Three Weeks in Paris (7 page)

She smiled back at him. “Thank you. Hazel just brought the tea in, Ian. Shall I pour you a cup?”

He nodded. “It was a long drive back, and I thought I was going to hit snow, but so far it’s held off.”

“Not quite,” Kay said, and pointedly looked toward the French doors. “It’s just started.”

He followed her gaze, saw the snowflakes coming down, and heavily so. But he laughed and said, “It looks as if we might get snowed in, Kay.”

“I don’t care! Do you?”

“No. Well, let’s have tea, then.”

They sat down on the wicker furniture grouped in front
of the fire, and Kay poured for them both, looking across at him surreptitiously as she did.

Ian appeared to be happier this afternoon than he had in a while, more lighthearted and carefree than was usual. He also looked younger, unusually boyish, but perhaps that was because his fair hair was tousled from the wind and he wore an open-neck shirt under a pale blue sweater with a V neckline. Very collegiate, and vulnerable, she thought, and smiled inwardly, thinking of her plans.

Ian said, “Actually, I hope the snow doesn’t stick. It really would be quite awful if we had to cancel tomorrow’s birthday lunch.”

Kay nodded in agreement. “Let’s not worry. I heard a weather report earlier on the radio, and it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow, and also much warmer.”

Ian smiled to her and surveyed the tray of finger sandwiches and fancy cakes.

“By the way, Ian, what did you end up getting Fiona?”

“What do you mean?”

Kay gave him a baffled look, her eyes full of questions, and exclaimed, “The gift, for her birthday. What is it?”

“Oh, yes … a pair of earrings. Rather nice, I’ll show them to you later.”

They fell into a companionable silence, sipping their tea and eating the little finger sandwiches and cream cakes in front of the blazing fire. Outside the windows it was snowing heavily now, and the flakes settled on the ground, but neither of them noticed, preoccupied as they were with their own thoughts.

Kay couldn’t help feeling taut inside, even though Ian appeared to be so relaxed and at ease with himself and with her.

He was more like his old self, and this was a good omen. She planned to seduce him later, planned a night of lovemaking, and it was important that he was in the
right mood. She believed he was … at least at the moment. She prayed it would last. And with a little luck she would get pregnant. She must. So much depended on it.

For his part, Ian was thinking about his trip to Edinburgh. It had been interesting, to say the least, and he was glad he made the effort to go. And he was happy with the purchases. He hoped Fiona would like his gift; certainly it had been carefully chosen. He focused on his wife, and he couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she looked, and desirable … he let
that
thought slide away.…

Kay broke the silence when she confided, “The FedEx envelope I received yesterday was an invitation … an invitation to go to Anya Sedgwick’s eighty-fifth birthday party in Paris.”

“I don’t have to go too, do I?” Ian asked, suddenly frowning, looking worried. “You know how I hate traveling.”

“No, of course not,” she answered quickly. She didn’t bother to tell him only her name was on the invitation. But she did think to add, “I’m not going to go either.”

Ian stared at her, apparently puzzled and surprised. “Why ever not?”

“I don’t really want to see people I haven’t seen in seven years … I lost touch with my friends when I graduated.”

“But you’ve always admired Anya.”

“That’s true, she’s the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met, a genius too.”

“Well, then?” He raised a sandy brow.

“I don’t know …”

“I think you should go to her party, Kay, just out of respect.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I’ll think about it.”

BY THE TIME THEY FINISHED THEIR TEA, THE SNOW HAD
settled on the ground, and it was continuing to fall steadily. Outside, it was growing darker and darker; the dusky twilight of late afternoon had long since been obliterated, and already a few sparse early stars sprinkled the sky.

But in the snug conservatory all was warmth and coziness. The fire roared in the great stone hearth, constantly replenished with logs and peat by Ian; the table lamps cast a lovely lambent glow throughout, and in the background music played softly.

Ian had turned on the radio earlier to listen to the weather report, and after hearing that heavy snow was expected, he had tuned in to a station playing popular music. Now the strains of “Lady in Red,” sung by Chris De Burgh, echoed softly around the conservatory.

The two of them had been silent for a while, and at one moment Ian looked across at Kay intently, his eyes narrowing. “You’re very quiet this afternoon, and you look awfully pensive. Sad, even. Is something the matter, darling? What are you brooding about?”

Kay roused herself from her thoughts, and shook her
head. “Not brooding, Ian. Just thinking … people
do
suffer for love, don’t they?”

His brows drew together in a small frown, but his expression was hard to read. After a split second he answered her. “I suppose some do—” He paused and shrugged offhandedly. “But what are you getting at
exactly
?”

“I was thinking of Bothwell earlier, and the way he loved Mary. How he died because of her … well, in a sense he did. And that awful death … chained like a poor dog to a pole for years …” Her voice trailed off and she let out a long sigh. “
He
suffered for love. It’s so heartbreaking, that story, when you think about it.”

“But it happened hundreds of years ago. And I do believe my mother’s been filling your head with stories again—”

“Yes, but they’re all part of Scottish history,” she interrupted peremptorily. “I can never get enough of it. I guess I didn’t pay enough attention at school … but your mother’s rectified all that. She’s been a wonderful teacher.”

His searching hazel eyes rested on her, and then he half smiled. “My mother’s the best teacher I know. A genius at it, especially when it comes to the history of the clans. She held me enthralled when I was a child.”

“She’s told me a lot about the noble families, but so much more as well. I’ve learned a great deal about the Stuarts. How extraordinary they were, so bold and courageous, and very beautiful to look at.”

“And very ill fated,” he shot back pointedly. “At least some of them were. Foolish Mary, led by her heart and not her head. She was no match for crafty Elizabeth Tudor, I’m afraid. Not in the long run. Her cousin was so much cleverer.”

“The problem with Mary and Bothwell is that they
were so entangled in the politics of the times. It doomed them.”

“
That’s
an old familiar story, isn’t it?” Ian shook his head, laughed a bit cynically. “She was trying to keep a throne and protect her heir, and he wanted to sit next to her on his own throne, and the lords were in rebellion. God knows, it was a dangerous and hellish time to live.”

“Your mother explained everything. She’s a bit of a nationalist.”

He laughed. “So are you!”

“Something must’ve rubbed off.”

He smiled at her indulgently. She was full of romantic notions, but then, perhaps that was a female prerogative.

There was a small silence.

Eventually Kay murmured, “Your mother once told me that suffering for love is a noble thing. Do you agree with her?”

Ian burst out laughing. “I’m not so sure I do! And let’s not forget that my mother is something of a romantic, always has been, always will be, just like you are. But come to think of it, no, I don’t want to
suffer
for love. No, not at all. I want to relish it, enjoy it, wallow in it.”

“With me?” A red-gold brow lifted provocatively.

“Is that an invitation?” he asked, eyeing her keenly.

She simply smiled, but beguilingly so.

Ian rose and crossed the room, took hold of her hands, and brought her to her feet. And then he led her over to the fireplace, pulled her down onto the rug with him.

He smoothed his hand over her red-gold hair, shimmering in the fire’s glow, and held strands of it between his fingers. “Look at this … Celtic gold … it’s beautiful, Kay.” She was silent. Her eyes never left his face. He began to unbutton her white silk blouse, leaned forward,
kissed her cheek, her neck, and her mouth, then moved her into a prone position. He kissed her with mounting passion.

But after only a moment, Kay pushed him away. “Ian, stop! We can’t. Not
here
! Someone might come in.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Maude might, or Malcolm. To clear away the tea things.”

He laughed dismissively. But, nonetheless, he got up and walked over to the door set in the wall, to the right of the fireplace. This led to the main house.

Risk, Kay thought. He loves taking risks, taking awful chances. It excites him. And I mustn’t fight him now. He wants to make love … I must seize this moment.

She heard him locking the door, and his footsteps echoing on the terra-cotta tiles as he came back to her.

Ian knelt on the floor next to Kay. He took her face in both of his hands, brought his lips to hers gently, gave her a light kiss.

“What about the French doors?” she asked, pulling away, glancing worriedly toward the terrace.

“Nobody’s going to be out in this weather, for God’s sake! There’s a snowstorm brewing!”

He doesn’t care, she thought. He doesn’t care if someone sees us through the windows. Or walks in. But she knew this wouldn’t happen. He was right. Everyone was snowbound tonight, safe in their homes. His mother down the hill in the Dower House; his sister, Fiona, ensconced in her cottage by the loch; John Lanark and his family secure in the estate manager’s house close by the Home Farm. No one would venture out unless there was an emergency.

Ian had taken off her cardigan and white silk blouse, and was fumbling with the hooks on her bra. She helped him unfasten it, then reached out for him, pulled him
into her arms. They fell back on the rug together, and she kissed him hard, deeply. He responded with ardor, and then almost immediately he sat up, pulled off his sweater, struggled out of his shirt, threw them impatiently to one side.

Kay followed suit, and within a few seconds they were both completely undressed, naked on the rug in front of the fire. Ian sat back on his haunches, looking down at her. She never failed to stir his blood. She was such a beautiful woman, tall, slender, long limbed; and her skin was pale as ivory. But now, in the firelight, it had taken on a golden glow and her red hair was like a burnished halo around her narrow face. How very blue her eyes were, riveted on his.

Staring back at him, Kay saw the intensity in his luminous hazel eyes, twin reflections of her own filled with mounting desire. She lifted her arms up to him.

In answer, he stretched himself on top of her. How perfectly we fit together, he thought.

“I want you,” she whispered against his neck, and her long, tapering fingers went up into his hair. “Take me, take me.”

He wanted her as much as she wanted him, but he also wanted to prolong their lovemaking. Sometimes it was too quick. He was too quick. Tonight he had the great need to savor her, to pleasure her, before he took his own pleasure with her.

And so he kissed her very slowly, almost languorously, and thrilled when her mouth opened under his. He felt her tongue groping for his, and he was more inflamed than ever.

As he began to caress her breasts, her hands moved down over his broad back, settled on his buttocks. Smoothing his hand up along her leg, he slipped it between her thighs; her soft sighs increased as he finally touched that
damp, warm, welcoming place. She arched her body, then fell back, moaning.

Now he could hardly contain himself and he parted her legs and entered her swiftly, no longer able to resist her.

Kay began to move frantically against him, her hands tightly gripping his shoulders, her whole body radiating heat and a desire for him he had not seen in her before. Excited beyond endurance, he felt every fiber of his being exploding as he tumbled into her warmth, and she welcomed him ecstatically.

————

WILLIAM
ANDREWS, WHO INHERITED
Lochcraigie on the death of his bachelor uncle, had a growing family, and so it was necessary to provide a larger dwelling to accommodate them all. To this end, he built a new house, which was finished in the late summer of 1559, and for the past four hundred and forty-two years it had stood unflinching on the small hillock above the loch.

Across all these decades the large bedroom, which overlooked the long body of water and the rolling hills beyond, had been called the Laird’s Room. From William’s day on it had always been the private enclave of the head of the family, from the moment he inherited the title and property until he died.

Like the rest of the rooms in this great stone manse, the bedroom had a grandeur and dignity about it. Of spacious proportions, it had eight windows, one placed on each side of the central fireplace, and three set in each end wall. The fireplace itself was also grand and soaring, with an oversize iron grate to hold big logs and slabs of peat, these kind of massive fires necessary in the dead of the Scottish winter. Its mahogany mantel matched the dark beams that floated across the ceiling and the highly polished, pegged-wood floor.

The elegance of the room was not only to be found in its beautiful proportions but in its furnishings as well. Set against the main wall, and facing the fireplace stood the mahogany four-poster, with its carved posts, rose silk hangings, and coverlet.

The same rose brocade, with a self-pattern of thistles, covered the walls and hung as curtains at the many windows. It was faded now, having been chosen by Ian’s great-great-grandmother, the famous Adelaide, renowned in the family for her installation of the Victorian conservatory.

Although she had taste and a great eye for decorating as well as for fashion, Kay had not tampered with anything in the master bedroom. For one thing, Ian loved the room just the way it was, and so did she. So there was no good reason to upset him by making changes to a setting already quite beautiful, and one loaded with tradition and family history.