Spellbound & Seduced (6 page)

But when he saw her today, tending to the smiddy's blistered hands, she'd looked at him so strangely. When he took her aside, told her that his feelings had only matured in her absence, she'd shrunk from him. Hurt, horribly hurt, he had stormed off.

The huge timepiece above the stone fireplace of the castle's Great Hall chimed the hour. Four o'clock in the morning. Christmas Eve. Tomorrow was the day of the ceilidh that his factor insisted he must hold if he were to make good with his tenants. He had never felt less like attending a party. Lawrence threw himself down in the ornately carved chair of black oak at the head of the table. His detailed drawings for the renovations to the castle were spread out before him, but they gave him no pleasure.

He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. There was no doubt in his mind now. He'd been over it and over it and over it for hours every long, sleepless night. There were two things he'd discovered since coming to the Highlands that you just couldn't explain. Magic was one. Love was the other. He was in love with Jura. He didn't know how he knew it, he couldn't say why he was so sure, but he knew. He just knew, with a certainty as unshakeable as the foundations of his newly acquired castle. He loved her.

‘Which leaves me precisely where?' he asked himself as the clock struck the quarter with a painful grating noise. ‘She says she can't love me. She says she doesn't want to see me again. She says she's bewitched by her own spell. She won't undo the spell.' He counted each point off on his fingers. ‘Not to forget the curse,' he muttered.

But when they had been together all that time at the cottage, he couldn't believe she had felt nothing for him. And today, mixed in with the shock of seeing him, and that expression he didn't want to think about, surely there had been pain there too? Lawrence pushed his chair back and began to stride about the room. ‘Am I fooling myself? Just because I feel something, doesn't mean it has to be returned. It can happen, my own father was proof of that.'

He went over it all again from the beginning, counting back his points on his fingers. ‘Not to forget the curse,' he said again, folding back his pinkie. ‘Not to forget the damned curse.' The curse that Jura believed could not be broken. He would die if he loved her, so she would not let him love her. Which meant he'd been looking at it the wrong way round! What if she loved him? What if that was what frightened her?

Lawrence punched the air. Without stopping to think, he ran out of the castle, leaving the huge oak door wide to the elements, into the night, across the slush and mud of the fields, over the rickety bridge and the rushing river to Jura's cottage.

It would snow again soon. The sky was ominous. As Brianag disappeared into the night, Jura latched the window. It had snowed every Christmas Eve she could remember. Lonely as she had been these last years since her mother died, she had never felt quite so alone as she did now, knowing that Lawrence was at the castle making preparations for the ceilidh, talking to his factor, laughing with the villagers and that ancient steward of his, and all without her.

The shock of seeing him today had been severe, though nothing like the shock of realising that her spell had not worked. Which led her, finally, to admit that the spell she had relied on to protect her had not worked either. She could no longer deny her feelings. She loved him, and the knowledge thrilled her and terrified her. She was in love. All her life, she had relied on magic to keep her safe. She had thought her powers supreme. She had not thought that there could be another, stronger power.

So lost was she, seesawing between the wild excitement of loving and the terror of it, that she neither heard nor sensed Lawrence's footsteps. Thinking that the knock on the door presaged a demand for her services as midwife, for one of the women she'd seen today was well over her time, Jura grabbed her shawl. ‘Oh!' For the second time in her life, the man of her dreams stood on the doorstep.

‘May I come in?'

‘No! What do you want?'

‘Why aren't you asleep? You look tired.'

‘So do you.' In fact, he looked quite wild, with his hair curling every way, his waistcoat hanging open, and a day's stubble on his cheek. He wore neither greatcoat nor coat. He had no neckcloth and no hat or gloves either. She had never seen him look so dishevelled nor so attractive. Nor so nervous. Jura pulled the door wide. ‘You'd better come in before you freeze.'

‘Yes.' Exhilaration had carried him like Mercury, the winged messenger, from the Great Hall to Jura's cottage, oblivious of the dark and the sleet and the howling gale that made the trees moan like soldiers dying on a battlefield. Abruptly conscious of his unshaven and partially clothed state, Lawrence realized, even more worryingly, that he hadn't a clue what he was going to say, and that telling his beloved that she looked tired hadn't been the best of opening gambits. ‘I haven't been to bed.'

‘I can see that.'

‘I haven't been able to sleep. Not really. Not since you and I—and then today when I saw you, and you looked at me as if I was some sort of devil…'

‘No, no, it wasn't that. It was just that I thought—I thought you might have—you should have forgotten me.'

‘Forgotten! I've been able to do nothing but think about you since I left. I can't think about anything but you. Every time I speak to someone I wonder if you've tended to them, or helped with the birth of their bairns. All these plans for the ceilidh, all these strange customs and traditions I must learn, the tangle that is the law here, every time I wrestle with it all, I wonder what you would advise me. I hadn't realized how much we laughed together until it stopped. I hadn't realized how soundly I slept with you by my side until you weren't there. How could I have forgotten you? I love you, Jura.'

‘Lawrence don't. I can't bear it. Please don't.'

‘I have to. I can't not speak. I love you. I don't know why I do, or how I can be so sure, but I do, I am. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind at all that it's you, and will always be you that I need, want, love. You are the one I will always be faithful to because I would find it impossible
not
to be faithful to you. I don't even know what it is that I love about you, except that you're you and that's enough. I love you. And I know you love me, Jura, it's the only thing that makes sense.'

‘I can't. I
can't,'
Jura cried in anguish. ‘I don't understand it. One failure I could perhaps—though I have never failed before—but two! It's not possible.'

‘Two?'

‘When you left, I cast another spell because I was afraid that I was falling in love with you. You were to forget me. It was there in great-grandmother's book, a spell to slay love, and her magic has never, ever failed me.'

Lawrence laughed. The soft, husky laugh that made her shiver. He pulled her into his arms. ‘So your powers have failed you?'

Jura nodded miserably.

‘Twice? Which means the first spell failed too? You love me?'

‘Yes. I do, Lawrence, I can't help it, but I do, and I am so, so, terribly sorry, but I will go away from here, you'll forget about me, and then you'll be safe.'

‘Jura, darling Jura, don't cry. You're not going anywhere, and nor am I.'

‘But you'll die.'

‘Part of me will be dead without you. Death could not be more painful than a life without you. Jura, you said a true and perfect love will break the cycle. I love you truly and perfectly. I believe you love me in the same way.'

‘I do. I really, truly do, but…'

‘Twice now, love has proven more powerful than your magic. I'm willing to take a chance on it succeeding a third time, and if it doesn't, I'd rather have a year with you than a lifetime without.'

‘You love me,' Jura said, gazing up at him in awe. ‘You really do love me. Oh Lawrence, I love you so much.'

Their lips came together, their mouths clinging to each other as if they would kiss forever. They kissed, kneeling beside the fire, peeling away the layers of clothing which separated them, kissing each newly exposed piece of skin as if for the first time.

They sat face to face, breast to chest, their legs entwined, in front of the fire, stroking, kissing, she stroking the solid length of him pressed into her belly, the damp heat of her sex moulded to the root of him. Their kisses became more purposeful, hungry, tongue thrust against tongue, lips devouring lips, fingers feverishly skimming, stroking, clutching.

Lawrence laid Jura down, kissing her nipples, her breasts, her belly, along the crease at the top of her thigh, into the slick heat of her sex. She cried out as his tongue flicked over the swollen core of her, tensed when he kissed her there, licked her there, suckled and kissed her again. She was icy cold, save where she was burning hot. She bucked as he licked her. He cradled her bottom and kissed her again and she came. Different from before it was, her release was more like an unravelling than a spiral, a communion rather than a letting go. He was with her. She was with him. She cried out his name, over and over and over as he kissed his way back, up the crease of her other thigh, her belly, her breasts, then her mouth, and this time their kiss was a merging.

Lawrence entered her slowly. She wrapped her legs around him, easing him into her, up and up. When she thought he could go no higher he tilted her and rocked into her, little pulses like the aftermath of her climax, which made the aftermath another beginning. Pulsing, rocking, pulsing, his shaft filling her, her muscles stretching for him to fill her further. Then out, slowly he withdrew before thrusting back in again. Jura shuddered. He moved more urgently now, thrusting harder and higher, intensifying her shudders into spasms, into a whirlwind of feeling, until his final thrust touched a point high inside her and she cried out as he pulsed, poured himself into her, calling out her name in an agony of ecstasy and they found in that moment that two truly can become one.

 

The Yule log, more like half a tree, burned bright in the hearth of the Great Hall. Garlands of holly and fir were strung along the high stone mantel, woven around the carved lintels above the doors. Upon the huge oak table with its five trestles set at right angles to it lay the remains of a magnificent repast. Venison and ox, beef and mutton, the villagers of Dunswaird had feasted until their bellies threatened to burst out of their Sunday-best clothes.

Pewter beer jugs were replaced by the welcome clink of whisky bottles. For the bairns and the righteous—of which there was a small coterie—there was lemonade, made from sour yellow fruits sent all the way from London. For each of the bairns too, there was a sixpence. And for all there was clootie dumpling.

As the tables were cleared in preparation for the dancing to begin, Lawrence got to his feet. Expecting the usual speech, the villagers waited good-naturedly. ‘When I arrived here in Dunswaird,' their new laird said, speaking slowly to give his factor time to translate, ‘I found your customs and laws most confusing. Things up here in the Highlands are very different from England. Many of the things are better. Your whisky, for example.' Laughter rumbled. The villagers lifted their glasses in preparation for the toast. ‘And one thing—one person in particular, I have found better than any other in the world. Ladies and gentlemen of Dunswaird, I give you Jura Mcnair, who I am proud to tell you, has agreed to become my wife.'

A loud gasp greeted Jura as Lawrence helped her to her feet, followed quickly by applause, and a resounding cheer from her coterie of snowball-throwers. She blushed, gripping Lawrence's hand tightly.

‘One of your traditions, I have discovered, I like very well indeed. I find that I can dispense with the tedious formalities which would mean waiting weeks to claim my bride.'

Turning to Jura, Lawrence looked deep into her eyes. No one seeing the look they exchanged could doubt the love they had for each other. A hush fell on the room. Even the bairns were caught up in it. Later, those present would swear that a purest red glow tinged with gold surrounded the happy pair. Later, there would be those who would swear the scent of honeysuckle filled the room.

‘I declare, in front of all present, that I, Lawrence Joseph Connaught, take you, Jura Mcnair, to be my lawful wedded wife.'

‘I declare, in front of all present, that I, Jura Mcnair, take you Lawrence Joseph Connaught, to be my lawful wedded husband.'

The kiss the newlyweds exchanged was every bit as fervent as their love. Amidst cheering, whistles, and a few shocked whispers, while the toasts were still being drunk and the fiddles scraped into life, Lawrence and Jura left the ceilidh hand in hand to begin their married life. Never, in the history of Dunswaird, all agreed, had a couple been seen to be so truly, perfectly in love.

St Stephen's Day, 1823

Jura stood in front of the grave. ‘I only wish you could have lived to see our child,' she said sadly. ‘You would have been so proud.' The baby, tied in the traditional way in a shawl at her breast, gave a hearty cry.

‘I think our son is trying to tell us he's hungry.' Lawrence put an arm round his wife and smiled tenderly down into the child's angry face.

‘Say goodbye to your grandmother,' Jura said, smiling mistily. She kissed her fingers, and placed them on the gravestone. “Goodbye,
Màthair.
I can feel you are at peace now. I hope you know how happy I am. And I hope you do too, my own darling husband,' she added, catching her breath as ever as she gazed into his eyes. The blue of rosemary flowers.

‘I do know that you can't be any happier than I am,' Lawrence said, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her.

‘You think you're happy now,' Jura said, emerging breathless, her eyes alight with love, ‘but I know how to make you happier.'

‘It's not possible.'

She smiled the slow sensuous smile that she knew from delicious experience stirred his blood, but just to be sure, she let her hands trail over his thighs to the satisfyingly hard length of his erection. ‘Tonight,' she said, ‘I think you will find that I am quite recovered from the birth.'

Lawrence shuddered. ‘Will a few hours make so much difference? What is wrong with this afternoon?' he said, letting his hands slide down from her waist to cup her bottom.

Jura's breathing quickened. That familiar and achingly missed knot of tension began to tighten low in her belly, but a hungry howl from the child at her breast quickly loosened it. ‘I think maybe…'

‘I think maybe you're right,' Lawrence said, laughing as he ushered his wife and son back to the waiting carriage. ‘What is a few hours, when we have a lifetime?'