Underneath The Mistletoe Collection. Marguerite Kaye
what I thought! If you won’t listen to Blanche, why would I think you’d listen to me?’
Innes crunched the letter into a ball and threw it at the grate. ‘Dammit, Ainsley, it’s you who won’t listen! Why must you— I told you, I don’t want you to care for me. I told you...’
She had had enough. Pushing back the blankets, Ainsley got out of bed and stood before him, hands on her hips. ‘Do you think I could forget for a moment what you told me when it almost broke my heart!’ she exclaimed. ‘For goodness’ sake, Innes, just because you want something to be so doesn’t make it so! There are some things you can’t control, and how I feel is one of them.’
‘You think you’re so damn clever! Can you not see, you annoying, interfering woman, that how I feel is another?’ he said, yanking her into his arms.
He gave her no chance to respond, but covered her mouth with his. His kiss was passionate, dark and desperate. Exactly how she felt. Ainsley kissed him back with an abandon that left no room for thought. They staggered together, kissing, tearing at each other’s clothes, kissing. Her back was pressed against the wall. His hands were on her breasts, her waist, her bottom. She wrapped one leg around him to steady herself. He pulled his jumper over his head and tore at the opening of her nightgown, groaning as he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, making her moan, arch against him, thrust herself shamelessly against the thick bulge of his arousal.
She clutched at his behind, her fingers digging into the taut muscles of his buttocks. His mouth enveloped her other breast now, tugging at her nipple, making her ache and thrust and moan. Her fingers fumbled with the opening of his breeches. Her hands slid in, wrapping around the satin-soft length of him, sliding up to the hot, wet tip, and back down. ‘Innes,’ she said, the strain in her voice making her sound as if she’d run a mile.
‘Ainsley,’ he said raggedly, ‘I need to be inside you.’
‘Yes.’ There was no hesitation in her agreement. She knew without a doubt that this was no beginning but an end, but she wanted him, needed to be part of him, this one last time. ‘Yes,’ she said, and when he hesitated, she arched against him. ‘Yes, Innes, now.’
His face was dark, colour slashing his cheeks, his eyes deep pools. He lifted her onto the edge of the bed, pulling up the skirts of her nightgown. She wrapped her legs around his flanks, bracing herself on the mattress. He kissed her. He lifted her. He entered her. She started to come as he slid inside her. Tension, unstoppable, winding tighter and tighter as she thrust, pulsing around him as he thrust for the second time, her cries harsh, loud, demanding more and harder and more. Not enough, she didn’t want it to stop, but she wanted him to have what she had. ‘Come now,’ she said. ‘Innes, come with me.’
He did just as she asked, though he did not spend himself inside her, and panting, spiralling out of control, clinging, she did not regret that, because she knew he would, and this had to be it, the last time, the perfect time. She kissed him deeply, her lips clinging to his, her tongue touching his, touching, clinging, kissing, telling him with her mouth what she could not speak. There were tears lurking, but she would not shed those. Only she kissed him again. His mouth. His jaw. His neck. Nuzzling her face into the hollow of his shoulder, closing her eyes and trying to etch it all in her mind, as his heart thundered under her and his chest heaved, and his hands held her so tight, as if he would not let her go, though she knew he would.
* * *
Ainsley knew, even as they lay there, breathing heavily in the aftermath of their union, that it was completely and irrevocably over. Innes cared for her, but it tormented him. He had lost himself in her to stop that torment, and she had lost herself in him because she could not resist him. But she could not carry on this way, and she would not allow herself to be the means by which he escaped his past.
‘I’m sorry.’
She dragged her eyes open as Innes rolled away from her, his expression troubled. ‘What for?’ she asked.
‘Not this, but the way it happened. You meant well—the idea for the hotel, writing to—to her. You meant well, I know that. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.’
But he wasn’t going to change his mind. Ainsley got to her feet and pulled on her wrapper. ‘I should have consulted you,’ she said, turning her back to him to tend the fire.
‘It would certainly have saved you a lot of effort.’
The final confirmation, as if she needed it. He was standing behind her now. ‘You must be tired,’ she said. ‘You should get some sleep.’
‘Ainsley, I really am sorry.’
He looked quite wretched. She surrendered to the temptation to comfort him one last time and went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his chest. He pulled her tight, almost crushing the breath from her. ‘You do understand,’ he said.
‘I do, Innes.’ She looked up, brushing his hair from his eyes, and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘I understand perfectly,’ she said. ‘Now go and get some sleep.’
He went. He would have stayed if she had asked him, but she did not. Instead, she set about making her preparations to leave, packing a few necessities in a bandbox, leaving the rest to be sent on. She found Blanche’s balled-up letter lying under the nightstand and smoothed it out. Her own words, quoted in the other woman’s elegant hand, leaped out of the page at her, and at the end, a plaintive request from Blanche for a meeting. Nothing more. It was signed with a flourish, the first name only.
Innes had been joking when he suggested marrying Blanche would make all right, but there was still a chance it would. Blanche was his first love. His only one? How easy would it be for him to fall in love with her again if he could be persuaded his dead brother sanctioned the match? Blanche had always been intended to be the wife of the laird of Strone Bridge. She had been groomed for it. She had birth and money and beauty. She would be a laird’s wife worth her salt. A woman who belonged here. A woman blessed by the last laird. No usurper. A woman who was perfect in just about every way, including, no doubt, her ability to pop out any number of the requisite heirs.
Feeling slightly sick, Ainsley folded the letter carefully. Pulling Innes’s discarded jumper on over her nightclothes, she made her way softly down the stairs. Outside, the air was sharp with the first hint of frost. The stars were mere pinpricks, the moon a waning crescent, but she knew her way now, without looking. Up to the castle, along the path, to the terrace and her view. That was how she thought of it, though it would not be hers after today. Gazing out at the black shape that was the Isle of Bute, longing gripped her, tinged with anger. All her hard work had come to naught. When she was gone from here, there would be nothing of her left. Perhaps that was what Innes wanted, to forget all about her, and to immolate himself on the altar of the past. Tragic as it was, Ainsley was becoming impatient with his determination to earn a martyrdom. She loved him with all her heart, and more than anything, she wanted him to be happy, even if he did decide to marry Blanche. He had lived with guilt and regret for so long, she would not add to that with tears, with long goodbyes, with dragging out her time here.
Eyes straining into the inky blackness, she sought to capture the view in her mind for all time. Then she turned away and headed back to the Home Farm to complete her preparations. Before dawn broke she was tapping on the front door of Eoin’s croft, her luggage already left waiting down in the bay.
* * *
Dearest Innes,
I am writing this as myself, and not Madame Hera, though the truth is, in my time at Strone Bridge, I believe we have become more or less one and the same thing. No doubt reading this as Madame’s advice will make it easier for you to ignore. I expect you will. I wish with all my heart that you will not.
As you can see, I have rescued Blanche’s letter. I hope you forgive me when I confess to having read it. Innes, please do as she asks and meet her. If you cannot put your own demons of guilt to bed, then perhaps you can help her. The poor woman was but a child when these tragic events that have shaped both your lives took place—as indeed were you, though I know you