and she knew the satisfaction of pleasure and pleasing. She was cured of John for ever, but the role that had cured her was temporary. She was not a wife. A business partner. A lover. But not a wife. Innes did not want a wife, and Innes would never love her as a wife. She did not think that the mystery woman who had stolen his heart kept it still, but she was fairly certain he would not let it go again. But he would take a real wife because he would realise, very soon, that his commitment to Strone Bridge required him to produce an heir.
Which brought her to the biggest stumbling block of all. The one thing she could not give him. Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, Ainsley decided to follow the path round to the chapel. It was cool here, in the little copse of trees and rhododendrons. She sat on the moss-covered bench in the lee of the chapel, idly watching a small brown bird wrestling with a large brown worm. She smiled to herself, remembering the woman at the Rescinding who had begged forgiveness for having her husband’s dog buried beside him. His grave must be hereabouts. What was the name? Emerson, that was it. But as she crossed the path to start peering at the gravestones, Ainsley was distracted by the Drummond Celtic cross.
She read the old laird’s name thoughtfully, and then his lady’s inscription, too. Marjorie Mary Caldwell had been only twenty-six when she died, and if what Mhairi had said was true, she couldn’t have had a very happy life. Caldwell. She remembered now—that was the name of the family who owned the lands that bordered Strone Bridge, somewhere north of here. Innes’s nearest gentry neighbours. The ones he’d not wanted invited to the Rescinding, though they must be some sort of relation of his.
The atmosphere in the graveyard was only adding to her melancholy. It was very clear that she had no future here, but she did want to leave a legacy. Furrowing her brow, Ainsley made her way back to the castle. The Great Hall still smelled faintly of whisky fumes and ash. Though it was not yet October, Mhairi was already asking if the traditional Hogmanay party would be held here. It was a room made for great occasions. Parties. Banquets. Ceilidhs. Wedding feasts.
Would their marriage be annulled? Would Innes divorce her? She was fairly certain that the law, which was written by men and for men, would perceive her infertility as ample reason for either. Then some other woman with property and the right pedigree would benefit from the changes in Innes that had cost Ainsley so much. He would not love her, his real wife, but he would respect her, and he would confide in her, make love to her, rely on her to play the role of the laird’s lady. And she would give him the son he didn’t yet know he needed.
Ainsley dug her knuckles deep into her eyes. No point in crying. In the long drawing room, she gazed out of the French windows at her view. It was a pity more people could not share it, and fall in love with it. Excursionists from the paddle steamers that would be able to dock here within months. They could take tea here in the drawing room. Smiling, she remembered joking about that very thing the day Innes had decided to build the pier. Excursionists who would pay for Mhairi to show them round the castle and tell her ghost stories. Who would buy the local tweed, or the local heather ale.
She stood stock-still. Would they pay to spend the night here? Pay extra to spend the night in one of the haunted bedchambers? Her heart began to race. Innes had told her that the railway between Glasgow and Greenock was due to open next year. He had shares. The journey would be much easier than it was now, a quicker, cheaper escape from the smoke of the city to the delights of the country. There would be more excursionists able to afford the trip, perhaps wanting to take a holiday rather than merely come for the day. And there would be richer people, too, who would be willing to pay a premium to hire the castle for a family occasion. To marry in the chapel and hold their wedding feast in the Great Hall.
She hesitated, remembering the scorn Innes had poured on the idea when she had first, jokingly, suggested it. Ridiculous, he had called it. But that had been weeks ago, before he had decided to stay here. Before the success of the Rescinding, here in this very hall. He must have changed his mind about the castle by now. Certainly he had not suggested knocking it down again. And there would be jobs. The lands would provide enough produce to feed the visitors.
It could work. She just might have been right after all, when she’d said to Innes that they would have to think differently. Strone Bridge Castle Hotel. Ainsley’s stomach fluttered with excitement. This would be her legacy.
* * *
Innes was gone ten days, during which Ainsley worked on her plan for the castle, determined to surprise him and equally determined not to dwell on the growing sense she had that her time on Strone Bridge was ticking inexorably to a close. He arrived with the morning tide, tired but immensely pleased to see her. Watching his tall, achingly familiar figure stride along the old pier towards her, she forgot all her resolutions and threw herself into his arms.
He held her tightly, burying his face in her hair, exchanging barely a word with Robert Alexander, telling the surveyor brusquely that he had business to attend to before rushing Ainsley back to the Home Farm, leaving old Angus and Eoin to take the cart and deal with the luggage.
They arrived breathless, and headed straight for their bedchamber. ‘I feel like I’ve been gone an age,’ Innes said, locking the door firmly behind him. ‘I missed you.’
‘Did you?’ She felt as if she couldn’t get enough of looking at him, and stood in the middle of the room, simply drinking him in.
‘I missed having breakfast with you,’ Innes said, putting his arm around her, steering her towards the bed.
Her heart was beating from the effort of climbing the hill, from the effort of trying not to let him see how very much she had missed him, and from anticipation, too. ‘I’m sure you and Eoin had plenty to talk about,’ Ainsley said.
Innes smiled. ‘We did, but when Eoin smiles at me over his porridge, it doesn’t make me want to kiss him.’
‘I expect the feeling is entirely mutual,’ Ainsley teased.
‘Did you miss me?’ Innes kissed each corner of her mouth.
‘A little.’ She kissed him back, her words a whisper on his ear.
‘Just a little?’ He kissed her again, more fully this time, running his fingers down her body, brushing the side of her breast, her waist, to rest his hand on her thigh.
She shivered. ‘Maybe a wee bit more than a little,’ she said, imitating his action, her hand stroking down his shoulder, under his coat to his chest, his waist, his thigh. He was hard already, his arousal jutting up through his trousers. She slid her hand up his thigh to curl lightly around him. ‘I can see you missed me a good bit more than a little,’ she said.
Innes reached under her skirts to cup her sex. ‘Do you want to know how much more?’ he asked.
He had a finger inside her. She contracted around him. ‘Yes,’ she said. He started to stroke her. ‘Oh, Innes, yes.’
They lost control then. She pulled him roughly to her, her mouth claiming his. He kissed her urgently. Their passion spiralled, focused on the overwhelming, desperate need to be joined. She had to have him inside her. He had to be inside her. There was no finesse to it. Speed, necessity, drove them. Innes struggled out of his trousers enough to free himself. He rolled onto the bed, taking her with him, lifting her to straddle him, her knees on either side of him. She sank onto him, taking him in so high, so quickly, that they both cried out.
Their kisses grew wild. She clung to his shoulders, then braced herself using the headboard, arching back as she drew him in, as he thrust higher, harder, furiously, until the deep-rooted shiver that preceded her climax took her, and he came, too, pulsing, shaking them both to the core, making them forget,
