Kathleen Harrington (29 page)

She favored him with one of her most beguiling smiles. “Probably the same thing you’re wearing under your kilt.” Her dimple peeked out. Proving only what he already knew. She had enough charm to sell a cartful of logs to the king’s head forester.

Lachlan gave a soft snort. “You’d better have more on than that,” he declared, “or you’re not leaving this room.”

Her brown eyes fairly sparkled at the blunt challenge. “I don’t think you have the privilege of deciding what I can and cannot wear, sir.”

Lachlan had never been a possessive lover. Until that exact moment. He strove to hide his irritation with a nonthreatening smile. There was no point in egging her on. He spoke in a dulcet tone. “Do you or do you not have something on beneath that tunic, sweetheart?”

She broke into laughter, clearly aware that he was growing annoyed and ready to throw that annoyance back in his face. “I guess you’ll never know, will you?”

“Dinna tempt me, lass,” he growled. “I’m giving you fair warning. You’re stepping out onto untested ice.”

“There’s your costume,” she said, pointing to a long tunic and toga lying on a bench near the bed. “Since Angelica and Lucia are already asleep, I’ll have Cuthbert escort me downstairs.”

As she started for the closed door, Lachlan moved to block her escape.

“Stop it,” she said. Her laughter tinkled about her like faery bells as she tried to dart around him. “Don’t touch me! You’ll get my tunic all wrinkled with your big calloused hands.”

He caught her easily, lifted her up, and carried her to the bed. “I’ll touch you with my big calloused hands,” he said, “and if your bottom is as bare as I suspect, I’ll give you the thrashing you deserve.”

Francine giggled as he laid her across the coverlet. “Watch out,” she warned him, struggling to sit back up. “I can kick like a bloody mule.”

Lachlan grinned at her open challenge, his previous aggravation replaced with burgeoning carnal intention. He deftly grabbed her ankles, pulled her flat on the mattress, and stepped between her legs. Catching hold of her wrists, he bent over her and pinned her hands on either side of her head.

“You’re going to show me what’s under that skimpy costume,” he said huskily, “because the only male who’s going to see your naked bum is me.”

Lachlan kissed her lightly on her eyes, her nose, her chin. He drew his tongue across her closed lips, insistent and unyielding, until she responded by opening her mouth to invite him in. He thrust his tongue in and out, showing her without words what he longed to do.

Their playfulness dissolved, as a vibrant sexual yearning quivered between them. Their need for each other became a living presence with a will of its own.

“When are you going to admit just how much you want me?” he asked, his lips brushing hers. He smoothed his hands down her breasts, caressing her through the fine wool.

Francine slid her arms around his neck. “Have I denied it?” she asked, a smile playing over her dewy lips. Her expressive brown eyes were soft and inviting. “I don’t remember denying that I wanted you.”

Lachlan pulled back slightly to study her delicate features. “You’re so goddamn bonny,
a ghràidh
. Whenever I’m with you, I want to reach out and touch you.”

She chuckled deep in her throat. “I’m not nearly so gorgeous as you,” she said. She traced his eyebrows and the line of his nose, then pressed her index finger against his lips. “You shall one day father beautiful children, Kinrath. If you have not done so already.”

Lachlan fought back the dull ache her words brought. Now wasn’t the time to discuss the possibility of procreation. He reached beneath the hem of her garment and slid his practiced fingers up her smooth leg.

“Surely you don’t believe I’ve nothing but an unclothed bottom under this short tunic?” she asked in obvious surprise at his bold move.

“That’s exactly what I intend to find out.” He shoved the folds of white wool up to her waist.

Francine burst in to laughter at his astonishment. “Well, now you know. Are you satisfied?”

He stared in fascination at the sight before him. She was wearing a pair of boy’s drawers, tied at the waist with strings.

“Where in the hell did you get these?” he demanded.

“You forget,” she replied. “I’m well acquainted with the Master of the Revels. Charles Burby is in charge of all the many costumes needed in our pageants, right down to the underwear.” She giggled softly. “Now is your curiosity satisfied, milord? Did you learn everything you wanted to know?”

“Not everything,” Lachlan said, his words thick with desire.

The sight of her dainty crotch covered only by the drawer’s fine linen, so translucent he could glimpse the nest of curls beneath, proved more temptation than a man could withstand. She was laughing in glee at the success of her jest. He was consumed in the raging fire of male lust.

He kissed her lips, as he pulled on the ties at her waist. He drew the garment down over her legs and sandals and tossed it on the coverlet.

Francine’s heart thudded as Kinrath dropped to his knees in front of her. He pressed kisses along her bare thighs, nudging her legs farther apart. He slid his hands beneath her, cupped her buttocks, and brought her closer to the edge of the bed.

“Lie still, Francie,” he whispered as he placed her legs across his shoulders. “I’m going to pleasure you,
a ghaolaich
. No more than that. But since, as you said, my fingers are calloused from swordplay, this time I’ll do it another way.”

Kinrath spread her delicate folds gently and touched the tip of his tongue to her most intimate female core. A thrill of exquisite sexual sensations coursed through her as, once again, his magic words wove their spell. Nothing had ever prepared her for this intense, throbbing quest for more and more and more.

Francine whimpered in surrender, and he made an encouraging sound deep in his throat. He seemed to be reassuring her that this was perfectly acceptable behavior. That he was showing her without words the longing he felt for her.

Kinrath stroked her sensitive tissues, laving her with consummate care. Her whole body responded to his shockingly intimate touch. Convulsions of ecstasy spread through her, as she looked down to see him licking her. She made a low, breathless sigh of female submission, as he brought her to fulfillment, then lay perfectly still, her legs spread wide, her eyes closed, completely vulnerable.

Lachlan rose to his feet and gazed down at Francine. In the afterglow of sex, she looked completely relaxed. And so precious, his heart ached.

Carnal desire pulsed through every inch of his body. Beneath his kilt, his hardened manhood clambered for release, as his sexual instincts threatened to cloud his rational brain.

But Lachlan knew they must have already been missed by the court, for Francine was supposed to lead the guests into the Great Hall. They would be waiting for her at this very moment. He had no intention of hurrying his first penetration of her curvaceous body. He’d wait, though he’d probably regret, in short order, not taking her now.

He slid the discarded drawers up her legs and tied the strings. “Come, love,” he whispered. “We must go now.”

At his words, Francine slowly scooted up on the mattress and leaned back on her elbows. She stared at Lachlan in silence, wide-eyed and wondering, as though unable to say a word. He didn’t have to ask if she’d reached culmination. The answer was written on her vivid features.

Lachlan had told her, at the very beginning of their journey, that he’d make her forget every other man she’d ever lain with. He intended to keep that promise. In the days ahead, he would bind Francine to him, using all of his knowledge and all of his practiced skills, of which his world travels had given him many.

He sat on the bed beside her and drew her into his arms. “That was much better than getting a thrashing, wasn’t it?” he teased.

She ducked her head, not saying a word. A blush crept up her neck and over her cheeks. She seemed so abashed by what had just happened, she couldn’t speak. ’Twas as if she’d never experienced oral gratification before. Had her previous lovers been so inept? He smiled at the thought.

Lachlan kissed her temple. “After the evening’s festivities, there’ll be time to continue our mutual enjoyment. But for now, we must go downstairs and entertain the princess and her court.”

T
he noblemen and their ladies entered Pontefract’s Great Hall through the gates of an enchanted castle, each disguised as a figure from Roman mythology. It soon became clear to Francine, however, that the courtiers blithely mixed the heroes and heroines from Greek and Roman myths indiscriminately. No one complained. Something about dressing in costumes seemed to release their inhibitions.

Jupiter, king of the gods—otherwise known as Sir Gilbert de Lacy—escorted Princess Margaret, majestically attired as Juno, his queen and consort. The Spanish ambassador, Don Javier de Ayala, played the part of Poseidon, complete with trident, while the French emissary, Jean-Baptiste, comte de Chastellux, assumed the role of Vulcan, shouldering his great hammer.

Lady Diana appeared as Venus, alongside Mars, her lover, whom the entire court immediately recognized as Colin MacRath. The coppery sheen of his hair reflected the light of the chandeliers, making him unmistakable despite his disguise.

The grand promenade of more than five hundred ancient gods and goddesses around the hall featured Apollo leading Proserpina; Hercules, adorned with his lion pelt, alongside Ceres,; Helena with her ill-fated lover Paris; Artemis and Prometheus; Bacchus and Penelope.

Kinrath, however, had insisted on wearing his Highland garb, complete with broadsword and dirk. “I’m not going anywhere without my weapons,” he’d told Francine on their way down the stairs.

When everyone was seated, the spectators watched an imaginative dance featuring sixteen ladies of the court disguised as nymphs from the Elysian Fields. Following the banquet, a court ball ensued.

Standing beside Francine at the edge of the dance floor, Diana leaned close. “I’m in love,” she confessed with a giddy sigh. “This time it’s forever.”

That evening, Lady Pembroke’s dark hair had been piled on top of her dainty head with ruby encrusted combs. Ebony tendrils curled in front of her ears, calling attention to her porcelain skin. Dressed in her tunic and palla, she looked exquisite.

Astonished, Francine gazed into her sparkling gray eyes. She’d never seen Diana so happy. “You’ve said you were in love before,” she cautioned. “How can you be certain this time?”

Diana moved even nearer to whisper in her friend’s ear. “Because Colin is the most wonderful lover I’ve ever had or ever will have.”

In the past, Francine had always made it clear that she didn’t want to discuss Lady Pembroke’s lovers.

But that was before today.

Dying of curiosity, Francine whispered back. “What makes him so wonderful?”

Diana tittered and blushed. “He’s the first man I’ve ever slept with, Francie, who pays more attention to giving me pleasure than he does in seeking his own. And afterward, whereas most men engage in bombast, Colin is a wonderful listener. He acts as if what I have to say is important. I’ve never known such a thoughtful, caring man.” She snickered softly, as she put her hand beside her mouth to ensure that no one overheard them. “Not to mention gloriously endowed.”

Previously, Francine had never considered that one lover might prove significantly better than another. She’d always assumed the act of procreation would be much the same, no matter who the participants were. “What . . . what else does he do, besides being attentive?”

The usually irrepressible brunette ducked her head in a sudden fit of bashfulness. “His stamina is phenomenal, Francie,” she whispered, fairly quivering with excitement. “He’s like some great, lusty bull. I barely catch my breath, and he’s ready to go again.”

“Uh-hmm.” Francine gave an appreciative nod. She acted as though her friend had revealed nothing more than casual court gossip. The fact that one man might possess more stamina than another appeared to be extremely important.

“What about Kinrath?” Diana asked with an encouraging smile.

“Kinrath?” Francine repeated.

“Yes,” Diana said in a conspiratorial tone. “What kind of lover is he?”

It was Francine’s turn to duck her head. “He’s . . . adequate, I suppose.”

Diana burst into a fit of giggles. “I thought he’d be ferocious in bed. Who knew that I would end up with the lion, and you would end up with the lamb?” She laughed till tears ran down her cheeks.

“What are you ladies so happy about this evening?” Kinrath asked, suddenly appearing at their sides.

He’d been on the dance floor the last time Francine had spotted him, leading the countess of Surrey in a lively galliard.

At his innocuous question, Diana covered her face with her hands and emitted a muffled shriek of laughter.

Kinrath frowned, wondering, no doubt, about the lady’s sanity.

“We’re simply enjoying the masquerade,” Francine said, sending her friend an admonitory glare. Grateful to hear the strains of a lavolta, Francine clasped Kinrath’s arm. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, milord?” she asked. Remembering the intimacy they’d shared earlier, warmth spread over her cheeks and down her neck.

“’Twill be my pleasure,” he answered with a gracious révérence. He gave Lady Pembroke a last quizzical glance before leading Francine onto the floor.

From the corner of her eye, Francine watched Colin approach Diana, who stretched up on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear. Colin glanced over at his older cousin with a grin and shook his head in disbelief. Diana covered her mouth, unable to stifle her laughter.

Colin immediately guided his ladylove through the gates of the enchanted castle and out of the Great Hall.

As Francine and Kinrath danced, all the marvelous feelings returned. She felt the compelling need to draw close, to feel his muscular arms around her, his lips caressing her. She longed to lie with him, to feel the exquisite pleasure of his touch. Only this time, his magnificent male body would be unclothed as well, allowing her to touch him in the same intimate way.