The evening was cut a little short due to the inclement weather. Inverness is normally perhaps an hour's drive, but in the season like this, what is maybe forty miles becomes more like two hours when one drives near the Loch.
     It was a splendid night, something out of last century: Mowbray looking as if he could fall over with a slight push, and his wife, the former Comtess Elise Marie Antoinette Erika du Belmont d'Arenburg of Himmelstadt-Girnau, well, she looked as if she'll make it well into the next century...despite her head of grey and the lines at the corners of her eyes that looked like step-boot scuffs. Ah well. She's never been the same since the War.....this would be pre-Persian...and her father was killed against a wall for sympathizing with the Germans and the Russians by the Bulgarians.
     The night rang with her stories of fleeing and being save by the wheezing Scotsman, whose family was really English....restored during the war. Hate young officers fighting with no titles. Such is the way of things. And now the continental comtess resides in Scotland, where her husband wants to die. So nice for them...

     In the well-stocked limousine, you both traveled like Princes of yore. Warm and cozy, in case something happens. With two drivers...one can never be sure with this sort of weather. Another drink is poured as Ian sets his hat down and opens his tuxedo blazer underneath the coat. Far ahead, behind a wall, the drivers perhaps do the same, and wisely. "What did you think of the food...I haven't seen poverty turned into bankruptcy so fast in one night," he laughs, "...I wonder what she sold to keep the illusion tonight..."
     Outside, motion is only visible through the slant of the falling snow. It is pitch black, broken up by the heavy fly-by of streams of white and the usually unseen headlights, glancing bright off reflective snowdrifts. The lake cannot be so far away as you drive westward, then a bit north eventually to the middle of the open Highlands.
     After so many years in America, he began to appear as one of them. Casual. Brash. Beautifully Barbaric. And well you know he needs no help in that regard -- it is a Family Trait, that. But tonight. Tonight, the layers of America were stripped from him, like layers of soot from the face of an old painting. And he became the Aristocrat he truly is. Did he not shine? The noble grace flowed from him with all the ease of his native French. He was your prince tonight. The one who should have been king once... of this very island...
     The gloves are coming off as he relaxes now, just with you. Even the aristocratic layer eases from him slightly -- what remains of it is what he carries with him by virtue of his Existence. That naturally held regality. But the soft gloves of ermine are removed and tucked into his longcoat and he chuckles. Warmly. Dark eyes lit with the fire of humor as he looks to you. "They have to be eating their dogs' food during the week, this is the only way I can explain it. I have never seen something so well done with so little..."
     William leans back with an exhale, laughter calming into a small, but warm smile. "I expect the servants loaned them their own savings for it. It was a fun evening. It has been... so long since I have.. been in that environment." He pauses, to tend to his own drink. "You looked wonderful tonight... I only wish I could have remarked on it..." Indigo holds you for a time, and leaning in, William at last leaves behind a kiss.

     He chuckles too, nodding at the comments on weekly living. But when you speak to him, Ian smiles warmly, eyes ahead to the wall between you both and the front. "Thank you," he murmurs, picking up his glass, "...I'm glad you liked. And...I thought you were pretty spiffy too." Grey eyes turn to you and he lifts his glass after grinning for the kiss. "More of that, please," he murmurs, leaning in towards you.
     The wheels spin a little as the car makes its gentle curve northwards, leaving Loch Ness and Beauly behind. It slows some, more than likely needing to keep traction for the second half of the ride.

     "More scotch?" The quip is a lilt of his French, and followed by a broad grin. But before you can respond, he leans in again. There is a half-moment of pausing, his mouth near your own. 'Beautiful' he whispers in your Gaelic there, just shy of the kiss. And as the car skids a little, following the slick curve, his mouth pulls warmly upon your own. And an ungloved hand reaches up, fingers skimming lightly your cheek. When the kiss parts, indigo eyes lift to the windows. Not much can be seen but darks and brilliant whites. The dark world covered in snow and frost. William looks to you, mouth pulling in a lopsided grin.
     "More still," he murmurs, voice languid and smooth, more of his southern lands than of your northern tonight -- having spoken French for most of the evening. A raven brow lifts in a slight arch. "More," he murmurs, and another kiss lands. Brief and pulling, yet. He leans back and takes a swallow of the scotch. The very finest.

     "More and more," was what he whispered in kind. Ian's cheeks are ruddy when you part from him, a bit of the night's chill still on him. He seems to carry Scotland with him wherever he goes. He sits back too, leaving his glass down for a moment, to pull off his own gloves. "I had a long talk with Victoria while you were finishing getting dressed -- Patrick McKinnon," Clan MacRae, the house barrister and accountant, "...was also there. He gave Victoria the relevant paperworks, explained to her how a 'hand' was used to sign things for her, by us, and she would be informed. She was to use Griffin Management when papers arrived for the US properties that needed our eyeballs. She sends to Griffin, and..." he waves his hand..like magic they will arrive to you both. "We explained that a hand, not hers, was used to keep her handwriting off a papertrail. I think she understands the process."

     More and more. You spoke it. You received it. And his mouth is still blushed with it, his complexion still high with it, as he settles back. Finishing his scotch. It has a bite to it, you can see it fill him. You can note each subtle reaction. The hovering of a pleased smile for it. He sets his empty glass aside, his ungloved hand reaching for your own. Especially with your own gloves gone. His head rests against the back of his seat and he turns toward you. His black hair falls forward in a silken sheen as he does so. Lips pull into a smooth, warm smile. Sensuous -- they cannot help but be so. "How is Paddy? I am sorry I missed him. It took hours to get this civilized..." The smile becomes a grin. He even shaved. It would not do going to such a party with a perpetual partial beard, non? "...But... good... about the papers. If you are satisfied," he lifts his hand. "I am satisfied, amours...Was she shocked?" The smile is held in equal portions in his blue-violet eyes. Warm. Brilliant.

     "No," Ian smiles, "...if she was, she kept it to herself and I did not reach to seek it out. She should learn to keep her confidences now," he sighs in comfortable agreement. He sits back as you do, head against the seat, slipping low into the comfort of the cushions. "I do not think she realizes the extent of how we do things...but it was made clear by Padraig," he murmurs, eyes closing as his head falls your direction. "She was to talk to Padraig about details of how Midlothian reaches her direction, and how she is to use Griffin to pass queries and materials that we are to get. Bills, notices, whatever will need the owner's or manager, her, hand."

     It has been months since he last shaved. How young it makes him look. He had himself almost forgotten how he looked without it. More beautiful ... definitely more civilized. As your head falls in his direction, William too leans forward. A soft kiss for your forehead. All touches gentle. But behind them, the full force of a far greater intimacy.
     "She will learn. She is brighter than she sometimes seems. Though she is horribly young, I believe she will rise to the occasion, Ian." If she has time -- that is what remains unspoken. But he doesn't muddy the waters of his evening with too much concern or thought of her just now. You are too near for that.
     "Thank you," comes the languid baritone, a hush of deep sound, "...for handling that, for us." William tilts his head, the kiss traveling to your cheek, and lastly your mouth. There, the kiss is just a warm brush. A promising sensation that lifts in the next moment. "You are the consummate artist of business. Truly. I have learned much from you." William pauses, grinning. "All I know, in fact..." He sighs the next moment. "It was a lovely party, you were handsome, I was charming. When do we go to our next event?"

     He laughs brightly, a stark contract to the warm quiet he was basking in. "Well, there's a bit of a hunt after this series of squalls," Ian notes as the car goes on, "...grouse, I believe. Outside of Dornoch," further north, but on the Gulf Stream-warmed coast. "Clans McDonald, MacKenzie, and Ross, methinks." His heated fingers curl around yours, tightening. How he'd love to love you now, though he'd just as soon enjoy it more in your own bed. Blonde hair is tied back for the night, giving him a slicker, more continental feel. Hand lifts to touch your smooth cheek, he fascinated by the young man you still are.
     "I've told her that you have a mound of business here to see to for us...and so I will return with her to New Port to see about finishing things there and instilling her without argument." He grins, "I told her I drew the short stick."

     That amuses him. It fills the eyes with fire. Morning glory of shade. Were you to stare into his eyes closely enough, for long enough, you of all would see the starburst structures -- "flowers" they are called -- that make up his irises. It is not one morning glory, but hundreds. Blue and violet. It is what gives them their flickering brightness. Their keen brilliance. Their depth of color.
     "Short stick indeed..." comes the drawl of southern French. "How ever did I get that lucky? Plantagenet must have cheated," the clip is soft, more flirtation than jest. But jest all the same. William turns his head toward that touch upon his cheek. Twenty-five summers he shall always be. But full within the summer of manhood. He seems certainly no more than that thus. The beard adds about four years, does it not? He is more angelic thus. "I do have much work..." He pauses. "So... when do you leave with her?"

     "I told her in a few nights, no more than a week," Ian says softly, eyes open to see you. Hand at your cheek. The first warmth of Spring rests in his fingers, already anticipated. If he could, he should give it to you now. But his rosy cheeks are the harbingers of warmer evenings to come. "I hope not to stay long, but I will guess there are plenty who need to find out, then will seek me out as they realize what our departures mean to them. They should have that ability, those who do not know yet. So, that is the plan. I hope to finish there in..." he quirks a guess, "...two weeks' time? Maybe you will miss me and want me to warm your bed once more."

     "Two weeks," he echoes, and then his voice pulls with agony. It is more true than teasing. William exhales and he settles back again. "How will I make it so long," he whispers. And he means that. But the smile is soon to follow, pulling smooth and slow. "You will call me...yes? ... Every night?" Indigo eyes settle on you and there is seriousness there. "I will worry." A pause. "I should go with you, yes? I can put off my business..." He does not wish to be without you, clearly evident. And he has a husband's worry when you are out of eyesight -- though you are older than he, more able than even he to protect yourself. Is it not endearing?

     He sighs, hand tightening. He wants you with him. "If you want to go...I am not going to stop you..." Ian murmurs, leaning in more so that his lips touch yours. "It is up to you. Or I can go and simply do what I need and leave immediately...less than a week. I do not know what that might mean for Victoria, however." At this point, he could be convinced to let her live and learn. A sigh, and then Ian swallows, "I want to be in bed now," he smiles, "...that much I do know..."

     His hand tightens around your own, fingers clasping warmly. There is electricity there. The hum of power, and Love, interchanging. William smiles warmly and love is everywhere present in it. "I think you should follow your plan. Just... be careful, my love. And do not stay too long..." His mouth brushes against your own, and his eyes must close. Feelings... strum against the Bond between you. The air is alive with it.
     "I... want to be in bed...can we make this a bed, will it serve?" The brush turns to a kiss. The kiss lingers. Warm and spreading. Covering and deepening. It will serve enough for him. But then, most surfaces would, as you well know. But William parts the kiss a moment, his mouth still near your own. Eyes opening, brilliant blue-violet behind long and dark lashes. "You will call me," he insists quietly, grinning in a slant. "Every night...?"

     "Every night..." Ian whispers, eyes twinkling behind low lashes. "For hours. I will have the wireless put into my ear." He smiles then, looking past you to your window. "What will we talk about?" he wonders softly, snow thudding against the moving car.

     "What we would rather be doing?" Words come edged by a quiet chuckle, coupled with a broad grin. "I know I shall be... aching and this castle... will seem colder than it has been in the worst of winters... I will need such ...conversation just to keep me warm, yes?" The wretch. Civilized-looking does not mean Civilized, non? William lifts his free hand, the back of it stroking against your cheek. He stares at you for a long while. Barely interrupted by blinking. Fascination, that look. "We can fill the time with that. The trip will seem short, no matter how cold the nights get. And... you can fill me in on our business there." Chuckling, he wakes from his reverie. "Amours... with his wireless in his ear... this is an image I will keep with me..."

     "It is an image," Ian grins, self-effacing humor there. Not a pretty sight...being jacked-in all the time. He smiles brighter, especially when you stroke his cheek. Looking past you again, there's another turn, this one right-handed. Heading up the long-drive. "So, she has her marching orders, at least. I have not spoken to her spouse in the last nights," he rolls his eyes a little, "I guess she will tend to her homelife as she needs." Not his problem. But you are. Grey eyes glance to the front of the car as the small speaker comes alive in Gaelic, "Four minutes to the Keep. Sirs."

     Needs. That word takes hold for him, and he grins. A kiss follows it. It endures for two of the four remaining minutes, parting with a soft word. "Ah, her ...spouse. Her...childe. He has much left to do yet. He progressed quickly...and then he reached a plateau...but," he says upon an exhale and with a grin, "...that is her homelife, such as it is..." William chuckles.
     "Was I ever so much of a childe as that? Please," comes the plea of his baritone voice, "...tell me I was not...." Eyes close and he prays, it seems. But it ends in a soft laugh. "I love you... " And for the image? It is pretty enough for him. The Bond carries this.

     The stretch limousine rises the pastureland as it glides through waves upon waves of billowing white snowbars. Almost like an unwelcome entourage, the car barrels towards the bridge, sending white flying upon a retreating path. Ian smiles as you speak, reassuring, "You are a Star," he proudly smiles, a bit wistful in it, "...my Rigel...that no one could hold. Not even me. You exploded from my hand, from our home..." he glances out at the world of white, "...blinding us," metaphor not lost in the driven snow. "Why should I have ever thought I could hold Starlight," he whispers, this time to himself.
     Mistake and wan look come from him. If he had approached it differently, perhaps the centuries apart would not have passed. "Vain I am, sometimes," he smiles ruefully, "...to think I could hold a star..." or the universe, for that matter. Perhaps he believed when you called him an angel those first nights together. If so, it was maybe in error. He squeezes your hand again, dispelling the sadness, grinning warmly as his eyes meet violet blooms once more.

     Why should you not have believed him, when he called you his angel. Why should you not have believed? "You did hold him," William murmurs. "You held him in a glade... he fell there. You resurrected him. And he loved you. He still does..." Black hair lies forward as he shakes his head. Sadness is dispelled, at your smile. But he repeats it, lifting your hand.... and curling your fingers toward your palm gently.
     "You held him... you still do." He grins then, tightening his own hand around yours. A squeeze. You hold him thus. Tightly. Snugly. Yes, with all its implications...

     The car slows as it crosses the bridge. If there was more chill from the moor, it was dispelled in effective car heat. Reaching the plains before the keep, the car slows as the gates ahead are lifted. There's a bit of a struggle out there, trying to move away the piles of snow. The limo halts as the men rush from the house to try and lift the trellis.

     He smiles, kissing your hands as they lift to his lips. Reassurance needed. A tight fit, your hands and his, and only after a lingering moment and the forward motion of the car within does Ian open his eyes. "Bed, hmm?" he smiles, car swinging in and coming to a halt in the kitchen courtyard.

     There is a moment of rearranging -- his coat about him and his gloves -- in preparation for hitting a blast of cold air. A steeling himself. You've seen the look before. Prior to jousts. Prior to battles. Prior to council meetings. Half-turning his head, William's gaze settles upon you. "Bed... oui," he answers. And his demeanor begins to change. No less warm, but with a growing intensity. A surge against the air around and between you. A rush against the Bond. Of need. Of love. Of hunger. Images fill his mind and ride against the coursing of his blood -- images that send the winter chill scurrying. "And not a moment too soon," he whispers, indigo flickering aslant to you.

     "Sirs, please," comes a Gaelic voice upon a wicked snatch of barreling air. The door has been opened. The driver steps aside, he too very bundled up. The car door has opened at a shoveled path some ten feet from one of the kitchen doors. People stand inside and right outside the doors, holding larger furs and cups. Everyone is clearly freezing, but will do their duty by you both.
     Golden-red light streams invitingly from within the doors where a few girls huddle in their cottons and coats.

     There's a flood of Gaelic from Ian...most of it unrepeatable. Gathering his coat to himself, he leaves the rest behind in the car ... someone will retrieve it. He swings around suddenly, bracing himself with familiar and no-less cold steel, to buffet against the raging hand of winter. It's his home...he knows it...and will not yield. A mumble of good job and good night to the driver, and he nods as blonde hair is ripped from the tie that holds it, flying wickedly haphazard like branches in the dark-white night. Ice crunches at Ian's feet as he steps gingerly to the house, careful not to fall. Fingers curl around the ermine edges of his coat, holding it close to himself.

     As large as he is, William unfolds himself from the car's spacious back area, stepping out into the wind. Braced against it -- already grown accustomed to it in his way -- his arms folding against his chest. This, to keep the folds of his longcoat close against him. Else the wind would catch and lift it. But the wind and his own size do conspire against him when it comes to walking on the ice. He's not half so graceful for all his stride. William shortens it, but yet slides a bit. Cursing in the worst sort of old French as he does so...

     The car door closes with a loud thud and ice sounds behind as the drivers hastily move to hide within the limo once more. Girls wave at the doors, encouraging you both inside, and the car takes off to be garaged in dryer conditions in the next building. Rushing out behind are the men who come from the storage area, running to close the trellis against the winter buffeting.
     "Aye, well c'mon, Lord Sirs," calls one voice, holding a large patterned fur. "Tis Glamis himself, moos beh..." as the older woman folds Ian in his favorite patchwork fur. "Don't want to be out more than four minnits or so, tis th' God's truth..."

     Ian moves quickly inside the house, wrapped thickly. Immediately, someone bends to take his shoes to clean the snow and salt off, and his jacket and accessories, lest they are ruined as well. A cup is shoved into his hand, more than likely lemon sip he can handle.

     His shoes were not made to traverse the snow and ice. But despite the loud cursing, William makes it to the doorway. Face flushed with the cold. But chivalry is not yet dead. William holds for you to enter before him. That he may freeze the last gem in his set of royal jewels, but to keep the wind off of you! William hurries in behind you, one last slip and near miss behind you. Absolute scandal dripping from his lips. It ends in a sigh as he finds a fur and a warm cup waiting for him. "Sweet Jesus..."

     "Aye," chuckles the older woman, doing the same for you. A heavy fur patchwork is tossed over you as someone hands you a drink and someone else bends to see about your shoes and filching your blazer and accessories from underneath. Might as well leave the damage in here for them to clear. "Jes drink an' y'both will be warmer fast!" she reports, then turns to give orders to the spill of young women.

     How sweet the French sounds. Do the young women respond at all to it? Oh but if they knew what it meant. Indigo eyes seek you out immediately, even as hands lift the cup to his mouth. William closes his eyes, lifting a foot one-by-one so that the shoes can be removed. Slowly do they open. He does not even notice the removal of his things. How aristocratic. A hand leaves his glass of warmth to pull the fur close about him. "Dieu...and I thought it was cold last night..."

     Softer and thicker slippers are offered in place of the shoes. Ian nods at you and says to the women, "Good Night," leaving them with that tidbit. A smile to you and he begins to shuffle towards the Great Hall, top clothing liberated. More than likely, everything has been arranged for you in your apartments.

     The woman smiles at you, seeming to know a little French. She then barks orders to the girls as the doors are closed, and everyone rises to do something with the clothing and shoes in their hands. Dispersing, the older woman is left to see that you have all you need.

     God help her then, for she was able to translate some portion of what he said. She'll have to go to confession for him. Well, she would if she were catholic. Still, prayers may be said. Warmth begins to fill him. Slowly, moving over his skin...trapped by the fur now wrapped around him. Languid, the stride that carries him behind you. The air is grasped by him. William steps within your shadow as he follows you. "Good night," he says, generally, to whomever might be left. But it has a distracted sound about it. As if his thoughts were already elsewhere. Indeed they are. The bedroom. "Merci... for the lovely evening," William whispers, leaning in. His voice brushing against your ear. His mouth not far from it.

     "Ah," Ian waves, rolling his shoulders, "...thank you. It was a grand time, hmm?" In the regal sense. Chuckling to himself, he decides to bypass the great hall, and instead, takes a back hallway to the stairs that lead towards your apartments.

     There is no pause, but steps are swift upon the narrow stairs of stone. Traversing easily, spaces memorized over centuries. And steaming behind him, heavily, the fur wrap. The ever-cooling drink yet in his grasp. "A warm bed and a large fire... this is all I require..." There is laughter again, finally. "And shall you keep me in your bed, Lord," he murmurs, his voice carrying so that but you can hear him. "...until the evening you take your leave for the Colonies..."
     The sound of his voice, the quiet inquisition. The way he addresses you. Is it not reminiscent of much earlier years. When you held it all. You the Lord of this Manor, and he your childe? For you are forever younger than he... and forever older. As much a lord, if not more so. And you are powerful... as powerful now as you ever seemed to be then. But there is a soft teasing in it as well. For you know how pitiful he shall be when you are not about. Two weeks or non. So, shall he not horde you then? Let Victoria and Ui wonder...

     He smiles, trying to keep his focus ahead. How you flatter him so...one of the few who do. Where would he be without you to remind him that he was and is still a Lord. "I have every plan to keep you in our bed," he quips back, taking a turn and heading up the winding staircase, "...you shall never see the firelight from horizontal," he teases, glancing back and drinking from his cup. "In fact...I have thought about sealing off our apartments until the flight..."

     Yes. The Bond carries the affirmation, the agreement, the desire. But William says it not. The smile is spreading warm and wide. And he is on your heels. One of the things that most inflames him... is that he loves a Lord and is loved by a Lord. One that has power, strength -- this as much as beauty moves him. Inspires him. You can feel that inspiration now. The air is alive with it. Lord for Lord lusting. "Hmm...this plan I like, my Lord. It seems the very height of ...reason and prudence..." His voice, deep and soft, comes in even tones and smooth. You tease, and yet, he desires nothing more than this. "I should ...very much like this. I want to savor as much of Time as we have..."

     "I'm so glad you find me prudent," Ian grins, stalking down the hallway. Warmer it is up here, even moreso when Ian stops and leans a shoulder into one of the doors on the hallway. "It is good that we think alike..." Indeed. His grin is slanted when he presents the room to you...with rose petals strewn across the furs upon the floor. Fresh ones. He steps in and presses against the door. Pulling the tie from his hair, he proudly murmurs, "Dinner..." he smiles, "...is served..." The fur cloak is tossed upon the pile with the others, and he begins a quick process of removing his evening shirt....

     Roses. The scent hit him a half-moment before he saw them. And now... they capture him. William stands amazed. The furs slowly lower as his hands let loose of them. "Ah...love..." He half-turns to you, his smile living within his eyes. Even as it is born upon his lips. Darkly. With the curve of hunger. Curl of sensuality, that is echoed in his every motion after. His eyes feasting upon your own undoing, he unfastens his clothing. You, his mirror. He, yours.

Posted by rowan at January 06, 2000 03:33 PM