“Aye,” she replied, her eyes going smoky with the memory.
“I am better,” Jamie said quietly.
Sorcha Morton turned and looked into the prince’s eye. “Are ye, my wee princeling? Are ye indeed?”
“Aye,” he drawled, “I am. I can easily make ye forget my uncle, madame.”
“His passion, perhaps,” she said, “but the insult he and his milk-faced wife hae done me, never!”
“Where do ye lodge, madame?” Prince James inquired.
“At my cousin Angus’ house,” she said.
“Yer a Douglas, madame? I was nae aware of it.”
“I was born a Douglas, yer highness,” Lady Morton replied.
“Albeit an unimportant one,’’ the Earl of Angus said, joining them.
“So ye wish to futter Sorcha, do ye, Jamie? She’s a hot piece, I can assure ye, for I broke her in myself many years ago,’’ the earl said.
“Naethatmany years ago!” the lady snapped at him.
“I dinna say ye were too old for him, Sorcha,” Angus replied. “Indeed, I think yer just right, for he’s a lusty young fellow. Are ye nae that, Prince Jamie? I’ve wenched wi’ the royal laddie myself on several occasions, eh my lord?”
The prince laughed heartily even as his eyes strayed across the room to where his uncle and beautiful new aunt were now bidding his parents a good evening. Arabella Stewart was the loveliest woman he had ever encountered, and he was frank in admitting to himself that he wanted her, but for now he would assuage his passions on Sorcha Morton, who was, if her legend was even half true, a born and extremely skilled whore. Who knew what she could teach him?
The Earl and Countess of Dunmor departed Stirling Castle for their own house outside the town. They were escorted by their own men-at-arms, for no one of any consequence traveled without protection. It was late afternoon, and although Arabella was hungry, for they had not eaten since morning, she was equally curious about her husband’s old paramour.
“Lady Morton is very beautiful, my lord. Was she your mistress for very long?” Arabella said in a voice carefully modulated to show him that though she was interested, she was not particularly concerned.
“An extremely brief time, lovey,” he answered her calmly, although he was greatly startled by her query. That she was aware of Sorcha Morton’s past relationship with him he had no doubt, for her exquisitely timed performance in the king’s rooms was perfection.
“Why brief?” she asked, pursuing him, not quite yet satisfied.
“She bored me,” Tavis Stewart told his wife. “The worst thing that lovers can do is to bore one another, and Sorcha’s behavior lacks both spontaneity and originality.’’
“You obviously did not bore her, my lord,” Arabella said sharply.
He laughed, and she bit her lip, vexed that she should have shown him her irritation so easily. “Men, as a species, never bore Sorcha,” the earl replied. “‘Tis another of her faults, lassie. She lacks discrimination.”
“You are harsh, my lord, in your judgment.”
“Lovey, make up yer pretty little head. Are ye defending Lady Morton, or do ye wish to scratch her eyes out?” He was grinning with absolutely smug delight.
Arabella had a strong urge to lean over and box his ears, but she restrained herself admirably. “I was simply considering the possibility, my lord, that a man might bore a woman every bit as much as she might bore him,” Arabella told her husband tartly, and kicking her horse into a canter, she rode off ahead of him down the hill from Stirling Castle.
He pushed his own mount into a faster pace and hurried after her. Catching up with her, he shouted, “Madame, I demand ye nae ride ahead of me like some Gypsy wench. Yer the Countess ofDunmor, and I’ll thank ye to remember it! I’ll nae be left standing in the road again like some spurned fool!”
“And I will thank you, my lord, not to ever again embarrass me publicly by consorting openly at court with your whore!” she shouted back at him.
“She is nae my whore! What passed between us was over and done wi’ months ago! I didna even know ye existed at that point in time,” he gamely defended himself.
Arabella drove her horse into a headlong gallop as they reached a flat stretch of road below the castle hill. Her temper was rising as each moment passed, and she did not know why, except the thought of Tavis Stewart in the arms of Sorcha Morton, even before her husband knew her, rendered her helpless with rage. Why did she feel so strongly over this past history? It didn’t matter. She just wanted to get away from him and from her fury, and only a good gallop would help her ride off her anger. Behind her, her husband and his clansmen thundered on in their attempt to catch up with her.
And if the Countess of Dunmor was angry, her husband was equally so. Tavis Stewart did not immediately understand his wife’s irrational behavior. What he did comprehend, however, was that he had been made a fool of by Arabella, and in front of his own men. Furious, he galloped after her, the blood singing in his ears. When he caught up with her he was going to give her the beating that she deserved for all of her appalling behavior. He was going to take her home to Dunmor Castle and fill her belly with his child, and she would stay there while he came to court. She was not fit to be at court. He had been forced to wed her, and he had been a fool to think this marriage could be anything else but one of convenience.
His stallion drew abreast of her mare and the earl reached out to catch at the other horse’s bridle. With a shriek Arabella attacked him with her riding crop. She would not be defeated by this bullying lecher. She would not! Startled that she would accost him thusly, the earl changed his tactics. Quickly reaching out, he wrapped his arm tightly about his wife’s waist and lifted her from the back of her mare to his own saddle. As her horse galloped on, one of his men rode up to catch the beast.
