smiled as he helped her into her waiting tub. “My father was the best chess player in all of India,” she reminded Adali, “and he never once knew that I let myself lose more often than not, did he?”
Adali grinned. “Nay, my princess, the Mughal never knew that the student surpassed the master. You were adroit in your duplicity.”
“I have not forgotten those skills,” she assured him.
He left her to set up the chessboard in the hall.
Rohana and Toramalli bathed their mistress carefully, having been party to her conversation with Adali. Afterward, wrapped in a towel and seated by her fire, Jasmine thought drowsy thoughts as Rohana slowly brushed her long black hair, drawing the perfumed brush through the silken swath until it gleamed. She yawned. It had been a long day, and she suddenly realized she was tired. “Give me some wine before I collapse,” she said to Toramalli. “The bath has rendered me weak.”
“What will you wear?” Toramalli asked her as she brought her mistress the requested goblet of wine.
“A chamber robe, I think,” came the reply.
The servingwoman nodded and, choosing a silk garment in a rich plum color, brought it to her mistress, who stood up and let her towel fall, holding out her arms to don the robe. It had long flowing sleeves and closed with a small gold frog just below Jasmine’s breasts. Rohana then tied back her mistress’s hair with a silver ribbon. Plum-and-silver silk slippers completed Lady Lindley’s ensemble.
Finishing the wine which had revived her, Jasmine instructed her servants to prepare the bed with fresh linens. “The lovely lavender-scented ones we just obtained from the convent nearby,” she said. Then she departed the bedchamber for the hall, where she found him awaiting her. She stared at his clothing. “A kilt?” she queried him.
“A Scotsman always wears his kilt into battle, Jasmine, and so I am prepared to go to war with you this evening over the chessboard.”
His shirt was open at the neck. She could see the dark hair upon his chest. Her eyes strayed to his long, sturdy legs, which were covered in dark hair. His knees were shapely and rounded. Forcing her eyes away from his form Jasmine tried to quiet her thoughts. She was suddenly behaving like a bitch in heat. She felt both hot and cold at the same time. What had her grandmother said about spring, and sap rising? “You are, as usual, my lord, overconfident,” she murmured with what she hoped was unconcerned disdain.
The laugh that rumbled forth from his broad chest was openly knowing. “I have the strongest desire,” he told her, “to kiss that little mole of yours, darling Jasmine,” and, before she could evade him, he did just that, pressing his mouth against the teasing little beauty mark nature had placed between her left nostril and her upper lip.
“You are too bold, sirrah!” she scolded him, pushing away. “Come, and let us begin our game.” She seated herself in the tapestry-backed chair by the hall fire, motioning him to the seat opposite her. “You may begin,” she told him.
He calmly moved a pawn in a familiar and quite typical opening move. Then his eyes met hers.
“ ’Tis hardly a challenging beginning,” she mocked him, but her own move was quite similar to his.
The play now began in earnest. Jasmine kept up a taunting verbal assault as she played. Her tone was overbearing and overweening. She played hard, and he had not the slightest inkling that she was leading him carefully so that he could shortly capture her queen and win the match between them. She made a move, and then swore softly, reaching out to correct the apparently foolish maneuver, but he stopped her with his hand, shaking his head.
“But I did not mean it,” she objected strongly. “I was distracted. Surely you will not hold me to such a play, Jemmie? ’Tis not fair!”
“You removed your hand from the piece,” he said quietly.
“But I did not mean to, sir! I was distracted,” she cried.
“If our positions were reversed, Jasmine, would you allow me to replay the move?” he demanded of her.
Her small white teeth worried her lower lip, and she did not answer him.
James Leslie reached out and, taking the black onyx piece belonging to him, silently completed the winning move, palming her ivory queen gravely. Jasmine leapt to her feet and, turning, attempted to make her escape. He was quicker, however, and his hard arm wrapped itself about her slender waist, drawing her back against him. “Nay, madame, you cannot go until you have paid your forfeit,” he said softly, and his other hand firmly cupped one of her breasts. His warm breath in her ear sent a shiver up her spine. “Ya-sameen,” he murmured the name she had been given at birth, “how I long to possess you again. I have never forgotten that night we shared so long, long ago.” His thumb rubbed her nipple until it was stiff, and tingling.
“The servants . . .” she protested.
“Are too well trained by your Adali to enter the hall unless called,” he told her even as he pushed the chess table aside with his big stockinged foot and drew her down upon the thick sheepskin rug before the fire. His elegant fingers fumbled a moment with the golden frog closure of her gown, finally releasing it so the plum-colored silk fell away, revealing her naked form to him. He stared at her, almost awed.
“How is it that after four bairns you still have the figure of an exciting young girl?” he wondered aloud. His fingertips caressed the generous swell of her bosom.
“I do not,” came her soft reply. “My belly is no longer flat, and my breasts are much fuller than the last time we found ourselves in this situation. I have the body of a woman, Jemmie Leslie.”
“To my eye you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” he assured her. His dark head bent to press a kiss upon her left breast. “I like your sweet titties,” he said.
“You cannot continue to have me at such a disadvantage,” she told him, her fingers unlacing his shirt, her hands pushing it from his shoulders. It fell about his waist. “What does a Scotsman wear beneath his kilt, Jemmie Leslie?” she teased him provocatively.
With a grin he stood, loosening the garment so that both it and his shirt fell about his ankles. “Only the badge of his manhood, madame,” he answered her, stepping away from the discarded clothing.
“Take your stockings off,” she ordered him. “I’ll not make love to a man with a bare bottom and stockings on his feet.” She kicked her slippers off as she spoke.
Chuckling, he complied with her request, finally joining her upon the sheepskin. “Do you remember the last time?” he asked her.
A small smile touched Jasmine’s lips. “Aye,” she said. “It was after my uncle’s Twelfth Night gala. We seduced each other, and Sibby caught us and raised such a ruckus. My stepfather wanted us to wed to save my reputation. Poor Alec, caught between his two girls. One who wanted you desperately, or so Sybilla thought.”
“And one who refused to wed me,” he reminded her. “You said you would not be forced to the altar.” He smiled at her wryly. “Yet now you are, and with the same man you refused those years back. I fell in love with you then. Did you know it?”
Jasmine shook her head. “Nay,” she admitted, “I did not.”
Bending,
