Three Weeks in Paris. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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. 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 history, and 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, so 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 such an expert on Scottish history…’ Kay paused, added: ‘And a bit of a nationalist.’
He laughed. ‘So are you!’
‘Something must’ve rubbed off.’
He smiled at her indulgently.
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?’
‘Is that an invitation?’ he asked, eyeing her keenly.
She simply smiled, beguilingly.
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 on to 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 down. 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, nevertheless, 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 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 windows?’ she asked, pulling away, glancing worriedly towards 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 to 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 ardour, and then almost immediately sat up, pulled off his sweater, struggled out of his shirt, threw them 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.
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.
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 savour her, to pleasure her, before he took his own pleasure with her.
And so he kissed her very slowly, languorously.
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 fibre 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 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