Highland Groom (22 page)

Ilsa moved to the foot of the bed, climbed up on it, and began to crawl toward him on her hands and knees. "There is a fire here that needs banking, is there?" She reached his legs and moved up them slowly, kissing and stroking every strong inch of them with her hands, her lips, and her tongue.

"Och, aye, and tis getting hotter every minute."

Diarmot wondered if she had any idea of how sensuous she was. The way she had crawled up the bed, every move of her strong, slender body holding invitation and promise had been a pleasure to watch. The look upon her face, the tempting curve of her smile, and the heat in her gaze had made his passion soar. The way her long, bright hair had swirled around her had simply been the coup de grace.

She enthralled him and he knew that should worry him, but it did not. Instead he sprawled there, savoring the feel of her small hands, the heat of her mouth and tongue, and the silken caress of her hair as she inched her way up his legs.

His whole body shook with pleasure when she began to use that clever tongue on his manhood. When the moist heat of her mouth enclosed him, he propped himself up on one elbow, and brushed her hair aside with his other hand, needing to see as well as feel her gift him with this delight. Despite all his efforts to cling to some control, to make it last, it was not long before he knew he needed to be inside her. He sat up, grasped her under her arms, and set her astride him. Although he had done nothing to prepare her, he felt only the hot damp of welcome as he entered her, and he groaned at this proof that she could be so stirred by pleasuring him. She moved upon him with a natural skill and a sweet greed that made him tremble, and he gave himself over completely to their passion.

Ilsa roused herself from a sated doze and felt the first tickle of embarrassment. Returning from the delicious oblivion Diarmot could send her to and finding herself sprawled in his arms was not so strange. It was recalling how she had behaved that made her uneasy. Such wanton behavior might not be the best way to win a wary man's trust, especially when that man had been wed to a woman like Anabelle. She eased herself off him, glanced at his face, and caught him frowning at her.

"Ve do that verra weel," he muttered.

Sometimes, Ilsa mused, there was no joy in being right. "What? Moving?"

"Ye ken what I mean."

"Aye, I am afraid I do." She leaned over him, picked up her night shift from the floor, and yanked it on over her head. "Ye want to ken how many men I have done that to. I couldnae possibly have simply thought to do to ye what ye have done to me. Och, nay. That would be too simple. There must be more to it. Nay, it couldnae be that there isnae any great trick to it that I can see, either."

She got out of bed and went behind the privacy screen. "Just stroke, kiss, lick, and stick it in your mouth. As long as ye dinnae scream in pain or start bleeding, tis being done right."

Diarmot had to choke back a laugh. Ilsa was so angry he doubted she realized half of what she was saying, would probably shock herself if she did. Now she was just muttering. He suspected it was a good thing he could not understand what she was saying now for it would either insult him or make him laugh. She had a right to be angry for his remarks had been both unkind and unwarranted, but she was a delight to listen to when she was ranting. All his amusement faded when she came out from behind the privacy screen and walked toward the door.

"Where are ye going?" he demanded, thinking he was getting sick of asking that.

"To the room across the hall," she replied. "I willnae stay here--"

She screeched softly when Diarmot was suddenly there by her side. He picked her up and carried her back to the bed. Before she could protest, he had them back in bed with her tucked up against him and was pulling the covers over them.

"This is where ye belong," he said, adjusting her a little in his arms so that her firm little backside was nestled comfortably against his groin.

"Ye are a verra confusing mon," she said. "All welcome one moment, then a strong right to the jaw."

"If it confuses ye, try to imagine how it all seems to me at times."

Ilsa winced slightly, recognizing the truth of his words. Diarmot was clever enough to know he was behaving in a very odd way at times, being contradictory in his feelings, words, and actions. To have such large gaps in one's memory had to leave him feeling lost, uncertain. She suspected having some of the memories return, but not being able to grab hold of all of them was not much better. It did not excuse his unkind words, but she also suspected that Diarmot openly admitting to his own turmoil was as close to an apology as he would get.

"Are ye trying to tug at my sympathy?" she asked,

"Will that get ye to take your shift off?"

"Nay. If I cannae go away and sulk, then I am keeping my shift on."

"Fair enough." Diarmot kissed the top of her head and decided not to argue.

Ilsa slept soundly. He would just wait until she fell asleep and take her shift off later.

"Poison?"

Margaret glared at the man. "Aye, poison."

"What am I to do with this?"

She bit back the urge to tell him to drink it and paced the small cottage in an attempt to calm herself. Her gaze passed over the tiny bed where she had just serviced the oaf, the remembered feel of the straw mattress and rough woolen blanket still making her itch. She wanted to leave, to return to her cousin's home and wash the stink of the man from her body. After taking a few breaths to quiet the rage that was becoming harder to control, she faced the man again.

"Put it in her drink or her food."

"I dinnae serve her."

"Wait until she has been busy at some chore for several hours, then bring her some wine and, mayhap, something to eat. Tell her her husband sent it."

"That may work. Why her? I thought ye wished the laird dead."

"I do, but that isnae being accomplished, is it? Mayhap, if another of his wives dies, he will be seen as the murderer he is and will be hanged. It willnae be as satisfying, but twill serve. If not, he will be a widower again, and I can marry him. Then I will be able to deal with this myself as I had planned to ere that red-haired slut interfered."

"I am nay sure ye will be able to. They say his memory begins to return."

"Then ye had best succeed at this so that I can get close to the laird again.

We dinnae want him wandering back to Muirladen, do we. If he does regain all of his memory, ye and I could find ourselves in a great deal of trouble."

*CHAPTER FOURTEEN*

Ilsa grimaced and rubbed at the ache in her back. She had been studying Anabelle's journals since right after breaking her fast and it was now late in the afternoon. A brief time spent with the children as she nursed Cearnach had been her only respite. She was tired and somewhat disheartened. She also felt battered by all she had read.

Fraser had said Anabelle was a troubled woman. That was far too gentle a word for the woman she had found in these journals. If there had been a rime in Anabelle's life when she had not been filled with anger and hatred, it had been before she had begun her journals. Anabelle had scorned and ridiculed everyone.

Not quite everyone, Ilsa thought, as she glanced over the entry she had just read. Whoever her Precious Love was had been spared for most of the time. Every now and then Precious Love had obviously misbehaved and Anabelle had been scathing in her denunciation, ranting about betrayals and a need for vengeance.

Then Precious Love would be forgiven, even though, in Ilsa's opinion, that had not been a very good thing for Precious Love. Anabelle's love appeared to have been a dominating, all-consuming thing. It had demanded complete subjugation, blind adoration, and unwavering obedience, Ilsa had to wonder about the sanity of any person who would endure that for so many years.

She gasped and sat up straight, feeling the thrill of discovery. Precious Love was the only person mentioned with any consistency through the years.

Others, such as Diarmot and Fraser, were mentioned more often than others, but none had the constancy of Precious Love. That annoying name had been sprinkled throughout every journal. Whoever it was had obviously been an integral part of Anabelle's life.

Just as she started to glance through the journals to confirm her observation, Ilsa was distracted by Geordie's entrance into her solar. It annoyed her a little that he had not asked permission to come in, but she scolded herself for that unwarranted irritation. She had left the door open partway so that she could hear if any of the children cried or called to her.

Geordie had obviously thought that meant anyone was free to come and go. She smiled at him as he set a tray of wine and sweetened oatcakes down on her table.

"This was kind of ye," she said.

"Oh, it wasnae my idea, m'lady," Geordie said. "The laird thought ye may want some." He glanced at the journals. "Ye have been working all day on these books.

Have ye found anything important?"

"Nay," she replied and wondered why she felt the need to lie to the man. "I begin to think my husband is right, that something else had compelled him to come to Dubheidland."

"So, ye will be putting them aside soon, aye?"

"Aye." She sipped at her wine, finding it a little bitter, but decided it would probably go well with the sweetened oatcakes. "I believe I might suggest the burning of them as it wouldnae be good for Alice to stumble upon them someday."

She exchanged a few idle pleasantries with Geordie before he finally left, then frowned. She had lied to him and had no idea why she had felt it necessary to do so. Diarmot apparently trusted the man and it was no secret that she was digging her way through Lady Anabelle's journals for some clues about Diarmot's enemy. Yet, the moment he had asked if she had found anything, she had grown wary and secretive. Mayhap Diarmot's suspicious nature was infecting her, she mused as she returned to her reading.

A glass of wine and several oatcakes later, Ilsa had her suspicions confirmed. Precious Love had been a part of Anabelle's life from the beginning.

The meeting had occurred while Anabelle was fostered with the woman she referred to only as L.O. Ilsa judged Anabelle's age to have been about fourteen at that time, yet the girl had obviously already had several lovers by then. The first man had not been welcome, of that Ilsa had no doubt. It was possible that had been when Anabelle had begun to hate men.

Except for Precious Love, Ilsa corrected herself as she poured herself another glass of wine. Yet, if Anabelle loved this person why had she not married him? Why had she been so consistently unfaithful? It also appeared that Anabelle and Precious Love had talked about those other men, scorned and ridiculed them together. Ilsa found that beyond strange.

Not sure why she did so, Ilsa sought out entries concerning private moments with Precious Love and lined up all the journals, each opened to such an entry.

Sipping at her wine, she read each, from the first to the last. The way Anabelle wrote of her lovemaking with Precious Love differed in many ways from her writings about all her other lovers. The tone lacked the usual scorn, although there was the hint of triumph, so he may have been a reluctant lover at times.

Precious Love had soft hands, soft skin, and smelled sweet. Not once did Anabelle describe Precious Love's genitals, something the woman had delighted in doing when writing about every other lover. Precious Love was smaller than Anabelle and had beautiful hair.

Ilsa cursed, finished her wine, and carefully reread every entry. She was so certain she had just discovered something very important her heart was pounding.

Soft hands, soft skin, smelled sweet, small, beautiful hair, a lovely voice, and dainty feet, Ilsa made careful note of each description, wrote them down, and read her list twice. Then she very carefully added one line of praise contained in a tale about a brief tryst: Precious Love kens how to touch a woman, kens a woman's needs and desires as no mon e'er could.

"Curse it, how did I miss that?" she muttered, and stood up, eager to find Diarmot.

Sweat broke out all over her body and Ilsa clutched the edge of the table.

She did not feel well and was rapidly feeling worse. Certain she was about to be ill and not wanting to ruin the journals, she moved away from the table. The pain that gripped her insides was so intense she screamed and collapsed to her knees. She emptied her belly on the floor and--for a moment--felt better, then the pain struck again. Clutching her belly, she tried to stand, but when it proved impossible, began to crawl toward the door. She could hear someone rapidly approaching and tried to call out only to be sick again. Ilsa managed to move away from that foul mess and then curled up, huddled in a ball in a vain attempt to ease the pain tearing away at her insides.

"Ilsa!"

"Something is wrong," she said when Fraser and Gay knelt by her, Fraser cradling her in her strong arms.

"Tis obvious ye are verra ill," said Fraser. "We must get ye to bed." She cursed when Ilsa began to writhe.

"Jesu, tis an agony," Ilsa cried out. "Get it out!"

Diarmot entered the room only a step behind Sigimor, Tait and Nanty right behind him. He watched Ilsa tear free of Fraser's hold just as Sigimor reached for her. She was violently ill and Diarmot felt his belly clench in sympathy.

Sigimor picked her up and started toward the door.

"The wine," she moaned.

"What about the wine?" asked Diarmot.

"Tis bitter. Too bitter." She started to writhe again and Sigimor tightened his hold on her. "The wine is burning me!"

"Fraser, put that wine somewhere safe so that we can look at it later,"

ordered Diarmot and then he hurried after Sigimor, pausing only to tell Peter to have someone fetch Glenda.

It took him, Sigimor, Fraser, and Gay to get Ilsa out of her clothes, into a clean shift, and hold her in the bed. Tait and Nanty waited helplessly by the door. She was violently ill only twice more, but the pain obviously continued.

The things she said proved she was not completely in possession of her senses.