Her perfect breasts had become even more perfect since the birth of the twins. They were rounder and firmer, especially since she had turned the bairns over to two wet nurses. He nuzzled at their nipples, and she murmured with pleasure. He licked at one, encircling the pert point with the tip of his tongue. Finally, unable to resist, his mouth closed over the nipple and he sucked hard.
“Ahhh,” Annabella sighed. “And ye would leave me bereft of such pleasures while ye cavort in France.”
He grinned. “Ye’ll appreciate me all the more then when I return home, lass.” He chuckled, lifting his head from her breast.
Wrapping her arms about him, she drew him down. “I’m filled wi’ fever for ye, my lord husband,” she told him provocatively, shifting so that he now lay between her thighs.
“Ye’re a bad wench,” he told her, sliding his big body so that he might bury his face in her and lick at her hidden treasures. He peeled her already moist nether lips open, his tongue homing in on that tempting little bit of flesh that seemed to beckon to him. He began licking at it, and when it had swollen itself, his lips closed around it so he might suck it hard. She cried out and her body shuddered. He sucked it again, twice, hard, in succession, and her body bucked beneath his mouth. He moved his head so that he might thrust his tongue into her pearl-dewed sheath, pushing it back and forth teasingly.
“Ohhh, God!” Annabella half sobbed. “Dinna taunt me so, Angus!”
“Ye taste delicious,” he told her. “I want to recall the taste and scent of ye on my tongue and in my nostrils each time I think of ye while I am in France. It will but encourage me to hurry back home to ye, sweetheart.” Then he ceased his torture and, mounting her, thrust deep into her eager body.
She wrapped herself about him, clinging to him, her nails raking down his long back as he pleasured them both to extreme ecstasy. They slept briefly, and then made love again, Annabella riding her husband until he shouted with his delight, finally rolling her onto her back and fucking her until she too was screaming with pleasure. They fell asleep once again, his hand filled with one of her breasts as her delicious little bottom pressed into him.
When Annabella awoke he was gone. Instinct bade her rise and run to her windows. The vessel that had been anchored in Duin’s cove had hoisted its sails, and was even now sailing past the point into the open waters of the sea. She leaned upon the stone sill, watching it go, and wept, but there was no help for it. Her husband was on his way to France. He had to go, but Annabella could not evade a tiny curl of worry that settled in her heart and mind.
Angus had been gone a week when a troop of horsemen came down the road. Matthew had ordered the drawbridge kept up ever since his brother’s departure. The visitors were forced to stop at the edge of the cliff while the watch demanded their credentials and the man leading the troop demanded entry. Matthew was called for, and hurried to the parapet of the entrance.
“I am Matthew Ferguson, steward of Duin Castle, and half brother to the earl,” he called down. “Please identify yerself, and state yer business at Duin.”
“Why is yer drawbridge up?” demanded the unknown gentleman.
“We have been informed that there is civil war in the land,” Matthew said. “It is prudent to be cautious in such times.”
“I am Donal Stewart, sent by the Earl of Moray to Duin to speak wi’ the earl,” came the reply.
“My brother is away from Duin at this time,” Matthew responded.
“I will nae discuss my business wi’ Duin while standing outside of its gates, sir. We are but six men. I bid ye lay down the drawbridge and gie us entry.”
“Let him in, Matthew,” Annabella said, for she had followed him to the parapet to learn who their visitors were.
“We hae only his word for who he is, and from where he comes,” Matthew replied stubbornly. “I am responsible for the castle.”
“Lower the drawbridge,” Annabella repeated. “Do ye think six men can take the castle? Do ye wish to hae Duin incur the wrath of the Earl of Moray? If ye will nae admit Donal Stewart, I will gie the order to do so. Remember I am the lady here.”
“Lower the drawbridge,” Matthew said. He glared at her. “Remember yer place, Annabella,” he told her. “I am responsible for Duin in Angus’s absence.”
“Nay, Matthew, remember yers,” she snapped back. “I am the Countess of Duin.” Then, turning, she descended from the parapet and hurried down into the hall to greet her guest, arriving just a moment before he strode into the chamber, his men at his back. “Welcome to Duin, sir,” Annabella said. “I am the Countess of Duin. I regret that my husband is nae here at this time.” She signaled a servant to bring Donal Stewart wine.
He came forward, kissing the hand she offered him. Then he took the goblet the servant offered, swallowing half of it down, for his throat was parched. “Thank ye, madam,” he said. “I bring Duin greetings from the Earl of Moray.” She was a plain woman, but her manner was gracious, he thought. His master, who had sired him with a mistress, had sent him here after hearing several troubling reports. But this woman hardly looked like a rebel or a conspirator.
“Please seat yerself, sir, and if ye can, disclose the nature of yer visit to Duin,” Annabella invited him, noting that Matthew had now come into the hall. She waved him over. “This is Duin’s steward, Matthew Ferguson, who will sit wi’ us, sir, while ye tell me why ye are here.”
“There hae been reports that Duin hosted the escaped prisoner Mary Stuart, madam. My master, the Earl of Moray, is troubled by these reports, especially given that yer husband is known to have been a compatriot of the outlaw James Hepburn.” Donal Stewart sipped from his goblet, attempting to analyze her reaction.
“Why, sir, ’tis well-known here in the western borders that Angus Ferguson and James Hepburn were old friends from their boyhood. But the last time my husband saw Bothwell was before he wed the queen. He disapproved of such a union, and returned home before it was even celebrated. I am certain my lord of Moray knows that.”
“Did the queen come to Duin after her escape from Lochleven?” Donal Stewart asked her again.
“She did, but we were nae aware that she was an escaped prisoner,” Annabella said. “Ye see, here at Duin we are apt to learn news of import, if indeed we learn it at all, long after the fact. The queen stopped here briefly, nae more than three or four hours, before riding on. It was she who told us all that had happened in that past year, sir. We knew it not before her arrival. And then she was gone. Some in her small party wanted her to go to France, but she seemed determined to go over the border into England. How can she be our queen if she is in England, sir?” Annabella asked him ingenuously.
Matthew Ferguson held his breath, waiting to see if Donal Stewart believed her. It had never occurred to him that Annabella could be so clever. Did his brother know?
Donal Stewart listened. The plain-faced Countess of Duin spoke candidly and without hesitation. She was obviously hiding nothing. The dour steward by her side was silent, but his face showed no emotions, which it would have if the lady were lying. “Bothwell is outlawed, and imprisoned in Denmark,” Donal Stewart said. “Mary Stuart is gone into England, and it is her son, James the Sixth, who now sits on Scotland’s throne.”
“May the Lord have mercy on the wee laddie,” Annabella replied.
