Temptation in Tartan

by Suz deMello

  For long moments, neither moved. Edgar’s frantically racing heart stilled, allowing him to become aware of the Kilborn’s clean scent and non-threatening stillness.

  Kilborn shifted, setting Edgar to one side. Now on the floor, he missed the cozy cuddle. He blinked. He was not a wee bairn. He would not cry.

  “I find that I am hungry.”

  Hungry? The statement startled away Edgar’s tears.

  The Kilborn reached into his sporran and took out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. He opened it, revealing a bannock. Edgar’s stomach rumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. And the bannock, while a little squashed, was crisply browned. It looked tasty and smelled even better.

  The man broke a little off one side and offered it. Edgar eyed it with suspicion. The Kilborn chuckled and ate it himself, then thrust the bannock at Edgar. “Here, lad, choose your wee snackie.”

  He hesitated.

  “I couldnae have poisoned the whole thing.”

  ’Twas true. And though he wanted to devour every last crumb, Edgar broke off about a third of the toasted oat cake and nibbled on it.

  “What be your name, lad?”

  He swallowed. Should he lie? “Edgar.”

  “Ah, the young MacReiver. So this be your castle.” The man’s tone was still calm, without tension.

  Edgar wondered what to say, and fell back on the shreds of the manners his grandmam had taught him. He waved an arm. “Welcome.”

  The Kilborn roared with laughter.

  Another man entered the room, another Kilborn by the looks of him.

  The first Kilborn said, “Dugald, this be the Laird MacReiver.”

  “Is he now?” The man, nearly as big and broad as Edgar’s new friend, advanced with a frown. He set a hand on his small sword.

  Edgar squeaked, cowering behind his new friend, and the two men erupted with laughter.

  “Dugald, Dugald, ’tis no time for the playing of pranks.”

  A grin split Dugald’s face and his hand fell from his sword. Edgar relaxed.

  “Let’s see ye, young MacReiver.” Dugald reached down and pulled Edgar to his feet, surveying him. “Well, ye’re too wee to be managing everything here yourself.”

  Edgar slumped. “I’ve failed.”

  The two men exchanged quick glances.

  “Ye’re but a young lad,” the first Kilborn said. He stood and stretched long limbs. “Ye’ll have many more chances to fail, I assure ye.”

  Edgar glanced up at him. “Who are you?”

  “I be Kieran Kilborn.”

  His belly clenched. “You killed my father.” What would the Kilborn do to him?

  “So I did. But he attacked my wife, do ye see? A man cannae allow that.” The Kilborn laird’s tone of voice still remained reasonable. Friendly, even.

  “That’s so.” Edgar frowned.

  “Milaird Edgar, ye’ll have to come wi’ us.” Kieran Kilborn was polite but firm.

  “Why?”

  “Because ye’re a smart lad and ken ye have no other choice.”

  “Why not the Gwynns or the Sutherlands or the MacLeods?”

  “A good question.” Again, the two Kilborns exchanged glances, as though talking without using words. Milaird continued, “Well, ye’d have to pass through my lands to get to the Gwynns. We be related by marriage to the Sutherlands and the MacLeods.”

  “Oh.”

  Kieran Kilborn knelt, facing Edgar eye to eye. “How about this? Foster wi’ us for five years. Then come back and take this castle as your own, as our ally. I offer ye the succor of my home, the protection of my clan and my firstborn daughter.”

  Edgar’s mind whirled. He had oft wished that his father and uncle had spent more time teaching him what he needed to know to rule. He stared at Kieran Kilborn, feeling very small.

  But so far the Kilborn had been kind. He’d shared his food. They’d broken bread together.

  “Do you have a daughter?”

  “Not yet, but I will. If not, a highborn lassie of my clan. Our clan.”

  Edgar considered as best he could. “Yes,” he said, and put his hand into Kieran’s.

  They walked from the room and down a hall. “Who d’ye think, Dugald? Milady would enjoy this one.”

  Dugald looked down and Edgar looked up.

  Dugald’s mien softened. “We canna keep him to ourselves in the Laird’s Tower. ’Twould cause jealousy. Auld Mhairi, p’raps.”

  “Who’s old Mhairi?”

  “She’d be like yer grandmam,” Dugald said.

  “You mean she smells like liver and cabbage soup?” Edgar wrinkled his nose as they descended cracked, worn stone stairs.

  The men again shouted with mirth. Edgar wondered at their high spirits. Was he suddenly so funny?

  When they’d calmed, milaird said, “Nay, she smells more like roses and honey, for she dries flowers and herbs, and tends bees.”

  “She sounds nice.”

  “Fenella be saddened these days,” Dugald said. “P’raps the lad would lift her spirits.”

  “Why is she sad?”

  “Her daughter Moira…did a very bad thing.” Milaird’s voice had gone dark.

  Edgar’s curiosity was aroused. “Moira? Moira Cameron?”

  “Och, so that was what she called herself. Nay, she be Moira Kilborn. What do ye ken of her?” Kieran Kilborn asked.

  “I met her once. My uncle Seamas was besotted with her, but my grandmam said she was not to be trusted.”

  “Your grandmam was right. Have ye seen Moira since last night?”

  Edgar shook his head.

  “Hmm.” Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose. Again the two men exchanged glances.

  “Fenella would be a good choice,” Dugald said, and Edgar sensed that the topic of Moira should not be pursued.

  “Aye, and that would keep Milaird Edgar in the castle, close by. For his lessons.” Milaird eyed him.

  “Lessons?” Edgar tugged his hand away.

  “Aye. Ye’re to be laird of your clan and my ally. Ye’ll need lessons.”

  “Laird of who? Everyone’s dead.”

  “Nay, not everyone.” Milaird repossessed Edgar’s hand. “With proper management this land will prosper.”

  A shriek erupted as they reached the lower hall. “My Edgar! My Edgar! My wee bairn!”

  “What now?” Kieran asked Dugald.

  A miasma of moldy cabbage blanketed Edgar as his grandmam enveloped him in a hug. He cast a desperate look at the Kilborns. Help me! He struggled out of her tangled skirts and stifling embrace. “This is my grandmam, Ellen. Kieran, Laird Kilborn and, er, Dugald Kilborn.”

  “Milady.” Kieran said, and both men dipped their heads respectfully. Edgar thought that the briefest twitch of a smile lifted milaird’s lips.

  She glowered. “And where were you taking my wee one? To murther him, I’ll be bound!”

  “Nay. If we’d wanted to kill him he’d already be dead,” Kieran said, sounding reasonable. Edgar had learned that this was his usual tone of voice.

  She wailed, clutching Edgar’s shoulder with bony fingers. He wrenched away and rubbed his flesh. It hurt, and he wondered when she’d last cut her nails.

  “He’s coming with us.” A note of command had entered milaird’s voice.

  “No!”

  “The agreement has already been made,” Kieran Kilborn said. “Laird Edgar is bound by his word.”

  “He’s but a wee lad! He has not the brain to agree to anything!”

  Edgar flinched.

  Kieran glanced at Edgar. Was there sympathy in milaird’s eyes? “He has plenty of brains and plenty of sense. More than ye. Ye can come—”

  Edgar waved frantically at Kieran, silently mouthing, No! No!

  Had a slight smile again crossed milaird’s lips? P’raps.

  Kieran continued talking with Edgar’s grandmam. “Ye can come to visit any time ye wish. For the nonce, ye’re needed here to put this castle and these lands back into order. For
Milaird Edgar to take over when he be ready.”

  “What?” His grandmam seemed confounded.

  “He’ll be fostering with us. ’Tis the usual thing, for his education, dinnae ye ken?”

  “I know what fostering means,” Grandmam said stiffly. “Do you pledge his safety?”

  “As much as anyone can assure the safety of an active young lad. I’ll take him home and treat him as my own.”

  She sniffled and drew Edgar close, but he guessed that Kieran had won the day.

  “Find the stables and saddle a mount for young Edgar,” Kier said to Dugald.

  Dugald cocked his head at Edgar. “Laddie, have ye a favorite ride?”

  “Yes.” Edgar again untangled himself from Grandmam’s stifling embrace. He knew she meant well, but…

  He followed Dugald to the stable. When they emerged, with Edgar leading Scout, his Highland pony, he heard Kieran giving a brisk series of orders.

  “Ross, Dirk, stay here with two dozen men. Search the area, find everyone and bed them in the castle. Pen the livestock outside, an’ the poultry in the bailey. Gather the corpses awa’ from the castle and the watercourses, and let the women decide what to do with their men. Bury ’em or burn ’em, I care not.” He turned and regarded Dugald. “Check the stores and supplies and return to Kilborn knowing what is needed here.”

  “Aye, milaird.”

  “Ross, we’ll send what ye’ll need on the morrow. Meanwhile, gather what food ye may find. Locate fresh water.” Milaird stopped and huffed out a breath, seeming to order his thoughts, then continued. “Search the crofts and take what can be used, including good wood, brick and stone. Then burn ’em.”

  Edgar’s mouth dropped open.

  “Do ye not agree, milaird?” Kieran regarded him.

  “Yes, but…how did you know what to do so fast?”

  Kieran laughed.

  “One more thing.” Dugald knelt beside Edgar. “The head of the auld Kilborn who was killed.”

  “The one they called the diabhol.” Edgar huffed then caught himself, realizing that he may have sounded like he was mocking the Kilborns. He hoped that none would take offense then said, “I do not think I believe in devils.”

  “Good,” Dugald said. “For there are none. Do ye know where the head might be?”

  Edgar looked up at the gate and shook his head. “Nay. Day before last, my uncle Seamas took it away, but brought it back. ’Twas up there above the gate last eve, but gone this morn.”

  “Ah.”

  “Be back home by sundown,” Kier told Dugald.

  “Thank ’ee, milaird.”

  Again, the men exchanged one of those glances accompanied by lifted black brows. Edgar scratched his head while Scout chuffed in his ear. P’raps the Kilborns did have mysterious powers. Milaird seemed to be able to see into the minds of others and speak without words.

  Chapter Twenty

  Even accompanied by a large escort, Lydia made good time toward the Gwynn lands via the cliff path. When they reached the ring of standing stones, she reined in her gelding and wound through the great circle, struck by its beauty and mystery. Hewn out of granite, each monolith was fully twenty feet tall.

  She’d seen ancient stone circles before. There was one at Avebury and another near Salisbury. Stonehenge, she thought it was called. They’d always intrigued her. She recalled that Kieran said that his ancestors had used them in rituals, and that the sun would slant just so through the stones.

  No sun today but, impressed by the place, she decided to ask Kieran if they could possibly hold a festival of some sort there. She couldn’t say she’d enjoyed Euan’s funeral, but she’d been moved and wondered if more of the ancient customs could be honored. Had Kieran’s ancestors celebrated the harvest? If so, p’raps the tradition could be revived. The clan needed a festival after so much grief and worry. A happy occasion would lift everyone’s spirits.

  Despite her interest in the stone circle, she didn’t wish to tarry. She knew she’d probably missed morning services, but Papists prayed frequently throughout the day. She hoped that the Gwynn’s priest observed that particular tradition. If not, she could sit in the chapel and pray alone. She wasn’t a Catholic and didn’t need a priest…at least not for prayer.

  When they passed the great Celtic cross marking the border of the Kilborn lands, they turned eastward away from the sea, losing the fog over the second hill. They rode into Straithness, the Gwynn clan’s main settlement, just before the sun reached its zenith.

  As in most clan centers, a castle crouched protectively over the town, which was larger than theirs. The church sat at the far end of the village, its bell tolling as soberly dressed folk exited. Having already guessed she’d miss mass, Lydia wasn’t disappointed. Instead she dismounted, handing her reins to one of her escorts, and approached the entrance of the small stone church with Owain closely following. Kendrick left with half a dozen men to make renewed contact with the local laird to again assure him of their peaceful intentions. Today the Kilborn party wore plain shepherd’s plaidies, tactfully avoiding any hint of privilege.

  A priest stood in the church’s doorway, shaking hands and chatting as congregants left. She gave him a friendly smile as she entered while the remainder of her guard fanned out over the surrounding area, ambling rather than striding. A few, including Owain, followed her into the kirk but tactfully allowed her privacy.

  She looked around. The small church closely resembled the tiny chapel attached to her family’s estate in Swanston, but for a large wooden structure off to the side which looked rather like a cage with curtains. A couple of people waited near a draped opening. This, she realized, was the confessional, where Papists told their sins to the priest and were instructed to pray for absolution. She sniffed. ’Twould be far better if people actually went forth and obeyed the admonition to sin no more. But why would they bother to change their behavior when forgiveness was so easily obtained?

  She wouldn’t hide in the booth but would confront her fears and state them directly. She sat in a front pew, facing the altar. The great cross on the wall before her was adorned with a writhing Christ complete with wounds dripping wooden blood. She averted her gaze and closed her eyes to absorb the peace of the sanctuary.

  The crunch of soles on pavers told her of someone’s approach. She opened her lids to see the priest smiling down at her. To her right, a yard or two away, Owain hovered.

  She smiled, first at Owain, then at the priest.

  “I dinnae believe we’ve met.” The priest spoke with an accent she recognized from her weeks in Edinburgh.

  She rose and extended a hand. “I’m Lydia Kilborn.”

  “Milady.” He bowed properly over her hand. “I was told you’d visit. In need of, um, spiritual solace?” His hazel eyes twinkled.

  “Yes, and I have some questions.”

  He sat on the steps leading up to the altar in an attitude that showed that he was ready to listen.

  She resumed her seat on the first pew. “Something…something happened for which I have been unable to find an explanation.” Both Kieran and Dugald had been uninformative. She couldn’t ask anyone else, given her husband’s admonition that the clan’s confidence stemmed from the attitude of their laird and lady, so she didn’t wish to mention her concerns to anyone but the closest family. Choosing her words with care, she told the priest of Euan’s murder and the desecration of his body.

  “I understand the viciousness,” she said when concluding. “The person responsible felt greatly wronged and was very angry. But the garlic and the crosses mystify me, sir, er…Father. I thought that due to the presence of the crosses you might have some clue to this mystery.”

  The priest hesitated. “There are many superstitions hereabouts.”

  Lydia sighed. Did she again have to endure the “just superstitious nonsense” speech? It seemed calculated to conceal rather than reveal. “Could you relate these superstitions to me with particularity?” she asked.

  �
��Let me ask you a question or two, milady, if I may be so bold. Have you ever seen your husband in the sunlight?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lydia stared.

  He repeated the question.

  She blinked. “There’s precious little sunlight where we live by the seacoast. I would imagine so, but I can’t recall a specific time.”

  He leaned forward. “So your answer would be no.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Is he oft awake and abroad at night?”

  Awake, yes. Abroad, sometimes. But she didn’t feel that she wanted to discuss the intimacies of her marriage with this priest. “He is a restless sleeper, so…yes.”

  “I have heard that the Kilborn lairds have midnight black hair and eyes, with ghost-white skin that is cool to the touch. Does that describe your husband?”

  “Yes,” she said with some surprise. “What do you know that I do not?”

  He ignored her question and continued. “Is he unusually strong?”

  “Yes, he’s big, and very strong. But I don’t understand—”

  “Lady Lydia, it is said that the Kilborn lairds are vampires.” He stared at her throat, covered with a frilled stand-up collar.

  She dimly remembered hearing the strange word once before, but where? When? “Vam…what?”

  She listened to the priest’s explanation, open-mouthed, at first disbelieving. Much of what he related was preposterous, insane and yet…

  He said that unnatural creatures called vampires drank blood. Kieran drank blood.

  Vampires were neither truly alive nor dead, but in a twilight state that the priest called “undead”, characterized by oddly pale, cool flesh…flesh like Kieran’s.

  Vampires were virtually immortal. Euan had been very old. The creature in the tower was very old.

  But vampires could be rendered truly dead instead of “undead” in a very specific way—beheaded, stabbed through the heart and burned. Euan had been beheaded and burned, and a wooden stake had been driven through his heart. But the manner of this murder, Lydia reasoned, reflected the killers’ beliefs.

  Vampires were immensely strong, and she’d watched her husband tear off a man’s head and drink his blood.