“What keeps you from me, lover? Shall I come to you, like a harem girl in the east?” Her skirt fell down to cover her leg, and her hips swayed with just the right amount of motion while she moved to him. She didn’t rush, knowing full well how to draw out the moment to build up the passion.
“Not tonight, Anyon.”
She fluttered her eyelashes and ran a knowledgeable hand along the front of his kilt. Just a light caress, but she sighed when she felt his erection.
“If ye are weary, I’ll ease the stiffness from yer flesh before ye seek yer bed.”
She sent her hand down to the edge of his kilt, her fingertips touching his bare thigh before denial shot through him so hard he jerked away from her. Hurt crossed her face, confusion filling her eyes.
“Ye desire that Englishwoman ye brought back with ye.”
Hurt edged her words, and she pressed her lips into a hard line before backing up. “She’ll not be able to satisfy ye as I can. She’ll cry that ye bruise her. The English are too soft to be good bedsport.” Anyon held out her arms. “Come to me, lover. I’ll give ye what ye crave as I have before.”
“I know ye have, but tonight I have no appetite for ye, Anyon. ’Tis sorry I am to say such to ye.”
He kept his voice low, but her eyes still blinked rapidly as she tried to hold off tears. Anger darkened her complexion. “Fine then. See what sort of sleep ye get with that swollen cock keeping ye company.”
“Anyon—”
She didn’t give him time to try to comfort her. In a swirl of wool she turned and disappeared down the hallway. The night swallowed her up as though she had never been there.
Gordon Dwyre cursed.
Low and deep and he meant every last syllable.
Jemma fell asleep sometime in the early morning hours. Her body fought against her mind and won, at least for a few hours of much-needed rest. The bed was soft and comfortable, cradling her while her dreams were filled with Gordon Dwyre. Was the man her host? Possibly. She wasn’t sure, but she was equally certain that she did not want to label him her captor for fear that it might be so. That left her tossing and kicking most of the night.
Dawn spread its pink fingers over the horizon, and she opened her eyes because she was sensitive to the change in light. Rubbing at her burning eyes, she looked toward the windows and gasped. Rising from the bed, she walked across the floor to stare at the glass-paned windows. Such was an extreme luxury. Something found in a palace where princes and dukes slept. She reached out and fingered the veins of lead that held the small panes of glass together to fill in the entire window.
“Trade with yer brother has brought many good things to Barras land.”
It was Ula who spoke. Her tone even and just a tiny bit hushed to reflect the early morning hour. Jemma turned to look at her but became engrossed with gazing at the rest of the chamber. Tapestries hung on the wall. Each one was a work of art, the weaving of threads into depictions of legend or biblical stories. The two that hung in the chamber were eight feet by ten and hung on thick wooden beams. One was a soft-colored representation of the baby Moses being placed into the river by his mother. The other was a bright blending of harvest colors depicting plump pumpkins and rich vegetables hanging on vines while two lads sampled them instead of filling their baskets.
“Those were made by the laird’s mother. She had great affection for tapestry weaving.” Ula pointed to the rich shade of orange used to make the pumpkin. “This is Barras orange, and here is the rust, but the boys wear the green and mustard colors of the Seton clan that she came from.”
The housekeeper smiled with the memory. “There are many stories in each one of her tapestries. I am one of the few who recalls them these days, for she never had a daughter to pass her skill along to. Only sons.”
“Many would consider that a blessing and praise her for doing her wifely duty.”
Ula turned to look at her. “All children are a blessing. They bring life to the clan and happiness to all. Is yer sister-in-law growing round yet? Yer brother consummated his vows in the old tower.”
“Um, well she is sick now and the midwife says her belly will rise soon.”
The housekeeper nodded with a gleam in her eyes. “A good time for ye to marry then.”
Ula picked up a brush and patted the top of the large chair that sat near the table where the candle had set last night. It was now a small, melted puddle because she had never pinched it out. That was wasteful, and she frowned as she sat down.
“Ye should not have slept in yer dress.”
Jemma bit her lip to keep from scoffing at the woman. She certainly had not been willing to take her clothing off. Not even her boots, although that was yet another wasteful thing, for her dress might carry dirt into the bed. She looked at the bed to see that she had only pulled the heavy coverlet over herself during the night. At least she had not soiled the sheets. But her back was stiff from sleeping in her hip roll and cartridge-pleated skirts, her skin itchy from the creases pressed into it by not stripping down to her chemise and allowing the garment to flow about her body.
“Yer hair is a mess, to be sure. I am glad ye rise early, else we might not get it all straightened out before the priest rings the bells for Mass.”
“But I am a Protestant.”
The hands in Ula’s hair froze. “Of course ye are. What with yer King Henry the Eighth setting himself up as the head of the Church and getting himself excommunicated. Ye’d be a poor subject to not obey yer king. Mary of Guise is regent for our little Queen Mary and she is Catholic. ’Course, she was born in France, which means she was following her king, too. That’s a woman’s lot in this life, we must adjust to follow the whims of men.”
