Temptation in Tartan

by Suz deMello

  * * * * *

  Lydia ate standing, at an hour when the Great Hall was thankfully deserted, with the clan working. Kier disappeared briefly before showing up holding a large basket covered by a quilt. “Come,” he said.

  He led her out of the castle toward the hills. As they walked, sunlight dappled with cloud-created shade alternately darkened and lit the fields. Dotted with puffy sheep, the grass flowed like a river driven by the breeze off the sea, except where the animals had cropped it. Behind her, glittery patches decorated the white-capped water and the turrets gleamed in the fading light.

  Following Kieran, she climbed the first hill, on which stunted trees grew, blown sideways by the constant wind. But over the top, forest claimed the land, with the copses and glens watered by burns and the occasional gleaming pond. The woods thickened. Little sunlight penetrated, except for a spot by a stream that had slowed and widened. The little hollow was fringed by ferns and punctuated by the tall, spiny canes of berry bushes, heavy with ripe fruit.

  Kieran pulled the blanket from the basket, folded it twice and draped it over the sunny spot and gestured. “Your throne, milady.”

  She sat gingerly, aware of the hard ground beneath, but found that the quartered quilt did much to ease her, as had the long walk. He set the basket nearby and unpacked—ale, hearth-baked bread and a roasted fowl, now cold. And napkins, actually old, soft cloths like their towels.

  “A frugal people, our clan,” she said, shaking one out and setting it onto her lap. “Nothing wasted.”

  “Nay, we’re no’ in a position to do so.” He dropped beside her, folding his legs crossways.

  A stag burst forth from the trees beyond the pond, leaped over it and shot into the forest. All the air exploded from Lydia’s lungs and her heart raced faster than the deer had fled.

  Kieran stood and stared after it. “I wonder what startled him so?”

  “Surely not us.” She gestured with a chicken leg. “We’re just sitting.”

  “Aye. He came from the direction of the MacReiver lands.” Kieran’s voice was thoughtful. Raising his head, he sniffed the air.

  “Anything?”

  “Nay, just the stag himself.”

  “He’s beautiful.”

  “Aye, ’tis a glorious animal. Did ye see? He must have fourteen points at least.”

  “Does that mean he was fourteen years old?”

  “Nay, age and antlers are no’ so closely related. He’s in his prime, p’raps eight years old.” He lifted ale to his lips and drank.

  She watched the long muscles in his neck flex. In his way, Kieran was as magnificent a male animal as the stag. How had she been so lucky as to become his mate?

  When she shifted on the ground, a renewed ache reminded her that all gifts are measured and p’raps she was not so lucky. But she’d meant what she’d said. Even when he disciplined her, he acted with love.

  He knelt beside her and set the bottle down before taking her by the shoulders and drawing her close. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, then her lips, slowly at first, just brushing his mouth lightly over hers. She reached for him, clinging to his forearms while her arousal gathered and built. He fed the fire patiently with his hands and lips and tongue, waiting for her, and she knew he’d wait forever if need be. She sagged in his arms at the realization that they belonged to each other as surely as the sun belonged in the sky.

  “Have a care, lassie.” His voice was husky. “Ye’ll be more comfortable atop me this time.”

  “And for a good few days, I trow,” she murmured.

  “Come here.” He pulled her forward, reaching beneath her to tug her skirts out of the way. He rucked up her gown and shift to her waist. “Open your legs.”

  She did, and wrapped them around him as best she could. Her bare flesh was snug against his leather trews, an odd but arousing sensation. He shoved a hand between their bellies and tugged at his laces.

  “There has to be an easier way.” She grinned at him. “As in our bed.”

  “I dinnae want to wait. Do ye?”

  She wriggled against the leather. “No, not really.”

  Finally the tugging and the pulling resulted in his cock coming free to press against her thigh, and she shifted so the head was against her quim.

  “Are ye ready?” He tried to squirm a hand between them to touch her, but they were tight together, with Lydia rubbing herself against him, his knob pressing on her most sensitive places.

  “Not quite…ahhh…” Two more pushes and presses on her pearl and he slipped inside. She moaned and so did he, the joining of their bodies, flesh against flesh, amazing her in its wonder and delight, as it did every time.

  Clinging to his shoulders, she rocked a little, slowly taking him deeper. They usually swived quickly, frantically, each seeking one swift release after another, but today, lulled by the quiet clearing and the sun-dappled afternoon, the unhurried lovemaking brought her a more mellow pleasure.

  She needed the languorous renewal of their love, his patient fingers sliding down her throat into her bodice, lifting, releasing. When the taut buds of her breasts were revealed, his sigh of admiration was equally welcome. He lifted her up and almost off him so he could kiss the tight peaks, lowering her while he scattered kisses along her neck, dotting them on her chin, her jaw, her mouth. A nip to her earlobe brought a gasp and a groan, and she dropped down again to take him entirely inside her dewy channel.

  She flung her head back and ground against him with new urgency as the passion built. He’d taken her to a heightened state in slow and caring stages, and now she spun toward completion, digging her knees into the quilted ground, swirling herself around his rod into sublime ecstasy that captured all her senses—the fragrances of woodland and forest mingled with her husband’s unique scent, the rippling water merging with their pants and sighs, the dappled sun forming patterns on her closed lids that constantly changed as she swayed. She licked and sucked, tasting salt on his skin and the bitterness of ale on his tongue, delicious contrasts.

  Gripping his shirt, lifting herself up by the knees, she then eased down, taking as much care as he did, using his body as her pleasure toy. Up again, with light friction mediated by her slickness, until his knob dwelt at her opening. When she slid down his pole she stopped midway, sensing a sharper arousal, and when she twisted, she cried out and so did he.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Moira awoke when Seamas set her down on a grassy bank. Blinking, she watched as he disappeared into a thicket. After p’raps three minutes, he emerged with a brace of dead rabbits in hand.

  “Snares,” he explained. “I set them regularly.”

  “Och, aye. Are we now on MacReiver land?”

  “Aye,” he said, and Moira relaxed.

  “Can ye walk, lass?”

  She thought fast. Should she continue to feign weakness? She wasn’t sure, so she said, “I can try.”

  He held her arm as she lurched to her feet. She didn’t have to fake her unsteadiness, but nevertheless walked with his help southward to a sunny glade divided by a swiftly moving stream. There, he gutted the rabbits, throwing the offal into the surrounding bushes for scavengers to take later. He cleaned the carcasses in the stream while Moira, anticipating his needs, gathered dry twigs.

  When he returned, he sent her a quick smile of thanks and competently kindled a fire. They worked together in silent accord. She encouraged the tiny blaze with bits of dried leaf so it caught and grew, then fed it larger branches while Seamas skewered the rabbits to roast.

  She found herself staring at his broad, skillful hands, and wondered if he was as skilled at sex. She fervently hoped so. Her plans hinged on this man and enjoying him would be a bonus.

  She’d show all of them, all the Kilborns, when she reappeared as Lady MacReiver…especially if she could engineer the revenge she’d started to plan.

  She needed to bed Seamas soon if any bairn she carried was to be “his”. She refused to think about what could happen if Euan
had impregnated her or, worse, the creature in the Dark Tower, which would be obvious if the child turned out to be dark of hair and eye, with white skin and an unnatural hunger for human blood.

  Grease from the rabbits’ cooking flesh dropped to the hot embers, spitting and hissing. The aroma of roasting meat filled the glade and Moira’s belly rumbled. She clutched it and looked at Seamas. Had he heard the embarrassing noise?

  Raising his head from his work turning the spitted animals, he grinned at her. “’Twill be only a few more minutes, lassie.”

  When the rabbits had cooked, he offered her one and set to eating the other. The juicy, aromatic meat burned her fingers and mouth. She wanted to devour her portion but controlled herself. She hadn’t eaten since the previous noonday meal, which had been a bowl of soup, and knew she could become ill if she rushed.

  * * * * *

  Seamas watched as Moira tugged bits of roasted meat from her rabbit. She blew on each morsel before placing it daintily in her mouth. Every now and then, her pretty pink tongue would dart out and lap stray droplets of the meat’s juices from around her lips.

  He did not know the lass but watching her made him hard as one of the bones he now sucked. He wondered how soft her tongue and lips must feel and imagined them lapping his cock and balls.

  Kieran Kilborn could not be blamed for taking the wench. But did Seamas truly want spoiled goods? He was acting chieftain of his clan. He could have anyone he wished. He did not need Kilborn’s castoff.

  On the other hand, Moira was a Cameron. Could Clan Cameron become an ally? Before Culloden, Cameron had been a power in Scotland. Now, who knew? Though decimated, mayhap even the remnants of Clan Cameron could be useful.

  While he’d ruminated, Moira finished eating. She tucked the bones behind a bush for the woodland scavengers to find, then washed her hands and face in the stream.

  He followed, impressed by her fastidiousness. She was clearly a lady. A new and disturbing thought occurred to him—was he worthy of her?

  He was wearing ancient trews and even older shoes, topped by a dirty shirt. While her back was turned, he covertly sniffed his armpits. He smelled like a midden. He offended himself.

  He sidled closer to the stream’s edge, staying well away from Moira. He did not wish her to think he’d force himself on her. He rinsed his hands before removing his shirt. He’d have taken off his trews also but did not want to frighten the bonnie lassie.

  Plunging his head into the chilly water, he washed himself and his shirt as best he could, then sat on the sunny bank to dry, spreading out the cloth on a nearby shrub. He leaned against a warm boulder and closed his eyes.

  * * * * *

  Moira watched him, had watched him every moment while hoping he would not notice her intense scrutiny. Winning this man over was the linchpin of her future plans. Without Seamas, she’d be nothing and would have nothing.

  Now he seemed relaxed and she gathered that they were in no danger. She shrugged her shoulders and stretched out nearby.

  She awoke with her head tucked underneath Seamas’ arm but could not remember how she’d got there, held so closely and comfortably to his body. He smelled clean and felt good. Strong, but not unnaturally so. She shuddered with remembrance and his arm tightened around her.

  “Are ye all right, lassie?”

  “Aye.” She hated the tremble in her voice.

  He slid a slow finger beneath her chin. “Ye seem troubled. Know that I’ll never force ye.” His blue eyes searched her face.

  She kept her reaction muted, but inside she was exulting. He wanted her and was ready to do her bidding. How fast or slow should she go?

  She needed to bed him quickly in case she was already pregnant, but she wanted more. She wanted marriage. She wanted to be a laird’s wife. She wanted to be called “Lady” for all the days of her life.

  She never wanted to be helpless again.

  She cast her gaze downward in what she hoped was a demure and ladylike fashion. “I want ye, but…ye ken what just happened to me.”

  “Aye, I ken that diabhol Kilborn forced ye.”

  “It was…terrible.” She blinked as though casting away tears. “I had…I had been planning to marry, ye ken, before Culloden, but my man…”

  “Och, I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged and produced a wan smile.

  “Well, if it’s meant to be, it will be.” He drew her to her feet. “Let’s away. The afternoon isnae growing any brighter. I want to get ye into a hot bath and some decent clothes.”

  * * * * *

  Moira stared in shock. The MacReiver “stronghold” was little more than a crumbling tower. Perched on a modest crag, it was surrounded by stinking, smoky mounds of aged wattle and daub cottages in which the poorest crofters shared their living quarters with their livestock when the weather was harsh.

  She wished desperately she hadn’t given into her most base urges to hurt Lydia Kilborn. Moira wanted to be home, home in Kilborn Castle’s vast, friendly Great Hall, eating with her mother Fenella and cousin Grizel, smelling the rich aromas of stew and baked bannock, sausage and herbs. She longed for simpler days when her worst duty was scrubbing the garderobe or feeding the pigs and goats.

  She glanced at her rescuer. Och, but Seamas MacReiver was a fine specimen of a man. He was not Kieran Kilborn—who was?—but he was close unto a laird, and she would work with that.

  And maybe, just maybe, she could revenge herself on the Kilborns.

  Seamas led her into the tower. Wrapped only in his plaidie, she felt dreadfully exposed to the searching glances of his men, but he whisked her up the worn stone stairs and into a small room with a comforting speed.

  An elderly woman entered, casting her a disapproving glare while managing to beam sunnily at Seamas. “This is Mistress Ellen,” he said. “I’ll leave the two of ye alone.”

  Mistress Ellen carried an old gown over one arm. “This belonged to my daughter, the murthered laird’s lady.”

  “Please thank her for me.” Moira kept her voice calm and, she hoped, sweet.

  “She’s dead. She died birthing her bairn, the young laird.” The old woman cast a baleful glower at Moira and dropped the drab dun gown onto the filthy floor. It was followed by a pair of rough shoes. “I am the Dowager Lady MacReiver.”

  Moira bent her head. “Milady.”

  “Ha,” Ellen snapped. “Be downstairs shortly. The men will wish to question you, Kilborn lassie.”

  “My name is Moira Cameron.” She raised her head and met Ellen’s frown squarely. Don’t fool with me, old woman. I’ll squash ye like the vermin ye are.

  Ellen left and Moira struggled into the too-small gown with difficulty. She was strapping, big-boned and healthy, which had helped her through her recent ordeals. But now her size was a disadvantage. The ugly gown strained across her back and choked her at the neck. The laced dress barely covered her torso. She lacked proper underclothing, so her breasts, belly and privates hung embarrassingly unsupported and free.

  She didn’t normally mind flaunting her body, but in this situation she wanted to impress in a different manner. But she still had the black-and-white plaid. Wrapping it around her shoulders and neck and allowing the ends to trail down the gown’s skirt did a great deal to conceal the faults of the hand-me-down dress. She hoped that neither gown nor plaid harbored lice. The shoes were nothing more than rough leather laced to oval soles, but they appeared clean.

  She promised herself that she’d not be wearing shabby castoffs for long.

  She found what passed for the MacReivers’ Great Hall and peeked inside to see another crumbling, dirty room, with a rough wooden ceiling stained by the smoke of innumerable fires. Several hard-faced men sat around a long table. Bracing herself with a deep breath, she told herself that she was an expert at managing males, and she’d manage this rough lot with ease.

  But when the questioning started, she lost a trace of her certainty. These ruffians weren’t ready to accept everything she said as
the truth.

  The decision would not be made quickly. Nor should it, she realized.

  The questions came at her fast and hard, like rough sex. And like rough sex, Moira enjoyed them, glorying in her ability to manipulate the situation. Seated on a stool facing the group, she worked to maintain her poise and win them over.

  “Where are ye from?”

  “Lochaber.” She named a town so far away that even if the MacReivers sent a messenger to check her story, the man mightn’t return for months, if at all. And if the rumors were to be believed, Lochaber, the Cameron seat of power, had been well-nigh destroyed by the Lobsterbacks, their clan leaders killed, scattered or exiled. No information would be forthcoming from Lochaber.

  “Did not Lady Lydia bring her own maid?”

  “The Lady Lydia’s maid was a young English lass from London. She didnae want to come to the Highlands. She was afraid—and rightly so—of Laird Kieran. She ran off in Edinburgh.”

  “I thought ye said ye’re from Lochaber.”

  “I am. But wi’ the clearances, there’s little there. No home, no croft and no work. No crops, cattle or sheep.” She made her eyes round and afraid. “Wi’ the men in my family killed at Culloden, there was nae reason to stay. Many of us—women and children—fled to Glasgow or Edinburgh to find work. ’Twas there Lady Lydia found me. I was working in the home of, um…a Lobsterback’s wife. Colonel Swann.”

  She had overheard Lydia and Kieran discussing her cousin, Colonel Swann, and now Moira blithely invented for him a household, complete with maids. She freely embellished her tale. “Colonel Swann was ordered back to England, but I didnae want to leave Scotland. I was fortunate that Lady Lydia wished to hire me.”

  “Yes, fortunate indeed,” one said sourly. She remembered that Angus was the steward of the clan, sort of like auld Euan.

  She glanced at him. His twisted face, broken nose and cauliflower ears would give a bairn nightmares. But she refused to be cowed and stared back, meeting the steward’s gaze with steel of her own.