Susana and the Scot (25 page)

“I canna remember mine much, either.”

“Your grandfather told me he was a good man.”

“Aye. Everyone says that. That, and he would have been a fine father.” She frowned. “I think you would make a fine father.”

His pulse stalled. “Do you?”

“Aye. You are strong and smart and verra handsome.”

“Do you think I'm handsome?”

She fluttered her lashes. “Verra. And Mama must like you if she let you kiss her. Aside from that, you could protect me and teach me things.” She glanced at his sword once more. “Give me things.”

A riffle of unease walked through him. Something to do with ominous glint in her eye. He hoped she wasn't playing him like a fiddle, but he suspected she was. She was far too charming when she wanted to be. “What … kinds of things?”

“I've always wanted to have a sword.”

He blinked. “You're five.” She couldn't even
lift
his sword.

“I was thinking I could start with a small one. That's what the boys do. They learn how to fence with wooden sticks and then they get small swords.”

“Should you no' be talking to your mother about this?”

A fat lip came out. “She willna let me have a sword. She says bows are more ladylike.”

Andrew nearly laughed. Neither was truly ladylike. But he wasn't going to be the one to suggest this to Susana. Or Isobel. “Well, I'm not giving you my sword.”

“I'm not asking for
your
sword. But I would like you to give me lessons.”

“Lessons?” He gaped at her. “You want me to teach a five-year-old girl how to wield a sword?” Ah, to what depths had he descended?

“Aye.”

“And when would you want to begin?”

“Now.”

He chuckled. “Surely not now. I need to dress. Breakfast would be nice.”

“This morning then? After breakfast?”

Her smile was hopeful. It sparked something in him … an idea. A devilish idea.

“If I do agree to teach you…”

“Aye?”

“If I do show you how to defend yourself with a sword, what will you do for me in return?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

What did he want? Her mother. In his bed. Well, not this bed, obviously, but some bed. However, he could hardly tell her that. “Will you advise me on how to woo your mama?”

Her eyes widened. “Ooh. I should like that.”

Aye. He thought she might.

“Then I would be happy to teach you what I know, but…”

She squinted at him. “But what?”

“But doona tell your mother.”

Her brow puckered. “About which thing? The lessons or the wooing?”

“Both.”

Apparently the prospect of such subterfuge delighted her. Her laughter rippled through the room.

*   *   *

No one was in the breakfast room when Susana descended. She didn't know why disappointment flooded her. Surely she wasn't hoping to find Andrew there.

She'd thought about him all night. Ached for him.

She'd even thought about sneaking from her room to his, but if Isobel had woken to find her gone, she might have worried. After her ordeal, her daughter needed the security of knowing her mother was by her side. Night and day.

On that note, how vexing was it to wake and find her gone?

A niggle of unease had prodded her, prompting her to rise and dress at once, even though she very much wanted to lounge in bed. It was perhaps irrational, this urge to know exactly where her daughter was and what she was doing at any given moment, but considering recent events, it was probably understandable.

It didn't help to see that the cakes on the sideboard had been ravaged. That meant Isobel was up and about and God knew where. Susana didn't revel in the idea of spending the morning hunting for her, but her protective instincts were in a frenzy.

She grabbed a scone and turned to head out to launch a search when a movement outside the window caught her attention. She blinked and then stepped closer, peering past the drapes.

A large man and a small girl—both with silver hair—faced each other in the garden. They both held small wooden swords. In his hand, the weapon was laughable, but the scene, the import of it, was not.

Her heart swelled as Andrew showed Isobel a series of steps, and then parries and lunges. Her daughter focused on each one and copied it with excruciating accuracy.

Before yesterday, she would have been furious. For one thing, she'd told Isobel in no uncertain terms that she wasn't getting a sword, despite the fact that her daughter begged incessantly. Swords were far too sharp and dangerous.

But after yesterday, her thinking had shifted. Isobel needed to have every advantage if such an occurrence happened again. And to see Andrew teaching her warmed something in the region of her chest.

He was patient and very methodical as he walked her through the basics, and Isobel hung on every word. There wasn't a hint of recalcitrance in her expression. Nae. But there was a shining admiration. Reverence perhaps.

It was clear to her that Isobel adored Andrew. And that Andrew felt the same for her.

Susana swallowed a sob.

Ah, God. She needed to tell him.

She had to tell him.

It was a pity she didn't know how.

“Susana.”

She whirled around at Keir's sharp bark, her tender thoughts shattered by his tone.

“Aye?” Something in his expression raked her. “What's wrong?”

He wiped his face with a palm. “We have a problem.”

“A problem?”

“The men who attacked Isobel…”

“Aye?”

“The ones we were holding in the dungeon?”

“Aye?”

“They escaped last night.”

Her stomach plunged. Acid crawled up her throat. “What? Weren't they guarded?”

“Aye. We had two men posted. Both were knocked out. Someone forced open the cell doors and the men are gone.”

Susana glanced out the window, just to reassure herself that Isobel was safe. And aye, she and Andrew were still playing swordsmen. “We need to launch a search. Let's gather the men.”

“Aye.” Keir's gaze narrowed. “I canna help wondering…”

“Wondering? What?”

“Someone helped them. You know it wasna
our
men. It couldna have been.”

“Of course not.”

He nocked his head toward the window, where Andrew was patting Isobel on the head. “So if it wasn't our men, who was it?”

He let the question linger. It hung on the air in an ominous rumble. His implication was clear. It had to be one of Andrew's men.

Susana's fists tightened. She couldn't believe Andrew would order his men to attack Isobel. Not judging from the way he smiled at her. Not judging from what she knew about him.

Oh, aye, he'd betrayed her when she was a girl, and aye, she still carried some resentment from that. But this was different. That had been the thoughtless, lustful act of a young boy. This was a willful betrayal, one that could have devastating consequences to her family and her people.

She didn't think him capable of such a thing.

One of his men, however …

Keir leaned closer. “We need to be careful of them,” he whispered. “We doona know them. Not really. We canna trust them. We canna trust anyone.”

Susana sent him a contemplative glance. Keir was right, to some extent. There was a traitor in their midst, and until she discovered who it was, no one could be trusted. But she knew—knew in her heart—the traitor was not Andrew.

If it was, it would destroy her.

*   *   *

After finishing his first fencing lesson with Isobel, Andrew left her with Magnus and Peiter in the library before setting off to begin the day's work. He didn't need to warn Isobel not to wander off. She seemed to have accepted the gravity of the situation and was happy to remain in the castle when she wasn't accompanied by an adult.

He'd been surprised and pleased at how adept she already was with a sword. Though she was extraordinarily young for such lessons, she'd caught on with astounding ease. He'd trained grown men who hadn't come so far in one lesson. It was as though she'd been born to wield such a weapon.

With that thought, he stopped to chat with the blacksmith about forging a real sword for her. Likely Susana wouldn't approve, but Andrew knew he would feel better if the girl had another weapon with which to defend herself should the need arise.

It occurred to him that he should probably tell Susana about the lessons. He cringed at the thought, but he hoped she would understand why he felt it was necessary. She was Isobel's mother. She would want to know.

A pity he didn't know how to broach the subject.

He found her in the study, reviewing the maps they'd drawn up, with a pensive expression on her face. She was alone, which sent pleasure skittering through him. He'd been thinking about holding her, kissing her again. He'd been dreaming about getting her alone. It had been far too long since they'd touched.

He kicked the door shut with his heel and, as a precaution, latched it.

When the thud echoed through the room, she whipped around, her eyes wide. She clutched her bodice. “Oh, Andrew. You frightened me.”

He frowned. “I frightened you?” He didn't like that at all. He stepped closer, studied her expression. Something was wrong. All thoughts of kissing her evaporated.

Well, perhaps not all. But most.

“What's wrong, Susana?”

She stepped into his arms and he closed his hold on her. Ah, God, how he loved the feel of her.

He tipped up her chin and studied her face. He couldn't resist a kiss, but it was a small one. “What's wrong?”

“The men in the dungeon escaped.”

He stilled. His muscles bunched. “What the hell? They were under guard. In a dungeon, for pity's sake.”

“I know.” She stepped away; he missed her warmth. She threaded her fingers and paced the room. “Someone helped them. The guards were knocked out and the doors pried open.” She sucked in a deep breath and faced him. “Keir thinks it was one of your men.”

His gut lurched. “Nae.”

“It couldna be one of ours.”

“It wasna one of mine. I'd stake my life on it.”

“Andrew.” She set her hand on his arm. “You could be gambling with just that. Or mine. Or Isobel's. How well do you know your men?”

“Verra well. Each and every one of them.” They'd all grown up together. Trained together. Fought together. He pulled back and studied her. As gently as he could, he said, “And consider this, Susana. There were traitors here in Dounreay before we arrived.”

Her lashes fluttered and she nodded as she accepted this truth. The disturbing truth that it very well could be one of her men. “I'm so worried, Andrew. For Isobel. For Papa. I doona know who to trust.”

“You can trust me.” He set his palm on his chest. “I swear on all that is holy, I will never betray you or Isobel or Dounreay.”

His vow was cold and clear and came from the heart.

He didn't expect her to respond by taking his cheeks in her soft hands and pulling him down for a kiss. He didn't expect the kiss to linger as it did.

He certainly didn't expect it to flare out of control, but it did, and quickly. Like a wildfire racing through summer tinder, it consumed them both. It was as though her fear and his frustration came together in a perfect conflagration of hunger, lust, and need. Need for reassurance, need for a tender touch, need for each other.

She pressed herself against him and deepened the kiss, raking her fingers through his hair, clutching him close. She made a sound, something like a whimper. It entered his mouth with her tongue and lit a flame within him.

He wanted her, more than he could say, and here she was, in his arms. And they were alone. Aye, it was folly to take her here, in this room, frequented by many men. They could be interrupted at any moment. His desire overrode his prudence. “We'll have to be quick,” he whispered.

“Aye,” she whispered back. “Quick.”

He pushed her onto the table, unmindful of the papers and quills that fell to the floor. He kissed her neck, her cheek, her shoulder in a frenzy of passion. She responded in kind, tugging his tunic free and reaching for his breeks.

He yanked up her hem, baring her legs, reveling in the softness of her body, her skin. He found her core and stroked it and she whimpered. “Andrew,” she murmured against his neck, and then she bit him. It was a tiny nip, but impassioned, and her teeth were sharp. It sent a snarl of sensation through him, and with it, a surge of seething ardor.

“Susana,” he huffed as, without hesitation, he thrust two fingers into her—there was no time for foreplay. He was desperate to touch her, feel her, have her again.

Her body seized around him; she whipped up her head and stared at him with a ferocity that burned. “Aye,” she growled, urging him on. “Aye.”

He fucked her with his fingers. Preparing her, opening her, spreading her creamy arousal over her swollen lips. With his other hand, he fumbled with the placket of his breeks. When he wasn't fast enough, she pushed him out of the way and did it herself. She sighed as she freed his cock, tall and rampant and ready. She held it in her hands and sighed. And then she leaned back and guided him home.

He groaned as he touched her entrance, shuddered as he eased the tip in.

He'd wanted this, needed this, ached for this for far too many hours. Gripping the firm flesh of her thighs, he thrust. Glory consumed him at the hot kiss of her sheath. Heat scuttled up his spine and a knot formed at the base of his balls.

She leaned back to give him room to maneuver, spreading her legs and wrapping them around his waist. She arched her hips to meet his every thrust, grunting and moaning as he held her still and pounded into her.

Her body tightened. Her breaths came in pants. Her eyes widened as he shifted position and hit her from another angle, and yet another. “Oh, aye,” she huffed. “Aye, aye aye,” in time to each reckless plunge. Goading him, tormenting him, leading him on.