Tartan

by Diana Laurence

  Malcom saw the smile. “And what might be the source of your mirth tonight, Miranda?” he asked.

  “I was thinking if ye intended that bird for my wee niece, ’twould be best not to carve it down to nothing.”

  “I’m making the feathers,” said Malcom, unperturbed. “A tricky business.”

  “Well, if any man can manage it, I trust ye can, being the best woodcarver in all the Lowlands.”

  “Not the best woodcarver,” he corrected, “only the best wheelwright.”

  “Aye—forgive my confusion, ye have so many talents.”

  Still concentrating on the bird, he added, “And the finest kisser.” He cast his eyes up at her. It was the sort of look that always made her quiver.

  It was most certainly true that Malcom had a knack for lovemaking. Miranda still marveled to think how he had managed to get so far with her so soon; why, they had known each other but a week or so….

  * * *

  He had brought her a basketful of apples, and while Miranda worked the spinning wheel, Malcom pulled over a chair and settled in to enjoy snacking on one. For a minute or two, the room was quiet save for the sound of the wheel punctuated by crunches of crisp apple. Finally Miranda said, “Well, if I’m to know ye better, best we talk a bit.”

  “Aye, it’s true,” agreed Malcom around his bite of apple.

  “So tell me how ye got to be so good with wood, Malcom Keyth.”

  “Practice. Ye like the spinning wheel then, do ye?” He grinned.

  “It’s indeed a better one than my sister has. The turn of the wheel is so smooth and steady.”

  “I do best with wheels. Do ye recall the day I fixed the cart for your neighbor?”

  Miranda halted the wheel and looked at him with a twinkle. “Aye, and I recall ye didna speak to me one word when I fetched ye.”

  “Well, could be I’m a shy man,” replied Malcom.

  Miranda burst out laughing. “Ye werena shy at the bonfire, that’s sure! Never I met a laddie more forward.”

  “Some things be easier for me than talking,” said the man, stifling a smile. “Besides, there was that invitation all over your face.”

  Miranda resumed spinning the black wool. “What invitation?”

  Malcom stood up and tossed his apple core into the cold hearth, and wiped his hand on his old plaid. “The one ye’d put on now if I were to get close enough,” he said, turning and approaching her.

  “Ye be a cocky lad,” scoffed Miranda, continuing to work. Nevertheless, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at his approach.

  “Not a bit. But in truth I’m not shy, either, Miranda. It was only that ye took me by surprise, showing up in my doorway, your cheeks so rosy and your hair blowing about your face. The sight of ye just knocked all the speech out of me.”

  At this flattery, Miranda let the wheel fall still and looked at him. Malcom moved another couple of steps closer, his head bowed and his hands behind his back. It was a humble look that was belied by the brightness in his eyes. If I do nothing to put him off, thought Miranda, surely he will kiss me in a minute.

  She really had no desire to put him off. In fact, ever since that first kiss, she had troubled herself mightily about how soon she might permit him another. Her sister Jonet thought it quite a scandal that the carpenter was wooing Miranda in such an aggressive and unusual way…that is, until she’d seen the spinning wheel and loom and recognized their quality. At that point she’d allowed that the match might well be a good one, but still warned Miranda that she not give away cream to a man who’d not yet bought the cow.

  Sound enough advice if a woman wasn’t looking up into the dark blue eyes of Malcom Keyth. He was close enough to touch her now, and reached over to cup her cheek in his hand. Miranda blinked at the warm, soft sensation. The carpenter simply gazed down at her, and said, half to himself, “Here be the prettiest face in Scotland.”

  Miranda opened her mouth to contradict or thank him. But she didn’t have time to choose which, for Malcom dropped to one knee next to the spinning wheel, still holding her face. His own visage was a bit lower than hers now, and if there were to be a kiss, she would need to lean a little to make it happen. Malcom folded over his fingers and petted her cheek with them, his eyes searching hers. Then he slid his fingers around behind her neck.

  The slight pull of his hand was all the impetus required to make Miranda lean to him. When her lips touched his, she was stunned at the effect. The rush swept through her like a fierce wind, setting her heart to pounding wildly. Malcom’s mouth tasted of apple, and was so rich that kissing him felt like feasting. Then he made a soft sound of pleasure and that made Miranda feel all the more giddy.

  She felt his hand slide forward, down the side of her neck, till it rested on the bare flesh above the neckline of her dress. It was very warm, and rough in a pleasing way. Her attention darted between the delicious pressure of that hand, and the ever-deepening kiss. Miranda’s hand floated up and cupped Malcom’s jaw line, so that her palm might feel the lovely coarseness of his beard. At this his hand slipped a little lower.

  But alas, not as low as she found herself wishing. The heel of the carpenter’s hand came to rest lightly upon her nipple, so that she could feel the pressure and warmth through the linen of her dress. This sensation totally undid her, and she thought she would lose her mind if he did not take hold of her breast completely. This is no time to be a gentleman, Malcom, she thought wildly.

  Yet all he did was keep kissing her, in that exasperatingly marvelous way. Miranda made the mistake of slipping her fingers into his hair and discovering how silky were his curls. And when he parted her lips with his tongue she welcomed him, thankful for anything that brought him closer and deeper. All the while she fought desperately against the feverish urge to put his hand over her breast.

  She was about to give in to that urge when Malcom broke off kissing her. She opened her eyes to find him regarding her with an alluring, sleepy look, and breathing hard. “Ah Miranda, I’m not shy, but if I were I’d kiss ye anyway. Ye have such a welcoming way. I feel as if ye might yield all, if only ye knew me better….” At this he leaned back. “Forgive me for saying so—I may be cocky indeed, as ye say.”

  Miranda’s defenses were utterly demolished by the onslaught of kisses. Therefore she answered him guilelessly, “Be cocky as ye wish, Malcom, for your kisses make a woman surrender as the English before Wallace’s army.”

  Malcom smiled, a little astonished, then burst out laughing. Miranda joined in, and the laughter saved her from her own passion. When they had caught their breath, Malcom went back to his chair and Miranda to her spinning, and the rest of that afternoon they talked like two old friends.

  * * *

  Hold back the cream, Miranda took to telling herself whenever Malcom was going to pay a call.

  Robert and Jonet spared Miranda a few extra hours a week, knowing she was being rewarded well for her time working on the carpenter’s tartan. And although Malcom and Miranda were both busy with their respective trades, more often than not they spent some time together in the evenings or an occasional afternoon. Malcom would bring along a whittling project, or otherwise busy himself assisting Miranda by performing a few chores for her.

  And they talked for hours, on every subject under the fifteenth century Scotland sun. The conversation was delightful, and sometimes captured Miranda’s thoughts well enough to make her forget how much her body yearned for Malcom’s touch. Nevertheless, never an evening went by that didn’t end with a passionate kiss or two.

  It was a few weeks into their acquaintance when things went a bit further and despite all her resolve, Miranda “spilled a little cream.”

  She was working at the loom, and making quite good progress that evening. Malcom, meanwhile, had decided he ought to inspect the house. Cold weather was a ways off, but having built quite a few houses himself, he wanted to be sure this one was constructed in a manner that would minimize drafts and leaks.

&nbs
p; When he was done, he built a little fire in the hearth and settled himself down upon the stool. “Well, I’d say there’s the touch of Stuart the Longarm about this place,” he pronounced.

  “He was a friend of my grandfather’s,” said Miranda, nodding. “I know he had a hand in it, of that my grandfather was proud.”

  “Aye, and didna I see it? The stone is sound, the beams well placed. All joints tight and cracks well sealed. If ye love this house, I dunna blame ye.”

  “I do love it, Malcom, for my father grew up in it and so did I. If not for Jonet and Robert, I would have had to give it up, and that would break my heart.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “If not for your fine skill, Miranda. By your own work do ye make the coin to keep this house. And ye should, for it be among the finest in Alyth, to my mind.”

  Miranda beamed at him. “Ye please me so to hear it, Malcom.”

  She was nearly out of red wool then, so she rose to cross the room to a very tall cabinet where she stored some stock. The red was on the top shelf, and in spite of her height, Miranda couldn’t reach it without the help of a small wooden box she kept handy for the purpose. She slid the box over and stepped up upon it, just as Malcom crossed the room to assist. “Now then, I could reach that for ye, Miranda,” he said.

  But she already had her arm in the air, while steadying herself by holding the edge of the cabinet. What happened then she couldn’t quite explain, but her weight shifted a little and the box slipped, and Malcom had to take her by the waist to keep her from falling off of it.

  At any rate, however it came about, suddenly his face was nearly at her breast. They both looked at each other, and then Malcom’s eyes fell to the soft mound of linen-clad flesh just inches from his lips. When his gaze once again met hers, Miranda made her eyes go pleading. The young man might not have known for certain what that look meant, but was happy to make an assumption.

  He pressed his mouth to her breast, kissing it, then nuzzled into it with his nose and lips. The sweetness of his dark head beneath her chin made Miranda’s heart swell with love and tenderness. Without another thought her fingers reached for the tie that held the gathers of her bodice, and pulled. Then she worked the fabric down so that her breasts were both bared to him.

  No doubt Malcom had not expected such a turn of events. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate even long enough to glance up at Miranda, so eager was he to avail himself of this wondrous opportunity. His arms encircled her and he covered her right breast with kisses. If his beard chafed her in that eagerness, his lips were quick to soothe. In fact, both sensations moved her, and she found some parts of his beard were soft and could brush her nipple in the most blissful way. Heat bloomed under her skirts, heat and moisture, and her knees went weak. Nevertheless she was afraid to get down from the box or make any motion that might cause Malcom to stop.

  Then suddenly his hungry mouth took in her nipple, and suckled and licked it in a manner that enflamed Miranda past the point of reason. “Malcom,” she cried, “dunna stop or I will perish!”

  She felt him chuckle, and clearly he had no intention of stopping. All Malcom did was switch to her other breast, freeing the first one so that he might take it in his hand and caress it with his smooth, hard palm. Miranda heard herself emit a quiet wail at this, and she convulsed so that her face buried itself in Malcom’s curls. As swirling sensations of ecstasy racked her, she moved her mouth back and forth against his soft hair.

  Drink all my cream, she thought crazily, for I care not to withhold it from ye. And indeed, had it been Malcom’s determination to bed her that very night, he would not have failed.

  But instead of that, he only persisted in standing before Miranda, perched on her box, making love to her breasts with his mouth and hands. The sensations he gave her very nearly brought her to climax, and by the time he stopped her legs were quivering so hard beneath her skirts that he could feel it.

  So he gathered her in his arms and took her down from the box. He kissed her face gently, then turned it up to his. “Miranda?” he asked.

  She couldn’t speak, but managed to nod at him.

  “I think I could have ye tonight, could I not?”

  Miranda nodded again.

  “But I want ye for my wife, and for that I must win your heart. I have your body now, sure enough, like in the palm of my hand. But let your body tell ye how much your heart should want me, and in the end I’ll have both.”

  It wasn’t until that moment that Miranda realized how extraordinary a man was Malcom Keyth.

  * * *

  A fortnight later, there was a wild and terrible thunderstorm.

  The temperature dropped just after suppertime, and the wind picked up to a howl. Dark clouds rolled in, alive with bolts of lightning that grew ever neared to the village Alyth. Miranda, who expected Malcom at any time, stood awhile outside her front door watching, until the raindrops began to fall, driven wildly in the wind.

  She abandoned her watch, taking in with her some extra logs for the fire. She had just built it up to a good warm blaze when she heard a knock and the door flew open. Malcom stepped in swiftly, drenched and dripping, and pushed the door shut against the wind.

  Miranda rose to greet him in her usual fashion, with a warm embrace…but seeing how wet he was, thought better of it. “Well,” she said, “’tis a shame your new plaid be not ready, for ye could use a set of dry clothes, Malcom!”

  The sodden man wiped back his dripping curls from his eyes. “Any blanket would do, Miranda,” he replied. “I be soaked to the skin and not fit to sit anywhere.”

  Miranda went to fetch the blanket from her bed, saying, “I canna believe ye went out in such weather.”

  “’Twas not such weather when I went out,” came his reply.

  When Miranda returned with the gray wool blanket, she found Malcom had removed his tartan and shoes, and stood there in his long shirt. And that he was busy unfastening. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and turned away.

  “Well,” he said, “the wet must come off before the dry goes on, or dry will be wet too.”

  Still facing away, Miranda said, “Aye, that’s true.” She held the blanket toward him.

  “Are ye afraid to look on me, Miranda?”

  “Ye be quite enough to look on when dressed, Malcom,” she replied.

  He laughed. “However cocky and proud I came to ye, much worse I become from hearing such as that. I be merely a man, lassie.”

  Miranda did not hold Malcom was “merely a man,” nor did she think any other woman in town would put him in that category. “Just tell me when ye be wrapped up in that blanket, Malcom,” she told him.

  After another minute he said, “There now, there’s not a thing to see but my head and a lot of wool.”

  Miranda turned to face him cautiously, and found he was telling the truth. He stood grinning, encased in the blanket, with his wet clothes around him on the floor. Miranda shook her head at him in mock exasperation, and then busied herself gathering the clothing, wringing it out into a basin, and hanging it near the fire. All the while the storm raged outside, flashing and rumbling and pounding her roof with a steady hiss of rain.

  For a little while then the evening progressed normally. Miranda worked at the loom, Malcom sat on the hearth in the blanket, his curls drying. The fire crackled, the room smelled cozily of wet wool. They talked of great rainstorms and snowstorms of years gone by, and so the time passed pleasantly.

  At last there was a lull in the conversation, and then, with a slight twinkle in his eye, Malcom spoke up. “But tell me, Miranda—do ye really fear to look on me naked?”

  “I do not fear it,” she replied, casting her eyes up from the loom. “I only fear the effect.”

  “But do ye not like wanting me, then?”

  The question made her laugh. “Wanting is a funny thing. I do like it…but it pains me too.”

  “I dunna like paining ye, Miranda,” said Malcom earnestly. “There be a remedy for that, ye ken.”


  Miranda felt her body quicken at these words. What could he mean? She was not sure how to reply, so she only stared wordlessly at him.

  Malcom stood up and beckoned her with one hand. “Come here, then. And dunna worry, ye willna see me naked.”

  Against her better judgment, Miranda rose from the loom and went to him. With one hand still holding the blanket secure, Malcom used the other to place her near the fire, facing away from him. “Stay there now,” he instructed. Then she could hear him behind her, removing the blanket, folding it, and placing it on the hearth rug. “Just sit down here, I’ll be right behind.”

  He meant this quite literally, as she discovered when she sat down on the folded blanket. The very next moment she felt Malcom sit down behind her, and his bare, bent knees appeared on either side of her. So he was positioned right behind her, naked as a babe, and she could easily guess what that spot of pressure at the small of her back might be! “Malcom Keyth,” she gasped, “what be your intention?”

  “Just the remedy…and must I kiss ye till ye want it?” replied he, then buried his rough face in her neck and kissed her.

  Miranda could only moan softly in reply.

  Malcom’s hand reached around and cupped her right breast. Even through the cloth it felt wonderful. Her head fell to one side and she relinquished her strength to him. Malcom picked up on this and whispered in her ear, “Remember when ye let my fingers under your dress here, Miranda?”

  “Aye, Malcom,” she said weakly, lost in the feeling of the caress.

  “And would ye let them under your skirts, then, lass?” he whispered.

  Miranda couldn’t imagine a better idea. “Aye,” she said.

  His hand left her breast, and she was alarmed for the loss. But a moment later she felt both his hands tugging at her skirt, and that made it quite worthwhile. She lent her own hands to the task, until together they had achieved hitching up the fabric to the point that Miranda’s privates were nearly exposed. Then Malcom slid the fingers of his right hand up her leg, lightly and slowly. Any modesty she still possessed was waning fast; she parted her knees. The hand repeated the silky gesture, and Miranda quivered. She felt Malcom laugh softly behind her. His left hand caressed inside her left leg in like fashion. Then he stroked her, up and down, inside both thighs, so that she parted them little by little.