Barbara Taylor Bradford - Three Weeks in Paris

‘No, they won’t.’

‘Maude might, or Malcolm. To clear away the tea things.’

He laughed dismissively. But, nevertheless, he got up and walked over to the door set in the wall, to the right of the fireplace. This led to the main house.

Risk, Kay thought. He loves taking risks, taking chances. It excites him. And I mustn’t fight him now. He wants to make love…I must seize this moment.

She heard him locking the door, and his footsteps echoing on the terra-cotta tiles as he came back to her.

Ian knelt on the floor next to Kay. He took her face in both of his hands, brought his lips to hers gently, gave her a light kiss.

‘What about the French windows?’ she asked, pulling away, glancing worriedly towards the terrace.

‘Nobody’s going to be out in this weather, for God’s sake! There’s a snowstorm brewing!’

He doesn’t care, she thought. He doesn’t care if someone sees us through the windows. Or walks in. But she knew this wouldn’t happen. He was right. Everyone was snowbound tonight, safe in their homes. His mother down the hill in the Dower House; his sister Fiona ensconced in her cottage by the loch; John Lanark and his family secure in the estate manager’s house close by the Home Farm. No one would venture out unless there was an emergency.

Ian had taken off her cardigan and white silk blouse, and was fumbling with the hooks on her bra. She helped him to unfasten it, then reached out for him, pulled him into her arms. They fell back on the rug together, and she kissed him hard, deeply. He responded with ardour, and then almost immediately sat up, pulled off his sweater, struggled out of his shirt, threw them to one side.

Kay followed suit, and within a few seconds they were both completely undressed, naked on the rug in front of the fire. Ian sat back on his haunches looking down at her. She never failed to stir his blood. She was such a beautiful woman, tall, slender, long-limbed; and her skin was pale as ivory. But now, in the firelight, it had taken on a golden glow and her red hair was like a burnished halo around her narrow face. How very blue her eyes were.

Staring back at him, Kay saw the intensity in his luminous hazel eyes, twin reflections of her own filled with mounting desire. She lifted her arms up to him.

In answer, he stretched himself on top of her. How perfectly we fit together, he thought.

‘I want you,’ she whispered against his neck, and her long, tapering fingers went up into his hair.

He wanted her as much as she wanted him, but he also wanted to prolong their lovemaking. Sometimes it was too quick. He was too quick. Tonight he had the great need to savour her, to pleasure her, before he took his own pleasure with her.

And so he kissed her very slowly, languorously.

As he began to caress her breasts, her hands moved down over his broad back, settled on his buttocks. Smoothing his hand up along her leg, he slipped it between her thighs; her soft sighs increased as he finally touched that damp, warm, welcoming place. She arched her body, then fell back, moaning.

Now he could hardly contain himself and he parted her legs and entered her swiftly, no longer able to resist her.

Kay began to move frantically against him, her hands tightly gripping his shoulders, her whole body radiating heat and a desire for him he had not seen in her before. Excited beyond endurance, he felt every fibre of his being exploding as he tumbled into her warmth, and she welcomed him ecstatically.

William Andrews, who inherited Lochcraigie on the death of his bachelor uncle, had had a growing family, and so it was necessary to provide a larger dwelling to accommodate them all. To this end, he built a new house which was finished in the late summer of 1559, and for the past four hundred and forty-two years it had stood unflinching on the small hillock above the loch.

Across all these decades the large bedroom, which overlooked the long body of water and the rolling hills beyond, had been called the Laird’s Room. From William’s day on it had always been the private enclave of the head of the family, from the moment he inherited the title and property until he died.

Like the rest of the rooms in this great stone manse, the bedroom had a grandeur and dignity about it. Of spacious proportions, it had eight windows, one placed on each side of the central fireplace, and three set in each end wall. The fireplace itself was grand and soaring, with an oversized iron grate to hold big logs and slabs of peat, the kind of massive fires necessary in the dead of the Scottish winter. Its mahogany mantel matched the dark beams which floated across the ceiling and the highly polished, pegged-wood floor.

The elegance of the room was not only to be found in its beautiful proportions, but in its furnishings as well. Set against the main wall, and facing the fireplace, stood the mahogany four-poster bed, with its carved posts, rose silk hangings and coverlet.

The same rose brocade, with a self-pattern of thistles, covered the walls and hung as curtains at the many windows. It was faded now, having been chosen by Ian’s great-great-grandmother, the famous Adelaide, renowned in the family for her installation of the Victorian conservatory.

Although she had taste and a great eye for decorating as well as for fashion, Kay had not tampered with anything in the master bedroom. For one thing, Ian loved the room just the way it was, and so did she. So there was no good reason to upset him by making changes to a setting already quite beautiful, and one loaded with tradition and family history.

In particular, she admired the handsome antique chests, dressing table and other smaller pieces from the Jacobean period, and the Persian rug in the centre of the room. This was very old, its rose and blue tones faded, but it looked perfect against the dark pegged wood; it was priceless, she knew that. A beautiful gilded mirror over one of the chests, antique porcelain lamps and vases, and a charming old grandfather clock standing in one corner were items in the bedroom which Kay cherished as much as Ian did.

Several comfortable chairs were arranged near the fireplace, and Kay curled up in one of them now.

It was late, well past midnight.

Ian was already fast asleep. She could hear the faint rise and fall of his deep breathing; the only other sounds in the room were the crackle of the logs in the grate and the ticking of the clock in the corner.

Kay was thinking of Ian. She had been overwhelmed by his passion tonight, not only in the conservatory after tea, when he had taken her by surprise and made amazing love to her on the floor, but then later in their bed, when desire had overtaken him yet again. He had been unable to get enough of her, or so it seemed.

She had found herself responding in kind, meeting his passionate sexual needs, as wild and demanding as he was.

Hope rose in her that she had conceived.

Kay wanted a child as much as her husband did. Not that Ian ever made reference to his longing for a son. But she knew, deep within herself, how much he yearned for an heir, a boy to follow in his footsteps as the Laird of Lochcraigie.

What would happen if she didn’t conceive? Not ever? Would he divorce her and find another woman to bear him a son? Or would he shrug and hope that his sister Fiona would marry, and provide a male child to inherit the title and vast family holdings? The awful thing was, she had no idea what Ian would do.

Rising, Kay walked over to the window and looked out. It was still snowing; there was a high wind that sent the crystalline flakes whirling about, and on the ground they were still settling. There was a blanket of white below, and under the pale moon this pristine coverlet seemed woven with silver threads. The wind rattled the windows, but the house stood firm and solid as it always had. William Andrews of Lochcraigie had built a manse that had defied time and the harsh Scottish winters.