Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (17 page)

“Is there a pur
pose to your visit?” she inquired, impatiently tapping her foot as she spoke.

“Aye,”
Iain grunted as he put his fists on either side of his belted waist, the mysterious sheet of parchment still gripped in his right hand. “I’ve come to find out wha’ ye’ve done to Diarmid.”

“I
have done nothing to Diarmid,” she retorted. “Why do you ask? Has he taken ill?”

“In a manner of speaking,”
Iain cryptically replied. “He suffers from an addled brain and
you
are to blame for his impairment.”

Yvette cocked her head to one side, admittedly baffled by the indictment.
“How can I possibly be at fault for Diarmid’s state of mind?”

“My steward
used
to be a prudent man with the coin. Until
you
bewitched him with yer female wiles, cajoling him into lavishly spending my money as if there was an endless supply of it,” Iain grated between clenched teeth. “Willfully and knowingly ye did entice him, teasing him into thinking wi’ his cock instead of his head.”

Outraged, Yvette unthinkingl
y raised her hand to slap him.

Iain, as quick as a striking viper, snatched her wrist
in mid-swing, holding her steadfast.

“Dinna d
o it, lass,” he warned. “I willna be as tolerant as I was the last time ye foolishly raised yer hand in anger.”

Yanking her wrist free,
Yvette said, “Did you or did you not give me the authority to manage your household?”

“Aye, I did.
But I didna give you the authority to spend my coin.” Holding the sheet of parchment aloft, Iain waved it in front of Yvette’s face. “At this clipped pace, ye’ll have me spending yer ransom before it’s even collected.”

“
That is hardly a compelling inducement for me to practice greater thrift.”

“Thrift!”

At hearing Iain’s stentorian bellow, every head in the kitchen jerked in his direction.

“By hell, woman!
’Tis clear ye dinna know the meaning of the word!”

Refusing to be browbeaten, Yvette folded her arms under her breasts. Then, defiantly tipping her chin at him, she said,
“Did you enjoy the figs stuffed with cinnamon eggs that you supped on last evening? And the eels with saffron sauce that graced your table two nights ago?”

“Aye,”
Iain replied, a wary look on his face. “I greatly enjoyed both dishes, as well ye know. In the last month I have often complimented ye on setting a sumptuous table.”

“
And sumptuous tables come at a cost,” Yvette retorted. “Now if you will excuse me, I must attend to my duties.”

Having had the last word, Yvette pivoted
on her heel and headed toward the pantry, stopping briefly to grab a lit torch from the wall.

Right on her heels
– the man putting her in mind of a dog refusing to give up its bone – Iain followed her into the storeroom. Ignoring him, she stuffed the torch into an empty cresset holder set near the entryway. The flickering torchlight shone upon the well-stocked lauder, Yvette immensely pleased with her endeavors. Even if the laird of Castle Maoil was not.

Iain’s eyes narrowed as he examined the various foodstuffs that had not been on the shelves a few days prior.

“This is no’ an English household,” he said gruffly.

“I am perfectly aware of that fact.”

“I think no’,” he countered, once again waving the sheet of parchment to-and-fro. “For who but a bloody Sassenach would order twenty casks of Bordeaux wine.
Twenty!
What in the name of all that’s holy am I supposed to do with twenty casks of French wine?”

“
You
are not supposed to do anything with it,” Yvette pointedly informed him. “The wine is to be mixed with Austrian salt. Which is a superior method, by far, for preserving meat.”

“Austrian salt!”
Iain exclaimed, his face turning a furious shade of madder red. “Why, when there is a sea brimming with salt just beyond the castle, would ye order salt from the Austrian hinterlands?”

Searching
the shelves for the spices necessary to make a salmon tart, Yvette peered over her shoulder at him and said, “The salt obtained off your coastline has a gritty taste to it. Unlike the Austrian salt which has been purified.”

“That explains the costly wine and equally expensive salt,”
Iain said to her backside. “Now if ye’d be so kind as to explain the Syrian figs, Tuscan raisins, Greek olive oil, Spanish lemons— Christ above! What’s a lemon?”

Yvette
craned her neck in his direction, surprised to hear that lemons were unheard of on the Isle of Skye. “It is a small tart fruit.”

Evidently dissatisfied with her response,
Iain snatched the pot of cloves out of her hand and spun her around to face him. “Woman, d’ye ken that for the price of yer bloody imported lemons, I could have bought ten bushels of wheat; that being enough grain to keep the two of us in bread for half a year?”

“Be that as it may, the lemons will impart a tart flavor to a variety of dishes,”
Yvette informed him, fast losing her patience with Iain’s oafish behavior. While the man wished to dine like a king, he only wanted to pay a pauper’s silver penny for the meal.

Spying a wooden crate on the floor, Iain threw open
the lid and grabbed an orange. “What is
this
?” he demanded to know, shoving the fragrant fruit under her nose.

Yvette to
ok a deep, appreciative sniff. “’Tis a Valencia orange,” she enthused, already looking forward to sautéing the succulent fruit in a spiced flour batter.

“D’ye have any idea how much these imported oranges cost me?”

“No, I do not.”

“And ye dinna much care,”
Iain accused, tossing the orange back into the crate. “With you running my household, I’ll end up a beggar.”

“But a well-fed one,” Eara cheerfully chimed in
as she stepped into the pantry to retrieve a jug of oil. “We ha’ never eaten sae well. Och, ’twill be a sad day when Mistress Yvette leaves us,” the scullion opined before heading back to the kitchen.

“And when that day comes, God help the Earl of Angus if he doesna put a sturdy lock on his strongbox
,” Iain rasped. “For the woman he is to marry thinks coin falls from the sky like rain from the clouds.”

“I am not a spendthrift!”
Yvette exclaimed in her defense.

“
Hah! I hold the proof of it in my hands,” Iain stubbornly maintained, once more waving his damning piece of evidence in front of Yvette’s face. “And it makes the bile rise up in my belly to think of ye spending my hard-earned coin to buy honey from some godforsaken place called–” he scanned the sheet of parchment with his index finger –“Cephalonia when there is ample honey in the castle’s hives. All of it
free of charge
!”

“
True enough,” Yvette readily agreed. “However, the thyme that is native to the Mediterranean island of Cephalonia imparts a most unique bouquet and flavor to the honey.”

Muttering under his breath, Iain slapped the
parchment onto a nearby shelf. Then, grabbing a pot of Skye honey, he ripped off the lid and jabbed his finger into the clay vessel, completely coating the tip of one blunt, callused fingertip.

“If ye had asked me, I would have told ye that I enjoy the honey from my
own
island,” he affirmed, right before he inserted his finger into his mouth and noisily sucked the sticky honey from it. “’Tis verra flavorful and –” he plunged his finger back into the honey pot, recoating it –“verra sweet.”

“Yes, but
—”

“Taste it,”
Iain said abruptly, holding his finger, dredged in golden honey, to Yvette’s lips.

Flabbergasted, she stared at him.
“Is that an order?”

Iain
placed his free hand on the back of her head. “Aye, an order.”

Trembling, Yve
tte quickly licked his finger one time.

“Is it no’ sweet?”

“It is,” she conceded, her emotions a bewildering tempest of outrage interwoven with a powerful yearning.

“Finish it,”
Iain urged, sinking his fingers into her coiled tresses, effectively holding her prisoner.

Acting purely on instinct,
Yvette wrapped both her hands around Iain’s wrist. Then, closing her eyes, she drew his finger into her mouth and suckled him. With a soft whimper she proceeded to savor the Skye honey, able to taste the underlying saltiness of the man, himself, beneath its floral sweetness.

O
verwhelmed by that potent combination of tastes, Yvette suddenly pulled her mouth away from Iain’s finger, having laved it clean. Lowering her head, she despondently stared at the floor, afraid to look Iain in the eye.

God’s heart!
I am naught but a bawd,
she thought despairingly, humiliated by what she’d done; and the fact that she’d derived pleasure,
nay
, joy from doing it.

“There is no shame in it,” Iain
said quietly, having correctly gauged her unspoken thoughts.

Her cheeks burning with humil
iation, Yvette glanced up at him.

Mesmerized by
what she saw reflected in Iain’s blue eyes, she suddenly sensed that every word exchanged, every glance stolen over the last four weeks, had been leading them to this juncture, both of them aware that they were standing at a crossroads.

His movements unhurried
, Iain freed a skein of hair from the corner of her mouth, several tresses having come loose when he earlier ripped the barbette from her head. As he tenderly touched her cheek, Yvette’s knees quivered beneath her skirts.

“I will not be your whore,” she murmured
plaintively.

“Then be my lady love.”

At hearing Iain’s fervently whispered plea, Yvette’s breath caught in her throat.

Her
emotions in a tumult, she reflexively shook her head. “But I—”

Without warning, Iain sil
enced her protest with a kiss. A kiss infused with honey and the faint taste of whisky. Gently moving his mouth back and forth across her trembling lips, he tasted and nibbled as though her mouth was a tantalizing and succulent delicacy.

I refuse to be
his harlot but—

—
could I be his lady love?

In truth,
Yvette didn’t know the answer to that. She only knew that with naught but a tender kiss, Iain had magically transported her to a place where there was no fear, no anguish, no heartache. There was only pure enchantment. And though only their lips touched, she nevertheless felt a radiant energy vibrate the length of her entire body.

‘Tis a
most pleasurable sensation
, she thought dreamily, charmed into opening her mouth when Iain sought a more intimate exchange.

Once she did,
the whole of her world suddenly contracted into an enraptured tangling of warm breath, honeyed tongues, and mingled sighs.

Groaning, Iain
abruptly pulled away from her, ending the kiss.

A shuddering disappointment instantly came over
Yvette; a disappointment so acute, tears filled her eyes. Confused by what just transpired, she raised a hand to her mouth, still able to feel the imprint of Iain’s lips.

Spellbound, Iain watched as several translucent tears rolled dow
n Yvette’s face. Extending a hand, he captured a glistening drop on the tip of his finger.

God’s mercy, but I want
more than one chaste kiss.

He wanted to pull
Yvette close to him, hoist her hips against his stiffened cock, mold his hands over her breasts, and suckle her like a bairn suckles at its mother’s teat.

But given that the moment was so fragile, he
refrained from acting on those lustful urges. If he behaved like a barbarian, it would shatter Yvette’s trust in him. A trust that he’d worked hard to gain.

Knowing
he looked every inch the randy satyr, what with his kilt puckered between his legs, Iain smiled sheepishly and said, “If ye wish to slap my face, I’ll no’ dispute the reprimand.”

Yvette blinked several times, releasing two m
ore tears from their moorings.

Just then, Diarmid rushed into the pantry, his
face flushed with excitement. “Iain, come quickly! A messenger has arrived from the Lord of the Isles.”

Hearing that, Iain nodded grimly.

’Twas the summons he’d been expecting . . . and had hoped would never come.

Although spring
tide was upon them, an ice storm battered the isle, the inhabitants of Castle Maoil having taken refuge behind peat fires and warm woolen blankets.

All save
for Yvette.

The chill wind, cloaked in
Sister Moon’s pale mantle, seeped through the cracks of the alcove’s closed wooden shutter. As her teeth clattered together, Yvette snuggled even deeper into the folds of her fur-lined cloak. In the moonlight, her breath appeared like hoary plumes of diaphanous smoke.

Unable to sleep, she restlessly paced back and forth across the narrow
expanse of the shadowed oriel. Earlier in the evening, Iain, along with several of his most trusted men, had been noticeably absent from the great hall. The laird’s nonattendance had incited a palpable excitement amongst his kinsmen whose agitated whispers had put Yvette in mind of bees about to swarm. Throughout the meal, all manner of rumors had circulated: the MacDougalls were planning to lay siege to the castle; King Edward had ordered his massive English army north into Scotland; and even speculation that their old enemy, the Norsemen, had been sighted off the coast of Skye.

Although she was a
s curious as the rest of the household to know the contents of the herald’s missive – perhaps even more curious given that she’d seen the grave resignation writ large on Iain’s face when he learned of the messenger’s arrival – Yvette was relieved to have been spared his company at the high table. Since their tender interlude in the pantry, she’d wavered back and forth between reason and desire, her emotions strung as tightly as a quivering bowstring.

In many ways, s
he felt like a traveler who’d begun a journey without proper provision or clear direction. Adrift on a turbulent sea.

How could one tender kiss
wreak such havoc?

While naïve in matters
of the heart, Yvette intuitively sensed that their unplanned kiss had trumpeted a beginning rather than an ending.

But a beginning to what?

While it was true that Iain had entreated her to become his ‘lady love,’ she’d not seen him since his hasty departure from the pantry; and thus she had no way of knowing if his overture rang true or false.

Suddenly sensing another presence in the alcove, Yvette abruptly turned towar
d the entryway. As if her thoughts had conjured him, Iain stood in the entryway.

“Come,” he said, ext
ending an arm in her direction. “Ye canna sleep here wi’out so much as a brazier to ward off the cold.”

As though frozen in place by a chill north wind
, Yvette stood motionless as she stared at his outstretched hand. “If I go with you . . . what will come of it?”

“Only
a warm bed by a blazing fire. Anything more is up to you.” Iain gave her a moment to digest that before he added, “I will no’ take ye against yer will. Ye have my word on it. I will no’ lie . . . I have need of yer body. But this night, I also have need of yer company.”

Yvette
didn’t know if it was the heavy-hearted tone of Iain’s voice or the bleak honesty of the overture that ultimately swayed her. Whatever the reason, she shoved the last of her lingering fears to the wayside.

Stepping
forward, she took Iain’s hand. As she did, it suddenly occurred to her that he was like a beacon in the midst of dark night.

Every pilgrim needs
a fixed point to plot their course
, she acknowledged in that instant. A cynosure in the heavens to guide them on their journey.

Wordlessly, Iain pulled back the length of plaid in front of the alcove’s entry and ushered
Yvette down the hall toward his bed chamber. In the wavering torchlight, he more closely resembled a marauding warrior than the lord of the castle. With his towering height, woolen kilt, and long, black hair braided at the temples, he looked very much like a fearsome savage.

But
Yvette knew there was a gentler side to Iain MacKinnon. And for that reason she gave no protest when he opened the door to his chamber and beckoned for her to enter.

Like a moth to a flame, her eyes immediately gravitated to the crackling fire that burned in the hearth . . . before
her gaze landed on the curtained bed that dominated the chamber. A massive bed, it was set on a platform, piled high with pillows and a curly sheepskin coverlet.

Unbidden, an image of Iain
reclining upon that bed, in naked, savage splendor, flitted across her mind’s eye.

Flustered by her wayward
imaginings, Yvette nervously cleared her throat; as if by such action, she could clear the brazen image from her inner sight.

“Ye can sleep on the trundle,” Iain said, motioning to the quilt-cove
red pallet adjacent to his bed.

“Yes . . . thank you,” she stammered, unable to meet his gaze.

Gesturing to a sturdy table that was placed near the fire, he said, “D’ye play chess?”

In the flickering light shed by a single tallow candle set into
a brass pricket, Yvette could see that in addition to a chessboard, a flagon and two goblets dressed the table. That, combined with the trundle bed, made her belatedly realize that Iain’s invitation had not been spontaneously issued. He had taken care to see that the room was prepared before he came to the oriel.

“I fear I will not be a very challenging opponent as it has been some years since last I played,”
Yvette murmured, the memory of that last match a painful one. In the early days of her marriage to Roland Beauchamp, she’d made the mistake of beating him at chess. A mistake she was made to deeply regret.

“Ye’ve done naught but challenge me s
ince I first set eyes upon ye. Why should tonight be any different?” Iain wryly muttered. Stepping behind her, he unclasped the brooch that fastened her mantle. “Ye’ll no’ have need of this. The room is warm enough.”

As
he started to remove her cloak, Yvette frantically grabbed his wrist to forestall him. “B-but I am dressed for b-bed,” she sputtered, a plain linen smock her only attire.

“So ye are. B
ut first, we’ll play a game of chess.”

“You misunderstand,” she clarified, craning her neck to
peer at him over her shoulder. “I am dressed for bed and you are not.”

“And I can remedy that quick enough, but I think ye should know that I sleep as nature intended me, in naught but my skin.”

Shocked into silence by another wanton vision of Iain lying naked upon the bed, Yvette let him take the cloak without further protest. With care, he placed the garment upon a carved wooden clothes chest. That done, he took Yvette by the elbow and ushered her to table, politely standing by as she seated herself on a stool.

“With spring upon us, such wintry weather is most unexpected,” she remarked
inanely as Iain sat down on the opposite side of the table.

“
Aye.” Reaching for the flagon, he filled both of their goblets.

“But perhaps not so unexpected given that this is a northern clime.”

“Aye.”

Disheartened by
Iain’s repetitive reply, she once more attempted to engage him in conversation. “How long do you anticipate the storm will last?”

Goblet in hand,
Iain stared pensively at the fire. “Aye.”

About to move her
king’s pawn, Yvette stopped in mid-motion. Clearly, Iain had not heard a word she’d said, his mind having wandered far from the chessboard. Mayhap even far from Castle Maoil.

A h
ushed silence filled the chamber. Lost in his thoughts, Iain failed to notice that she’d moved one of the carved ivory pieces.

A goodly amount of
time silently marched past before Iain’s gaze, as sharp as a claymore, suddenly swung in Yvette’s direction.

“The Lord of the Isles has summoned me to Duntulum to ready the
Highland troops,” he informed her matter-of-factly. “King Edward has ordered the English army to invade Scotland. Soon our two countries will be at war.”

The unexpected announcement caused
Yvette’s breath to catch in her throat.

Suddenly apprehensive about the future,
she bleakly stared at the chessboard, afraid that a great devastation loomed on the near horizon. A yawning abyss that would swallow them whole.

“When must you leave?” she asked, strivin
g for a calm she did not feel.

Iain moved his
king’s knight. “At dawn’s first light.”

Another
lengthy silence ensued.

Although she was d
istressed to learn that Iain would be leaving Castle Maoil in a matter of hours, it was what he’d
not
mentioned
that hung between them, heavy as a coat of mail. And that was the fact that when he left on the morrow, he might never return.

Reaching for her goblet, Yvette took a much needed sip, the
spiced wine warming her belly.

“The game of chess is an apt metaphor for these troubling times that we live in, is it not, my lord?”
she remarked, if for no other reason than to break the unnerving silence.

Iain’s dark brows rose, indicat
ing that he was surprised by the comment. “’Tis very apt,” he agreed after a moment’s pause. “Given that ye are an English noblewoman, I would be interested to hear where ye stand on the question of Scottish independence.”

Now it was Yvette’s turn to be surprised
. No man had ever asked her opinion on a matter of such grave importance.

After
carefully considering her response, she said, “I believe it is part of God’s plan that each one of his mortal children have a purpose in life.” A realization that had come to her only recently, her own sense of purpose having greatly expanded since she’d taken over the duties of châtelaine.

“
And while I cannot speak for the people of Scotland,” she continued. “I do know what it is to have one’s freedom denied, to be naught but chattel. If I could, I would choose freedom . . . as would anyone. That said, I cannot help but wonder what it is about your sex that compels you to make war on one another.”

“I dinna know.
We are as we are,” Iain said with a shrug, clearly resigned to his fate. “Mayhap it has something to do wi’ being a ‘great Scottish barbarian.’”

Yvette contemplatively stared at the chessboard a few moments before reaching for her
queen’s bishop. This was not the first time that Iain had mentioned the offensive remark she’d flung at him shortly after he abducted her. And the fact that he did, made her think the insult still rankled.

“When we first met, I did think you little
more than a savage barbarian,” she confessed, her gaze still focused on the chessboard. “But I misjudged you then, my faulty verdict based on prejudice and gossip and wild tales. You are not a barbarian. You are a warrior, true, but . . . I have seen a different side of you.”

Once the explanation was given
, the next few moments passed in silent play, each feigning an absorbed interest in the carved chess pieces.

“Ye’re verra quiet of a sudden,” Iain
remarked, refilling her empty goblet.

“I was wondering –
” Yvette reached for her wine, needing to bolster her flagging courage –“if it frightens you, the prospect of dying in battle?”

Calmly moving
a pawn, Iain said, “I dinna fear death, but–” he smiled ruefully –“I also dinna like the thought of being separated from those I know and love.”

“You would be greatly missed by your kinsmen should you
—” Yvette stopped abruptly, suddenly worried that if she gave voice to the sentiment, the horrible notion might somehow come to pass.

“
Will ye miss me, Yvette, if I die on the field of battle?” Iain asked, not nearly so superstitious.

Yvette f
elt her cheeks instantly color, Iain’s query inciting an emotional tumult.

Rather than answer the question put to her, she instead
posed a question of her own, one that had been needling her for the last four weeks. “Your marriage to Fiona . . . was it a love match?”

Iain
chortled, clearly amused. “Nothing of the sort. Like most marriages, it was arranged by our parents. She was the younger daughter of the Lord of the Isles and I was the son of the MacKinnon. ’Twas considered a good match.”

“But . . . you
did love her?”

T
he humor quickly drained from Iain’s face. “Aye, I did grow to love her.”

“Then you are most fortunate, indeed,” she
remarked, well aware that there had been a time, not too long ago, when she would have vehemently sworn that Iain MacKinnon was incapable of such tender emotion. “I do not think that many arranged marriages end in love. Complacency and mutual distain, yea, but not love.”

Iain stared at her intently before he
finally lowered his gaze and pondered his next move. As she stared at his bent head, Yvette brushed the tip of her index finger over her bottom lip. Although it’d happened hours ago, she could still vividly recall the unexpected kiss in the pantry. A brief, magical moment in which they’d been bound to one another, man to woman. Never in her life had she experienced anything so evocative, so sublime, the chasm between them having been bridged with a lover’s sweet caress.