The Spitfire (33 page)

Arabella suddenly found herself giggling. “Oh, my lord,” she gasped, looking up into Archibald Douglas’ blue eyes, “I think I see why my husband is fearful of allowing me to roam unprotected and alone. The prince is a sly fox, but I am obviously just a lamb.”

Archibald Douglas chuckled. “‘Tis true,” he agreed with her, “and yet, madame, I hae seen ye turn into a wee fierce thing when angered. Still, anger is nae defense against a prince of the blood royal.”

“Please do not leave me with Prince James,” Arabella said, suddenly sobered and serious. “I cannot accede to his implied demands, and yet I cannot openly insult him without incurring his enmity. I know he will one day be king, but that should not give him the right to bully any woman into his bed.”

“It is your very refusal that makes ye so tempting, madame,” the Earl of Angus said. “Jamie Stewart is nae used to ladies who say nae to him. I will nae leave ye alone wi’ him, however, I promise ye. I could nae face yer husband if I did, for I know the prince desires ye, and Tavis knows it too. Why on earth did ye come up to Edinburgh wi’ out him?”

Arabella explained to the Earl of Angus why she had come, and he nodded his understanding.

“Ye were right to take this matter into yer own hands, madame,” he told her. “Tavis Stewart is a good man, but he treats his half brother too softly. Besides, if ye raise yer wee Maggie correctly, she’ll always be loyal to the Stewarts, even though she lives in England, an Englishman’s wife.”

“I would have her be loyal to Greyfaire, and its people first, after God,” Arabella said quietly. “That is where my daughter’s duty will lie, my lord. Politics and war are a man’s domain. Nurturing is a woman’s.”

“Yet sometimes women involve themselves in politics, madame,” the Earl of Angus noted.

“How can that be?” she asked him.

“When a woman influences her husband one way or another, she is in her own way involving herself in his affairs, is she nae?”

“Indeed, my lord, she is,” Arabella admitted, “although I have never thought of a woman’s good influence in that light. I think it is a woman’s Christian duty to guide her husband where she may.”

“A female mind is a treacherous bog, madame,” the Earl of Angus teased then said, “woe to the man who loses himself in an attempt to understand it.”

Together the Countess of Dunmor and Archibald Douglas passed the next hour in the castle’s Great Hall speaking on various subjects. Arabella began to gain new respect for Angus, and he, in turn, admitted to himself that she was not only a beautiful woman, but a fascinating and clever one as well, particularly considering her youth and inexperience. When finally a page came to tell them the prince was ready to receive them, they followed the boy arm in arm, ignoring the stares of both the curious and the envious.

The prince greeted them warmly and apologized for the plainness of the fare upon his table. “I did nae hae the time to prepare properly,” he said.

“You must not invite people to supper so precipitously, my lord,” Arabella teased him.

“Madame, it is nae supper I hae in mind when I look at ye,” the prince shot back wickedly.

“Then it should have been Lady Sorcha Morton you asked to your rooms, Jamie Stewart, and not me,” Arabella said mischievously. With Angus for support, she was feeling braver than she might have had she been alone with the prince.

The two gentlemen burst out laughing, and Angus asked, “How is my cousin, laddie?”

“I could nae tell ye, Archie, for our acquaintance was but a brief one. Sorcha’s repertoire is nae very large or involved, I fear, despite yer early tutelage of the lady. She hae, I am told, set her sights on a wealthy merchant in the city.”

Angus nodded. “She needs a husband, and she needs a rich one, for her tastes are expensive. The gentlemen of her own class nae hae the funds to waste upon a woman that Sorcha needs for her personal adornment.”

The prince grinned. “She could nae seem to see the advantage in pleasing a future king,” he said, and his blue eyes twinkled.

The meal was a simple one, for the castle kitchens had not the guidance of a mistress any longer. There was a roasted capon, venison, a rabbit pie, and a salmon poached in white wine. There was bread, cheese, and a bowl of apples. A rich Burgundy wine accompanied their supper, which was no sooner over than a young page appeared.

“The king would see the Earl of Angus,” the lad piped.

“Then I must return to the hall,” Arabella said quickly, “for I am certain the king’s secretary has my parchment ready for me by now.”

“Ye will stay, madame,” the prince ordered, catching her hand. He turned to Archibald Douglas. “Ye may go, my lord.” The Earl of Angus cast Arabella a look that told her that although he sympathized with her predicament, he could no longer interfere. The prince’s dismissal of him, and his directive to Arabella that she remain, made it impossible for him to intercede on her behalf any further. He stood, and with a bow to both the prince and the Countess of Dunmor, he departed.

As the door closed behind the earl, the prince turned, and raising Arabella’s hand to his lips, he turned it and placed a kiss upon the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. “Now, sweetheart, we are finally alone.” His look was a smoldering one.

“If you touch me, Jamie Stewart, I shall scream,” Arabella told him bluntly, snatching her hand from his grasp.

“What is it about me, madame, that you find so repugnant?” the prince demanded angrily.

“First answer me this, my lord. What is it you want of me?” she countered.

He had the good grace to flush, and then he said, “I think, madame, ye know precisely what it is I want of ye.”

“You wish to take me to your bed and make love to me, do you not?” Arabella said frankly. “Well, my lord, I do not wish you to make love to me. I love my husband, and I consider your pursuit of me offensive. I do not wish to dishonor my lord’s good name. You know this, for I have been more than candid with you in this matter. I do not understand why you continue in your pursuit.”

“Yer certainly outspoken, madame,” the prince noted dryly.

“If you force me to your will, Jamie Stewart, and surely you could, for you are far bigger than I, you will commit an act of rape. When you release me, I shall go directly to my husband and tell him of your behavior toward me. What do you think Tavis Stewart will do, my lord, when he learns you have coerced his wife into your bed and then compelled her to your will?”

The prince stood up, and walking around the table, stopped behind Arabella. He placed his hands upon her velvet-clad shoulders. “I’ve nae known a woman like ye, Arabella,” he said softly. Bending, he kissed her throat lingeringly and one hand slipped down into her bodice to cup a breast. He fondled her breast, teasing gently at the nipple which hardened beneath his thumb. “Yer so soft, ninny-love, and so sweet,” he murmured.

Arabella sat perfectly still beneath his touch.

“How many men hae ye known, sweetheart? Yer husband and nae other, I’ll wager. I am young, I know, but already I am acclaimed as the finest lover in all of Scotland. Let me love ye, Arabella Stewart!
Let me love ye!”

“I will never betray Tavis willingly, Jamie Stewart,” she told him coldly. “Now remove your hand from my bodice this instant! I would leave, and if you try to stop me, I shall cry the castle down about your royal ears!” It was as if his invasion of her bodice had suddenly given her the strength to defy him. Arabella decided that the fact Jamie Stewart was heir to Scotland’s throne should not give him license over her person.

Reluctantly he complied with her demand, and she arose from the table, shaking her skirts angrily. “One day ye will want something of me, sweetheart,” he said softly, kissing her neck once more. “Eventually everyone wants some boon of a king. Before ye ask it of me, Arabella Stewart, remember what the price will be, for nae even a king’s favors are free.”

“You are not Scotland’s king yet, my lord prince, and pray God you will not be until you have learned that you cannot have everything you want simply because you are a Royal Stewart!” the Countess of Dunmor snapped.

“I canna wait to get ye in my bed, Arabella Stewart.” The prince chuckled. “I like spice and can nae ever get enough of it. Ye must keep my uncle a verra happy man.”

He was the most determined man she had ever met, Arabella thought as she traveled home the following day. She debated whether she should tell her husband of her encounter and decided, in the interest of family unity, she would say only that she and the Earl of Angus had taken supper with the prince. She had met Angus in the hallway outside the prince’s apartments.

The page who had come to fetch him, Angus told her, had disappeared the moment he had exited Jamie Stewart’s apartments, and Angus had learned quickly enough that the king had not summoned him. It had all been a trick of the prince’s to get Arabella alone. Realizing that, Archibald Douglas had returned posthaste to rescue the Countess of Dunmor.

“I should hae known ye didna really need my aid,” he said to her as he explained the prince’s ruse.

“Oh, my lord, I most certainly did need you,” she told him. “I was terrified and had no idea how I was going to extricate myself from the situation until the prince boldly put his hands upon me. I became so angry that he was forced to let me go. I do not think women usually become angry with Jamie Stewart.”

“Only when he refuses them,” Angus chuckled, and she burst out laughing.

“He is so damned persistent,” Arabella grumbled.

“He’ll be a good king one day,” the earl replied.

Arabella was not unhappy to see the turrets of Dunmor Castle rising up before her. She had been gone from her home for ten days, and she had missed her daughter terribly. First, however, she had to contend with her husband, whom she had no doubt would be very angry with her. The Countess of Dunmor strode boldly into the Great Hall of her castle to find herself face to face with Tavis Stewart.

“Well, madame, did ye get what ye wanted from my brother?” he demanded.

“Aye, I did,” she answered him, thrusting a rolled parchment into his hand.

The Earl of Dunmor unrolled the parchment and scanned its contents, nodding. “By God, my wee spitfire, ye did stir Jemmie to action, didn’t ye? It doesna mean, however, that ye’ll get yer precious Greyfaire back for Maggie. Ye realize that, don’t ye?”

“I will get Greyfaire back, Tavis. I swear it!” she told him. “It was my dowry, and ‘tis Maggie’s now. I’ll not let Jasper Keane and his ilk have it! I’ll tear the keep down stone by stone myself rather than allow
that
bastard to have it.” Then she flung herself into his arms. “Ohhh, ‘tis so good to be home, my lord!”

“What a wench ye are, lassie,” he murmured against her hair, and then he picked her up in his arms.

“My lord!”
she squealed. “I have not seen Maggie yet.”

“Ye’ll see her in the morning,” he said, and stamped out of the hall and up the stairs with his wife.

“Did you miss me, my lord?” Arabella said softly, nibbling at his earlobe.

“Vixen!” he grumbled at her.

“Did you catch the wolf?” She bit down sharply on the morsel of flesh.

“Aye, damnit, lovey! Aye, I did,” he admitted.

“And you’ll admit that you were wrong and I was right about approaching the king?” she pressed.

“Only if ye’ll admit yer a disobedient baggage,” he teased her, kicking open the door to her apartments and striding through into her bedchamber.
“Out!”
he commanded Flora, who was awaiting her mistress, and then he dumped Arabella upon the bed, flinging himself atop her. “Now, madame, I would hae a welcoming kiss of ye!” His lips came down upon hers.

Arabella made a distinctively satisfied sound and stretched sensually, her arms coming up around his neck. “Mmmmm,” she purred, sighing deeply as his mouth moved to press kisses along the column of her throat. His fingers fumbled expertly with her laces and he pulled her loosened bodice off. Impatiently his hand gripped at the neck of her chemise, and with a quick motion he tore it away, burying his dark head between her breasts. She thrust herself against the warmth of his lips, turning within his grasp so that he might kiss the twin mounds of perfumed flesh.

“Sweet, sweet,”
he groaned, a hand seeking beneath her skirts, trailing leisurely upon a silken thigh, finding the throbbing core of her.

She twisted beneath him, making soft little whimpering noises in the back of her throat, moving a hand between them, reaching beneath his kilt to find his manhood, stroking it urgently until he was hard and even more eager for her than he had first been.

Their mouths met again, tongues intertwining, and he was pushing her skirts above her thighs that he might mount her. “Look at me, my passionate wee spitfire,” he growled fiercely.
“Look at me!”

Arabella’s light green eyes flew open to stare deeply into her husband’s dark green ones. Her eyes widened with pleasure, never looking away from his gaze even as he pushed deeply into her. “Ahhhhh,” she sighed once more, and then smiled at his answering groan. “Tell me you love me, Tavis Stewart,” she said softly.

“I love ye, Arabella Stewart,” he answered her, smiling down into her face. “Aye, I love ye, and ye well know it!”

“Aye, I do,” she whispered against his mouth, and then her eyes closed slowly as she floated away on a cloud of pleasure that the wonderful union of their two bodies brought her.

“Ahh, spitfire,” he moaned, driving them both hard in his own quest for fulfillment, and when his passion broke, he was, as always, careful not to let his weight harm her delicate form. Rolling off her, he pulled her into the comfort of his embrace, covering her beautiful face with kisses.

Arabella sighed with contentment. “Is it always this way between husband and wife?” she asked him.

He thought a moment, and then he said, “Nay, ‘tis sad to say, ‘tis not, lovey. We, however, are nae just husband and wife. We are lovers, my wee wife, and there the difference lies.”

“Then ‘tis different with each woman?” she queried.

“Aye.”

“How?” she demanded.

“My passion for ye is tempered by my love for ye,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care so she might understand. “There are women who may arouse a man’s baser nature so that he desires to futter them, but he wants nae more of them than that. The same holds true for certain women. They wish but one thing of a man—that he be a lover. No more. For us ‘tis different, for nae only do I love ye wi’ all my heart, lassie, I desire ye as well, and I seek to gie ye my bairns. Do ye understand that?”