, the earl backed from the room, out through the antechamber, and closing the door behind him, retreated down the staircase. At its bottom he met Flora and began to berate her. “Did I nae tell ye the lass was nae to be left alone, and yet ye leave her in an unlocked room free to roam.”

“The wee lassie was in her tub,” Flora retorted spiritedly, “and wi’ out her clothes, my lord. Ye could hardly expect her to flee into the night wi’ out a stitch on her, and especially into unfamiliar territory. Dinna fuss at me now.” She looked at him slyly. “She’s a beautiful lass, or perhaps ye didna notice.”

“I noticed,” he said with a wry grin. “How could I nae notice? I got a cake of soap pitched at me for my troubles. ‘Tis twice this night she’s thrown something at me, and the wench’s aim is unerring. She’s got a temper on her bigger than she is, Flora. Ye had best beware.”

“Ye should hae a wife like Lady Arabella, my lord,” Flora said boldly. “A hot-spirited lass who will breed Dunmor up strong sons and daughters.” Then she turned on her heel and hurried back up the stairs before the earl might scold her for her daring tongue.

Behind her Tavis Stewart laughed at her words. After Eufemia Hamilton, he wasn’t certain he wanted a wife, at least not now. Women seemed to be more trouble than they were worth—his mother excluded, of course. Eventually he would wed for Dunmor, and no other reason. The earl returned to the Great Hall where his brothers and Rob Hamilton were drinking companionably about the fire. His mother, his stepfather, and the others had obviously gone off to bed. Taking up a newly filled goblet, he joined them and related his adventure, to their vast amusement.

“So she’s a real beauty, is she, Tavis? What a pity she’s a maid, or ye might take her for yerself, even as Sir Jasper took Eufemia. Yer pardon, Rob,” Gavin Fleming amended, nodding to the young laird of Culcairn. “Are ye certain she’s a maid?”

“Aye, ‘tis obvious no man’s ever touched her, but having glimpsed what I just did of the lass’s charms,” the earl said, “I will admit to be tempted. She’s lovely enough wi’ her clothes on, but wi’ out them, lads…” He sighed gustily, as one unjustly denied.

“Swallow yer lust, brother,” Colin Fleming said sternly. “The lass is an honored hostage, and ye promised her poor mother that ye would return her daughter unscathed. Besides, she is nae to blame for the behavior of Sir Jasper Keane or Eufemia Hamilton. The poor little lassie hardly knows the bastard. I would remind ye, Tavis, that Arabella Grey is under the church’s protection at yer own request. Ye’ll nae touch her, at the peril of yer immortal soul.”

“Gie over, Colin,” Donald Fleming teased his youngest brother. “Tavis has simply decided he’d rather have the lass under him than under the church’s protection. Who knows? She might be happier for it, eh?” And he made an obscene gesture with his finger, laughing.

“Why not?” Gavin Fleming joined the discussion, half drunk. “Did not the English coward besmirch our brother’s good name and his honor? If Tavis wants the wench for his pleasure, I for one say let him have her, Colly! Who has a better right?”

“Nay,” the young priest said firmly. “He does not! Arabella Grey is innocent of this matter. A pawn of her king and of Sir Jasper, and now of ye, Tavis. Eufemia hid her vices well, but had ye been of a mind to listen, my brother, ye would have heard the whispers, for they were there. Ye sought to avoid yer duty, Tavis, and because of that ye chose the simplest path, as ye always do when ye must do something ye dinna like to do. Ye looked about for the nearest, available, attractive woman of good family, and then wi’ out even getting to know her, ye made her an offer of marriage. Ye are living proof, my lord earl, that God looks after fools! Now ye will treat Lady Grey wi’ respect, and tomorrow ye will send a spy over the border to learn what nefarious plans Sir Jasper Keane may be planning in order to retrieve his intended, if indeed he intends retrieving her.”

“Aye, Colin,” the earl admitted, “yer right, but the little lass has certainly lit a fire in my loins that I will find hard to quench, but I’ll do as ye say.”

“And ye’ll hae the comfort of knowing tonight as ye lay alone in yer bed, elder brother, that the church’s blessing is upon ye,” Gavin said drolly.

“Lust is nae love,” the young priest said quietly.

“If yer cock had ever been as hard for a woman as yer pretty head is for God, little brother,” teased Donald, “perhaps even I would pay some attention to ye, but a man who doesna eat oats can scarcely comment on the taste of the porridge.”

“I was a man before I was a priest, Donald,” came the amused reply. “Do ye nae remember all those lasses I managed to steal away from ye? I did nae gie up what ye hae lightly, and there are times, I freely admit to ye, when I still miss the lasses. Still, I could nae serve God wholly had I nae given up a wife and bairns. For me there is nae other way but the way I walk. Perhaps because I dinna use women as ye do, I see them in a different light. Mayhap ye should try to see them my way instead of simply creatures upon which ye slack yer carnal appetites.”

Donald Fleming groaned dramatically. “I nae liked lessons when I was a wee lad, Colin, and I like them nae better now. I’ll be yer spy, Tavis. I canna stay here watching ye thirst after that pretty piece of English flesh while this priest prays over ye both!”

“‘Tis past time, Donald,” his younger brother admonished him, “that ye stopped thinking wi’ yer cock and used yer head instead.”

The brothers laughed, and then the young laird said, “I hope that ye do not do all of this for Eufemia’s sake, my lord. I loved my sister, but she was nae worthy of ye.”

The earl grimaced. “Ye should hae told me that the day I came to sue for her hand, Rob, but I dinna blame ye. What I have done today is for my lost honor and not yer sister’s, although I will, in the end, avenge her death. Eufemia had great charm when she chose to exhibit it, and I dinna doubt she wrapped ye about her little finger despite yer aching conscience. Ye were but a lad, alone and wi’ out an older head’s guidance. Ye did yer best, and saving yer younger sisters and little brother was a feat worthy of any man.”

By the time Arabella opened her eyes the following morning, Donald Fleming had long since departed Dunmor Castle and crossed the nearby border over into England. Reaching the vicinity of Greyfaire Keep he noticed that despite the fact the day was at least an hour past the sunrise, and that the morning was fair unlike the previous day, the people seemed slow to rise. His disguise as a peddler rendered him fairly safe, and finally spotting a farmwife drawing water from a well in her yard, he stopped.

“Good morrow to ye, madame,” he said cheerfully. “Might I be troubling ye for a wee drink from yer well?”

“You’re a Scot!” the woman accused, looking him up and down with a hostile air.

“Aye, but dinna hold it against me, m’dear,” Donald said winningly. “Me da came from t’other side of the border, ‘tis true, but me ma, God assoil her, was a good lass from York. I’m a peddler by trade, I am, and me mixed blood allows me the freedom to travel both sides of the border with impunity.” Donald Fleming took a bundle off his horse, and opening it, spread the contents out upon the ground before the farmwife’s eyes to show her an array of threads, laces, silk ribbons in all the colors of the rainbow, small metal cooking utensils, and carefully sealed packets of rare spices. “I’m carrying some fine cambric cotton and a few wee bolts of silk, very rare, if yer of a mind, m’dear, but perhaps while yer thinking about it, ye’ll choose a packet of spice for yer kindness in allowing me and me poor beastie to water ourselves.” He smiled broadly, a trustworthy smile that reached all the way to his blue eyes.

The farmwife looked him over again, but the suspicion was gone from her eyes, to be replaced by a frank admiration for Donald Fleming, who was, with his big frame and auburn hair, as handsome a man as she had ever seen. His good looks, coupled with his easy manner, which just bordered on flirting, immediately lulled the farmwife into a sense of security.

“Well,” she said, offering the bucket to the horse and looking up at Donald coyly, “perhaps a little bit of saffron, if you have any to spare.”

“Only for ye, madame,” Donald replied, respectful, but willing to lead the good woman on in order to obtain the information he needed. “‘Tis late,” he noted, handing her a paper packet of the chosen spice, “and yet yer the first person I’ve seen up and about this morning.”

“Aye,” she answered disapprovingly as she pocketed her gift, “the men are probably all still drunk after yesterday.” She offered Donald a dipperful of cool water, which he accepted gratefully, for he was really thirsty. “We had a fierce mite of excitement yesterday, and ‘tis for certain. The young mistress of Greyfaire Keep, a dear little lass, was to have been wed in the morning. She’s related to our King Richard, you know, and ‘twas he who chose her husband. There’s been no man at the keep these last few years since Lord Henry was killed, and the king wanted a man there to defend it, though if you ask me, FitzWalter, the captain, was capable enough. Well! Didn’t those thieving Scots take the very moment our Lady Arabella stepped into the church to be wed to come raiding! Ach! Such a sweet lassie, our little mistress! Tiny like a fairy’s child, with long hair just like thistledown, the very color of a golden summer’s moon and hanging to her little feet. Stole her away, they did, those Scots! Took her right from the church and rode away with her!” The farmwife wiped her eyes with her apron.

“To hold for ransom, no doubt,” Donald said soothingly. “Her bridegroom will get her back when he pays. ‘Tis an old trick, m’dear, stealing the bride. ‘Tis nae the first time ‘tis happened. When yer new lord opens his purse and pays, the lassie will be back quick as a wink, I’m thinking.”

“Our new lord!
Humph!” the farmwife sniffed. She obviously viewed the gentleman in question with great disfavor. “A proper villain he turned out to be, though my husband says I must hold my tongue now, for he’s the new master of Greyfaire, and there’s none who will deny him, even FitzWalter, but Father Anselm was shocked right enough, as were the rest of us!”

“Shocked? Over what, m’dear, and who is yer new master?” Donald asked gently.

“Sir Jasper Keane is his name, my lad, and the Scots had no sooner ridden off with our little mistress than this Sir Jasper turned about and forced poor Lady Rowena to the altar, claiming he could not now wed with Lady Arabella, for even if they got her back, she’d be thoroughly dishonored by the Scots! Ohhh, he’s a wicked one!”

“Who is Lady Rowena?” Donald inquired softly, fascinated by this new turn of events.

“Why, she’s Lady Arabella’s mother. ‘Tis a scandal, it is, whatever my husband says!” the farmwife cried indignantly, her two-and-a-half chins quivering with her outrage. “‘Tis said poor Lady Rowena wept all through the wedding ceremony, so distraught was she.”

Donald pretended to be puzzled, and the truth was that he was puzzled. He needed further answers to unspoken questions he now voiced to the farmwife. “How could Sir Jasper wed with this other lady if he was betrothed to yer Lady Arabella? How could yer priest dare to marry to them? The marriage would be invalid under such circumstances as a prior commitment. Why, ‘twas a similiar situation that brought King Richard to the throne instead of his nephews.”

“Sir Jasper was not betrothed to Lady Arabella,” the farm-wife said knowledgeably. “The king sent him to be her husband, but the choice was to be hers, for our dead queen loved the girl and did not want her unhappy should she dislike Sir Jasper. He seemed such a fine gentleman,” the farmwife sobbed, wiping her eyes with her apron, “but now I do not know what will happen to our little mistress.”

“Ach,” Donald sympathized, “‘tis a terrible tale. This Sir Jasper of yers would nae appear to be such a fine gentleman as he pretended. Poor lassie. Well, I must be on me way.” He began packing up his goods.

“I’ll take a bit of black thread,” the farmwife said, now that she had unburdened herself and had a good gossip, “and perhaps a scarlet ribbon for my youngest daughter, who is to be wed come Michaelmas, and I could use a knife for my kitchen, if you’ve one with a good, strong handle.”