Three Weeks in Paris. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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       Chapter Six

      By the time they had finished their tea the snow had settled on the ground, and it was continuing to fall steadily. Outside, it was growing darker and darker; the dusky twilight of late afternoon had long since been obliterated, and already a few sparse early stars sprinkled the sky.

      But in the snug conservatory all was warmth and cosiness. The fire roared in the great stone hearth, constantly replenished with logs and peat by Ian; the table lamps cast a lovely lambent glow throughout, and in the background music played softly.

      Ian had turned on the radio earlier, to listen to the weather report, and after hearing that heavy snow was expected, he had tuned in to a station playing popular music. Now the strains of Lady in Red, sung by Chris De Burgh, echoed softly around the conservatory.

      The two of them had been silent for a while, when at one moment Ian looked across at Kay intently, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’re very quiet this afternoon, and you look awfully pensive. Sad, even. Is something the matter, darling? What are you brooding about?’

      Kay roused herself from her thoughts, and shook her head. ‘Not brooding, Ian. Just thinking…people do suffer for love, don’t they?’

      His brows drew together in a small frown, but his expression was hard to read. After a split second he answered her. ‘I suppose some do…’ He paused and shrugged offhandedly. ‘But what are you getting at exactly?’

      ‘I was thinking of Bothwell earlier, and the way he loved Mary. How he died because of her…well, in a sense, he did. And that awful death…chained like a poor dog to a pole for years…’ Her voice trailed off and she let out a long sigh. ‘He suffered for love. It’s so heartbreaking, that story, when you think about it.’

      ‘But it happened hundreds of years ago. I do believe my mother’s been filling your head with stories again–’

      ‘Yes, but they’re all part of Scottish history,’ she interrupted peremptorily. ‘I can never get enough of it. I guess I didn’t pay enough attention at school…but your mother’s rectified all that. She’s been a wonderful teacher.’

      His searching hazel eyes rested on her, and then he half smiled. ‘My mother’s the best teacher I know. A genius at it, especially when it comes to history, and the history of the clans. She held me enthralled when I was a child.’

      ‘She’s told me a lot about the noble families, but so much more as well. I’ve learned a great deal about the Stuarts. How extraordinary they were, so bold and courageous, so very beautiful to look at.’

      ‘And very ill-fated,’ he shot back pointedly. ‘At least some of them were. Foolish Mary, led by her heart and not her head. She was no match for crafty Elizabeth Tudor, I’m afraid. Not in the long run. Her cousin was so much cleverer.’

      ‘The problem with Mary and Bothwell is that they were so entangled in the politics of the times. It doomed them.’

      ‘That’s an old familiar story, isn’t it?’ Ian shook his head, laughed a bit cynically. ‘She was trying to keep a throne and protect her heir, and he wanted to sit next to her on his own throne, and the lords were in rebellion. God knows, it was a dangerous and hellish time to live.’

      ‘Your mother explained everything. She’s such an expert on Scottish history…’ Kay paused, added: ‘And a bit of a nationalist.’

      He laughed. ‘So are you!’

      ‘Something must’ve rubbed off.’

      He smiled at her indulgently.

      There was a small silence.

      Eventually Kay murmured, ‘Your mother once told me that suffering for love is a noble thing. Do you agree with her?’

      Ian burst out laughing. ‘I’m not so sure I do! And let’s not forget that my mother is something of a romantic, always has been, always will be, just like you are. But come to think of it, no, I don’t want to suffer for love. No, not at all. I want to relish it, enjoy it, wallow in it.’

      ‘With me?’

      ‘Is that an invitation?’ he asked, eyeing her keenly.

      She simply smiled, beguilingly.

      Ian rose and crossed the room, took hold of her hands and brought her to her feet. And then he led her over to the fireplace, pulled her down on to the rug with him.

      He smoothed his hand over her red-gold hair, shimmering in the fire’s glow, and held strands of it between his fingers. ‘Look at this…Celtic gold…it’s beautiful, Kay.’ She was silent. Her eyes never left his face. He began to unbutton her white silk blouse, leaned forward, kissed her cheek, her neck, and her mouth, then moved her down. He kissed her with mounting passion.

      But after only a moment, Kay pushed him away. ‘Ian, stop! We can’t. Not here! Someone might come in.’

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ