Wolf, Joan (12 page)

Van gave a sudden deep chuckle.

"We won't make any mention of my political party," Edward said dryly.

She looked at him, suddenly somber. "I will never curtsy to the elector, Edward."

He was equally serious in reply. "I would never ask you to." He raised her hands to his mouth and kissed her fingers and then her palms. "I think you had better go on up to bed."

She closed her fists over his kiss, as if to hold it safe. "Good night," she said softly. "M'eudail."

They stared at each other. "You and I," he said at last, and the familiar amusement was back in his voice. "Who would have ever thought it?"

Van rose to her feet. "Well, I know someone who is going to be delighted," she informed him. "Your mother. She has been praying for years for you to get married!"

He began to laugh, and after a light, proprietary touch on the top of his now-dry gilt hair, she went upstairs and got into bed.

Lady Linton was more than delighted; she was ecstatic. As Van finished her letter to her mother, she found herself wishing that her own parents would react to the news with such wholehearted approval. Her mother very well might, but there was no disguising from herself the fact that her father was going to be furious.

She wouldn't think about it, she decided, after she had given her letter to Edward to be franked and posted. There was nothing else she could do, so she might as well stop fretting and enjoy the time she had with Edward. The time seemed even more precious because of the half-buried fear of her father's reply.

It was astonishing, Van often found herself thinking, how brilliant and beautiful life could be when you did even the smallest, most trivial thing with the one you loved.

A thought similar to this came to her one afternoon as she leaned against the paddock fence and watched Edward work Marcus. As always, the grace of the huge stallion, the complete harmony between horse and rider, brought an ache in her throat. Then Marcus began to come down the center line of the paddock toward her at a slow canter. As Van watched, he began to change leads at every step. Her eyes widened with sheer astonishment.

"What was that?" she asked Edward when they had halted in front of her. "It looked as if he were dancing!"

"Flying changes of lead on every step," he replied. "It's difficult to do." His blue eyes laughed at her and he grinned like a schoolboy. Van's heart turned over. "We were showing off for you," he said.

"It was beautiful." Her voice was very soft. "Can you do it again?"

"Of course," he replied cockily, and turning Marcus to the diagonal line of the paddock, he proceeded to do so.

Van drew a deep breath. This is happiness, she thought. Standing here, with the sun on my head, and Edward and Marcus showing off for me. No matter what may happen, this is a moment I will always have. Nothing can take it away from me.

The spring weather was beautiful and for the week they were at Staplehurst they were almost always outdoors. One afternoon Edward took Van fishing at a small secluded lake a few miles from the house.

"I know it's nothing to compare to Loch Morar," he said to her, "but I spent a great many happy childhood days at this lake."

They had finished fishing and were picnicking on some cold meat and fruit Edward had brought along with them. Van's white teeth bit into a perfect peach from the Staplehurst greenhouse and she looked thoughtfully around the small, glassy lake on whose shores they were so comfortable reclining.

"It's very pretty here," she said, and meant it, "But, no, it's nothing like Loch Morar."

"What is Morar like?" he asked, his deep voice curiously quiet.

"Morar is beautiful," Van answered. "The loch is surrounded by mountains." She looked around. "Nothing is green, as it is here. It's all jagged cliffs and purple heather, and the sky, on a clear day, is blue as cobalt. When you look in the waters of the loch you can see the mountains as if in a mirror." She rested her chin on her up-drawn knees. "At the end of the loch is the sea." Her eyes were focused ahead, on something quite different from the placid waters of Staplehurst's little lake "When you look across the sound, you can see the Cuillens of Skye."

He was leaning up on one elbow, gazing at her averted face. When he didn't answer, she turned to look at him. His long body was stretched comfortably on the grass, his eyes half-closed against the brightness of the sun.

"You can see the loch from your home?" he asked.

"Yes. From two sides of the castle, at any rate. The other two sides look out only on the mountains." She smiled at him. "Mother called it the most beautiful place in the world. I think she's right."

He smiled back almost imperceptibly, and putting his hand on her wrist, levered her back until she was lying beside him on the grass. She looked up into his eyes, now so close to hers. "It's nothing at all like Kent," she said softly.

The smile had completely left his face. It was serious, concentrated, intent. "You have your mother in you," he said, and his low voice held a note that Van could feel in her stomach. "Her music, her intellectual curiosity. But the fire and the passion—
they
are from Morar. You're the perfect mixture, Van. Sassenach and Celt. Did you know that?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes were locked on his mouth, which was coming closer to hers, and closer still.... She stretched her body all along the length of his, her arms around his neck, her breasts crushed against the hard wall of his chest. When his tongue came into her mouth she shuddered a little and arched up against him. His hand moved on her back, her waist.

It was agony when she felt him pull away from her. "Almighty God," he said. "This is a very dangerous activity for the open air."

Van lay back on the grass where he had left her and stared at him. He had opened the neck of his shirt earlier against the heat and she could see a pulse beating wildly in the hollow of his throat. He was so beautiful, so strong. She wanted to see him without his shirt, wanted to run her hands along the smooth skin that covered the hard muscles she knew were there in his back and arms and shoulders.

Dhé, thought Van a little wildly. I never knew I was such a wanton woman.

Her hair was disheveled, her mouth a little swollen from his kisses. Her eyelids looked heavy. "If we don't get out of here immediately," Edward said, "I won't answer for the consequences." He ran a hand over his own sun-bright hair. "Get
up,
Van," he said, almost irritably. And she moved to obey him.

On the way home they went by the paddock, where Marcus was turned out with one of the mares. Edward stopped the trap he was driving.

"I thought Marcus was always turned out by himself," Van said, puzzled.

"It's time Aurora was bred," Edward replied. He was staring at the two horses in the paddock.

Van looked too. Stallion and mare were galloping around, the mare seemingly trying to avoid him but unable to do so. He nipped her flanks and herded her from one end of the paddock to the other until, finally, he had her cornered. At that point, the mare gave up.

Van stared at the spectacle before her with a pounding heart. She had seen dogs mating before, but it had never been anything like this—powerful, primitive, grand. The mare, once caught, had been totally receptive. As Marcus slid out and brought his forelegs back to the ground, Van's eyes flew to the man beside her. He glanced at her face very briefly and started the trap forward. "A good one," was all he said. Van clasped her hands together in her lap to conceal their trembling.

Two days later they all went back to London to await word from the Earl of Morar.

CHAPTER 10

Spring had come to the Highlands as well. Frances MacIan sniffed the air with pleasure as she bent over a bed of daffodils in the walled garden Alasdair had built for her some years ago. She finished her gardening and walked slowly back to the house, gazing around her with intense appreciation for the sun-bathed landscape of mountain and loch. All of the hardships of her life in the highlands had always been mitigated by this great natural beauty among which she lived.

She came into her own small sitting room, stripping off her gloves and throwing them down on a table. It was a moment before her eye spotted the letter on her writing desk. Frances recognized the signature of the Earl of Linton on the frank and smiled with pleasure. Van had been rather dilatory about writing recently. Frances took the letter over to the window and opened it.

She read it through completely three times. Then she folded it and stared blindly out at the mountains that loomed so closely behind the castle.

Van and the Earl of Linton. Frances couldn't believe it. The thought, of course, had crossed her mind once or twice, idly, speculatively, but she had never considered it at all seriously.

Good God, Frances thought distractedly, what was Alasdair going to say?

She looked down at the letter once more. "I know you will all find it difficult to believe," Van had written. "But I love him, Mother. I love him—and where he is, that is where I want to be also. You, I think, will understand that."

Frances let out her breath and began to pace the room, her brow furrowed. If Van felt like that, then she must marry Linton. In fact, Frances thought ruefully, were it not for Alasdair, she would be delighted by such news. Van was far more suited to be the Countess of Linton than she was to be Lady MacDonald of Lochaber. Of course, Alasdair would never see that.

Alasdair. It all came back to Alasdair. He would be furious at this news. Furious at Van and furious at her. Frances shivered. In all their married life she had never had anything from Alasdair but tenderness and love. How could she possibly oppose him on this matter of Van's marriage?

She would have to. She knew, unerringly, that his instinct would be to demand Van's immediate return home. Her daughter was counting on her for help. Van's letter had made that clear.

Van had said that Linton had written to Alasdair. God in heaven, Frances thought with cold horror, what if Alasdair also found out that Linton was a Whig? Van had to know, although she had never written a word on the subject. Everyone in Britain knew of the Romneys, Frances thought a little wildly, everyone except the chiefs of the Western Highlands, to whom the English nobility were as alien as Turks.

Alasdair had gone to Achnacarry a few days ago on one of his endless conferences about the mythical French invasion they were all so anxiously awaiting. Of course, there would be no French invasion. Frances knew that and it seemed as if reality was finally penetrating into the glens of the Highlands as well. The King of France was not interested in restoring the Stuarts to the throne of Britain.

Her husband would be home tomorrow. All her married life, Frances had looked forward eagerly to his returns; it was an odd and frightening feeling to find herself dreading seeing him again.

He arrived the following evening. At this time of year the light reversed itself and instead of the endless nights of winter there were apparently endless days. It was perfectly bright when the Earl of Morar arrived home at nine o'clock on a chill June evening. He sought his wife out immediately.

"How are you, m'eudail?" he asked, bending to kiss her mouth.

"Very well," she replied. They were alone. Niall was visiting in Lochaber for the week.

Alasdair began to unfasten the shoulder brooch of his plaid. "It's good to be home," he said, his gray eyes devouring her with a sort of hunger—hunger for peace, for respite. "I'm so weary of listening to promises." He tossed his plaid on a chair and sat down in his favorite chair. His dark head, so distinctive and arresting, was outlined against its high back.

"The French are not coming," he said, an expression of brooding bitterness on his face. "Say what the prince will, there will be no French landing in Scotland."

"Oh, darling," Frances said out of an aching throat. His whole life had been dedicated to this cause. She herself was only glad to see it ended, but her heart was torn for him. And now, on top of this, to give him the news about Van!

Perhaps she should wait. Let him relax, take her to bed, then tomorrow... She looked at his face and knew she could not do that. He would be angry enough, but if she withheld the news from him it would be worse.

"Alasdair," she said steadily, "a letter came for you yesterday. From the Earl of Linton. I think you should read it." She got up and went over to the mantelpiece where she had propped it. She put it into his outstretched hand.

There was a very long silence. Finally he looked up. "Do you know what this contains?" he demanded. His black brows were drawn almost together.

"Yes. I had a letter from Van."

His mouth was thin and hard. "Let me see it."

"It's in my desk," she replied. "I'll go and get it."

He was rereading Linton's letter when she came back into the drawing room. He stretched out an imperative hand, his eyes still on the sheet in front of him. Frances gave him his daughter's letter and sat down once again. She stared blindly at the fire.

He cursed in Gaelic, long and fluently. Then he looked at his wife. "This is what has come of sending her to England," he said harshly. "I should never have let you talk me into it."

Frances swallowed. "It isn't so very terrible, darling," she began, but he cut her off.

"Not so very terrible! My daughter and a Sassenach!" His eyes narrowed. "I hope you do not expect me to allow this... this
mesalliance,
Frances? Van is to come home immediately."

Frances forced herself to sustain that hard gaze. "Why, Alasdair? You read her letter. She loves him."

"She thinks she loves him, you mean." He threw the letter down contemptuously on the table beside him. "We sent her away with no one of her own to be a companion to her, to advise her. She was lonely, of course. And this Linton took advantage of the situation." His voice was as hard and as cold as his face. "I'm disappointed in Van," he said, "but I blame myself more than I blame her. I knew I should not have sent her."