Desire in Tartan: 2 (Highland Vampires)

by Suz deMello

  She’d stopped short at the door but now entered, touching each garment with a shy finger while blinking away tears. A day dress in a deep soft-blue that reminded her of the sunlit sea. Another in dove-gray, both appropriate to her station. Blouses and skirts, gloves and hats. Thick quilted petticoats, for the Highlands would be chilly, as Dugald had emphasized. Pink silk underclothing that drew heat into her cheeks. Had Dugald picked it?

  She sensed his presence at the doorway and turned. “Th-thank you,” she whispered. “I’ve never had new clothes. Not like these.”

  She drew his slow smile. “Mistress, ‘tis my pleasure to dress ye.” He stepped into the room and picked up a green jacket. He held it against her torso and gave an approving nod. “Your new riding habit. ’Twill fit.”

  Her heart dropped to her toes.

  “Do ye have boots?” he asked.

  She moistened her lips. Should she lie? To Dugald?

  Nay, she’d not even shade the truth. “Aye.” She went to her trunk and took them out.

  “Still serviceable,” he said.

  “Like me.”

  He ground out a laugh, which sounded rough, as if he hadn’t laughed for a long time. “A fine view of yerself, ye have. Ye arenae merely serviceable, mistress. Think on this, if ye doubt yerself. Would I take a merely serviceable governess to educate milaird and milady’s bairns?” His black eyes twinkled shrewdly at her.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Ah, ye suppose not.” His tone darkened. “I wouldnae. I’m pledged to milaird for all my life, and to milady also, even if she’s a Sassenach and not born of the clan. And ye will be also. And that means to use yer best efforts, always. ‘Tis yer duty. Ye arenae merely serviceable. Ye’re the best that can be had here in Glasgow, which means ye’re the best that can be found in all of Scotland.”

  “Oh.” ‘Twas a new thought. She was the best that could be had in Scotland. “Much is expected of me,” she said faintly.

  “Aye, but ye’ll look the part. Try everything on, for tomorrow we ride.” He winked and left.

  She sucked in a shuddering breath. Tomorrow she’d mount Mary.

  She had to do something. She had to do something. She’d be forced to mount Mary the very next day, and unless she did something, she’d surely fall off and make a fool of herself. She’d lose her job. Dugald Kilburn would be rightly furious after lodging her for days. Why had she told him she could ride?

  She’d been pushed into it, so ‘twasn’t her fault, not really. But ‘twas her responsibility.

  She had to do something.

  After they’d supped, she went upstairs and changed into her nightwear before taking the small, flat pillow off her bed. Then she rolled up the bedclothes. Not everything—not the rope bedcords beneath the flat reed bed mat, or the bock and feather mattress. Just the sheets and blankets. Using a belt, she strapped them to the stool, trying to imitate the barrel-like shape of a horse.

  She stood back and surveyed her handiwork, which didn’t look much like Mary. ‘Twasn’t the same size as Mary and ‘twas too low to the floor. Nevertheless, Alice hitched up her nightgown and her robe before easing her right hip onto the bedroll. She bent her knees and tucked her legs up, pretending she was riding sidesaddle.

  “Giddy-up, horsie,” she muttered. “Good Mary, good girl.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to remember riding. Instead of a scratchy wool blanket rubbing her thigh, she recalled the creak of a leather saddle, its distinctive aroma melding with the scent of fresh hay and clean horse. She bounced up and down a bit, imagining herself clopping calmly along a peaceful lane. Spring was in the air. The breeze was mild, carrying the perfume of wildflowers and the faint twitter of birdsong.

  When a knock sounded at the door, she fell off with an “oof”. Onto her bad ankle, of course.

  The door opened to reveal Dugald Kilburn. Of course.

  “Wha…” He strode forward and pulled her up off the floor, gripping her firmly around the upper arms. “What under heaven are ye doin’, lassie?”

  On unsteady feet, she sought to balance herself while avoiding her sore ankle, but without leaning on Dugald. She opened and closed her mouth several times, gaping like a fish as she sought words. The right words. What could they be? Finally she settled on the truth, pathetic as it was, since she couldn’t think of anything else. “Practicing.”

  Dugald’s gaze wandered over the tumbled bed, the roll of linens and Alice. “Practicing…what?”

  Her flush heated her from neck to toes. “Riding,” she whispered.

  He raised a hand to his mouth, but his eyes crinkled at the corners and she knew he was smiling.

  “Go ahead,” she said sheepishly. “Laugh. I know I look silly.”

  Instead he let her go, sat on the bed and regarded her quizzically. “Ah. I had thought ye were distressed about something. Mistress, I ken ye’re afeared of riding, but—”

  “You know that?”

  He looked affronted. “’Twas obvious at the mop fair that ye doonae ride. I’m neither blind nor stupid.”

  “I didn’t lie to you. I have ridden a horse before. But not recently.”

  “Why not? What happened?”

  “I fell off a horse when I was eight.” She lifted her robe so he could see her ankle. “My ankle becomes sore in cold weather, and I never ride.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, ye will on the morrow.”

  She drew in a shaky breath. “I know.”

  “Was the horse named Mary, perchance?”

  She stared at him while heat rose into her cheeks. “Yes.”

  “Och, well…I see.” He scratched his head. “But ’tisnae possible that you’re afeared of a gentle creature like our little Mary.”

  “She’s bigger than I am,” Alice said defensively.

  He quirked a brow. “Not by much.”

  She gave him a really nasty look, the meanest she could muster, and he laughed. Again, the sound was a little creaky.

  Her mood altered and she softened her glare. “Why are you sitting on my bed?”

  He jumped up. “Oh, ah…I felt ‘twas the place for a talk. Aboot the riding.”

  “Bed is the best place for a talk about riding?”

  He leaned against the bedpost. “Bed is the best place to talk about anything, ye ken?” His voice had softened, grown a little husky.

  She found that her attention was fixed on his mouth, was inexorably drawn to his lips as he shaped the words he spoke. Bed is the best place to talk about anything, ye ken?

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “Does this apply to everyone?”

  “Nay,” he said deliberately. “Just to bonnie lassies.”

  He looked her full in the face, but not into her eyes. He was staring at her mouth.

  Her mouth.

  Was it possible that Dugald Kilburn was as interested in her mouth as she was in his?

  P’raps so. Had he not called her a bonnie lassie? Mother of mercy. She was a bonnie lassie. A pretty girl. Who would have known? Not she.

  Dugald leaned forward and pressed his lips to her cheek. Then after a frozen moment, he shifted, kissing her full on the mouth.

  Shock tingled through her. His cool lips tasted faintly of the ale he’d drunk, and though she’d been kissed before, no one had tasted like Dugald or felt remotely like him. She kissed back, placing both palms on his face and pressing her lips firmly to his, so firmly that she parted his lips with hers.

  She feared that her boldness would lead him to believe she was experienced. She’d kissed and been kissed before, had liked it, and had pursued that…but not more.

  And when Dugald’s hands roamed to her breasts, cupping and fondling over her robe, her fears were realized. But she didn’t stop. His touch affected her too strongly, reaching her through the thickness of her robe, charging her with a pleasant heat she enjoyed. She was protected by her clothing, so why stop?


  One hand drifted lower to clasp her bottom, and misgiving flashed through her. But still, what could happen through layers of fabric, through quilted robe and heavy trews?

  But when he set his substantial palm firmly onto her buttock and pressed, shoving her against his body, she knew.

  She knew exactly what could happen. How could she not, with an enormous thick, hard pole jabbing her through his breeches and her robe?

  At least it…he…seemed enormous. A foot long, at least. But surely he…it…couldn’t be. How could such a length fit into his trews? Wouldn’t she have noticed if a gentleman’s…appendage were so substantial?

  She was virgin, not blind.

  Dugald rubbed against her and her ruminations fled her mind, rinsed away by sheer emotion. His tongue had remained in her mouth, but not still, not any more than hers was. Her tongue seemed to have developed a playful spirit that matched his, which surprised her. She’d supposed that she and Dugald were chalk and cheese, despite her interest.

  Their tongues certainly weren’t chalk and cheese. More like two otters, or p’raps two puppies tussling. Sheer joy to play with Dugald’s tongue with hers, to twine her hands in his long, black hair and to feel his hands roaming her body, still safely and comfortably over her clothes.

  She tucked herself more firmly into his embrace.

  Hands down, then up, then holding her tightly before clasping her face. He drew away, staring deeply into her eyes. His dark gaze compelled her and she reached for him again. She brushed her lips lightly over his, hoping that a return to kissing would be welcomed.

  When he pulled away, she realized she was wrong. Shame swept her, battering her heart, and she turned to hide her face.

  Insistent hands gripped her shoulders, bringing her back. A gentle finger slipped beneath her chin and raised her head. Again she was compelled to look into Dugald Kilburn’s eyes. Black as the deepest midnight, utterly enticing, even hypnotic. Magical.

  Her stomach twirled and tipped while her heartbeat thundered as though her emotions drove its violent beats.

  Was this what falling in love felt like?

  He rubbed his nose against hers, an unexpectedly tender gesture. Something in her chest clenched then released.

  The room was silent except for their soft breaths mingling in the warm, smoke-scented air.

  He released her and stepped away. “You’re a virgin, are ye not?”

  “Y-yes.”

  He smiled. “Aye, a woman like ye would be. I’ll not push ye.” He went to the door and turned, his eyes brilliant. “But know this. I want ye, Alice Derwent. When you’re ready, I’m your man.”

  Struck dumb, she managed a nod.

  “Say good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Another smile. “Good night, mo dòchas.”

  Chapter Four

  Dugald Kilburn slept through the night for the first time in a year.

  Alice Derwent did not.

  What had he called her? His duckish? What on earth? She hoped it had nothing to do with ducks. She liked ducks but didn’t wish to be compared to one. She’d heard that the French called those they loved “my little cabbage”. P’raps the Scots had equally strange endearments. She hoped not.

  She’d have to learn Gaelic. She’d managed in Glasgow without learning the odd, sibilant local language, but she realized that she’d either have to learn or she’d go through the next years of her life without understanding much of what was going on around her.

  As she lay in bed, her thoughts chased each other ’round and ’round, each time returning to the same theme—Dugald. How his mouth had felt, smooth and cool, on hers. How delicious he’d tasted and smelled. What he’d said.

  Know this. I want ye, Alice Derwent. When you’re ready, I’m your man.

  I’m your man.

  She had a man, something she’d never thought she’d have. Who would have her, someone who lingered between two worlds? Her mother had been of noble birth, but her father…well, calling him duckish would have been apropos. He’d been an odd duck indeed. And as for Alice herself…the daughter of a professor wasn’t nobility but not a servant either.

  Straddling two worlds, unsuited to either. Until now.

  Because she’d been so sure she’d never marry, and for several years had been too old to consider the possibility, she hadn’t thought about whether she wanted a man in her life the way Dugald Kilburn apparently intended.

  Did she? And did she have a choice?

  He’d sounded absolutely certain. She was his bonnie lassie and he was her man whether she wanted him or not. But she was certain that Dugald never would force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

  However, he had very good reasons for believing she wanted a man, a particular man. Him. He’d kissed her first, but she’d not only kissed back but had initiated.

  At the thought, heat swept through her body. Had she misbehaved, acted like a whore?

  Mayhap. He hadn’t said, “We’ll marry.” He’d said, “I’m your man.”

  Different. Very different.

  She fell into a fitful rest but was awakened deep in the night. After a few minutes she heard a distant call…three of the clock, or so she thought.

  Drunken laughter sounded below her window. A man’s laughter, then a woman giggling. Something thumped hard enough against the inn’s wooden wall for Alice to hear it and p’raps imagine the timbers shaking. She left her cozy bed to peer out.

  The night wasn’t completely dark, for a half-moon peeked through gray clouds, shedding enough light for her to see a woman stumbling across the street followed by a tall, dark-haired man. He backed her against the wall across the lane. Her skirts were up about her waist and her face wore a dreamy expression.

  Alice couldn’t see the face of the man pleasuring the whore. He had his back to Alice.

  But she could see black hair tied at the neck.

  Dugald?

  Her heart stuttered.

  The man had his neck crooked so his face was buried in the curve of the woman’s neck where it met her shoulder. His trews were loosened, exposing his lower back. His hips bucked in and out, quickening as the minutes passed, and she could see the upper curves of his white arse as his trousers slipped down.

  Alice’s stomach lurched.

  Gripping the woman about the waist, the man grunted and flung his head back as his hips shoved forward, then stopped. She whimpered, dragging her head to one side. Alice could see his body heaving with his panting breaths, which slowly calmed and evened.

  The man pulled away from the woman, turning to lean his back against the wall, facing out into the street. Murdo, Alice thought, p’raps Murdo, but something disfigured his mouth.

  He dragged a wrist across his face, wiping a dark smear away from his lips before fastening his trews. The woman’s large, uncorseted breasts were partially exposed by a loose, ruffled blouse that had been tugged down a bit. Her fawn-colored skirt was rucked up on one side and tucked into a wide belt, showing pale legs so chubby that they had dimples. Garters dug into the soft flesh of her thighs.

  Envy prickled. Alice could never hope to emulate that rounded form. She knew that men didn’t like skinny girls but preferred women like the whore down in the street.

  He tossed her a coin, which flashed in the moonlight, before he stumbled across the street and into the inn. He slammed the door shut hard enough that Alice jumped. Grumbling male voices emanated from belowstairs. Ah, Dugald. That deep, rumbling tone was definitely Dugald, annoyed by the disturbance.

  The woman tucked the coin into her belt, rearranged her skirt and adjusted her bodice. She ambled along the street and lingered in a doorway, apparently waiting. What for? Alice wondered.

  The grumbling from below stopped. Silence reigned.

  After about three minutes had passed, two more men came out of the inn. Blain and Malcolm approached the woman, who gave them a gap-toothed smile and pulled down her blouse.

  She had large brea
sts like great ripe pears, with enormous, dark nipples. Alice stared, fascinated. She had never imagined or seen the like. She knew that women’s breasts varied, could tell that her own shy handfuls, gently tipped with palest pink, were modest compared to other women’s thrusting bosoms.

  She’d also seen that breasts meant a great deal to males, for their gazes always dropped whenever they spoke to a woman. If she were a chesty female, their glances would linger. In Alice’s case, men’s eyes instantly returned to her face, as though a lingering perusal of her body was not worth their time.

  She would have preferred larger breasts. But confronted with the outsize bubbies on the whore, Alice cupped her own perfect little globes and felt grateful.

  Grateful and ashamed.

  Ashamed and titillated, for Blain was accosting the whore with clear avidity, showing no hesitation whatsoever.

  Malcolm hung back and Blain urged the younger man closer. Alice strained to hear, but the meaning of the conversation was clear even if the words were not, for both men passed coins to her.

  Blain seized her hair and tugged her head to one side. After a moment, Malcolm put his lips to her neck. Alice had never known that the throat was such an important part of this particular interaction between male and female…not that she knew much.

  While Malcolm nuzzled the whore’s neck, Blain loosened his trews and lifted her skirts, picking up one of her knees and setting her crudely-shod foot into a crack in the brick wall. He took out a long, fleshy pole from his trousers. After stroking himself for a few seconds, he snugged closer to the woman. Alice couldn’t see what he was doing, but she assumed that he put his…member inside her.

  Slurping sounds came from below interspersed with grunts, groans and moans.

  Alice watched in a daze of horrified fascination. She knew that this was what men and women did, but couldn’t picture herself with her skirt lifted on the street with one man inside her and another kissing her throat. Still, she found herself wondering how she’d feel, backed up against a wall, leg high, with Dugald Kilburn between her knees thrusting into her while kissing her neck.