by Suz deMello
Desire in Tartan
Suz deMello
In the wake of her father’s death Alice is forced to seek a position as a governess. The wild Highlands of Scotland are a far cry from the life of musty academia she’s used to, and the man who engages her, Dugald Kilburn, is like nobody she has met before. When he rescues her from a notorious group of cannibals who ambush them on their way to Kilburn Castle, his strength and bravery win her heart and rouse her passion.
But the Kilburn Clan have a secret, one darker and stranger than Alice could possibly imagine. Though Alice fills him with lust and tenderness in equal measure, the vampire knows that he may not be able to offer her the happy home and family she deserves.
A Romantica® historical erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Desire in Tartan
Suz deMello
Dedication
This is a work of fiction, so I have taken many liberties with historical facts, Scottish legends and geography. I hope I have offended none but provided a few hours of enjoyment for all.
Thanks, Jody Allen, for sharing with me your vast store of knowledge about all things Scottish and historical. Diane Farr is not only a great writer but the best critique partner ever.
Chapter One
Glasgow, Autumn 1759
Dugald left most of his company of men back at the inn with strict instructions to stay oot of trouble, but he had no illusions. The men would drink as much as they could hold before finding the loosest bits of muslin available. If they were still able to perform, perform they would, as long and as hard as possible. He hoped that he’d be able to rescue the less experienced of the lot out of whatever scrapes they fell into. The youngest, Malcolm, had come with Dugald as his companion. He wouldnae leave Malcolm in the care of the rest.
The mop fair was a mad scene. ’Twas combined with a street fair and a farmers’ market, so the entire population of Glasgow had seemingly crowded itself into the square with a market cross in the center. Food stalls, redolent with the spicy aromas of roasting fowls and sausages, were fronted by cooks and ’prentices bawling out the prices of their wares. Nearby, penned livestock emitted a less appealing miasma of straw and shite, with the autumn wind swirling the scents along with dry leaves.
Turning to Malcolm, Dugald raised his brows. Without speaking, the two Kilburns started to walk along the disordered rows of booths. Once they’d passed the food stalls the fair became even more riotous, with knots of maids and men looking for hire, screeching their qualifications. Each brandished a tool of his or her trade, cooks with rolling pins or wooden spoons, coachmen with their whips. Country girls in their Sunday dresses crowded in a knot, peering anxiously at well-dressed passers-by whom Dugald guessed were the stewards of the grand houses. Every once in a while one would stop and question a rosy-cheeked lass, occasionally leaving the fair with a new maid or tweeny in tow.
He stopped, arrested by a sweet fragrance that rose from the reek of unwashed bodies like clean mist drifting on the surface of a loch. He hadn’t detected it before. Mayhap it had been cloaked by the pungent roasting sausages and the other scents at the food stalls—herbs and the like.
He lifted his face into the air and sniffed. Yes, ‘twas there, elusive but definite.
Malcolm did the same. “I smell it too.”
“That’s our lassie,” Dugald said.
The stripling looked mystified. “A sweet smell means a governess?”
“Milady gave me questions to ask.” Dugald patted his sporran. “If she passes, she’s the one. But this is how we’ll be finding her.”
At the end of the row of coachmen, stable hands, maids and cooks fluttered a gaggle of…what? Somberly robed figures resembling a flock of giant crows or, mayhap, vultures. Exuding the stinks of mothballs and body odor, they all appeared to be flapping about one small, drab figure, a female who couldnae have contrasted more with her oafish companions.
Dugald’s first impression of the woman was of narrowness, so at odds with her tempting scent that all he could do was stand and gape at her like a looby. Dressed in unrelieved black, she had slender shoulders and a tiny waist. Slight hips. When she turned, he could see she possessed but a small bosom. He raised his gaze and didn’t bother to stifle a gasp at the sight of her pure and perfect profile. Intelligence sparkled in her hazel eyes, completely belying the rest of her dull demeanor.
Her face… He could stare at that face forever without a single moment of boredom. Pale, though not as white as a Kilburn, for a smattering of freckles spattered the bridge of her straight little nose and sprinkled her high cheekbones. She had well-cut lips with a definite Cupid’s bow, the one distinct curve on her serious face, a semi-circular half-moon dip.
He wanted to slide his tongue into that dip before kissing her with every mite of passion he possessed.
Startled, he instantly banished the thought to whatever fae realm whence it had issued. She wasn’t the hefty armload of woman he preferred, and in any event, he couldn’t like her in the way a man could like a woman. If hired, she’d be the children’s governess, and Dugald knew without asking how Lady Lydia would react to his dallying with the bairns’ governess.
After Elsbeth’s death, he’d given up on all that. He might one day be in the mood to play, mayhap, but not more. And unless he mistook this woman, she’d want more. She’d deserve more. She’d deserve everything.
He forced himself to look at her the way milady would and decided that her appearance was appropriate. Lady Lydia had said nothing about fashionable dress, but he knew she would insist upon a respectable appearance. This woman was undoubtedly respectable. Neither young nor old, she wore her brown hair in a simple knot at her nape, which stuck out beneath her plain black bonnet. Her dress was of good quality but neither ostentatious nor low-cut in the bosom. She wore only one piece of jewelry he could see—a cameo surrounded by tiny pearls.
Her gown’s color suggested mourning and his heart softened. The lady’s expression—set and still—reinforced the impression of deep grief.
That he understood.
Mayhap she, also, had lost a spouse and now was forced to seek a position.
He fished around in his sporran for the list of questions that milady had given him.
* * * * *
Explosions, gunfire and loud noises frightened Alice Derwent. So did horses—she’d fallen off one at the age of eight and hadn’t ridden since—and large men. Especially large men. So when a dark-clad giant picked her out at the mop fair, she didn’t have a word to say, but stood mute and terrified of the behemoth before her.
He stood well over six feet, towering over everyone else at the fair by at least a head. And that head was crowned by a thick pelt of black, shaggy hair reaching to his shoulders. His unpowdered locks did not belong to a gentleman. That mane was certainly not a wig, not a mop like that. It did indeed belong at a mop fair.
She swallowed the frantic giggle rising into her throat and tried to focus on what the giant was saying. But how could she, when his impossibly black, soulful eyes were assessing her? Even as he spoke and she responded—How? She didn’t know—she felt the pull of his eyes.
Fortunately she didn’t have to make sense, or even say much. Others spoke for her.
“Alice Derwent is the daughter of the late Professor Albert Derwent, who was an extremely distinguished researcher in the field of the chemical sciences.” Tutor John Radclyffe puffed out his chest and talked with more importance than he actually owned. “She is schooled in French, Latin, Greek and mathematics. She is highly qualified for the post of governess.”
“Chemistry, eh?” The giant directed his attention to Alice. “Ye’ll no be blowin�
�� up the castle, lass?”
She struggled to interpret his accent before the import of his words swept her, bringing a wildfire of emotion. The memory of an explosion demolishing the centuries-old dean’s office of Shallsbury College blasted through her brain. That particular experiment, conducted in the adjoining chemistry hall, had shattered her father’s career at Oxford as well as his health, forcing him to take a position at the university in Glasgow. “No, no,” she squeaked. “No explosions. None at all.”
The giant’s eyes crinkled at the corners and she realized that he’d been joking. She allowed a thin giggle to seep through her defenses. He smiled back.
He referred again to the grubby piece of paper he’d taken from the furry pouch hanging in front of his trousers. The bag, which looked as though it had been made from an exceptionally old, mangy rabbit, clashed with his well-cut black jacket, immaculate small clothes and breeches worn tucked into boots.
“Me skills include orderin’ others aboot, mostly. So, here.” He thrust the paper at her.
She took it without question, now aware that this massive creature was more than a servant. He was a leader of men. That told her something important about her prospective employers. They hadn’t sent a minor functionary to find a governess. They’d sent one of their most trusted…what?
She looked him over again, but nothing in his garb gave her a clue as to who or what he was. “Who are you, sir?”
Tutor Watkins elbowed her. “Does it matter?” he hissed. “He’s offering a position.”
She ignored him, instead addressing the dark giant without words, using only a raised brow.
“I be Dugald Kilburn, cousin and second to Kieran, Laird Kilburn, and his lady Lydia, a Sassenach of noble birth. Ye know of the butcher Cumberland?”
“I know of the general, his grace the Duke of Cumberland,” she said coolly.
“Milady Lydia is cousin to his aide, Colonel Swann, and came to us after Culloden, to protect us, our lands and our freedom. She and milaird have four bairns, and they need a governess.” He pointed at the paper she held. “That details your—her—qualifications.”
“Can’t you read?”
He stiffened. “Och, aye, and milady discussed with me your—the governess’—qualifications. The question is, lassie, can ye read it?” The calmness of his tone belied the set of his jaw. Had she offended him?
If there was offense, ‘twas mutual. But her father having inconveniently died, she needed this job. And thus far, the position and the employers sounded acceptable. So instead of glaring at him—which he utterly deserved—she focused instead on the paper. “Number one. Can she read and speak the King’s English with clarity?” She looked up at him. “Well, I have no quill and ink about me, but I assure you, sir, that I can indeed read and write.”
He nodded, his serious expression changing not a whit.
“Question the second. Can she read and write in the Latin and French languages?” She shot Dugald Kilburn an even look. “Yes, she can.”
He took back the paper and, after giving it a quick glance, asked, “And the maths? The watercolors? And the drawing with charcoals?”
So he could, indeed, read. She didn’t comment on that but said, “Yes, of course. I have all the skills of an English gentlewoman.” Even if I’m not one. “And more.”
He tilted his head and gave her a look laden with curiosity.
She hastened to explain. “Most gentlewomen are prized for their birth rather than their knowledge. Most can read and write English, but no other languages, though they may converse a little in French. Some may be able to do simple sums but not advanced mathematics.”
“Are ye a mathematician, then?”
Was he laughing at her? How dare he? She tried not to glare. “Yes. My father was a scientist. He did not believe that females are fools.”
“Nor do we Kilburns. We value our women as we do our men. And our boys.” He gave the stripling by his side a friendly cuff.
Tall, dark-haired and skinny, the boy seemed to regard the older Kilburn with respect and admiration, but without fear. So p’raps all would be well. She relaxed a trifle and even managed a bit of a smile.
But then Dugald Kilburn asked, “Can ye ride a horse?”
Her belly twisted and she lifted her foot to rotate her ankle. ‘Twas not too sore today, which meant that the weather would continue cool but fair. “I, er…”
The tutor at her side elbowed her. “Say yes!” he hissed. “How hard can it be?”
“Er, yes.”
The giant eyed her, doubt clear on his face. “If ye cannae ride, the long journey back to Kilburn Castle will be slow indeed. Have ye not ridden a horse before?”
Now she could answer truthfully. “Yes, I have.”
“Ye’ll do then. Come along.” He offered her his arm.
“Wait!” The dean stepped between them. “What rate of pay? What working conditions?”
Kilburn stopped and shot the dean a level stare. “She’ll live with milaird and milady and their children in Kilburn Castle. She’ll give fealty to milaird and the clan. Like the rest of us, she’ll never lack for anything she needs. She’ll have food from our table and the protection of our warriors. My protection.” He looked at Alice, and his tone softened. “Anything ye need will be provided.”
“Where the Clearances have not emptied the land, the Highlands are mired in poverty,” Tutor Watkins said.
Dugald Kilburn shook his head. “Unlike many, Kilburn is a wealthy clan. Because of the Cumberland connection, ye ken? We’ve been spared the Sassenach revenge upon the Scots. Ye’ll not want for anything.”
Alice swallowed. It all sounded good, but who could know?
However, what choice did she have? Her father’s supposed friends and colleagues were throwing her out. Tossing her aside like last week’s newspaper.
“Very well, then. I accept.” She put on her hat, took his arm and walked away from the group of tutors and deans without a backward glance.
Chapter Two
Supper was taken downstairs in the taproom adjoining the inn. Dugald noticed that although Alice Derwent spoke little, she listened much, her pale little face aglow with both firelight and interest. Her bright eyes fixed on whichever of his men postured and preened for her. Posture and preen they did, too, those who’d returned early enough to partake in the food. Everyone present wanted the new lassie’s attention. He assumed that the rest of the lads were oot and aboot, causing trouble, but he didnae care. They’d turn up soon enough.
With her attention elsewhere, he could focus on her, examine her without the stammers and the blushes the shy maid had given earlier in the day. He enjoyed simply looking at her face, its narrow planes and sharp edges. Her pointed chin and nose. Her full, curvy lips, so different from the rest of her visage that they stunned him into silence.
Her eyes were clear and direct. Was their color hazel, green or brown? He couldnae tell. Earlier, at the mop fair, he’d thought hazel. In her room at the university, when they’d fetched her few belongings, she’d donned the red hooded cloak that many a woman wore and her eyes had changed abruptly to leafy green. Now, in the flickering light afforded by the taproom’s fire, they’d darkened into a tempting chocolate brown.
That was how she looked. Atop all of that, her fragrance. And her mind.
She was quick, learning the names of the men after only one introduction and a reminder or two. But then, only Malcolm, Archie and Blain graced their table. The three others were out, no doubt raising hell among the looser lassies in the shadier dens and warrens of Glasgow. The three who remained seemed as fascinated as Dugald by the clan’s newest member.
“So, ye’re bringing another furriner?” Archie asked. “Soon the clan will be overrun. There’ll be no more Kilburns.”
Alice smiled. “It seems to me that the Kilburn blood is in no danger of disappearing. All of you bear a strong resemblance to each other.”
Dugald looked around their table. “’Tis t
he truth ye speak.” Everyone save Alice bore the same dark hair and eyes along with the tall stature and pale skin that distinguished true Kilburns.
“’Tis good that you’re a Sassenach lassie,” Blain said. “Milady will be pleased.”
“And it’s verra important that milady be pleased,” Malcolm told Alice. “For when milady is pleased, milaird is also. And if milaird is not pleased…” He shuddered.
She raised her brows, pale wings against her smooth forehead. “What kind of master is milaird?”
“A good one. Ye need not worry about him bein’ a bully, or overbearing,” Malcolm said. “But he desires matters to be arranged just so.”
“It must be said that milaird is generally right.” Dugald sipped ale before stabbing a slice of sausage with his knife.
“Aye.” Archie nodded. “He’s a wise one, is milaird.”
“His elder brother, who would have become laird had he not been killed, was a bit of a hotheaded lad,” Dugald said. “And so was milaird, before Culloden, which led to the deaths of the auld laird and his heir. These days, milaird rarely shows temper. And he’s educated, as well. Not a clod like the rest of us.”
Archie laughed. “I’d like to hear the man who dares to call ye a clod.”
“Ye’d be hearin’ his last words,” Blain said.
Alice sneaked a peek at Dugald from beneath lowered brows.
“Whisht, mon, ye’re scarin’ the lassie.” Dugald then addressed Alice. “Doonae listen to these wretches slander me. I’m the kindest of souls.”
“Ye still have a soul?” Malcolm tilted his head.
“Aye.” Dugald nodded. “Somewhere aboot me. P’raps in me pocket, or up in me room.”
“Somewhere behind your sporran is more likely,” Archie said.
The men shouted with laughter while Alice stared at the table, color flagging her cheeks. So the lady was virtuous as well as intelligent. Well-bred, he thought. Milady would approve of her.
