Читать книгу Underneath The Mistletoe Collection - Джанис Мейнард, Marguerite Kaye - Страница 15
ОглавлениеA week later, Innes stared down at the Celtic cross, at the bright lettering of the new inscription and the long empty space below that was left to fill. His own name would be next, but after that, it would be a distant cousin, if anyone. He dug his hands into the pockets of his leather breeches and hunched his shoulders against the squally breeze, steeling himself against the wall of emotions that threatened to engulf him. Until now, he’d been able to ignore what had happened, tell himself that this was a temporary thing, that he was not really the laird, that his life was not inextricably tangled up in Strone Bridge. He’d been able to contain and control whatever it was that was building inside him, fence it in with resentment and anger, let the waste and destruction he saw every day tack it down, the hurt and the suffering gnaw at his conscience and prevent him from thinking about the reason he was here at all.
He’d arranged to meet Eoin here, but had arrived early, wanting some time alone. He’d come here telling himself that fourteen years had bred indifference, but he was wrong. It was like one of those seventh waves, building from the swell, scooping up memories and guilt and remorse, hurtling them at him with an implacable force. Innes screwed his eyes so tightly shut he saw stars behind his lids.
‘It was all done properly, if that’s bothering you at all.’ He opened his eyes to find Eoin standing a few feet away. ‘Your father’s funeral. It was all done as he would have wanted it,’ he said. ‘Mhairi made sure of that.’
His father’s housekeeper had been the one to arrange his father’s funeral. Innes refused to feel guilty.
‘She had me play the chief mourner.’ Eoin came a few steps closer. ‘I didn’t want to, but she said someone with Drummond blood had to bear the laird’s standard, and bastard blood from two generations back was better than none.’
It had been a joke between them when they were boys, that bastard blood. Malcolm had traced the line once, working out that Eoin was their half cousin twice removed, or some such thing. Their father had a coat of arms made for Eoin, with the baton sinister prominently displayed. Malcolm had dreamed up a ceremony to hand it over, Innes remembered. The laird had given them all their first taste of whisky. They’d have been ten, maybe eleven. He had forgotten that there were days like those.
‘I didn’t get the letter in time to attend,’ Innes said tersely.
‘Would it have made any difference?’ Eoin demanded, and when Innes said nothing, he shook his head impatiently and turned away. ‘I meant it to be a comfort to you, knowing that all had been done as it ought. I wasn’t casting it up.’
‘Wait.’ Innes covered the short distance between them, grabbing the thick fisherman’s jumper Eoin wore. His friend shrugged him off, but made no further move to go. Blue eyes, the same colour as Innes’s, the same colour as Malcolm’s, the same colour as the dead laird’s, glowered at him. ‘I wrote to you,’ Innes said. ‘After—I wrote to you, and you did not reply.’
‘I live here, Innes, and unlike you, I’ve never wanted to leave. It was not only that I owed a duty to your father as the laird, I respected him. When you left, the way you left, you forced me to choose. What else was I to do?’
‘I was your friend.’
‘You were his son,’ Eoin said, nodding at the Celtic cross. ‘When Malcolm died, it broke his heart.’
‘What do you think it did to me?’ Innes struggled, eyes smarting, the sick feeling that had been lurking inside him since he’d arrived here growing, acrid, clogging his throat. He turned away, fists clenched, taking painful breaths, fighting for control, forcing back the images, the guilt, waiting desperately for the sound of Eoin’s footsteps disappearing, leaving him alone to deal with it, to make it go away.
Eoin didn’t move. When he spoke, his voice was raw, grating. ‘I could hardly look at you the other day. All these years, I’ve told myself it was the right thing to hold my peace. All these years, with the laird letting things go, letting the place wither, I’ve told myself that if that was what he wanted and— No, not just that. I’ve told myself you deserved it. If you did not care enough to look after your heritage...’
Innes had intended this as a reconciliation. It felt as though he was being tried, and found wanting, by the one person here on Strone Bridge he had thought might be on his side. The disappointment was crushing. ‘It was never meant for me,’ he roared. ‘It was never mine.’
His words echoed around the enclosed space, but still Eoin stood his ground, his face grim, his own fists clenched. ‘It is yours now. You’ve known for fourteen years that it would be yours.’
‘And by the looks of it, for fourteen years my father has done his damnedest to run the place into the ground. Don’t tell me I could have stopped him, Eoin. You of all people know he would never listen to me.’
There was silence. The two men glared at each other. Finally, as Innes was about to turn away, Eoin spoke. ‘It’s true,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I did blame you, and it was wrong of me. You’ve every bit as much right to choose your life as the next man, and it’s obvious from the look of you that the life you’ve chosen suits you well. You’re a rich man. A successful one.’
‘Much good my successes will do me here. I know nothing about sheep, and certainly not enough to go clearing my lands to bring them in.’
‘So you’ve heard that rumour, then?’
‘And I’d be happy if you’d deny it for me.’
‘I’ll be delighted to, if it’s the truth.’ Eoin kicked at the ground. ‘They do blame you, as I did. It’s not fair, but that’s how it is. Your father never got over Malcolm, and you’re right, it was as if he was deliberately letting the place go to spite you. They think you should have put Strone Bridge first. They think if you’d have come back, you could have stopped him, so the longer you stayed away, and the worse it got, the more they blamed you.’
‘Eoin, he wouldn’t have listened to me. If I’d come back while he was alive I’d have ended up murdering him. Or more likely, he’d have murdered me.’ Innes looked grimly at the cross. ‘You know what he was like. I was the second son. He wanted me to study the law in Edinburgh, for goodness’ sake! I was to be the family lackey.’
Eoin gave a bark of laughter. ‘I’ll admit, that was never on the cards.’
‘No, but you know how hard I tried to do things his way—or more precisely, how hard I tried to make him see things my way. He couldn’t care less about me. All he cared about was shaping my brother for the next laird in his own image, but he would not let me shape myself. I tried, but I was always going to leave. And when Malcolm— When it happened— How can you seriously think that would make me more likely to stay here?’
Eoin shook his head. ‘But you could have come back, at least to visit,’ he said stubbornly. ‘You would have seen how things were going. Gradual it was. I didn’t notice at first. And then— Well, like I said, I thought you deserved it. That was wrong of me. It’s why I’ve been avoiding you. You’re not the only one who feels guilty, Innes. I should have done something. I’m sorry. I should have done something, and now it’s far too late. I truly am sorry.’
He held out his hand. Hesitating only a moment, Innes gripped it. ‘I’m here now,’ he said, ‘and I need your help.’
Eoin nodded, returning the grip equally painfully. They sat together in silence on the stone bench. ‘I did write,’ Innes said eventually. ‘Only once, but I did write to my father.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Eoin said. ‘Mhairi would surely have told me, so she can’t have known, either.’
‘Why should she?’
Eoin looked surprised. ‘She was his wife in all but name.’ He laughed. ‘You did not know?’
‘No— I— No.’ Innes shook his head in astonishment. ‘He left no provision for her in his will.’
‘Oh, he took care of that years ago. There’s an annuity, you’ll probably not have noticed it yet unless you’ve gone through the accounts, and she owns the farm over at Cairndow.’
‘Then what the devil is she doing working for me when she does not have to?’
‘Innes, for someone so far-sighted, you can be awfully blind. She’s looking out for you. She’s about the only one who is. She was ever on your side, you know, it’s the one thing she and the laird had words about, but even she thinks you should have come back. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m saying that’s how it is.’
‘I’m here now. Why can’t they see that as a step in the right direction?’
‘Maybe because they’re wondering how long it will be before you go again.’ Eoin got to his feet. ‘Think about it from their point of view, Innes. The laird obviously believed he would be the last, else he would not have been so destructive.’
‘He obviously thought I’d come back here simply to rid myself of the place. His will specifies I must remain here a year,’ Innes conceded.
‘The auld bugger obviously hoped being here would change your mind. Will you?’
Innes shook his head. ‘I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do,’ he admitted ruefully, ‘but I don’t want to sell. I’ve spent every day, since I got off that boat of yours, going round the lands, making endless lists of things that need to be done.’
Eoin laughed. ‘People think you’ve been sizing up the assets to sell.’
‘For heaven’s sake, why did no one tell me that?’
‘Why didn’t you say anything yourself, tell people your plans?’
Innes shook his head. ‘Because I don’t know what they are yet.’
‘This is not one of your projects, where you have to have your blueprints and your costs and—I don’t know—your list of materials all sorted out before you make your bid, Innes. Plans change, we all know that, but people would like to hear that they exist. They’d like to know you’re not going to sell the roof over their heads.’ Eoin got to his feet. ‘I’m glad we talked. It’s been eating away at me, the way we were when you arrived.’
This time it was Innes who held out his hand. ‘It is good to see you, Eoin. I’ve not missed this place, but I’ve missed you. I would value your input to what needs done.’
‘You know you have only to ask.’
‘I wouldn’t have, if it were not for Ainsley. She is the one who pushed me into this.’
Eoin smiled. ‘Then I owe her. I look forward to meeting her properly.’
‘You will do soon. She’s planning a Rescinding.’ Innes shook his head. ‘Don’t ask, because I’m not quite sure what it is myself, save that it will involve everyone.’
‘Then I hope you will make sure not to let the water of life run dry. I must go, but we’ll talk again.’
Innes watched his friend walk away. He felt as if his mind had been put through a washtub and then a mangle. Striding along the path that led round the front of the castle, he spotted the ramshackle pier and came to a sudden halt. Here was something he could do, and it was something, moreover, that Strone Bridge urgently needed, for it would allow paddle steamers to dock. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it before. Vastly relieved to be able to focus on a project that was entirely within his control, Innes made his way down to the bay and began a survey of the jetty with the critical eye of the engineer it had cost him and, it seemed, the people of Strone Bridge, so much to become.
* * *
Dear Madame Hera,
I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman, married with two small children and absolutely bored stiff. My husband is a wealthy man and insists that our house is taken care of by servants and our children by a nanny, but this leaves me with nothing to do. I try to count my blessings, but even that occupation has become tedious. One of my friends suggested taking a lover would amply occupy my free afternoons, but lying convincingly is not one of my accomplishments. What shall I do?
Yours sincerely, Mrs A
Ainsley smiled to herself as she read this missive. Many of Madame Hera’s correspondents complained of boredom, though none had suggested this novel answer. ‘Take charge,’ Ainsley wrote, ‘of your children, of your housework, of your life!’ She put the pen down, frowning. Mrs A’s husband was doing exactly what was expected of him. More, in fact, than many could or would. Mrs A’s friends might well even envy her. If Mrs A were to dismiss the nanny, or take over the housework, her husband would most likely be insulted. Or offended.
Ainsley looked at the clock. It was gone two. Innes had left before breakfast this morning, and she had not seen him since. Was he avoiding her? In the days since he had agreed to hold the Rescinding ceremony, he had continued with his visits to various farms and tenants, his poring over documents late into the night. True, she too had been very busy—too busy, in fact, to have any time to devote to anything else, but still, the niggling feeling that she was being pushed to one side would not go away.
With a sigh of frustration, Ainsley pushed Madame Hera’s half-finished letter to one side and picked up the heavy bunch of castle keys from the desk, intending to consult the tome she had now christened the Drummond Self-Help Manual in the library once more, before taking another look at the Great Hall. Outside, as ever, it was blowy. There were several fishing boats in the bay. She paused to drink in her favourite view and spotted a figure down on the pier. Black coat with long skirts birling in the breeze. Long boots. All the Strone Bridge men wore trews and fishing jumpers or short tweed jackets. Tucking the keys into her pocket beside the notebook and pencil she had brought, Ainsley began to pick her way carefully down the steep path.
* * *
The tide was far enough out for Innes to have clambered down underneath the pier when she arrived. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, peering through one of the planks down at him.
‘I was inspecting the struts,’ he said, looking up at her, ‘but now that you’re here, there’s a much nicer view.’
‘Innes!’ Scandalised, laughing, she clutched her skirts tightly around her.
Laughing, he appeared a few moments later on the beach, climbing up the ancient wooden supports of the pier fluidly. ‘Do you always match your garters to your gown?’
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘One you needn’t answer if you don’t want to, I’m happy to imagine.’ Innes picked a long strand of seaweed from the skirts of his coat and threw it on to the beach. ‘I’m going to have this thing rebuilt.’
‘Of course you are! I wonder you didn’t think of it before.’
‘Couldn’t see the wood for the trees,’ Innes said wryly. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a pencil and a bit of paper with you?’
Ainsley delved into her pocket and pulled out the notebook and pencil. ‘Here, I was on my way to the castle when I saw you.’
‘How are the arrangements progressing?’
She was about to launch into a stream of detail, but stopped herself, giving Innes a dismissive shrug instead. ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ she said.
He had been scribbling something in her notebook, but he looked up at the change in her tone. ‘I thought you wanted to take this on—have you changed your mind?’
‘No.’
‘Is it too much? Do you need help?’
‘No, I told you, there’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s not your problem.’
Frowning, Innes stuck her pencil behind his ear. ‘Aye, that was it. It’s not your problem. I remember now, that’s what set you off before.’
‘I don’t know what you’re implying, but...’
‘Actually, it’s what you’re implying, Ainsley,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not shutting you out deliberately. I thought we were dividing and conquering, not just dividing, for heaven’s sake. Once and for all, I’m not the man you married, so stop judging me as if I am.’
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself. ‘I know you’re not.’
‘Then what are you accusing me of?’
‘Nothing.’ She bit her lip. ‘You don’t talk to me. You don’t value my opinion.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Do you know what I was doing this morning? No, of course you don’t, for I didn’t tell you—and before you berate me for that, I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure he’d come.’
‘Who?’
‘Eoin.’
Her latent anger left her. Ainsley smiled. ‘You’ve spoken to Eoin?’
‘I have. I met him at the chapel.’
‘And?’
Innes laughed nervously. ‘And it was difficult.’
He was clearly uncomfortable. If she did not press him, he would leave it at that. She was pleased, no, more than pleased, that he had taken her advice, though it would most likely result in her further exclusion from matters of the lands. ‘Has Eoin agreed to help you?’ Ainsley asked carefully.
‘He has.’
Innes was staring down at his notes, but she was not fooled. ‘And you’ve made your peace?’ Ainsley persisted.
‘We’ve agreed to disagree.’ Finally, Innes met her gaze. ‘He thinks I should have come back sooner. Though he understands why I left, he doesn’t understand why I stayed away. Though he knows fine that if I’d come back, my father and I would have done nothing but argue, and my father would have carried on down whatever path he’d chosen regardless, still Eoin thinks I should have tried.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Then you would have both been miserable. Besides, you had no cause to think that your father would choose this path of destruction,’ Ainsley said fiercely. ‘You told me yourself, he was a good laird.’
‘Aye, well, it seems you’re the only person to see it my way,’ Innes said despondently.
She put her hand on his arm. ‘You brought me here so you’d have someone on your side.’
‘And I’ve done my damnedest to push you away since we arrived.’ He smiled ruefully down at her. ‘I’m sorry. I did warn you. You need to speak up more.’
She flinched. ‘I know.’
Innes cursed under his breath. ‘That was unfair of me.’ He kissed her fingertips. ‘This marriage business, I’m not very good at it, I’m afraid. I’m too used to being on my own.’
‘That’s one thing you need to remember. You’re not alone. May I see?’ she asked, pointing at the notebook.
Innes had made several small sketches. He began to talk as he showed them to her, of tides, about the advantages of wood over stone, of angles and reinforcing. She nodded and listened, though she understood about a quarter of what he said, content to hear his voice full of enthusiasm, to watch the way he ran the pencil through his hair, reminded of the way Felicity did something very similar.
‘That’s quite enough,’ he said eventually, closing the notebook. ‘You’re probably bored to death.’
‘No. I didn’t follow much of it, but it wasn’t boring.’
Innes laughed, putting his arm around her.
‘Do you think you’ll be ready to announce the new pier after the Rescinding?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps you could show them a drawing. There’s three weeks, would there be time?’
‘I don’t see why not. I could do the preliminary survey myself. It’s what my trade is after all.’
Ainsley beamed up at him. ‘If all the villagers and tenants see what a clever man you are, then perhaps they’ll understand why you had to leave.’
‘Atonement?’
‘No, you’ve nothing to atone for. It is a gift. A symbol of the modern world brought to Strone Bridge by their modern laird.’
Innes laughed. ‘I can just about hear my father turning in his grave from here.’
‘Good.’
He pulled her closer. ‘I saw it this morning at the chapel. The grave I mean, and yes, it was for the first time. I could see you just about chewing your tongue off trying not to ask. Eoin told me about the funeral. It seems I have Mhairi to thank for doing things properly.’
‘We have a lot to thank Mhairi for,’ Ainsley agreed, enjoying the warmth of his body, the view, the salty tang of the air. ‘She’s at one with Eoin and everyone else in thinking that you should have come back here earlier, but now you’re here, she’s of the opinion that you should be given a chance.’
‘That’s big of her. Mhairi was my father’s mistress,’ Innes said.
Ainsley jerked her head up to look at him. ‘Mhairi! Your father’s mistress! Good grief. Are you sure?’
‘Eoin told me.’ Innes shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it. He thought I knew. It seems everyone else does.’
‘But—did he leave her anything in his will? You have not mentioned...’
‘No. According to Eoin, he’d already made provision. A farm, an annuity. She did not need to stay on at the castle when he died.’
‘But she did, so she must have wanted to. How very—surprising. It’s funny, when I was talking to her over breakfast yesterday morning, I was thinking that she was an attractive woman and wondering why she had not married. There is something about her. Her mouth, I think. It’s very sensual.’
‘I believe I’ve said something similar to you.’ Innes pulled her back towards him, tipping up her face. ‘Infinitely kissable, that is what your mouth is, and if you don’t mind...’
‘I don’t.’
‘Good,’ Innes said, and kissed her.
* * *
They took the path back up to the castle together. While the track used by the cart wound its serpentine way upwards, the footpath was a sheer climb. Out of breath at the top, Ainsley stood with her chest heaving. ‘I don’t suppose your engineering skills can come up with a solution for that,’ she said.
‘I will have my surveyor take a look,’ Innes said. ‘See if it can be widened, maybe change some of the angles so they’re not so sharp. That way we can get bigger vehicles down to collect supplies.’
‘And steamer passengers,’ Ainsley said. ‘Then you can build a tea pavilion up here on the terrace, where the view is best. Although there would be no need to build anything new if you set up a tearoom in that lovely drawing room. Then Mhairi could show the excursionists around the castle for a sixpence. She tells those ghost stories much better than you do, and she has lots more. There was one about a grey lady in the kitchens that gave me goosebumps.’
They began to walk together up to the castle. ‘Mhairi’s mother was the village fey wife when I was wee. A witch, though a good one, of course.’
‘Better and better. She could make up some potions. You could sell them in the teashop. And some of the local tweed, too,’ Ainsley said, handing Innes the keys to the main door, for they were going to inspect the Great Hall together. ‘Before you know it, Strone Bridge will be so famous that the steamers will be fighting to berth at this new pier of yours.’
Innes paused in the act of unlocking the door. ‘You’re not being serious?’
She had forgotten, in her enthusiasm, how he felt about the place. Ainsley’s smile faded. ‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’
‘I think it’s a ridiculous idea. Besides the fact that I have no intentions of wasting my fortune having the place made habitable, it’s a monstrosity—no one in their right mind would pay to see it.’
‘Ridiculous.’ She swallowed the lump that had appeared in her throat.
Innes looked immediately contrite. ‘Don’t take it like that, I didn’t mean— It’s not the idea. It’s the place.’
‘Why do you hate it so much? It’s your home.’
‘No. I could never live here.’ He shuddered. ‘There are more ghosts here than even Mhairi knows of.’
They were in the courtyard. Ainsley followed his gaze to the tower that stood at the centre. A huge bird of prey circled the parapet. She, too, shuddered, not because she thought it an omen, but at the look on Innes’s face. She’d thought she was beginning to understand him, but now she was not so sure. That bleak expression could not merely be attributed to feelings of inadequacy or resentment. There was a reason beyond his quarrel with his father for Innes’s absence from this place for fourteen long years. Ghosts. Who would have thought such a confident, practical man as Innes would believe in them, but he very obviously did. Something in his past haunted him. Something here, in this castle.
Above the tower, the sky was empty now. ‘Come on,’ Ainsley said, slipping her hand into Innes’s arm. ‘Let’s go inside.’
She led him through to the Great Hall, their feet echoing on the stone flags. Innes seemed to have shaken off his black mood, and was now wandering around, sounding panelling, looking up with a worried frown at the high beams. ‘I’ll get Robert, my surveyor, to take a look at this while he’s here. He’ll be able to tell me if there are any structural problems.’
He said it hopefully, no doubt thinking that structural problems would give him the excuse to pull the place down. The castle seemed sound enough to her, no smell of damp, no sign of rot, but she was willing to admit she knew nothing about it.
Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Ainsley got on with her own measurements. ‘I think we’ll have to plan to feed about two hundred, including bairns,’ she said. ‘Mhairi is overseeing the work in the kitchens. I reckon we’ll need to light the fires a few days in advance, once the chimneys are swept.’ She scribbled in her notebook, which she had reclaimed from Innes, and began to tick items off from her list. Quickly absorbed in her task, she was struggling to pull the holland covers from what she assumed must be the laird’s chair when Innes came to her aid.
‘Let me,’ he said.
A cloud of dust flew up, making them both choke. ‘Good heavens, it’s like a throne.’
Innes laughed. ‘Now you can get some idea of the esteem in which the lairds of Strone Bridge have held themselves.’
Ainsley sat down on the chair. It was so high her feet didn’t touch the ground. ‘Mhairi would have a fit if she could see me. I’m probably bringing any amount of curses down on myself for daring to occupy the laird’s seat.’
‘I’m the laird now, and I’d be more than happy for you to occupy my seat.’
‘Innes!’ He was smiling down at her in a way that made her heart flutter. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, but I am sure it is something utterly scurrilous.’
‘Scandalous, not scurrilous.’ He pulled her to her feet and into his arms. ‘Want to find out?’
‘Do you even know yourself?’
He laughed. ‘No, but I am certain of one thing. It starts with a kiss,’ he said, and suited action to words.
The second kiss of the day, and it picked up where the first had left off on the cold pier. Just a kiss at first, his hands on her shoulders, his mouth warm, soft. Then his hands slid down to cup her bottom, pulling her closer, and she twined hers around his neck, reaching up, and his tongue licked into her mouth, and heat flared.
He kissed her. She kissed him back, refusing to let herself think about what she was doing, concentrating her mind on the taste of him, and the smell of him, and the way he felt. The breadth of his shoulders. Her hands smoothing down his coat to the tautness of his buttocks, her fingers curling into him to tug him closer, wanting the shivery thrill of his arousal pressed into her belly.
Hard. Not just there, but all of him, hard muscle, tensed, powerful. She pressed into him, her eyes tight shut, her mouth open to him, her tongue touching his, surrendering to the galloping of her pulses, the flush of heat, the tingle in her breasts. Kissing. Her hands stroking, under the skirts of his coat now, on the leather of his breeches.
His hands were not moving. She wanted them to move. Took a moment to remember the last time, and opened her eyes to whisper to him, ‘It’s fine. I am— I won’t.’
‘Tell me,’ he said then. ‘What am I to do?’
She shook her head. ‘Can’t,’ she mumbled, embarrassed.
He kissed her slowly, deeply. ‘Tell me, Ainsley,’ he said.
She was losing it, the heat, the shivery feeling, but not the desire. John had never asked what she wanted. Despite all the vague advice Madame Hera doled out about connubial bliss and mutual satisfaction, she had neither the experience nor knowledge of either. ‘I don’t know,’ Ainsley said, sounding petulant, feeling frustrated. You do it, was what she wanted to say.
‘You do know,’ Innes insisted.
He kissed her again. He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. His own were not mocking, not cruel. Dark blue, slumberous. Colour on his cheeks. Passion, not anger or shame, though it was being held in check. She realised why, with a little shock, remembered how she had been the other night. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said.
‘Tell me where you feel it when I kiss you,’ he said, putting his hand in hers, kissing her. ‘Tell me where it makes you want me to touch you.’
‘Here,’ she said, putting his hand on her breast.
His hand covered the soft swell. Her nipple hardened. She caught her breath as he squeezed her lightly through the layers of her gown and her corsets. ‘Like this?’ he asked, and she nodded. He kissed her neck, her throat, still stoking, kneading, making her nipple ache for more, then turned his attention to the other breast, and she caught her breath again.
‘You like that?’ Innes said.
His thumb circled her taut nipple. ‘Yes.’
‘And that?’
Her other nipple. ‘Yes.’
‘What else?’
That smile of his. His hands teasing her. She wanted his hands on her skin. His mouth on her nipple. The thought shocked her and excited her and terrified her. Her breasts were so small. John had always said— But she was not going to think about John. And Innes had said— What had Innes said?
He was kissing her neck again, her throat again. And her mouth again. ‘Ask me,’ he whispered, nibbling on the lobe of her ear. ‘Ask me to kiss you. Here,’ he said, cupping her breast. ‘Ask me to taste you. Tell me what you want, Ainsley. I want to please you. Tell me.’
‘I want—I want you to kiss me. Here,’ she said, putting her hand over his. ‘I want you to— Innes, I want you not to be disappointed.’
‘Ainsley, it is not possible. I absolutely assure you that I won’t be disappointed,’ Innes said, loosening her cloak and turning her around. Kissing the back of her neck, he began to loosen the buttons of her gown, just enough to slide the bodice down her arms. His hands covered her breasts, his body pressed into her back. She could feel his hard, rigid length against the swell of her bottom.
‘You see,’ he said, nuzzling the nape of her neck. ‘You feel what you are doing to me?’
She wriggled, arching her back so that he pressed closer. Innes moaned, and she laughed, a soft, sensual sound deep in her throat, for it was potent, the effect she had on his potency, and it gave her a burst of confidence. ‘Touch me,’ she said, ‘I want you to touch me. Your hands. Your mouth. On me.’
‘It will be my pleasure.’ He undid the knot of her stays, then turned her round. ‘And yours, I hope.’
He dipped his head and kissed the swell of her breasts above her corset. His tongue licked into the valley between them, kissing, his lips soft on her skin. He loosened her stays and freed her breasts, cupping them, one in each hand. Her nipples were dark pink, tight. Innes’s eyes were dark with excitement. ‘I told you,’ he said with a wicked smile. ‘I told you.’
He dipped his head and took her nipple in his mouth and sucked. She jerked, the drag of sensation connecting directly with the growing tightness between her legs. He sucked again, slowly, and it was like the tightening of a cord. He kissed her. He traced the shape of her breast with his tongue and kissed his way over to the other one. Sucking. Dragging. She moaned. Sucking. Tension. She said his name in a voice she hardly recognised.
‘What?’ he asked, sounding just as ragged. ‘Tell me what you want.’
‘I can’t.’
More sucking. Nipping. She clutched at his shoulders, for her knees had begun to shake. ‘Tell me,’ Innes insisted.
She felt as if her insides were coiling. She was so hot, and the heat was concentrated between her legs. There had been echoes of this before. She had forgotten that, but it had been further away, not like this, not so close. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, frustration making her voice tense, her fingers digging deep into his shoulders. ‘Innes, I really don’t know.’
She thought he would stop. Or he would tell her what it was. That he would give her the words. That he would simply act. But he did none of those things. He smiled at her, his mouth curling in a way that made her insides tighten even more. ‘Oh, I think you do,’ he said.
His hand slid down, between her legs, and curled into her, through her gown. Instinctively she tilted up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do.’
He caressed her, the flat of his palm against her skirts, her skirts and petticoats flattened, rubbing into the heat between her legs, and she realised that was what she wanted. ‘More,’ she said, helping him, arching her spine. ‘More. No, less—no skirts.’
She pulled up her gown, her petticoats, shamelessly, not caring now, and put his hand underneath. Innes groaned. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him desperately. He groaned again. ‘Innes,’ she said, ‘Innes I want— I think I want— Innes, for goodness’ sake.’
He cupped her again, between her legs, only this time there was only the thin linen of her pantaloons between her and his hand. She was throbbing. There was a hard knot of her throbbing against his hand. And then he began to stroke her and the knot tightened, and throbbed, contracted and she thought she wouldn’t be able to bear it, and for a few seconds she felt as if she were hovering, quivering, and then it broke, pulsing, the most delightful pulsing, making her cry out in pleasure, over and over, until it slowed, stopped, and she clung to him, her hair falling down her shoulders, panting, utterly abandoned, and for the first time in her life, utterly spent.
‘I didn’t know,’ she said simply to Innes when she finally managed to let go her grip on him, surprised at her utter lack of embarrassment.
‘Then I’m honoured.’
‘Palpitations. That is how one woman described it to Madame Hera in a letter I read yesterday. “He does not give me the palpitations I can give myself.”’ Ainsley covered her mouth, her eyes wide. ‘Good grief, does that mean that she...?’
‘I reckon it does.’
She laughed. ‘It is a whole new world. I thought the woman was talking about some sort of nervous condition. It’s as well I’ve not replied yet.’
‘I look forward to reading your reply.’
He was looking distinctly uncomfortable as he tried to arrange his coat around the very obvious swelling in his trousers. Catching Ainsley’s eye, he blushed faintly. ‘It’s at times like this I can see the merit of a kilt.’
Were there rules that applied to this sort of situation? ‘Should I do something to—to relieve you?’ she blurted out, then flushed bright red. She sounded as if she was offering to bathe his wounds and not—not... She made a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t know the—the form.’
Innes burst out laughing. ‘This is not a sport! Oh, don’t go all prickly, I didn’t mean— Ainsley, I would love you to relieve me, but there is no need. Well, there is, but I will— It will go away if we talk of something else.’ He stroked her tangle of hair back from her face, his smile gentling. ‘Your pleasure was very much mine, I assure you.’
Was he merely being nice? Polite? She eyed him dubiously. She had always suspected there was something missing even in the early days of her marriage before John began to find her body so repellent, but she had always been under the apprehension that the main event, so to speak, was a man’s pleasure. Not that John had taken much pleasure latterly. A chore. Then a failure. Though he had not seemed to have any such problems alone. She shuddered, still mortified by that discovery.
‘Ainsley, what is it?’
She was about to shake her head, but then she paused. ‘Palpitations. The woman who wrote to Madame Hera, she gives them to herself because her husband does not—cannot. There is something wrong with her husband, then, is there not?’
‘Ignorance, or perhaps he’s just selfish. Is this another of Madame’s problems?’
‘It made me wonder,’ Ainsley said, ignoring this question. ‘Would a man—a husband— If he cannot, with his wife, I mean, but he can—you know, do that...’ She swallowed. She did know the words for this, they had been thrown in her face. ‘Bring pleasure to himself. If he can do that for himself, but he can’t with his wife, then there is something wrong with his wife, isn’t there?’
Innes looked at her strangely. ‘I thought only women wrote to you?’
Ainsley managed a noncommittal shrug.
‘Do you mean can’t or won’t?’
Were they the same thing? She forced herself to think back. No. John had tried, and it had shamed him. ‘Can’t,’ Ainsley said sadly.
He touched her cheek gently. ‘Poor wife. And poor husband. Though I’d say the problem was most definitely his.’
