An Invitation to Pleasure Read Free Page B

to look like arrow slits, Castle Kilmun looked as if it had been lifted straight out of a children’s storybook. The backdrop of snow-capped mountains, the picturesque village and the loch in the foreground added to the fairytale image. Susanna was enchanted.
    From the gatekeeper’s lodge to the mighty front door, the carriageway was lined with people. Old women in black, younger women in full skirts that stopped well short of the ankle, men in the kilt, which Susanna had never seen before save in paintings. Other men wore trews. ‘The shawl the women wear is called an arisaidh ,’ the man who insisted she call him Fergus said, ‘and you can tell which of them are married, for they wear the kertch or kerchief tied over their hair.’
    Susanna listened to his commentary of names and roles without taking much in save that he had an impressive memory for every face. Bemused by the dropping of curtsies, the dropping of eyes which she could feel raised to stare the moment she passed by, she was very conscious of her clothes, her accent, which marked her out as not one of them. It was all so foreign and so unexpected and quite exhilarating. She smiled in bewildered acknowledgement of the murmurs of ‘mistress’ and ‘my lady’, and allowed herself to be beguiled, telling herself it was the people, the scenery, the castle, and nothing at all to do with the man at her side.
    In the great hall, where a positive armoury of broadswords and daggers and foils and pistols were displayed on the walls in intricate designs, there were more curtsies and bows and nudging and whispering from a cluster of servants and ancient retainers, whose scrutiny was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable. Who on earth did they think she was?
    In the huge stone fireplace, a fire consumed what looked like half a tree. Food was taken, Susanna’s health was drunk, and then speeches were made, all in the soft, lilting Gaelic which she could not understand and which Fergus made no attempt to translate. The sense of unreality took hold. Her head began to buzz. She needed to sit down in a quiet room, take off her hat, and gather her thoughts. The whisky burned her throat and made her cough. The heat was overpowering. The flagstone floor seemed to tilt up at her. She slumped back in her seat, and found herself suddenly scooped up into her host’s arms.
    It felt rather nice to be picked up so effortlessly, to be held against such a broad chest, to be forced to surrender to him, just for a few seconds, so Susanna felt obliged to struggle. ‘Put me down.’
    Fergus ignored her. ‘You will excuse us,’ he said to the gathered household. ‘My lady is overcome by the warmth of your welcome.’
    Laughter greeted this remark. ‘ My lady?’ Susanna hissed, grabbing hold of a fistful of his auburn hair and yanking hard. It had no effect. Fergus’s arms tightened around her as he carried her, ignoring her protests, up the wide sweep of stairs, along a long hallway to a dark panelled door, which he managed to open without letting her fall, and finally he set her down.

Chapter Three
    The room was at the rear of the castle, with a view out over parkland where deer were foraging in the frosty grass. Dusk was falling outside. The fireplace was of carved stone, but the smouldering flames indicated a chimney in need of sweeping. It would have been a pleasant room, with its faded damask hangings and its worn rugs, cosy and comfortable like the pair of chairs angled towards the fire, were it not for the fact that it was dominated by a large four-poster bed.
    Fergus was leaning against the door. Tall, broad, a bit dishevelled, a bit out of breath, a lot of man. He was looking at her in a way that was far from gentlemanly. His eyes had a wicked glint. And his mouth…
    Susanna turned her back on the man and the bed, confused by how sharply she could recall that might-have-been kiss. She had blocked it so completely from her mind that she thought it forgotten. She