Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Alisdair awoke to find Iseabal curled at his side, her hand curved around his body, a portion of which was fully engorged and eager.

Aboard ship, he would be up and about his duties by now, but he was a bridegroom and as such allowed, even expected, to be indolent. Lustful thoughts kept him occupied for a few moments before he reluctantly slipped from the bed.

Drawing open the curtains, Alisdair was surprised to discover a deep balcony extending the length of the room. Opening the French doors, he stepped outside, taking in the view.

An early-morning sun illuminated the rectangular lawn, neatly cropped and framed on both sides with a series of conical-shaped topiary bushes. At the end of the expanse, as if to catch the eye, was a large circular pool dominated by a fountain of bronze fish merrily spewing water into the air.

Perhaps this was why the room was called the royal chamber, he thought, smiling. The scene before him was fit for a king.

The vista was not all bucolic, however. In the distance was the home farm, its fields ripening and soon to be harvested. A grove of trees hid the sight of the stables and the large enclosures where horses from Brandidge Hall were trained and run.

All details he'd learned the day before, when he'd realized exactly what being the Earl of Sherbourne truly meant.

Turning away from the scene, he entered the room once again, leaving the doors open behind him. For a few moments he watched Iseabal sleep, reassured that he hadn't disturbed her.

His wife. She now lay on her left side, her legs drawn up beneath the sheet. Her cheek was cradled on her left arm, her right hand stretching out as if her fingers were reaching for him even in sleep.

At the moment, she looked like an innocent, yet she'd enticed him with the skill of a courtesan until he'd behaved like an untried youth. He'd taken more pleasure than he'd given, Alisdair thought.

The sudden knock on the door was peremptory, an almost dictatorial summons. Alisdair crossed the room, annoyed.

"A little less noise would be appreciated," he said, opening the door.

Simon stood there, his expression inscrutable as usual. Beside him stood a fresh-faced young footman bearing a tray piled high with domed dishes, a large china teapot, and two cups. The vase of roses, Alisdair suspected, was Patricia's addition.

Simon glanced at him, then away, as if he had never before seen a naked man. The footman, however, began to grin before being chastised by the older man's swift frown.

"Your breakfast, my lord," Simon intoned in that stentorian voice of his.

"Thank you," Alisdair said curtly, taking the tray. Without further comment, he closed the door with his foot. A sputter of sound indicated Simon's indignation well enough, but at least the fool had the sense not to knock again.

Halfway back to the table, he glanced toward the bed. Iseabal was awake, and leaning up on one elbow. Her hair was in disarray, a cloud of ebony falling over her shoulders, her eyes lambent pools of green. A beautiful woman, rendered doubly so by the faint morning light.

"Breakfast," he said, feeling absurdly awkward. "Would you care to join me?"

"Must I be naked?" she asked, smiling.

"It's not a requirement," he said. "But it might give new meaning to the word ‘appetite.'"

She sat up, modestly arranging the sheet around her. He should have told her that her efforts were too late; he could still feel the heavy curve of her breasts, and the stiffening of her nipples against his exploring thumbs.

"I have nothing to wear," she said softly. Iseabal's cheeks were deepening in color as she threaded her fingers through her hair. A siren, a Circe, a sorceress of the most elemental kind. One who could lure a man, seduce him from duty into pleasure.

He was willing and more than ready.

After placing the tray on the table, Alisdair walked to the armoire. Iseabal's clothes had been placed beside his, a sleeve of her jacket brushing the cuff of his coat. Selecting the garment he wanted, Alisdair returned to her side, laying it beside her on the bed.

"If nothing else," he said, amused at himself, "the nightshirt will keep my mind on my breakfast."

She smiled at him in perfect accord, looking as pleased with herself as he felt.

Iseabal donned the nightshirt hurriedly, one rosy nipple peeping from beneath the sheeting. Before she could cover it with the red wool, he bent over, cupping one hand beneath her breast and placing a kiss on its tip.

"A good-morning kiss," he said, explaining.

Her blush deepened as his smile grew. Holding out his hand for her, he pointed the way to the dressing room, leaving her some privacy for her morning ablutions.

When she returned, her face had been washed, her hair brushed. The collar of his nightshirt was neatly arranged, the laces done up and tied with a pretty bow. She walked toward him, her hands gathering up the material, her pink toes showing beneath the voluminous garment.

He would need to add to her wardrobe and soon, he thought. Even a nightshirt was not covering enough.

In her absence, he'd moved the table to the balcony, taking away the dinner dishes and replacing them with the breakfast tray. He'd also taken the precaution of donning his breeches and a shirt. He didn't give a whit for modesty, but he wanted to restrain his physical reaction to her. Although, Alisdair thought as she smiled at him, it might well be that all he'd accomplished was to cause himself discomfort.

Pulling out the chair for her, he waited until she sat before joining her at the table. She stared out at the view before them, as entranced as he had been earlier.

"Can you truly leave all this?" she asked, awed.

"It isn't mine," he said, having realized that before she'd awakened. "I'm only one of the Sherbourne earls. My chief duty, I believe, is to leave the estates in no worse condition than I found them. For our son and his son, and so on."

Her wide-eyed stare made him want to kiss her.

"Had you not considered it?" he asked, concentrating on buttering his toast, thinking that he had been right in his prediction. The breeches were uncomfortable even now.

She shook her head, then glanced behind her in the direction of the wall of portraits. "You'll be there," she said, her voice sounding bemused. "And our son."

Somehow it sounded different when she said the word, inviting. Alisdair wouldn't mind beginning that particular son's creation right at the moment. Perhaps practicing the endeavor over and over again until he felt less callow and more in control of his reactions to her. He'd even bring her pleasure, he vowed.

He glanced at her, wondering how Iseabal would look when passion overcame her. Would she scream and hold him tight? Or would she simply hold herself restrained, feeling all those unbearable sensations secretly?

Why was it so damn difficult to swallow a bit of toast?

"Perhaps there is a gallery of Sherbourne countesses somewhere," he suggested, turning his thoughts to something less visceral. "We shall arrange to have your portrait painted as well."

"I sincerely hope not," she said, pouring more tea into her cup. She made a face at it, and he retaliated by dropping more sugar into the dark, bitter brew. "I'm not certain that I would want people to speculate on my life a hundred years from now."

"Then it is their loss," he said affably, considering her. "Perhaps they'll understand you if they look in your eyes. When you're angry, they flash with lightning. Or now, when they're soft and seem as deep as the ocean." He tilted his head, a smile curving his lips. "What emotion is that? I wonder. Happiness? Or contentment? Or simply a good night's sleep?" Not the afterglow of satiation, he thought, once again chastising himself. He'd been too quick last night, but at least he'd climaxed inside her. He'd had grave doubts about lasting that long.

Her blush deepened, but she didn't look away.

He smiled, his hand pushing an errant lock of her hair behind her shoulder. "Perhaps my brother Brendan should paint you as you are now," Alisdair said. "With your face lit by the sun, and the smallest smile on your lips, as if you cannot decide whether or not to smile or frown." He continued to study her. Without warning, he leaned over and kissed his bride, surrendering to an undeniable impulse.

The sun was muted behind his eyelids, his breath cut short by the tender placement of her palm against his cheek. Once again he felt lost in her kiss, transported into desire so effortlessly it was almost magical. Finally he pulled back, the gazes they shared those of startled wonder.

She looked away, sitting back in her chair. Silence stretched between them, a thread so small as if to be invisible, but linking them all the same.

When had Iseabal's kiss become so necessary to him? Breath and food and water and Iseabal. From the first moment he'd seen her? Or at the first flash of her irritation at him? Or when she stood in front of him last night, silently encouraging him with her tentative smile?

"Is your brother an artist?" she asked after several minutes, seemingly entranced with the view.

"Yes," he said, grateful for the change of subject. "He sketches and sometimes works in oils. Hamish plays the pipes, and Douglas is the troublemaker," he added, thinking of his youngest brother. "In all fairness, Douglas is still too young to have formed his habits."

"A poet, a painter, a musician. Yet you all go to sea," she said, glancing at him.

"A man cannot provide for his family or his future without an occupation," he said.

"Yet you've given up yours," she said. "All to rebuild a castle."

"No," he said, gently correcting her. "A castle and a shipyard."

She was surprised once again. "A shipyard?"

"The home of the finest ships in the world," he said, smiling. "MacRae ships that can sail across the oceans faster than any others."

"Is it true that you were an explorer?" she asked, fingering the edge of her cup. "Or that you found a continent?"

"Ames's words," he said. "He took a bit of knowledge and expanded it solely with the intent of goading me, I think." He uncovered a dome to discover porridge. Frowning at the two bowls, he covered them again. "I was part of the discovery, and a small one at that."

"Perhaps you're too modest," she said.

"No," he replied, "just truthful. It was an accident that I saw the peninsula. I was overdue for a meeting with my brothers and didn't pursue the matter. I wanted to get to port before they sailed."

"Won't you miss them if you live in Scotland?" she asked, tracing a delicate pattern around the rim of her plate.

"Yes," he said honestly, lifting the cup to his lips. "But Scotland is no more difficult to reach than China, so I expect them often enough at Gilmuir."

"And your parents? Will they come back?"

"The Raven returns?" Alisdair smiled, considering the question. "I doubt it," he said. "The danger for my father is still too great."

"Two more people to miss," she murmured, studying the silverware with intensity. He wondered if there would come a time when she'd look at him with such directness. "Yet you think of Gilmuir as your birthright, not this place."

He nodded.

"You love the Fortitude," she added. "And the ocean."

"While you love rocks and stones and Gilmuir."

She looked startled, the expression summoning his smile.

"We're not quite strangers after all," he said gently.

She blushed, the rosy tint not hard to decipher. Last night they'd come to know each other well. "What is your favorite season?" he asked to ease her embarrassment.

"All of them," she replied. "Spring is new life, the lambing season. Summer brings warm winds and the fullness of the flowers. Autumn is a long farewell, and winter only makes you grateful for the other months in the year."

"Autumn is my favorite," he said. "For the danger of it. Spring winds are gusty, but autumn brings gales and hurricanes."

She glanced at him, obviously surprised. "You like danger, Alisdair?"

He fingered the hilt of his knife, wondering if he could explain. "Not foolishly so," he said. "I like the contest of it, wondering if I can win, being willing to pit myself against a formidable foe."

"While I would much rather be a coward in a cave," she said ruefully.

"Women are to be protected, Iseabal," he pointed out. "Not expected to fight."

"But women have their own contests, Alisdair," she said, turning directly toward him. "Or do you think birthing a child an easy thing?"

Alisdair shook his head, realizing that he'd suddenly gotten his wish. Her look was level and direct, even though her cheeks were still blossoming with color.

"The only time I've ever seen my father unmanned," he admitted, "was when my mother was confined with my brother Douglas."

The thought of his child growing in Iseabal should have been a solemn one. A serious matter, this breeding of a heritage. Instead, his body fueled his mind with another image, that of planting his seed deep inside her.

He spread his legs even farther apart, easing the constriction of his breeches.

Several moments were devoted to eating, the clinking of utensils. He sipped his tea, easily identifying the Keemun Congou blend.

A quick glance revealed Iseabal smiling faintly, her chin propped on her hand, elbow resting on the table.

"Will you be unmanned, Alisdair?" she asked, her low tone ensuring that his breeches were suddenly painfully tight. "When I'm confined with our child?" she added.

"Aren't we being precipitous?" he said calmly, wishing that another topic of conversation would immediately come to his mind. But every memory, every thought, had been oddly expunged by her look. An awakening temptress.

"Last night you told me you always felt ready for me," he said boldly, remembering the moment only too well when his fingers had found her wet and hot.

She nodded, her gaze not on the table but on him.

"Do you feel that way right now?" he asked, his words grating, almost harsh.

She only smiled.

His hunger for food appeased, Alisdair stood, pulling Iseabal up to him. He might as well be wearing no clothing at all. He could feel each of her curves and indentations, and the swelling of his joyful manhood, expectantly exuberant.

"It's too soon," he said aloud, hoping that she would disagree.

She startled him by pulling back and moving to the pedestal.

"Why?" she asked, climbing onto the mattress.

"You're too sore," he said. How quickly, he wondered, could he undress?

"Am I supposed to be?" she asked curiously, tipping her head to the side.

"I believe so," he said dryly. "Although my experience with virgins is somewhat lacking."

Iseabal shook her head, her hair falling over her shoulders in an ebony waterfall. "I don't feel sore," she said quietly.

"Thank God," he said, relieved, and was delighted by her smile.

He began unfastening his shirt, moving slowly toward her. "Do you realize what this means?" he asked, brushing a kiss against her cheek.

"No," she answered softly, looping her hands around his neck.

"Now the pleasure begins," he said with a smile, reaching for her.