“Think of all the tender things I’ve just been saying to you.”
“The point is, who else have you been saying them to?”she said inexorably.
“No one.” He was positive. “Stop being so silly.”
She sat up and stared at him. “Silly?” she said. “ I haven’t been making love to other people.”
The amusement abruptly left his face. “You’d better not.”
“What would you do if you found out I was?” she asked curiously.
“Kill him and beat you,” he replied promptly.
She seemed to find this answer satisfactory, because she pillowed her head on his shoulder. He felt her long lashes sweep against his skin as she closed her eyes. “We should leave,” she sighed.
The rain beat hard against the window. “We can’t,” he said with conviction. “It’s raining.” His hands moved over her body with exquisite precision. After a moment she yielded to his caresses, with a quiver that ignited his passion to fever pitch. When she lay in his arms, afterwards, utterly still, utterly his, she understood too with a woman’s powerful knowledge that in some profound way she had also possessed him.
When the rain stopped they rode back to Wick. They did not discuss the future. Neither of them wanted, at that moment, to spoil the magic of the present.
Chapter Eight
And fare thee well, my only luve,
And fare thee well a while.
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
— ROBERT BURNS
There were a few suspiciously raised eyebrows when Frances and Ian arrived back at Wick, together, dishevelled, and late for dinner. They were laughingly casual about being caught in the rainstorm, but Lady Mary Graham was not at all pleased with what had happened. “This is precisely the sort of behavior that can ruin a girl’s reputation,” she scolded her niece. “Really, I am quite annoyed at Lady Darlington for allowing you to fall behind like that. And you, too, Frances. You ought to know better. People have such nasty minds. There is bound to be someone ready to think the worst of you.”
They wouldn’t be far wrong, thought Frances with a flash of amusement. But she meekly bowed her head and listened to her aunt’s strictures with sweet docility. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
After dinner that evening, the whole company assembled around the piano in the drawing room. Lady Darlington urged her daughter to play, which she did very prettily. Catherine was an attractive girl and she showed to advantage at the piano, a fact of which her mother was very aware. Then another young lady played a very competent Mozart sonata. “Won’t you honor us with your talents, Miss Stewart?” asked Lady Darlington, honor-bound to include Frances in the entertainment.
The others chorused their similar wishes with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Frances’s eyes went once again to the magnet that had drawn them all evening. Ian smiled at her very faintly and she said slowly, “All right.” She crossed to the piano and sat down, her face looking grave and abstracted. “This is a Scottish ballad about a girl who loved a boy called Geordie,” she said simply, and, striking a few notes, she began to sing. The song had all the power of the great ballads and her voice was marvelous: deep and clear and perfectly controlled. As the last note died away there was a sigh in the room, as if a great collective breath had been let out.
The faintest, briefest glint of recognition showed in Frances’s eyes, and then she sang another. When she had finished and started to get up Robert Sedburgh said quietly, “You would please us all if you would sing one more, Miss Stewart.” She looked back at him, smiled suddenly, and said ,”Very well, I’ll do something different—something in Gaelic. This is a victory song of the clans. It should, of course, be played on the pipes.” But the wild, triumphant cry of the bagpipes was echoed in her voice as she launched into the
“The point is, who else have you been saying them to?”she said inexorably.
“No one.” He was positive. “Stop being so silly.”
She sat up and stared at him. “Silly?” she said. “ I haven’t been making love to other people.”
The amusement abruptly left his face. “You’d better not.”
“What would you do if you found out I was?” she asked curiously.
“Kill him and beat you,” he replied promptly.
She seemed to find this answer satisfactory, because she pillowed her head on his shoulder. He felt her long lashes sweep against his skin as she closed her eyes. “We should leave,” she sighed.
The rain beat hard against the window. “We can’t,” he said with conviction. “It’s raining.” His hands moved over her body with exquisite precision. After a moment she yielded to his caresses, with a quiver that ignited his passion to fever pitch. When she lay in his arms, afterwards, utterly still, utterly his, she understood too with a woman’s powerful knowledge that in some profound way she had also possessed him.
When the rain stopped they rode back to Wick. They did not discuss the future. Neither of them wanted, at that moment, to spoil the magic of the present.
Chapter Eight
And fare thee well, my only luve,
And fare thee well a while.
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
— ROBERT BURNS
There were a few suspiciously raised eyebrows when Frances and Ian arrived back at Wick, together, dishevelled, and late for dinner. They were laughingly casual about being caught in the rainstorm, but Lady Mary Graham was not at all pleased with what had happened. “This is precisely the sort of behavior that can ruin a girl’s reputation,” she scolded her niece. “Really, I am quite annoyed at Lady Darlington for allowing you to fall behind like that. And you, too, Frances. You ought to know better. People have such nasty minds. There is bound to be someone ready to think the worst of you.”
They wouldn’t be far wrong, thought Frances with a flash of amusement. But she meekly bowed her head and listened to her aunt’s strictures with sweet docility. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
After dinner that evening, the whole company assembled around the piano in the drawing room. Lady Darlington urged her daughter to play, which she did very prettily. Catherine was an attractive girl and she showed to advantage at the piano, a fact of which her mother was very aware. Then another young lady played a very competent Mozart sonata. “Won’t you honor us with your talents, Miss Stewart?” asked Lady Darlington, honor-bound to include Frances in the entertainment.
The others chorused their similar wishes with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Frances’s eyes went once again to the magnet that had drawn them all evening. Ian smiled at her very faintly and she said slowly, “All right.” She crossed to the piano and sat down, her face looking grave and abstracted. “This is a Scottish ballad about a girl who loved a boy called Geordie,” she said simply, and, striking a few notes, she began to sing. The song had all the power of the great ballads and her voice was marvelous: deep and clear and perfectly controlled. As the last note died away there was a sigh in the room, as if a great collective breath had been let out.
The faintest, briefest glint of recognition showed in Frances’s eyes, and then she sang another. When she had finished and started to get up Robert Sedburgh said quietly, “You would please us all if you would sing one more, Miss Stewart.” She looked back at him, smiled suddenly, and said ,”Very well, I’ll do something different—something in Gaelic. This is a victory song of the clans. It should, of course, be played on the pipes.” But the wild, triumphant cry of the bagpipes was echoed in her voice as she launched into the
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