The Highlander's Yuletide Love (9 page)

The next day,
Isobel and Sophy sat at the edge of a large pit, staring intently at the
footings which had been exposed that day by the workmen. A pile of rubble lay
nearby, which Isobel had earnestly explained was a collapsed wall. Sophy held a
sketchbook and her charcoal as she gazed at the ruins with an air of
concentration, mingled with a touch of confusion.

“It must have
been the bakery,” said Isobel firmly. “There, you can see the shape of the
oven.”

“Where?” asked
Sophy plaintively.

“There.” Isobel
pointed, and Sophy nodded, though without comprehension. She laughed.

“I will draw it
precisely as it is,” she promised. “It is not as though I need to understand it
to render it. You can doubtless explain to others precisely where the oven is.”

The workday had
drawn to a close, and the ladies had stayed past their usual hour in order to
complete the sketches of the dig, though the workmen had already gone home to
dinner. While the sun was still bright, it was slowly descending toward the
horizon, and long shadows crept across the gilded stone.

“Oh, how I wish
I was doing a water color or an oil of this instead of this mere drafting!”
Sophy exclaimed. “The light on the stones makes them glow, and the way it
shimmers in those birches is inspiring a very different picture in my mind’s
eye. It is amazing to me that we are the first to see these walls in so many
centuries. Only think, the Romans must have seen something very similar to this
very scene.”

“I am very sorry
to disappoint you, Sophy, but alas, I need to continue to dig while the weather
is fine, as one never knows when it will rain in Scotland for a week or more
continuously,” Isobel replied. “A sketch is all we have time for.” She smiled
sympathetically at Sophy’s grimace. “You may come and paint tomorrow if the
light remains fine, and save making the pen and ink versions of your drawings
for a rainy day, you know.”

“Very well,
”Sophy laughed and picked up her pencil again. “I will sacrifice artistic
fulfillment for scholarship. I can also use these sketches to produce a
painting at a later date. But it seems a pity to waste this light.”

She commenced
sketching again as Isobel watched the scene below them emerge, occasionally
commenting on some feature or other. Another half hour passed, and the drawing
was close to completion when the drum of approaching hoof beats could be heard.

Isobel looked
up. “I wonder who that could be,” she said absently. Sophy continued to sketch,
oblivious. A few moments later the noise subsided as the hoof beats slowed to a
trot and then a walk.

“Francis! And
Colonel Stirling!” Isobel exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing here?”

Sophy’s head
shot up from her work and she looked around, wide-eyed. Lord Exencour and
Colonel Stirling were approaching them, Ranulf once again mounted on the fine
bay he had ridden when they had encountered one another on the moor. She took
in his appearance for a moment, his wide shoulders outlined by his well-cut
coat, his hair ruffled slightly by the breeze, a neckerchief carelessly knotted
around his neck. She looked away again, but was unable to concentrate on her
drawing.

“Seeking my
tardy wife,” Francis replied. “Have you forgotten we are promised to the
Fairbairns for dinner?”

“Oh!” Isobel
stood hastily. “I had indeed forgotten. You see, we uncovered the bakery today,
and Sophy is making excellent progress with the sketches. I want her to finish
them today, so we stayed after the workmen departed.”

“I see that,”
said Francis, a hint of humor in his voice. “And yet, we are still promised to
the Fairbairns in less than an hour.”

“I cannot leave
Sophy here alone, and the workmen will come tomorrow and continue digging,”
fretted Isobel. “She must finish the drawing, or this stage of the excavation
will not be documented.”

“I may have a
solution.” Sophy glanced up quickly as Ranulf spoke, and then looked away
again, attempting to focus on her drawing. She drew a number of lines
completely at random, and then, sighing, rubbed them out.

“If you will
permit me, I will remain with Lady Sophia, and accompany her home when she is
finished,” Ranulf continued.

“Would you?” Isobel
beamed at him. “That would be a very helpful of you. The Fairbairns are old
friends, and I would not want to disappoint them, but this is the bakery, you
know, and therefore—”

“I’m sure Ranulf
is fascinated by the bakery,” interpolated Francis. “But for now, we must be
going. Are you sure you do not mind staying behind?”

“Not at all,”
replied Ranulf. “I have nothing to do this evening but read a book and fall
asleep in my chair before the fire, a prospect that leaves me cold. Waiting
with Lady Sophia will be a welcome diversion.”

“Thank you!”
exclaimed Isobel. She turned to Sophy. “If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Sophy
shook her head and smiled at Isobel and then resolutely turned back to her
drawing, refusing to look at Ranulf.

“Thank you so
much, my dear!”

Sophy continued
to sketch somewhat at random as Isobel gathered up her belongings and mounted
her horse, which was tethered nearby.

“I will see you
tomorrow,” she called and Sophy looked up and waved before returning to her
drawing. She bit her lip and concentrated intensely as Ranulf looped his horse’s
reins over a tree branch. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his lithe
figure turn toward her, and then approach slowly. In a moment, he stood next to
her.

“Will it bother
you if I sit here?” he asked, indicating the chair Isobel had abandoned.

“What? Oh! No,
not at all,” responded Sophy, annoyed to find herself once again flustered by
his presence.

Ranulf lowered
himself into the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him; Sophy found
her eyes wandering as she noted their shapely length. She made an exasperated
noise.

“Is something
wrong, Lady Sophia?”

“No—it is just
that I am trying to hurry,” she replied.

“Do not. I am
happy to stay here as long as I am needed,” he said. “This is a lovely summer
night, and come winter in the keep at Spaethness, I will be glad I spent it
outside. It will be light enough to draw for at least another hour, and the
twilight will be sufficient to light our way back to Glencairn. Unless you
think your mother and father will be worried about you.”

“No, they are
never concerned when I am with Isobel,” said Sophy blithely.

“I will try to
be as good a guardian,” answered Ranulf.

Sophy laughed at
that. “You make yourself sound very old,” she said, putting down her pencil and
turning to look at him. She instantly wished she had not, for it only served to
make her note the fineness of his brown eyes and the gentle smile on his firm
lips.

“I am rather
old, compared to you,” he said calmly. “I do my best to remember that.”

“Nonsense. I
have been out for three Seasons.”

“You are a practically
on the shelf, I perceive,” he said teasingly.

“Of course I am
not! I merely wish you to understand that I am not some green girl.”

“I will bear
that in mind.”

Sophy tilted her
head, pondering him for a moment, and then turned back to her drawing. Their
conversation seemed to have dispelled some of her anxiety and she worked with
speed and fluency, the scene in front of them appearing ever more clearly on the
paper in front of her. After almost an hour had passed, she put down her
pencil.

“Have you
finished?” asked Ranulf.

“I think so,”
replied Sophy. She hesitated a moment and then held her sketchbook out to him. “What
do you think?”

He pondered the
drawing gravely, glancing up now and again to compare it to the excavation. “I
think you have done an excellent job of revealing the scene. It must be
difficult for you, with your artistic feelings, to render something exactly.”

Sophy nodded her
head. “I must always remember that Isobel relies on me for accuracy, not
beauty.”

“Yet it is still
beautiful,” Ranulf murmured. “You have a fine eye, and even in charcoal I have
a sense of the light on the stones.”

“Do you?” Sophy
looked up eagerly, and they shared a smile. She felt a sudden urge to reach out
to him, and stood hastily, turning to put away her tools. “You must forgive me
for taking so long,” she gasped.

“Not at all. Watching
you work was a great pleasure.” Ranulf stood as well. “May I assist you?”

“What? Oh, no,
I’m fine,” breathed Sophy, shoving her pencils haphazardly into her satchel. “Would
you hand me my sketchbook, please?”

“Certainly.” He
picked up the book and approached her, flipping slowly through the pages. “You
are very talented.”

Sophy let out
her breath. “Do you think so?”

“I do indeed.” He
smiled down at her. “It’s lovely.” There was a small pause. “You are lovely.”

Sophy blinked,
not knowing quite what to say. Almost without thinking, she leaned toward him,
placing her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own and she looked down,
watching her small white fingers engulfed by his longer, much browner hand. He
raised her hand slightly and his thumb moved lightly over her palm, caressing
it, and then slid up to stroke the softness of her inner wrist. Her lips formed
a little “o” of surprise, and she felt her breath come faster as she turned her
face up toward his and took a step nearer to him.

With a muttered
oath, Ranulf made to remove his hand, but Sophy clutched it, staying him. She
turned into him, not thinking as she pressed herself against him, looking
searchingly up into this face. There was something she wanted very much, she
realized, though she was not quite sure what it was.

“Lady Sophia,
this is highly improper,” said Ranulf quietly.

“Is it?” she
asked.

“It is.”

“No one is here
to see,” she murmured.

“Damn it.” Ranulf
wrapped his other arm around her waist and drew her up against him. She could
feel the strength of his body through the fabric of her dress and she moved
tentatively, seeking a closeness that might resolve the ache she felt inside
herself.

“We should not
be doing this,” he said.

“No?”

“No.” But he did
not release her, and when she moved her hips slightly, seating herself more
tightly against him, he slid his hand up her arm and over her shoulder to
cradle the back of her neck. He held her head still and looked deeply into her
eyes.

“Are you sure?”
he asked.

“I’m sure,” she
answered, though she was not at all certain what she was saying. But she found
her answer when he lowered his mouth to hers, taking her lips in a kiss that
was at first gentle, feather-light, soft and seductive, but, as she responded
eagerly, became increasingly demanding. She gasped, and he swallowed the sound,
taking advantage of her open lips to run his tongue over them and then to slide
persuasively into her mouth, caressing the warmth he found there. He drew her
closer, settling her against him so that she could feel his hard strength and
urgency, as he deepened the kiss. He lifted his head for a moment to rain small
kisses across her cheekbone and down her neck and then returned to her lips as
she clung to him, holding him closer, desperate for his attention.

As Sophy
shivered with pleasure, Ranulf’s hand moved up from her to her ribcage, even as
his other hand cupped her head, holding her immobile as he delved more deeply
into her silky mouth, seeking even greater contact. His thumb slid gently along
the side of her breast and she moaned, wriggling slightly in an attempt to make
him ease her tension. He laughed slightly, his warm breath mingling with hers, as
he palmed her breast, his thumb now lightly flicking across her nipple as it peaked
under her bodice.

“Colonel
Stirling,” she whispered against his lips.

“Ranulf,” he
answered, his voice full of amusement and passion. He glanced over her shoulder
and, before she was aware, he had snatched her up in his arms and carried her
to the blanket, still covering the grass from the picnic lunch she and Isobel
had enjoyed earlier, and, swiftly laying her down upon it, covered her with his
body. He held himself over her with his arms, and she reached up, pulling him
down to her, seeking his lips with hers and arching her back, wanting to feel
the weight of him over her.

“You’re a
passionate one, aren’t you Sophy?” he asked, but it seemed he did not require a
response, for his lips met hers again. This kiss was different, stronger,
deeper, more searing, and Sophy found herself matching him stroke for stroke as
she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him down. She felt a tiny thrill
of triumph when he groaned and leaned into her, his hips moving over hers with
an urgency that promised delights she did not quite understand.

“Ranulf,” she
groaned, the name both unfamiliar and enticing on her lips.