The Secret Gift (33 page)

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to.

“All I’m asking is for the time to find that out,” Graeme said.

“Very well.” The duke went to the desk, thumbed through his calendar. “I will try to hold Cleary off until mid-November. I won’t be able to wait any longer than that. I’m afraid. If things don’t work out with this American and there’s to be a wedding with Amaranthe, the girl will need time to plan it. That will only be giving her five or six months.”

Graeme nodded, accepting the arrangement. “Thank you. Your Grace. I appreciate your consideration. I shall be in touch.”

Graeme got up to leave. He was anxious to be done with his business, anxious to return to the castle ...

... and to Libby.

“Graeme?”

He stopped at the door, turned.

His uncle still stood at the desk, framed in the light of its magnificent arched window behind him.

“Good luck to you, son.”

Perched on nearly the top rung of the ladder, Libby stretched her arms and slid the portrait into place over the two hooks she’d just hammered into the wall.

“Is that straight?”

Behind her, Flora stood, arms crossed, cocking her head to the side. “A little to the right. No, too far. Now to the left. Wait. Can you duck down a wee bit? Yes, that’s grand. Perfect. It’s just perfect.”

Libby descended the ladder and stood back to admire their handiwork. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? It’s absolutely perfect.”

They’d found the portrait tucked away in one of the castle garrets, hidden beneath furniture and an old rug. Thankfully, the rug had protected it, leaving it virtually untouched. The gold plate affixed to the frame still read clearly,
CALUM MACKAY OF WRATH, 1758.
Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds himself, it should have been hanging in a museum, not moldering away, forgotten, in an attic.

It was a magnificent image. He stood full length with one hand resting on the silver basket hilt of his sword, the other poised at his kilted hip. Dark hair, which looked to have been tousled from the blustery sky that was depicted behind him, was tied back over the high collar of his rich red coat. Gold braiding and a waistcoat of patterned sateen were buttoned over his trim figure. Legs corded with muscle stretched out at length from beneath the kilt he wore, the calves swathed in tartan hose and buckled shoes.

But it wasn’t until Libby looked more closely that she saw past the embellishments, to the characteristics that told of the true Calum Mackay.

There was his steady chin that spoke of strength, a firm, uncompromising mouth hinting at stubbornness, with a stance that was confident and resolute as he stood above the tumbling sea. His castle, his domain, stood in the distance behind him, and there was sheer power in his potent gaze as he looked out at her. Intent, challenging, the longer she looked at him, looked at his eyes, the more Libby felt as if it were he looking out from that portrait onto her. This was a man who knew his place in the world, who had not merely posed to appear glorious for a painting. This was a man who had been glorious in his own right.

“I know he was my great-great-great-whatever-grandfather, but I have to say he was one handsome man, wasn’t he?”

Flora nodded in agreement. “I certainly wouldn’t be turning him out of my bed now. Lady Isabella was a lucky lass. I remember hearing once, when I was a child, that he was a twin.”

“A twin?” It was the first Libby had ever heard of it.

“Aye. Can you just imagine two of them as fine as tha’ walking about these parts? This one, Laird Calum, he was a pirate, too. You see that ship painted in the portrait?”

Libby hadn’t even noticed the tall-masted ship depicted in the distance behind him until Flora had mentioned it.

“That was
The Adventurer,
and on it Laird Calum sailed the high seas. But he was not a pirate in the sense of a blackbearded cutthroat who pillaged villages and raped innocent women. He raided English prison ships. You see, after the last Jacobite rebellion, many Scots were thrown into these big hulking boats and sent off to the Colonies, never to see their homes or their families again. The conditions were so bad, many of them died afore ever reaching land. It was the English Crown’s plan for ridding the Highlands of the clan ‘rabble,’ but Laird Calum, he sailed the seas and overtook the prison ships, freeing the Scottish prisoners afore they could be sent from their homeland. Many of those he freed are ancestors of the people who still live in this village. My own great-great-great-great-grandfather was one of them.”

She looked at Libby then. “You know, in your own way, you’re doing the same thing in fighting to keep the village from being sold out from under our feet. Must be you’ve got some of that pirate blood in you as well, aye?”

Libby looked at the image of her handsome ancestor and beamed with pride. “I never knew that.”

“Well, ’tisn’t taught much in the history books, but it’s the stuff of legend around these parts of the Highlands. Must’ve been such an exciting time, aye? Sailing the high seas, fighting redcoats. They say there was even a sword fight right here in this castle a’tween Lord Calum and the British soldiers who had come to capture him. ’Twas only with the help of Lady Isabella’s father, who was an English duke, that he avoided hanging.”

“Goodness!” Libby exclaimed. “I’m related to an English duke?”

“ ’Tis what they say. You know, you should talk to old Gil. He would know more than most the auld stories of the Mackay.” Flora glanced at the clock on the wall. “Och, is that the time a’ready? I’m afraid I’ve got to leave a wee bit early today, if that would be all right with you.”

“Of course. Is something wrong with one of the children?”

“Nae, nothing like that. It’s just I’ve promised to help in setting up for the
ceilidh
tonight.”

Libby looked at her and attempted to repeat,
“Kaylee?”

“Aye. ’Tis a traditional Scottish get-together. Back in the auld days, the villagers would come together to share food and, of course, drink, dancing, and stories. It was a means of keeping ties close within the clan.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Libby said. “You go on, then. And have a nice time.”

“What d’ya mean? You’re not coming?” Flora shook her head. “Och, miss, it’s not a formal sort of party, if that’s what you’re thinking. You don’t need to have an invitation or anything like that. We have the
ceilidh
once a month, and everyone comes who wants to come. Backpackers, tourists, anyone who happens by. ’Tis just our way of keeping the village folk connected, especially the older ones who don’t have much to keep themselves occupied the rest of the time. I thought sure someone would have told you about it by now. You must come and you must bring the laird, too. Old Gil will be there. You could ask him to tell some of the auld Mackay stories. The children always love that. You know, I’ve always thought it a shame no one has ever written those auld tales down, to save for the future generations.”

Libby remembered something then, something she’d read in Lady Isabella’s
Book of the Mackay.

It is my hope that perhaps, God willing, my own descendant might one day continue this endeavor in a subsequent volume, setting down the lives and history of those who will follow after me.

“All right, then,” Libby said. “I will come to the
ceilidh.”

“Seven o’clock t’night, at the village hall.”

“Seven o’clock it is, then.”

After Flora had gone, Libby took a last look around the room they had just finished. It was the laird’s suite, the room just off her own bedchamber. She’d been working on restoring it for nearly a week, and with Flora’s help she’d aired it out, laundered all the linens, and polished every piece of furniture till it shone. On Gil’s suggestion, she’d even employed a couple of the local villagers who had proved very capable carpenters and painters. The walls of the laird’s suite were now a dark, rich green, setting off the elegant mahogany furnishings and the fine marble of the hearth. It was a room that exuded every bit of the masculinity portrayed in that portrait she’d just hung above the mantelpiece—all of the power, the potency, and the boldness befitting a pirate’s den.

But as she stood back surveying the results of her hard work, Libby wasn’t thinking of her pirate ancestor at all.

She was thinking of another handsome Scotsman. She was thinking of ...

“Graeme!”

She hadn’t noticed him standing in the doorway. “I thought you were going to be in London today.”

“I was,” he said, coming into the room. “And now I’m back. I finished early.”

“Oh.”

“What’s all this?” he asked, taking a look around the room.

Libby had managed to hide their work on the room from him. She’d meant it to be a surprise for him. “This is the laird’s suite.” She looked at him, and added softly,
“Your
suite.”

Graeme gave her a look that could have burned her, it was so intense. “Well, then,” he said, sliding his hands around her waist, “the laird should like to see if that bed is as comfortable as it looks ...”

He lowered his head and claimed the side of her neck with his mouth, sending a shock of raw pleasure jolting through her. Libby opened her mouth, sucking in a breath as he kissed along the column of her neck, burying his face in her hair.

“But Graeme, it’s the middle of the afternoon!”

Graeme simply smiled and flicked the top button of her sweater open. “Indeed it is.”

“But ...” Libby momentarily lost the will to protest as his mouth resumed its work on her neck. “This morning ... the piano ... we already ...”

Another button.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he breathed against her ear. Another button.

“I’ve been
wanting
you all day,” Graeme whispered, and pushed her sweater over her shoulders until it was sliding off her arms.

Graeme could tell from the uncertainty in her eyes and the way she crossed her arms over her breasts that she had likely never made love in the daylight before. He took her wrists, eased them down to her sides.

“Graeme ...”

“Libby ...” He stared into her eyes. “I want to see you.”

“Yes, but ...”

“Do you truly not realize how very beautiful you really are?”

She blinked, not knowing what to say. It was obvious from her expression that she didn’t. Not by a long shot. But he intended to show her just how beautiful she was.

He led her slowly back to the bed, never taking his eyes from hers as he eased her down to lie on the thick coverlet. He reached up and loosened the clip that bound her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders in a tumble of dark waves. He watched her blink as he slowly traced a fingertip over her brow, across her cheek, rubbing it over the fullness of her bottom lip before he took her mouth in a slow, achingly tender kiss.

Slowly Graeme moved his hand down to the button of her jeans and loosened it, releasing the zipper. He lifted her hips, eased the pants down over her legs, pulling them away. A scrap of lacy panties that stretched across her hips, and a scrap of lacy bra were all that remained.

Libby sat up, kneeling on the bed beside him, and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing his mouth to hers. He felt her reach for his tie, felt her loosen its knot and slide it from around his neck. He felt her loosen every button on the front of his starched white shirt. She pushed the shirt back, not even bothering to pull the tails from where they were tucked in his trousers, and moved her mouth along his neck to his shoulder, then to his chest. He sucked in a breath. He could feel her tugging at the buckle of his belt, felt her loosen his trousers, and helped her pull them away.

They lay back together on the bed, arms and legs and mouths locked in a hot, wet tangle. Graeme wanted to feel her against him, the heat, the silk of her skin, and it wasn’t long before he had made good work of those two remaining scraps of lace. His senses reeled. He’d never known this—this need for another human being. All day he’d been thinking about her, missing her. It was new, this feeling, because he’d kept himself, his heart and his body, so closely guarded for so long. But this woman. Somehow she had reached to the very soul of him, touching him more deeply than he’d ever thought possible.

Graeme filled his hands with her breasts, saw her drop her head back and close her eyes as his fingers touched her, teased her, heard her gasp when he closed his mouth over her nipple.

Her hands raced over him, over his back, through his hair. “Graeme ...”

She said his name as if she were beckoning to him, and she was.

And he gave.

Oh, did he give.

He could feel her heart pulsing wildly beneath his touch, and knew that same desperation, that same intense need. He slid one hand downward, stroking between her legs, to the slick center of her and worked and caressed until he felt her body rocking against him, climbing, striving to her climax. He could not bear the waiting any longer. With one powerful, unyielding thrust, he buried himself completely inside of her.

He knew she was close to her climax, and he grabbed her by her hips, drawing her higher, so that she would take him more deeply. He felt her muscles bunch as he moved with an ever-increasing rhythm of thrusts and strokes. He slid his hand between them and teased her until he had brought her to the edge. She arched against him. He watched her face as she found her release, saw the play of raw, sexual emotion, and took her mouth with his as he buried himself completely within her. His body rocked with his climax, his breathing trembled, and she held to him tightly while they soared.

They could hear the music echoing from the village hall even before they arrived at the
ceilidh.

The day was mild, the sun just setting, and Libby and Graeme decided to walk the distance from the castle to the hall, fingers linked, taking the same path Flora always did, which cut across the pastures and wound along the cliff tops overlooking the sea.

They took their time, stopping more than once along the way to watch the color streaking across the autumn sky. They chatted, exchanging glances as lovers do. Graeme spotted a late-blooming sprig of sea pink and plucked it, tucking it gently behind Libby’s ear. She thanked him with a long, tender kiss that wrapped them in the sea wind’s soft embrace.