Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (21 page)

And
I do love Iain MacKinnon.

But she was an Englishwoman and he was a Scotsman . . .
and never the twain shall meet.

B
ecause she would never be able to garner Iain’s love, she could only hope that his lust would be enough to quench the tender yearnings of her heart.

For s
he would rather live
here,
at Castle Maoil, as Iain’s mistress than to marry an earl she did not love.

“The MacKinnon is at the castle gate!”

At hearing Fergus’s excited announcement, Yvette’s breath caught in her throat.

Poised over a cauldron of cabbage and almond soup, a slotted spoon in her hand, she closed her eyes and mouthed a gr
ateful prayer of thanksgiving. Iain had been gone for four weeks. Four long, nerve-wracking weeks in which she’d daily wondered if he was dead or alive.

With a trembling hand
, she replaced the spoon on a metal hook before turning away from the stone hearth. As she did, she was surprised to discover that she was the recipient of half a dozen curious gazes.

Flustered,
Yvette turned her back on the gaping kitchen scullions and directed her attention to Eara. “The peas need to be added to the soup,” she said, gesturing to the bowl of fresh legumes on the nearby table.

“Aye, mis
tress,” Eara dutifully replied. Then, a knowing smile hovering on her lips, she said, “Are ye no’ going tae the bailey tae welcome the laird home?”

Yvette affected a disinterested
expression. “I had not thought to do so, but . . . mayhap I will. As a courtesy to the laird,” she added when she caught sight of Eara’s widening grin.

“Aye, mistress
. ’Twould be most courteous of ye.”

“Very well, then.
‘Tis settled.” Yvette nervously smoothed several loose tendrils of hair before she said, “If you need me, I shall, um, be in the bailey.”

“I would think the laird will have more need of ye than
I,” the maid retorted, the quip garnering a spate of muffled laughter from the other scullions.

Thinking it best not to chastise them
– lest it provoke more merriment at her expense – Yvette gathered her dignity as best she could and strode from the kitchen, her head held high. Given her and Iain’s very public farewell four weeks prior, she could not hide the fact that she’d become the laird’s mistress. To her relief, Laoghaire MacKinnon notwithstanding, the residents of Castle Maoil seemed to approve of the union, immoral though it was.

A few moments later, her heart hammering against her chest,
Yvette swung open the keep’s stout entry door and stepped outside. Below her, the bailey was a veritable swarm of running children, embracing spouses and barking dogs. Standing on the top step, she hurriedly scanned the crowd, anxious for a glimpse of—

T
here he is!

Placing a hand over her pounding heart,
she watched as Iain dismounted a lathered steed and handed the reins to a waiting gillie. At a glance, she could see that he’d pushed the animal hard, brightening at the thought that perhaps he’d been eager to return to her.

Determined to maintain h
er composure, she slowly descended the stone staircase.

As soon as
Iain swung his head in her direction, Yvette hastened her descent, her intentions instantly eclipsed by her heart’s desire.

When
, in the next instant, Iain pushed several of his kinsmen aside and started toward the stone staircase, a smile on his lips, she lifted her skirts and scampered down the remaining steps as fast as her legs could carry her.

About to throw herself into Iain’s arms,
Yvette caught herself at the last. Instead, she came to a sudden halt, a chaste arm’s length from him.

“Welcome home, my lord.
I am pleased to see you,” she murmured with a downcast face, too embarrassed to look Iain in the eye; afraid that he would see the love she bore for him reflected in her gaze.

Iain
took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. “I ask ye, woman: is that a proper way to greet yer laird?” Placing a hand under her chin, he tipped her head upward. “I verra nearly rode my horse into the ground to return to ye.”

Forced to gaze into those beloved blue eyes, Yvette
feared she might collapse under the weight of her emotions.

After all the lonely, sleepless nights, he
is finally here, in the flesh, and not a figment of my fevered imagination.

“I have thought of little else but your return,” she whispered.

“I missed ye as well, sweet Yvette. Missed ye so much, I all but subsisted on thoughts of seeing ye again.” As he spoke, Iain gently rubbed his thumb across her lower lip. “However, my memory didna do your beauty justice; for I can see at a glance that ye’re even lovelier in the flesh.”

“As are you, my lord.
” Belatedly realizing the absurdity of her reply, Yvette gasped aloud, utterly mortified. “I did not mean to imply that—”

“
’Tis obvious the lady missed me,” Iain teased as he raised her hand to his lips.

At the mere touch of
Iain’s lips upon her hand, Yvette’s knees began to wobble, assailed by a very wanton image of those same lips raining fevered kisses upon her naked body.

Suddenly aware that
someone approached, Yvette furtively pulled her hand free. To her surprise, they were joined by a tall, bearded man dressed in the English fashion.

Startled
at finding herself unexpectedly face-to-face with no less a personage than the king of Scotland, Yvette quickly bowed her head and respectfully dipped her knees.

By all that
is holy, what is Robert the Bruce doing at Castle Maoil?!

“’Tis a great honor that you bestow upon us, sire,” she nervously stammered, casting Iain a questioning glance
as she raised her head.

Iain returned her questioni
ng glance with one of his own. “How is it that ye know the king?”

Answering in Yvette’s stead, King Robert said,
“We met several years ago when I visited Longshanks’ court at Windsor. I remember the occasion well as a man does not easily forget such rare beauty,” he added. “And how fares your husband, the Baron of Monmouth?”

“
My husband died a year ago at Stirling Castle,” Yvette murmured, unnerved by the monarch’s inquisitiveness.

“My condolences, Lady Yvette
,” the king said with a solicitous nod of the head. “And how come you to be at Castle Maoil?”

“I am the laird’s châtelaine.
”

“She is my g
uest,” Iain said over top of her.

At
hearing their conflicting responses, the king’s brow noticeably raised. Possessed of keen wits, he no doubt realized that an unsavory truth lurked behind the discrepancy. But because he also possessed a gallant nature, the monarch had the good grace to keep silent.

T
urning toward his royal guest, Iain said, “I beg yer leave, sire. I must attend to urgent business–” he cleared his throat –“with my, um, châtelaine. My cousin will see to your comfort.” Raising his arm, Iain motioned for Diarmid to join them, speaking to him in Gaelic.

The Bruce grinned wryly as he clapped
a hand on Iain’s shoulder. “I envy you such pleasant business.”

“As does every man present,” Iain
had the audacity to retort as he wrapped a hand around Yvette’s elbow and guided her toward the staircase.

“We have no ‘urgent business’ to discuss,” Yvette hissed under her breath
as Iain nudged her up the steps. “And as your châtelaine, it is
I
who should see to the king’s comfort, not your steward.”

“’Ti
s naught but a mere formality,” Iain said with an unconcerned shrug. “Since I am doing the king a great favor, I dinna think he will much mind who serves his whisky.”

When they reached the
top of the steps, Iain opened the door, stepping aside so that Yvette could enter before him.

As he guided her down the dimly lit corridor,
he bent his head to Yvette’s ear and whispered, “I think ye should know that our business is
verra
urgent. Although I dinna think we will be doing much talking while it’s being conducted.”

“Surely, you don’t mean to suggest that
—”

“Aye, I do
. And I canna wait until I get ye to my bed chamber,” Iain husked right before he pulled Yvette into his arms and kissed her, holding her so tightly that her breasts were smashed against the leather plackets of his armored vestment.

Feeling the sudden heat of Iain’
s hand upon the rounded curve of her buttock, she moaned softly into his mouth; whereupon, Iain seized the opportunity to ardently thrust his tongue between her lips. Equally ardent, Yvette rotated her hips against him, Iain immediately returning the amorous nudge.

“The thought of ye has been driving me to distraction these last four weeks,”
he muttered against her mouth.

“I, too, have been distracted.”
As she spoke, Yvette slid her hands over the tensed muscles of Iain’s biceps, relearning the shape and feel of his body.

Taking hold of one of her roaming hands, Iain raised it to his lips.
“I kept remembering how soft ye were. And how sweet ye tasted when I parted yer legs and lapped at yer woman’s nectar. ’Twas like the sweetest honey.”

At hearing that
provocative utterance, Yvette whimpered, enthralled by the heady image those whispered words invoked. In that instant, she wanted Iain so desperately, she cared naught who might witness their passionate embrace.

Or so she thought until she
heard the patter of footsteps.

“Someone approaches,” she hissed in a panicked voice
just before she shoved Iain away from her.

“Can a man no’ have a moment’s privacy in his own castle?” Iain loudly complained when a trio of giggling servants scurried past
on their way to the bailey.

Dejectedly realizing that an intimate reunion would have to wait until much later, Yvette said,
“You know as well as I that privacy is hard to come by within these stone walls.”

“
True enough. But I know a verra private place where none dare trespass,” Iain whispered in her ear.

Suddenly r
ealizing his intent, Yvette balked. “We cannot retire to your bed chamber whilst the sun is still shining. ’Twould be unseemly! A reckless kiss in a dimly lit hall is one thing. But it would be most indiscreet of us to—”

“I told ye, I canna wait,”
Iain interjected, a pleading look on his face.

Torn between her sense of propriety and the yearnings of the heart, Yvette was thrown into a quandary. “I, too,
am anxious to share your bed. But I fear the salacious talebearing that will ensue if we allow passion’s tide to sweep over us. And lest you forget, you are playing host to your king.”

“He is naught but a man.
He knows what it is to ache for a woman.”

“Mayhap he does
. But I am sure that King Robert would never besmirch a noblewoman’s good name,” she pointedly remarked.

“Are ye suggesting that I care naught for yer woman’s honor?”

“I am suggesting that at
this
moment, your thoughts are not governed by reason alone.”

Canting
his head to one side, Iain speculatively eyed the prominent bulge between his hips. “I canna deny the charge. But if we
could
indulge our pleasure without sullying yer good name, would ye be amenable?”

Although certain the two goals were incompatible, Yvette warily nodded
her head.

Smiling, Iain said, “Then I
suggest we adjourn to the supply room in the basement where—”

“Fergus and several of the other scullions ar
e in the basement salting meat,” she matter-of-factly informed him.

“Curse them!”

“Perhaps the solar?” she suggested.

“We canna cavort in there unless we want a royal au
dience,” he said with an amused chuckle. “That is where I told Diarmid to take the Bruce.”

Su
ddenly inspired, Yvette grabbed hold of Iain’s hand. “You have a stable of horses at your disposal. Surely we can find some measure of privacy outside these castle walls.”

Nodding enthusiastically, Iain said,
“Aye, we can at that.”