and lonely winter.
It wasn’t until late afternoon that we ate Kate’s sandwiches. The ice-cold ale followed by a thermos of hot coffee had an unusual effect on my nerves. I was relaxed but wide awake. The blood drummed loudly in my ears, and my inhibitions were so completely extinguished that it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Ian to lie back on the blanket and pull my head against his shoulder. I rested my hand on his chest and fitted my body against the length of his. His hand sifted through my hair. It moved to my neck and then my cheek. His eyes met mine, and the need reflected there shook me.
“Christina?” he breathed the timeless question.
I nodded. This time I was ready for the taste of his mouth, the hungry pressure of his lips, and the powerful surging flood of desire when he flicked his tongue against mine. We kissed for a long time, lips teasing, tongues tasting, breath mingling until, for both of us, it was too much and at the same time no longer enough.
There was no pulling away, no turning back. Again I was ready when his hands slid under my sweater and unhooked the clasp of my bra. The weight of my breasts fell into his hands. His thumbs rested on my skin, circling the sensitive peaks until they stood up, firm and erect through the sweater. Lowering his head, he took a stiffened nipple into his mouth and sucked gently, wetting the soft wool.
I ached for him. Throwing away years of inhibition, I reached out and stroked him through his jeans. “My God, Christina,” he groaned, pulling me tightly into the saddle of his hips. He was fully, powerfully erect. Carefully, working around the straining flesh, I unbuttoned the top two buttons of his fly. He stopped breathing as I maneuvered the rest free. The full length of him surged into my hand, and he pushed me back into the grass.
Those were the last details I remember along with the smell of cold air and clean wind, the taste of coffee and ale on a searching tongue, and the sweetness of hot, hard flesh pounding into mine, filling the aching emptiness with life and warmth and hope. We came together on the banks of Saint Mary’s Loch in a flash of blinding need, hungry for the feel of urgent hands and naked skin and the ancient, primal splendor of dark blood calling for the culmination of a ritual older than time.
When it was over, I felt no awkwardness, no remorse or guilt, only a grateful relief that the long dry wait was finally over. It was as if we had done this a thousand times before and it was right. We dressed and lay down together once again, curled up like spoons in the blanket. I slept briefly and woke to the sound of his heartbeat against my cheek. His fingers were threaded in my hair.
“Was your husband’s name David?” he asked casually.
I pulled away to look at his face, wincing as a few strands of hair came away in his hand. “No. Why do you ask?”
“You called me David just before you fell asleep.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
He gathered me close to his chest. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”
David. The name was naggingly familiar. It was common enough for me to have heard it many times over the course of a lifetime, but it seemed more familiar than that. Suddenly, I remembered.
“Ian.”
“Yes,” he murmured sleepily.
“Tell me everything you know about the previous owners of Traquair House.”
He chuckled. “We’d be here all night, Christina. Traquair is eight hundred years old.”
“Did the Murrays ever live there?” I persisted.
He was silent for a long time. At last, he spoke. “The Maxwells have always held the title to Traquair, but during the course of its history, a number of marriages with Murrays took place as well as with other border families.” His fingers caressing my head lulled me into a sense of complacency. “As you well know,” he continued, “Scotland was more or less an isolated country for centuries. The nobility was limited to about two hundred families. Over an eight-century period, it would be very unusual to find a family that hasn’t intermarried with every other clan in Scotland.”
“That doesn’t explain why Lord Maxwell left Traquair House to me.”
“I’m sure he had good reason. The Maxwells had no children, and you’re obviously related in some way.”
I knew he would be skeptical, but