The Highlander's Yuletide Love (18 page)

“Thank me?”

“Indeed. I had
absolutely no idea what it was that Mama and Papa and Isobel and Francis always
seem to be so pleased about. Now—well, I can understand.”

“I beg of you, don’t
share your newfound knowledge with them,” laughed Ranulf as they emerged from
the birch wood at the edge of the Spaethness Castle gardens,

“What a pity I
cannot. For now, I must be content with sharing with you. I know I was a bit
nervous at first, but I think I will be a very apt pupil, if you are willing to
be my tutor. But now, I really must paint. Go find Douglas. I can make my way
back to the terrace.”

She stood on her
tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his chin, then turned away, heading down the path.
Ranulf gazed after her, both mesmerized by the sway of her hips under the
charming yellow dress and somewhat alarmed by what he seemed to have created. Lady
Sophia might be a bit of a handful.

For her part,
Sophy hastened into the house and up to her bedchamber, ringing for Wallis the
moment she entered. In short order she had shed the walking dress that Ranulf
had enjoyed unbuttoning so much, exchanging it for a rather worn, faded blue
round dress and hurried to her studio. When she opened the door, the
frustrating portrait stood covered with the drop cloth, waiting for her as
though it were a living thing.

She stepped
forward, and drew back the cover, looking at the likeness of Ranulf with
disfavor. But, instead of the dissatisfaction that she had felt when viewing it
over the past weeks, she was filled with excitement as the missing elements
coalesced in her mind. She went to her workbench, pulled on an apron and set to
getting her paints and brushes ready.

Hours later the
studio door opened, and Wallis appeared.

“Lady Sophia,
I’ve been waiting to dress you for dinner. You’ll be late if you don’t come
upstairs right away,”

Sophy looked up
from her canvas, her expression vague. “Oh dear, Wallis, I’ve lost all track of
time, I fear. You will have to give me a few minutes to put my things away, and
then I’ll come up.”

“Hurry my lady. You’ll
be late enough as it is.”

The maid
disappeared, and Sophy hastened to put her materials away. When she was
finished, she paused to look at the progress she had made. For the first time,
a genuine smile lit her face as she inspected it, before dropping the cloth
over it as she left the room.

Over the
following days, Sophy spent nearly all her time with Ranulf’s portrait. Once
she required his presence, but for the most part she worked alone. When he did
come to sit, he found her charming and friendly, but ultimately distracted. When
he took her in his arms and kissed her, she was willing to indulge him in a
passionate tryst in the studio, giggling as she attempted unsuccessfully to
remain quiet. But she was steadfastly focused on her work and none of his
blandishments or caresses could distract her from returning to it. Ranulf left
the studio in an irritable mood, half convinced that, although she had enjoyed
their encounter a great deal, Sophy had given in to his advances in only so
that he would leave her in peace. Frustrated, he sought out Francis, whom he
found at the stables.

“She has been
painting every moment of every day,” he said as he led his horse to the
mounting block. “Except when we are at dinner, of course.”

“What of it?”
Francis waited for Ranulf to mount. “She wants to finish your portrait. She is
doing what artists do.”

“Yes, but it is
all she does. She has no time for, well…” his voice trailed off, as the two men
walked their horses across the stable yard.

“No time for
you?” Francis asked, a note of amusement coloring his voice.

“When you put it
that way, it does sound a bit, a bit--” Ranulf cast about for a word.

“Childish?
Petulant? Demanding?” Francis offered.

“Damn it,
Exencour, I’ve never had a woman who wasn’t constantly seeking more of my
attention, and I’ve certainly never known one who ignored me!”

“This is your
opportunity to grow accustomed to it then,” his friend observed. “I can assure
you that if you can’t tolerate her independent ways now, you will be far less
pleased after you have wed her.”

“Does your wife
treat you in such a way?”

Francis raised
his eyebrows. “I have developed ways to distract her, but yes, when she is
particularly intent on something she has unearthed, she is difficult to engage.
I’ve found that picnic lunches at her excavations are welcome to both of us. When
you are married to Sophy, she will be with you always, and it will be far
easier for you. Hiding a tryst, while exciting, can also be nerve-racking. Only
think what it will be like when she is sharing your house and your bed, when
you eat every meal together and do not need to make up reasons to be in her
company.”

Ranulf
considered Francis’s words, and had an agreeable vision of taking Sophy in the
dining room after breakfast. He grinned. “I suppose you are right. If I wish to
marry an artist, I must learn to accept her eccentricities. After all, at some
point, even artists come to bed.”

They had reached
a farm track that stretched flat and straight between two fields towards the
towering hills in the distance. Ranulf looked at Francis and grinned, then
clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and set off at a gallop. Francis,
nothing loath, took off after him.

When everyone
met in the drawing room before going in to dinner that evening, Isobel broached
the topic of their return to Glencairn.

“I know that
Harriet would cheerfully spend the rest of the summer here,” she said, “But we
have been here three weeks now, and I must get back to my excavation very soon
if I am to have a enough new material to write a paper this winter.”

“My bailiff is a
good man, but it is but harvest time is getting close, and I should return
home,” the earl agreed.           

Harriet looked
disappointed, but assented, noting that the gardens at Glencairn must be
prepared for the coming autumn.

Sophy stared at
the toes of her slippers and said nothing. She would miss Ranulf, but didn’t
wish to for their liaison to be discovered, and possible be forced into an
engagement for which she was unprepared. Leaving before the situation got out
of hand seemed a good alternative.

Ranulf glanced
at Sophy, but she was determined not to meet his eyes. “I know you cannot stay,
but before you leave, let us have a dinner party with the neighbors and a
little dancing to celebrate,” he suggested.

“A party – that
is the very thing!” Harriet exclaimed. “It would be delightful to spend an
evening with all the new acquaintances we have made here before we depart.”

“Then we shall
do so,” said Ranulf. “I will speak to the housekeeper. Perhaps we shall have it
a week from tonight, and then you can depart a few days afterwards.” He looked
again at Sophy, but she had suddenly become extremely interested in a porcelain
shepherdess that ornamented the mantelpiece. “Is that agreeable with you, Lady
Sophia?”

“What? Oh yes,
of course. It will give me time to finish your portrait before we leave,” said
Sophy, finally looking at him.

“I look forward
to seeing it,” said Ranulf.

“As do we all,”
said Harriet. “Only think, you will have something to remember this visit by.”

“I hope there
will be more than one thing,” Ranulf said.

The next
morning, Sophy entered her studio and approached her portrait of Ranulf. She
had finished it the day before, but had told no one, wondering it was indeed
complete, or if it needed more work.
She lifted the canvas cover with some
trepidation, fearful that she might be disappointed. But, as she examined it, a
slow smile crossed her face. The elements that had been missing from her
original portrait, the hint of vulnerability, the shadow of pain and loss, and
the vigor, strength and determination of the man somehow all shone through. This
was Colonel Stirling, the soldier and future Laird of Spaethness, as well as
Ranulf, the man whose touch could bring her to the very height of passion. It
was a complete picture of him, and she was both pleased and amazed that she had
been able to create it.

There was a
knock at the door, and she turned hastily, dropping the cloth back into place. Isobel
stood in the entry, an inquiring look on her face.

“Good morning,
my dear,” she said. “I was wondering if you would care to walk down to the loch
with me? You cannot spend every minute of this glorious day with your portrait
of Ranulf.”

Sophy smiled. Completing
the portrait seemed to have released her from some sort of spell; before it was
done she could think of little else, but now her mind turned to other things,
including seeing Ranulf in the flesh. She felt a tingle down her spine at the
thought.

“I would love
to,” she said. “The portrait is done.”

“It is! May I
see it?” Isobel stepped into the room.

Sophy hesitated.
For some reason she was reluctant to share it, even with such a good friend as
Isobel. She finally shrugged; she could not hide it away from others’ eyes
forever.

“Of course.” She
raised the cloth, revealing the portrait.

There was a long
moment of silence as Isobel contemplated the painting. Ranulf, dressed simply
in riding dress, sat in a chair, his face in partial profile, his gaze looking
out into the distance, his expression thoughtful, yet determined. Sunlight
flooded the room behind him, touching his dark curls and illuminating his
handsome features.

“Oh,” said
Isobel. “Oh, my.”

“You don’t like
it?” asked Sophy, alarmed.

“On the
contrary, I like it very much. You have certainly captured Ranulf’s
personality.”

Sophy gave a
sigh of relief. “Then why did you say ‘oh, my?’”

“I should not
have said that. It is beautiful, Sophy. You have truly come to understand him,
I think. This reveals his tenderness, but also the underlying steel. You have
outdone yourself.”

“But you did say
it,” persisted Sophy. “I am glad you like it, but something seems to have
dismayed you.”

Isobel turned to
look at her. “I am not dismayed. On the contrary, I am delighted. The portrait,
my dear, shows how very much you love him.”

“Oh, no.” Sophy
turned to the portrait, looking at it closely. “It cannot! I don’t love Ranulf.
I—I like him very much of course, as all of us do, but love—that is not to be
spoken of.”

“Why not?” Isobel
put a hand on her shoulder. “Is it such a terrible thing to be in love?”

“Of course it
is!” said Sophy. “He does not love me, you know.”

“Nonsense,” said
Isobel. “I have no idea what he has told you, but his expression when he looks
at you is that of a man with very deep emotions.”

“He hasn’t
shared those emotions with me,” said Sophy.

“What if he did?”
asked Isobel. “How would you respond?”

“I don’t know.” Sophy
clasped her hands in front of her and stared down at them. “I did not come to
Spaethness meaning any of this to happen.”

“Very few people
set out to fall in love. I certainly did not mean to love Francis, but I could
not help it. Don’t look so tragic, child. You are very fortunate to have a
found a man of Ranulf’s caliber.”

Sophy shook her
head, searching for the words to explain herself, though she was aware she
barely comprehended her own thoughts. But before she could speak, male voices
were heard in the hall, and she quickly dropped the cloth back over the
painting. She spun around to see Francis and Ranulf entering the studio.

“There you are!”
said Francis. “I have been looking all over for my wife. Don’t tell me that you
mean to immure yourself in the studio with Sophy all day!”

“No, indeed,”
responded Isobel. “Sophy need not do so either. She has finished the portrait!”

Sophy made a
quick gesture as Isobel spoke, hoping to stop her, but then subsided as Ranulf
turned his gaze to her. She flushed.

“You’re
finished?” he asked.

Sophy nodded.

“May we see it?”
asked Francis.

Sophy tried to
hide her alarm. Somehow, it had not occurred to her that Ranulf would want to
see the finished product. “I—well, perhaps I should do a bit more work on it,”
she said quickly. “I’m not sure it is quite right.”

“He must see it
sooner or later,” observed Isobel gently. “Show him the portrait, Sophy.”

Reluctantly,
Sophy raised the cloth and stepped back, looking away as Francis and Ranulf
viewed the painting. There was a long moment of silence.

“It’s perfect,”
said Francis finally. “Ranulf, I believe that Lady Sophia has your measure.”

Sophy looked at
Ranulf, trepidation in her eyes. He was gazing at the portrait as if
mesmerized.

“Yes, I think
perhaps she has,” he said finally. He turned to Sophy, and their eyes met. “I
thank you for this.”

She blushed
furiously. “Oh, it is nothing at all,” she said hurriedly. “I hope I will be
able to do a great deal better one day.”

“If you can do
better than that, I would like to see it,” said Francis. “You have truly
captured the spirit of the man.”

“She has indeed,”
agreed Isobel. She gave her husband a meaningful look. “Francis, if you would
not mind, I need some assistance in the—in the drawing room.”

“Where?” asked
Francis, surprised.

“The drawing
room,” repeated Isobel, nodding her head to where Ranulf and Sophy stood,
staring at each other across the portrait.

“Oh yes! Assistance—in
the drawing room,” said Francis. “If you will excuse us?”

“Certainly,”
murmured Ranulf, not turning his head.

Isobel and Francis
beat a hasty retreat, and Sophy found herself quite alone with Ranulf. She
turned away and moved to the table where her paints stood, fidgeting with them
nervously.

“I’m glad you
like the portrait,” she said, not caring for the silence in the room.

“Of course I
like it. It is far more than I expected, or deserve.”

She felt him
come up behind her, and she turned, finding herself suddenly chest to chest
with him. He put his hands on her shoulders and then ran them down her arms,
taking her hands in his.

“It is nothing,
really,” she protested.

“Sophy, you
cannot say that painting is nothing.”

Ranulf leaned
toward her and she gave a little sigh as he put his hands on her waist, lifting
her so she sat on the table, and then stepping between her thighs.

“Stop hiding
from me,” he said, and leaned in, pressing his lips to hers gently,
persuasively. Sophy closed her eyes, sinking into the moment, amazed by her
instantaneous response to him. She had thought her feelings for him were well
under control, but his hands and his lips robbed her of all coherent thought as
she opened her mouth to him, meeting him stroke for stroke as their tongues
slid together.

As Ranulf
explored her mouth, Sophy felt herself melting into him. She found herself
biting at his lips, and running her fingers through his thick black hair, to
bring pull him closer. As she did she felt his knowing hands slide up her
sides, to rest just under her breasts, which suddenly prickled with a longing
for his touch, as though they yearned for him to slide his palms up to grasp
her sensitive flesh.