Desire in Tartan: 2 (Highland Vampires)

by Suz deMello

  Worse, his French wife, Jacqueline, complained incessantly of the shame he’d brought onto the clan. She’d always been a restless, dissatisfied soul, and in her mind, she seemed to have created a rivalry with Lady Lydia of Clan Kilburn.

  So when an unexpected blizzard trapped Hamish and a few of his men hunting near Kilburn lands but far from his home, he resented that his best choice was to seek refuge at Kilburn Castle. He was by no means certain of his welcome.

  Highland hospitality required that any person asking for shelter and food be given what he needed, but the Kilburns werenae like most Highlanders. Their traditions werenae Scots but pagan, as Hamish had learned many years before while watching the rival clan’s Meán Fóghar harvest celebration. Though they now called themselves Kilburn rather than Kilborn, and had likewise changed their clan motto, Hamish had no doubt that they persisted in their savage ways.

  But he had no choice. He and three of his men struggled through heavy, wet snow toward Kilburn Castle, wondering what kind of reception they’d receive.

  When they arrived, night had long fallen, but oddly the great gate was open and the drawbridge down. Light and laughter issued from the gatehouse and the bailey within the massive double walls that had protected generations of Kilburns.

  ‘Twas the Yule, Hamish realized. These pagans didnae celebrate Christ’s birth as would be proper, with quiet prayer and contemplation, but instead noted the shortest day of the year with a cèilidh, song and drink.

  “Well, at least they’ll be in a good temper,” he said to Fergus MacReiver.

  Fergus grunted. “I doonae want to go there. They’re heathens and baobhan-sith.”

  “They may be heathen, but vampires?” Hamish laughed, a sharp, bitter bark. “You’ll nae find me believing in that foolishness again.” Listening to his priest’s maunderings about unholy blood-drinking creatures had led him to launch that daft raid against Clan Kilburn twelve years before. He wouldnae make the same mistake twice.

  “Ye still doonae believe what I told ye I saw. After we beheaded auld Euan Kilborn, his head tried to grow back onto his neck.”

  Hamish stared at the man. “Tha thu ás do chiall?”

  “Nay, I’m not mad. I ken what I saw. And who, if not the Kilborn vampire, murdered my entire clan?”

  Hamish snorted. “The MacReivers have done verra well for themselves, since they joined up with Clan Kilburn.”

  “That’s the Little Laird’s doing.” Fergus’ tone was bitter.

  “Laird Edgar’s nae so little anymore.”

  “The Kilburns are an abomination and should be destroyed!”

  “De ye wish to die oot here, in the snow and sleet? We have nae choice. Follow me and keep your venom to yoursel’.”

  Hamish, with his escort struggling behind, threaded his way between quiet crofts toward the drawbridge, then over. At the gatehouse they were hailed by a clearly drunken guard. After leaving their weapons, the Gwynn party was allowed to pass through.

  The courtyard had been cleared of snow. Crackling bonfires flared toward the sky surrounded by rings of dancing Kilburns. Pipers played off-key, and Hamish suspected they’d imbibed. Light spilled into the bailey from the open doors of two big towers, and Hamish averted his glance from the third keep. The Dark Tower ‘twas called, and ‘twas indeed dark—black with blood and brimful of the damned souls that had perished there twelve years before. Hamish’s own men, he remembered with unease.

  But now everywhere else was revelry, fire, light and joy. The tempting aroma of roasting meat came from one set of doors, and though Hamish wasnae familiar with the castle’s layout, he guessed that the Kilburn Great Hall was inside. He reckoned that he had the best chance of finding Kieran Kilburn there.

  A massive hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Laird Hamish! A cantie Yule to ye!” Kieran Kilburn laughed, drank from a bottle held in one enormous paw, then extended the bottle to Hamish. “And what brings ye here on such a raw winter night?”

  Hamish took the bottle, thinking, What the hell, Jacqueline’s not here, and drank. He wiped his wrist across his mouth and belched.

  Kilburn laughed again, looped an arm around Hamish’s shoulder and fair dragged him toward the open doors in the direction of the enticing smells. “Come see the wife! We’ve a new bairn to show ye.”

  His men straggling behind, Hamish didn’t resist, for he was being taken to where he wanted to go—toward warmth and food.

  Inside the Great Hall, more bedlam. Hamish, who’d never been within the seat of Clan Kilburn, was astonished. He’d always supposed that the martial clan did naught but train, hunt and fight. But ‘twas clear that the well-managed clan lived well and thought nothing of clearing out the winter larder when other, less fortunate clans—like Clan Gwynn—scrimped and saved over the long chilly months, paring mold off cheese, baking pies from withered apples and measuring every drop and dram of whisky.

  Jealousy set a giant hand in Hamish’s bowels and squeezed. He instantly forced back the unworthy feeling and quoted the tenth commandment to himself. Taking a deep breath, he was assailed by a variety of scents—whisky from Laird Kilburn, roast boar, unwashed bodies, tallow candles, evergreen boughs and woodsmoke from the huge Yule log that crackled and blazed in the massive hearth.

  The entire clan seemed to be crammed into the castle. Bairns chortled and older children sang while their elders applauded. He even glimpsed Dugald Kilburn, who Hamish had thought a somber and serious warrior, dancing on a table with a slender woman clasped in his arms. He capered with light feet over and between the blades of two crossed swords, an accomplishment to be sure, especially holding the girl, who flung back her head and laughed, a silvery peal of sheer joy.

  Hamish took off his plaidie and his boots, set them near the fireplace to dry, relaxed and joined in the revelry.

  Fergus MacReiver did not. After warming himself by one of the courtyard’s bonfires and partaking of the Kilburn food and drink, he tucked himself into a shadowy corner of the bailey to listen to the gossip and conversation. What he heard of Clan Kilburn’s plans interested him mightily, but he wasnae certain that his new laird would use the information. More likely that Laird Hamish, a coward unto his soul, would brush off Fergus’ scheme for revenge.

  Dugald jumped off the table and whirled. In his arms, Alice shrieked and laughed, her world a happy blur. Hairpins flew and her long mane whipped out behind her as he continued to dance her out of the room, out of the tower and into the next. Snow had started to fall, and as they entered the Laird’s Tower, icy flakes began to melt on her face, cool and tingling.

  He kissed her with chilly lips and set her on her feet. Hand in hand, they raced up the stairs into their room. He slammed the door behind them and tumbled her onto the bed in a flurry of quilted petticoats.

  More kisses, deep and sweet. Ah, she’d never tire of her husband’s kisses. Cool and hot both, tangy with whisky, with an underlying flavor that was uniquely Dugald, like his scent of fresh breezes and midnight forest.

  He set a broad palm on her breast, rotated his hand and squeezed. Even through her heavy woolen bodice, the pleasing pressure excited her more. Her clothes suddenly seemed too tight for her writhing flesh and squirming bone. She scrabbled at the ties at her waist while he dipped his head, laying down a row of tiny kisses and nips until he reached her neckline. Gripping the tie between his teeth, he raised his head.

  The ribbon fell open and her bodice parted. A snarl escaped his lips and he again used his teeth to open her stays, then bit her nipple. He suckled deeply, a happy growl vibrating from his throat.

  The stab of his teeth drew her sigh. She shoved her fingers into his unbound hair and played with the locks, then pulled his head closer. He responded, sucking harder and insinuating a hand beneath her loosened waistband, reaching for her quim.

  She gasped for breath. Dugald’s cool fingers traced an erotic path down her belly before tugging up her chemise and sliding between her curls. He caressed her mound, teasing
her with his proximity to her bump. She raised her knees and swaths of fabric tumbled over both of them. He laughed and fought his way out of her enveloping skirts and petticoats, batting them aside and flinging them onto the floor.

  Soon she was naked and she told him, “You are far too heavily clothed, sir.”

  “Och, aye.” He stood, smiling at her as she sprawled across their bed. He slowly unbuttoned his white linen shirt, exposing his chest inch by inch. He jerked the shirt off his body in a quick, dramatic snap of fabric, exposing his rock-hard chest, as strong and beautiful as polished marble.

  She sucked in a breath at the sight and went weak with desire, just like every time they made love. “Come here.”

  “Demanding, are ye no’?” He walked away from her. Muscles flexed in his hard arse as he went to the hearth. He stoked the embers into a blaze, tossing on a couple of logs. They caught and crackled, shooting sparks up into the chimney. Warmth spread through the room.

  She would never become used to marriage with Dugald Kilburn. That such a handsome, powerful man wanted her, desired her, had handfasted with her, was a revelation every day, and each lovemaking was likewise a revelation. She hoped their delight in each other would never end.

  A wonderful thought, yes, but clearly Dugald had less elevated ideas on his mind as he stalked toward her as though she were a coney in a snare, his gaze intent and predatory. His cock had hardened and now pointed toward his chin.

  His midnight dark eyes seemed to energize her, flood her with desire as hot as the sun yet drain her of any will or strength to move. She went limp and boneless with need, sinking into the bedclothes.

  As he approached, she scooted to the side of the bed and reached for him, hands clumsy and trembling with desire. After a quick tonguing, she grabbed his hips and jerked him between her spread legs and inside her.

  Ahhh…joy. Bliss. Completion.

  She didn’t let go of his hips but instead pulled and pushed him to and fro, showing him the tempo she wanted this eve.

  “So that’s the way of it tonight, lassie?” He laughed but cooperated, curling his body over so he could continue to kiss her breasts.

  Sharp, jagged bursts of pleasure raced through her body, echoed by flashing colors that gleamed behind her closed eyelids. She cupped her breasts, forcing her nipples into points that rose higher toward his lips, chasing ecstasy. He drew one firm tip entirely into his mouth in a long, sucking bite and she whimpered with need. He gave the other breast the same treatment as he continued to surge in and out of her, still matching the rhythm she’d set.

  He lifted his head. “I love your sweet bubbies. Are they a mite larger?”

  She smiled faintly, still lost in bliss. “I don’t think I’m growing anymore.”

  He nibbled at her nipple, plucking it with his lips. “Like two berries atop a mound of sweet cream and tastier than the finest custard.” He eased his cock out of her.

  She whined at the sudden loss of the connection she lived for. “What are you doing?”

  He rolled her over onto her belly. “What I want.”

  “What about what I want?”

  “Have I ever steered ye wrongly, lassie?” He plunged his rod into her cunt.

  She gasped at the rough intrusion, then bucked back against him, showing him she could take anything he wanted to give her. “N-no,” she managed.

  He slapped her bottom. “No, what?”

  “So that’s the way of it, laddie? No, sir.”

  He spanked her again. “Are ye mocking me?”

  “N-no.” But a thin giggle escaped.

  “Yer dancin’ close to the line, me wife.”

  “Am I now?” Turning her head, she shot him a saucy look and jerked her chin at him.

  “Och, aye, ye are. Have a care, lassie, or ye’ll find yerself in too deep.”

  “You’re in very deep yourself.” And ’twas true. His tool could achieve the deepest penetration when she was on her hands and knees with him behind her.

  He grabbed her hips. “But not where I most want to go.” He pulled out again.

  She felt his cock head, slippery with her juices, slide down and lodge in her rosette. She tensed instinctively but this time, he didn’t stop, instead pressing inside her inexorably. She whimpered with fear.

  He stopped immediately. “Too much?”

  She paused, felt, thought. “No.”

  “Oh.” He sounded pleased.

  Mother of mercy, what did I just say? What have I done? She sucked in a deep breath and consciously relaxed, telling herself she had no reason to worry. Everything she and her husband had done had felt good, and he’d entered her backside with his fingers often enough, she reasoned, and his fingers were quite thick.

  But not as thick as his tool, which he now wielded with determination as he slid into her, gripping her hips to hold her in place.

  Torment it was, with his cock opening such a narrow channel with no small level of violence, a burning brand piercing her unto her vitals. She shrieked, a keening wail.

  He again stilled but didn’t withdraw. “Lassie?”

  She breathed, listening to her huffs and gasps. Gradually she calmed, though his cock was a flaming club tearing her apart. But she wanted to give him this experience and wanted to feel this for herself.

  She cautiously pushed back against him and gasped again with renewed pain.

  “Too much?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed.

  He eased out immediately and lay beside her, taking her into his arms. “Mo dòchas, I am so sorry. Tha mi duilich, kylyrra. Ye ken I’d never hurt ye, beloved, ye ken that?”

  He was repeating himself and she sensed he truly was upset. She framed his face with her hands and kissed him gently.

  He seemed to relax. “Are ye all right?” Nevertheless, anxiety infused his voice.

  “I’m fine. I think, without actually seeing what’s there…”

  “Roll over. Is there water?”

  “Yes.” She’d remembered to fill the ewer with hot water before the cèilidh, guessing that none of the servants would be willing or able to help out later after they’d imbibed.

  Dugald rose and went to the dresser. She noticed his tool had greatly deflated. Picking up a strip of worn linen, he dipped it into the pitcher and wrung it out, then brought it to her and tenderly cleansed her rear opening. It didn’t hurt and she sighed happily.

  “You’re nae bleeding,” he said, sounding relieved. He wiped off his cock and lounged beside her. “Enough for now, love?”

  Smiling, she cuddled closer. “Yes, I think that’s quite enough excitement for one evening.”

  He turned onto his side and draped one brawny arm over her. “Aye. Did ye notice who joined us just before we left?”

  “No, who?”

  “Hamish Gwynn.”

  She sat up. “Laird Gwynn? What could he want?”

  “I doonae ken, but I imagine that he was far from home when the blizzard hit. Fool.” Dugald snorted. “Even Carrick knew ’twould be a stormy, snowy night.”

  “Carrick is a clever little boy.” She lay back down. “Is Laird Hamish’s presence anything to worry about?”

  “Nay, but later I’ll take a turn around the castle, just to be safe. Milaird seemed to be…um, having a great deal to drink this eve, as did many of the guard. Highland hospitality or no, best to be safe.”

  “Highland hospitality?”

  “Aye. ’Tis a custom of great antiquity. If a traveler asks for help it must be given, even if he is your direst enemy. And when Highland hospitality is given, he who takes it must not abuse the privilege.”

  “In other words, ’twould be the bleakest treachery if the Gwynns attacked while everyone is in their cups.”

  “Exactly so, me wife.”

  True to his word, Dugald awoke a few hours later after having enjoyed a cozy nap with his wife. He glanced at his slumbering lady and smiled. In repose, Alice’s face held little of the lively intelligence and surprising passio
n that kept him enthralled. But he was reminded of the stillness he’d noticed when they’d met. He now knew that former stillness was disciplined control over her emotions, which had run only to sadness and a dogged determination to survive.

  He hoped that had changed—nay, that everything had changed for his Alice, and that her stillness was serenity and happiness. He saw it in her, not only when they made love but when she taught Carrick his letters or skated with Ranald. She even smiled when she rode with Isobel, that minx.

  And he recognized joy in himself. Time and again he’d catch members of his patrol staring at him with astonishment, then he’d belatedly realize he’d been humming or even singing as they rode, skinned a deer or took a coney out of a trap.

  He was happy despite his underlying fear of impregnating his wife. They’d been lucky, and he hoped that luck would remain their companion.

  Despite his joy, he restrained himself from singing as he found his trews and boots. Skipping his shirt, he wrapped a plaidie around his shoulders and went to walk the upper battlements.

  He met an unexpected sight—a tall, thin figure in black, his long white hair blowing in the fierce wind that ripped through the parapet.

  “Uncle,” he said, surprised. “What brings ye oot of your warm bed on such a rough night?”

  Sir Gareth turned. “There be strangers in our hold, nevvy. Best to stay sharp, especially with the raucous Yule this eve.”

  “How did ye ken, sir?” Dugald had learned that ‘twas best to treat the auld gentleman with the greatest respect. Even in his lucid moments—and this seemed to be one—he could turn madman at even a slight offense.

  Sir Gareth’s answer was a smile followed by a tap to his patrician nose.

  “Och, aye,” Dugald said. “They doonae smell like Kilburns, ‘tis true.”

  “I thought you’d be with your lady.” His cloak snapped in the wind, and he wrapped it more closely around his narrow frame.

  “I was, but I have the same fear ye do. I havenae forgotten what happened twelve years ago.”