This Heart of Mine (84 page)

“Jesu!” he complained as she soaped him with a small cake of soap. “I smell like a damned flower.”

“You smell clean, you great oaf! A rare departure, I don’t doubt! Stand up! I can’t bathe what I can’t see!”

Ranald Torc stood and waited for her scream to come. For a long moment she was very quiet, and then Alanna said, “I thought that Ian Grant had the biggest cock in Christendom, but I was certainly wrong, wasn’t I?” She soaped him, her hands lingering lovingly over his male parts. “God almighty, you’re built like a bull, Ranald Torc!” She cupped the pouch of his sex in her hands, and it overflowed her palms. She ran her tiny fingers sensually down the long, long length of him, sighing voluptuously as she did so, and his manhood stirred violently in her grasp. “Sit down and rinse yourself,” she said in a tight voice. “The sooner you’re clean, the sooner you can fill me up with that great pole of yours!”

No woman had ever spoken to him like that. Usually they howled and wept with fear at the sight of him. He looked up at her. She really was a little bit of a thing next to him. He was suddenly afraid he’d kill her with his bigness, and for some reason he couldn’t quite explain he didn’t want to.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “You’ll have to go slowly until we see how much of you will fit.”

He nodded and, standing up, stepped from the tub. She rubbed him dry with a small square of toweling, and when she had finished he found that despite his nudity he felt himself
in full command of the situation, no longer so nonplussed by the small, blond woman who spoke so boldly to him. “Well,” he said slowly, “ye’ve had a good look at what I hae to offer, now let’s see yer goods, woman!”

With a slow seductive smile, Alanna dropped her shift, and her smile broadened at his intake of breath. She was very proud of her body. She might be tiny in stature, but her limbs were pleasingly rounded, and her breasts were big and full. Reaching out, he gently hefted one of those large breasts, and a smile spread on his face as the nipple puckered at his touch. Taking him by the hand, she led him up into the loft above the cottage’s main room where her mattress was spread. They knelt facing one another, and he let his hands run eagerly over her lushness. Overwhelmed by the bounty offered him, he couldn’t decide where to begin. His big hands reached around to squeeze her buttocks, which were plump and firm. Alanna lifted her breasts and rubbed them against his hairy chest. His whole body was, she saw, covered with darkish hair. For a few moments, they explored each other, but the truth was that she excited him tremendously, and, seeing it, Alanna lay on her back and spread her legs wide.

“Go on,” she encouraged him, “stuff me with that monster cock of yours, Ranald Torc!”

With a groan, he fell on her and began to push himself steadily into her. At first Alanna felt she was being torn asunder, but she forced herself to relax, and he restrained himself from hurrying. Suddenly, to her surprise, he was buried completely within her. With a pleased grin he kissed her heartily on the mouth.

She pulled her head away, though, and said, “Now fuck me, you brute! We know now you can’t kill me.”

Ranald Torc complied with Alanna’s request most willingly. She was the first woman he’d ever taken who accepted him easily
and
at the height of her passion begged him for more. He spent a long and happy night loving this tiny English-woman. If the truth had been known, she actually wore him out, and he loved her the more for it. When the dawn came, she arose to cook him a large breakfast of porridge, ham, eggs, and scones.

Ian Grant, creeping back and expecting to find his mistress dead, instead found her eating quite contentedly with his cousin.

“She’s my woman now,” Ranald Torc said bluntly.

“Ye fucked her?” Ian was astounded.

“Aye,” came the reply.

“But ye usually kill them wi’ yer cock,” said Ian.

“Aye, but this time ’twas different,” Ranald answered.

“How?”

“There’s nae doubt that I’ve the biggest cock in Christendom, but, Alanna”—he smiled broadly at Ian—“well, it seems that she has the biggest cunt in Christendom! We’re a perfect match, Mouse! Now sit down, man, and hae something to eat. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Bemused at this unexpected turn of events, Ian sat down. Alanna slammed a bowl of oat porridge in front of him. “I sent the message to Velvet first thing this morning,” he said. “I’ve the other message ready to send to
Dun Broc
once we hae her in our custody.”

Ranald Torc grunted approval.

“What are ye going to do wi’ Sibby?” Ian asked Alanna. “Ye canna take her wi’ us, can ye?”

“I’ll ask Mistress Lawrie to take care of her,” Alanna replied. “The brat spends most of her time with that woman anyhow, and the bitch seems to have a weakness for her despite all her own children. When they see I’m gone, you can be certain Jean Lawrie will take Sibby in. If she doesn’t want another mouth to feed, she can give her to her father when he returns. It makes me laugh to think of her high-and-mighty ladyship returning home when this is over to find she has to raise
my
child. She’ll do it, too, for she’s softhearted. I’ve seen her with the children here in the village.”

“Ye’d leave yer child to another?” Ranald Torc asked.

“Would you take me with you if I insisted upon bringing her along?” Alanna countered.

“Nay, ’tis no life for a child,” he answered.

“Do you want to leave me, Ranald Torc, until this is all over?” she demanded. “I thought you liked fucking me.”

“I’ll nae leave ye ever again, Alanna,” he replied. “That itch of yers needs my scratching, but be warned: If ye so much as look at another man, I’ll beat ye senseless. Leave the brat. Ye’re my woman now, and I’ll gie ye more bairns to raise.”

“Not unless ye marry me, ye won’t!” she snapped.

“In Edinburgh, I will,” he promised her, “and those who know me know my word is good.”

Ian Grant was completely amazed by the conversation that was taking place as if he weren’t even there. He was somewhat aggrieved that Alanna, having been his mistress for so many months, was so easily and effortlessly discarding him. He had forgotten for the moment that he had intended to leave her, that he had without a thought turned her over to his cousin
whose mighty attentions could have either seriously injured or killed her. Ian fancied himself quite the lover, but Alanna Wythe seemed not to care. She was, he decided, an English bitch without the good taste to comprehend what she was throwing away in order to marry that monster of a cousin of his. Well, good luck to them both. They were going to need it if BrocCairn came after them. He, on the other hand, would be safe in France living as he was always meant to live.

Before the sun had sent its slender, golden rays into the glen, both Ian Grant and Ranald Torc were gone from Alanna Wythe’s cottage. Not even little Sybilla knew that they had been there. The breakfast dishes were washed and returned to their cupboard before Alanna roused her child from her slumber. She bathed her and fed her lukewarm porridge with a scone that had a dab of honey on it. Dressing the child in clean clothes, she braided her reddish brown hair, then led her from the cottage and walked the few steps to Jean Lawrie’s cottage.

Alanna entered the house without knocking, and Angus Lawrie, seated at his table, looked up, not quite able to hide the admiration in his eyes. “Good morning, Angus,” she said sweetly, “I’ve come to see Jean.”

“If ye could take yer eyes off my man long enough,” snapped Jean Lawrie, “ye’d see me right here by the fireplace. What do ye want, Mistress Wythe?” Jean Lawrie was nursing her young son who was almost a year old now.

“I want to go into the forest today to look for roots,” Alanna said. “I don’t like bringing Sibby with me because she won’t obey me and stay still. I’m always afraid she’ll be hurt. Will you watch her until I get back? I’ll make you a good medicine for coughs that you can use this winter if you do.”

“I’d watch the lass in any case,” Jean Lawrie said softening. “Go on. She’s safe wi’ me.”

Alanna knelt down and looked into her daughter’s face. “Be a good girl, Sibby, and obey Mistress Lawrie,” she said, and then, standing up, she was gone.

At the very moment Alanna was leaving her daughter with Jean Lawrie, Velvet received an early-morning message from her sister-in-law. Annabella wanted her to come and visit today. Ian was going hunting, and as Alex was away at
Huntley
perhaps she would be free. She had to come. Annabella was so totally bored. This was Annabella in a far lighter mood than Velvet had seen her recently, and Velvet very much wanted to be friends with her husband’s sister. Other than
Bella, there were no females but the servants within visiting distance. Velvet was lonely for another woman’s company. After her close relationship with Jodh Bai and Rugaiya Begum, and especially now that she was expecting a child, she needed female companionship. Pansy, bless her, was so involved in her own new life that Velvet didn’t feel comfortable imposing on her.

“Pansy!” she called now from bed, and her tiring woman hurried into the bedchamber. “Good morning, m’lady!”

“We’re going to
Grantholm
today, Pansy. Can you still ride, or shall I have one of the maids go with me?”

Pansy, in the fifth month of her second pregnancy, patted her rounding belly, saying, “I’m good for a little while longer, m’lady. I’ll go with you. With or without child, I still ride better than any of those flighty lasses.”

Velvet hid her grin. Pansy was fiercely protective of her place in Velvet’s life. She had no intention of allowing one of the local Scots girls the opportunity to steal it from her. Pansy was the Countess of BrocCairn’s tiring woman, and she would let none forget it.

“Will you wear a gown or your usual riding garb, m’lady?”

“Not a gown, Pansy. The road is dusty. Bella will just have to take me in trunk hose.”

Pansy agreed with her mistress and quickly assembled Velvet’s hose, shirt, belt, jerkin, and boots. Then she arranged for her lady’s bath, adding gillyflower bath oil to the steaming tub. When Velvet had bathed, Pansy helped her to dress. While her mistress ate her breakfast of eggs poached in cream and sherry, thin slices of newly caught and broiled salmon, freshly baked scones with honey and butter, and watered wine, Pansy hurried to exchange her own garb for one a little less conventional so that she might ride, too.

Learning that his wife was riding out with her mistress, Dugald fretted, “I dinna want ye losing the bairn, Pansy lass.”

“Leave her be,” snapped Morag Geddes, who seemed always to side with her English daughter-in-law. “Pansy’s a good, strong girl, and she’d nae endanger her bairn. Didn’t she bring our wee Dugie safely home from that heathen land? Go along wi’ ye, Pansy,” she commanded, and with a wave Pansy hurried to join her mistress.

As Dugald looked after his wife, his mother remonstrated him, “Ye’re worse than an old woman, Dugald. ’Tis but two miles to
Grantholm.”

Velvet was already mounted upon her black mare, Sable,
when Pansy joined her to climb up on her sturdy, black and white pony whom she had named Bess “in honor of Her Majesty,” she had told her mistress. Half a dozen men-at-arms would ride with them, but only for show as these were BrocCairn lands, and there was peace in Scotland.

There was the faintest nip of early autumn in the air as they departed from the castle, their horses’ hooves thrumming over the drawbridge and onto the road. They could feel a brisk breeze, and the sun was playing a game of peekaboo with the bright, white clouds. As they passed through Broc Ailien, the villagers called their greetings to their countess who, like her husband, called back to them, using their names, knowing small bits of their lives, which she commented upon. As they loved Alex, the people of Broc Ailien loved Velvet now, too. She saw little Sibby playing before Jean Lawrie’s cottage, and was for a quick moment reminded of Yasaman. She blinked the tears from her eyes, all the while thinking that something should really be done for Alex’s daughter, who was a nice little thing despite her odious mother.

They left the village behind. It was only another mile or so to
Grantholm
, the manor house where Annabella and Ian lived with their two sons, James and Henry. The road wound through the woods, which were thick and green, and it was at the deepest part of the forest that they suddenly found themselves surprised and surrounded by a band of men wearing the green and blue tartan with the narrow red stripe that the BrocCairn men recognized as that of the Shaws. Instantly the six men-at-arms surrounded their countess and her tirewoman, but, badly outnumbered, they were quickly cut down.

“Go, Pansy!” shouted Velvet over the din of the short battle, and kicked Sable’s sides. Her flight, and that of Pansy’s, was quickly halted, however, by a giant bear of a man who, reaching out, yanked at both Sable’s and Bess’s bridles, successfully stopping them. Velvet lashed out at the man with her crop. “Let go of my horse!” she shouted. “I am the Countess of BrocCairn! How dare you attack me on my own lands!”

Ranald Torc burst into loud laughter. “BrocCairn’s bride is a fire-eater, Mouse! Ye dinna tell me that her ladyship had spirit, but, by God, I like that in a woman!” The battle over and the BrocCairn men dead where they had fallen trying to protect Velvet, Ranald Torc turned to speak to the countess. “I am Ranald Shaw, called Ranald Torc, madame. Ye’ve been captured fairly. Will ye yield to me and gie me yer word ye’ll nae try to excape?”

“Go to hell!” she shouted at him. “How dare you, you big ox!”

Ranald Torc laughed again. “Torc means boar, madame, nae ox.”

“Very well, Ranald the Pig, I demand an explanation of your conduct! There is no feud between the Gordons and the Shaws.”

Ranald Torc’s face darkened at the word “pig.” This was not going to be as easy as Ian had made it sound. The countess should be swooning with fright at this moment, begging for her life and her honor. Instead this auburn-haired hellion was spitting at him like a wildcat and asking for answers to difficult questions. Irritably he looked about. “Ian,” he shouted. “This is yer place, nae mine.”