Plaid Nights Anthology

by Torquere Press LLC

  Conall turned his eyes to the surgery’s stone ceiling. The stories said that the Holy Loch went unnamed because there was no better name for it, though it had been named before Christ had come to Scotland. The Lamonts had held it as long as anyone could remember; even when Colin Campbell had taken their stronghold and the rights to their chiefs’ burial ground, everyone knew the Lamonts still held the Holy Loch. Everyone had heard the rumors of the loch’s power—of the Lamonts’ power. Conall should be wary of a tonic made from herbs that only grew on the Holy Loch.

  Then again, he should be wary of a fire-headed Lamont healer who’d taken him into the heart of a hostile clan’s lands. And he wasn’t.

  “’Twould seem so,” Conall said.

  He couldn’t see Eoghann’s face—he couldn’t bring himself to look—but Eoghann sounded strangely pleased when he said, “Right.”

  That day Eoghann spent all his time mixing cures for Blair. He cut sprigs of dried herbs from their bundles, stripped some of their leaves, cut them, and ground them in his mortar and pestle—muttering to himself all the while. Conall watched him without speaking, taking the time to admire the way Eoghann’s kilt draped over his arse.

  Eoghann went out after midday to gather fresh herbs. When he came back, he left the surgery door open. (“Don’t make eyes. Ye both could use the fresh air.”) The golden light turned Eoghann’s shirt into a screen through which Conall could see the hills and slopes of Eoghann’s body. The shirtsleeves slid along Eoghann’s wrists, the neck cradled his wing-shaped collarbones, and Conall had never thought to be jealous of a shirt before—but God help him, he was.

  ***

  That night, when he dreamed, Conall knew it.

  He stood in the loch, the water lapping over the tops of his bare feet. He wore nothing but a clean MacDougall tartan. The red of it was the brightest color Conall had ever seen, brighter than blood, brighter than sun.

  Wind hit him hard enough to push his head back, and Conall saw him. The man up to his waist in the loch. Conall reached out for him, but he was a hand span out of reach. Conall opened his mouth, but the wind forced the words back down his throat until he was choking.

  The man raised his thin staff over his head. Blue loch-snakes crept up his ribs and chest, netted themselves around his shoulders in spiral patterns.

  Conall wept.

  ***

  Eoghann brought him the tonic first thing in the morning. Conall drank it. Eoghann gave him a look that he couldn’t read. They said nothing. ‘Twas early, the light too fragile to ask questions that opened the gate to heavy answers. Eoghann tended to Blair instead. Conall let him. ‘Twas simpler. Safer.

  Conall spent the day in and out of a sleep that left him more tired whenever he woke. When awake, he stared at his crutch and Eoghann’s staff leaning together against the wall. Then he needed to shift to keep his blood moving, and he stared at Blair’s hand hanging off the bed.

  ***

  When Conall next woke, ‘twas night, and he felt no pain. His hip creaked like an old floorboard when he moved it, but the swelling and ache were absent. Conall checked his rib wound—it had sealed and scarred.

  Conall’s heart pounded more furiously than Luasganach’s canter. He sat up. Blair was still asleep, his face peaceful, his head unbandaged.

  Eoghann’s staff was gone from its place next to Conall’s crutch. Ice slipped down Conall’s spine. He was half out of his bed before he thought about it and stopped himself.

  “Ye gonna leave him to his lonesome?”

  Conall turned. Blair’s eyes were clear, heavy-lidded with half-sleep, but alert. Blair knew about Conall, of course, but they’d never spoken of it.

  “If ‘twas me and Sorcha, I wouldn’t leave her,” Blair said.

  “I can barely move,” said Conall. “Who’s doing the leaving?”

  “He needs ye,” Blair said. “Ye need him. Be a man about it and go to him.”

  Conall stumbled to his feet, using the side of Blair’s bed for balance. He pressed his forehead to Blair’s for a moment. Blair clasped the back of his neck and squeezed.

  “Rest,” Conall said. He limped to his crutch, stuck the bow of it under his arm, and swung out the door.

  ***

  He went straight to the loch. Eoghann had been truthful—Conall could see the water from the door, and an easy path led down to the shore. Conall maneuvered it as fast as he could. He dared not call to Eoghann, for fear that someone else would hear. He sensed a thrumming in the air that told him this was a matter for him and Eoghann alone.

  The closer he got to the shore, the stronger the thrumming became, until it nested in Conall’s breast. It pulled him through the trees, ever closer to the silver light of the moon on the loch. There was a black blot on the light, like an ink stain, unmoving among the water’s faint ripples. Conall knew, without the aid of a dream, who the figure would be.

  Conall stopped at the last row of trees and leaned heavily against a large oak. He was out of breath from his walk and the use of a body that hadn’t moved for some time, but mostly from the sight before him.

  Eoghann stood proud in the moonlight, bare but for his kilt, which was slung low enough to show the dimples low on his back. His kilt was dark blue and green, threaded through with black and white. Blue swirls on the points of his shoulders, down his arms, across his back—up his neck. Even with his kilt, Eoghann looked like a wild thing. A witch-servant of old ways and old gods.

  Conall’s throat convulsed, trying to swallow with an abruptly dry mouth. Eoghann raised his staff. Overhead, thunder rolled, though the night was clear and full of stars. Conall couldn’t find words for stop or don’t or please that were strong enough—none that he thought Eoghann would hear.

  “Good night for a swim, is it?”

  Eoghann spun and a branch above Conall snapped and fell to the ground, its leaves shuddering against Conall’s bare feet and nearly stopping his heart.

  “Conall?” Eoghann sounded…not like Eoghann.

  “Bit of an overreaction, that,” Conall said, nodding at the branch. He looked back at Eoghann, who still held his staff in the air.

  “Ye startled me. Ye shouldn’t startle me when I’m like this.”

  Conall let his eyes wander down the paint on Eoghann’s chest. “When ye’re like what, exactly?”

  Eoghann’s face contorted suddenly, into something old and hate-filled. “When I’m practicing witchcraft, clansman.” That was not Eoghann’s voice.

  “Ye’re not a witch, Eoghann. Ye’re a healer, and a good man.”

  “And a witch,” the not-Eoghann voice said. Eoghann’s mouth curled in a snarl.

  “Perhaps,” Conall said, desperation clawing his voice raw. God Almighty help him, he was bargaining with the devil. “But ye haven’t done any harm.”

  “Not yet.” Not-Eoghann turned back to face the loch. “But before the end of the night, that will change.”

  “Ye have my sorrow for your clan, truly—but what would ye have? Your rivers and loch running red with the blood of your enemies? It’s fine in the stories, but I’ve seen that happen, Eoghann, and it’s not nearly as grand as they say.” The figure was still and silent, the staff still raised—but the thunder had eased. Conall felt the knife’s edge he stood on as keenly as if the blade were slicing his feet. A powerful, terrible longing bubbled up in his breast. He opened his mouth and let it bubble out. “Eoghann. Come home. Come home to me.”

  For a breathless moment, all of Creation seemed to pause. The insects and night animals quieted. The breeze off the loch slaked. The dim kissing sounds of the water against the bank ceased. Conall couldn’t feel his own heartbeat. They all waited to see which way the knife would fall.

  Then the staff slid out of Eoghann’s hand and into the water with a splash, and the world began to be itself again. Eoghann turned—he was himself again, too, Conall could see his ribs quake as he breathed—and moved forward like a prowling fox. Conall felt like prey, and his heart drummed faste
r in fear-edged want. As he approached, Eoghann settled. He slowly pressed Conall back against the great oak. His heavy, warm cock brushed against Conall’s through their kilts—Conall slumped back against the tree, his eyes slipping shut, overcome. A broad hand gently nudged its way inside Conall’s shirt. It smoothed against Conall’s chest, soothing. Conall’s heart seemed to strain forward, desperate to give itself to Eoghann’s hand. Conall felt the pull all the way up to his eyes.

  Oh holy God, why did ye fit my heart for this man as well as my body?

  Conall opened his eyes. Eoghann still looked the wild animal. His black-loch eyes were still liquid and fierce—but now they were also filled with terror. His free hand, when it came up and skated the soft skin under Conall’s eye, vibrated with it. Conall dropped his crutch. His need to touch Eoghann was so powerful that his body thrummed with it—but he couldn’t touch Eoghann’s skin, not with the blue marks there. He didn’t feel allowed, and he didn’t want to smudge Eoghann’s work—and Conall had stones big enough to admit that he feared them.

  Eoghann’s breath was warm and close. Just the sound of his breathing was enough to make Conall’s prick stand taller. He took fistfuls of Eoghann’s kilt in hand, just for something to make him feel tethered. Eoghann made a dark, hot sound in his throat and came closer, spreading his legs to make room for Conall’s. The movement pressed Eoghann’s flanks against Conall’s fists. Conall could feel the strength in them, taut like a drawn bow, ready to let fly. The need was rising again, pushing the breath from Conall’s chest as quick as he could bring it in. He realized, quite suddenly, that there was no paint on Eoghann’s lips.

  Eoghann’s hand—the one that had been stroking Conall’s face—went and pulled the leather tie holding Conall’s hair back. It fell free to his shoulders. Eoghann pressed his face into Conall’s temple, close enough that Conall heard him breathe in the scent of Conall’s hair. Eoghann’s hand scratched Conall’s scalp.

  It happened as suddenly and violently as a rockslide. Conall turned his head, seeking something like a drowning man sought air. He didn’t know what he wanted until he found Eoghann’s mouth. Eoghann surged forward, wind off the loch. Lightning pierced Conall through Eoghann’s grip in his hair and Eoghann’s prick rubbing closer through their tartans. Conall ceased to be a man. He had lightning in his veins, fire in his mouth, an earthquake in his belly. His hands dove under Eoghann’s kilt and grabbed Eoghann’s thighs. Eoghann groaned into Conall’s mouth, deep and broken.

  The sensation of his tartan rubbing against his prick—and more, the pressure of Eoghann’s prick through the fabric—set Conall to leaking. He moved his hands to Eoghann’s arse to encourage the thrusts he felt Eoghann holding back. Eoghann growled, sending pleasure-shivers all along Conall’s skin. He moved the hand that had been so gentle on Conall’s chest and wrapped it around Conall’s waist with that surprising strength. Eoghann shifted to nipping his throat. Conall lost his breath. With Eoghann’s tongue tasting his bloodbeat through his skin, ‘twasn’t enough for Conall just to feel him through their kilts.

  Conall rucked up his tartan in front, hissing as he took himself in hand. This was familiar. Eoghann planted whispering kisses along the skin behind Conall’s ear. Conall took a deep breath and rucked up Eoghann’s kilt. The back of his fingers grazed Eoghann’s prick. Eoghann pressed his face harder against Conall’s neck. Before he could think himself out of it, Conall took Eoghann’s prick in hand along with his own, and tethered himself again with his free hand on Eoghann’s arse.

  Conall nearly spent himself there, at just the feeling of Eoghann in his hand, Eoghann’s prick against his, Eoghann’s hands holding him close and pulling his head back by the hair, Eoghann’s burning mouth laying claim to the soft flesh under Conall’s chin. Eoghann whined something.

  “What’s that, love?” Conall asked.

  Eoghann whined again, thrust forward in Conall’s grip. “Move, tolla-thon. Mother’s mercy, move.”

  Conall moved his hand as he would for himself. He couldn’t close his grip completely around the two of them, but it didn’t seem to matter. He felt Eoghann losing himself. Then, he heard it.

  “Your hands,” Eoghann said, in a high and desperate tone that had the lightning in Conall’s veins rising up into his skin. Conall dug his fingernails into Eoghann’s arse, prompting a helpless thrust from Eoghann. “Your bloody big warrior hands. They’ve never touched another man like this, have they?”

  “No,” Conall said. Eoghann pulled on Conall’s hair again, until Eoghann could take Conall’s swollen lips between his teeth. Eoghann pressed inside Conall’s mouth with his tongue, thorough and burning and wet.

  “I want them all over me,” Eoghann said. It mayhap should’ve sounded like a claim, but Eoghann spoke it the same way Conall spoke his confessions in chapel. “I want them inside of me, ye ken?”

  Conall shifted his grip on Eoghann’s arse until he found the crease between the cheeks, and slid his hand down it until his finger pressed a tightly furled muscle. He said, “I ken,” and rolled Eoghann’s ear between his teeth.

  Eoghann spent violently, with a shout that he bit into Conall’s shoulder. His lithe body shuddered and clutched against Conall. His seed spurted all over Conall’s hand—Conall felt it spread along the length of his prick, hot and slick and Eoghann’s, and the lightning in Conall’s body exploded. Dimly, he felt his hand wetted the more. He had his face in Eoghann’s thick, musky hair. Eoghann was kissing Conall’s chest, just where his heart thundered.

  Before Conall could think what to do next, Eoghann took their tartans in hand. He tenderly cleaned Conall’s prick with his, fabric wrapping around Conall with enough scratch to make him hiss.

  “I won’t ask ye to do the same,” Eoghann said quietly. He was staring down at his clan’s colors, rubbing Conall’s seed into the blue and green until it disappeared. “But I hold ye as close as this, Conall Alexander MacFarlane MacCoul.” He took a half-step back and took Conall’s hand by the wrist—the one still covered in both their seed. Eoghann started lapping it up, his mouth almost tentative. He wouldn’t look Conall in the eyes.

  Conall took his tartan and, gently as he could, wiped Eoghann clean. He was loath to take his hand from Eoghann’s mouth, so he pressed Eoghann’s seed into the MacDougall red by rubbing the folds of the fabric together. When Eoghann finished cleaning his hand, Conall pressed them close again. “I hold ye as close as this, Eoghann Kilduff MacAdam.” He licked into Eoghann’s mouth, tasting them together. The moonlight glowed around them, the night quiet and close.

  Just as Conall started noticing the ache in his leg, Eoghann pulled back and bent to pick up Conall’s crutch. “Let’s get ye back to your bed, tolla-thon.”

  ***

  The dream that night was simple: the loch, the man, the snakes, the staff raised to the stormy heavens. Conall sank his fingers into the mud between his feet, grabbed a handful, and threw it at the man’s back as hard as he could. The muddied loch-snakes hissed and dropped back into the water. The man turned, his hair made of fire, and stared into Conall’s heart with eyes the color of the loch.

  The End

  If you liked this book, you may also like:

  I immediately think of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon (excellent, but heterosexual-centric). I, of course, highly recommend the other stories in the Plaid Nights anthology.

  As Fair Art Thou, My Bonny Lad

  by McKay

  Adie Gilchrist is satisfied with being a bachelor shopkeeper, but when a handsome immigrant from Scotland arrives in colonial Wilmington and begins pursuing him, Adie’s quiet life is changed in ways he’s not certain he wants.

  Wilmington, North Carolina Colony—1770

  Adie Gilchrist grinned as he exited Campbell’s tavern with the raucous farewells from his companions washing out the door with him. The night breeze off the water was brisk, the chill and the tang of salt helping him sober up more swiftly. He hadn’t drunk heavily to begin with; he intended
to go over the ledgers and inventory at the shop tomorrow, so he needed a clear head.

  Behind him, the tavern door opened and closed again, and he heard boot heels ringing on the cobblestone street, heading in his direction. A glance over his shoulder showed him a face that was both familiar and unfamiliar: a tall man with curly auburn hair that brushed his shoulders and eyes as green as spring grass. Unlike most of the men in Wilmington, he wore a kilt rather than breeches, and Adie had covertly admired the man’s strong, shapely legs more than once.

  Adie had seen him at the tavern several times over the past month. They hadn’t exchanged names, but Adie had heard him speaking to other patrons with a strong Scottish accent, marking him as a newcomer to the port town. Hearing the newcomer’s voice reminded Adie of his father and gave him a little pang of grief at the memory.

  “’Tis a fair night for walking,” the man said, and Adie slowed his pace so they could walk together. He wasn’t in a hurry to get home, and he didn’t mind having a bit of company along the way.

  “It is indeed.” Adie smiled at the man, valiantly ignoring the heat kindling in his belly when their shoulders brushed as they walked along. “All the better for good company, but perhaps it would help our acquaintance if I knew your name.”

  Chuckling, the man stopped and held out his hand. “Niall McAllister, newly arrived on these fair shores.”

  “Adam Gilchrist.” Adie clasped Niall’s warm, strong fingers and had to bite back a gasp at the contact. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed the pleasure of a man’s touch, and now his skin was waking up, craving more. “Adie to my friends.”

  “I hope I may come to count myself among them.” Niall shot him an inquisitive look as they began walking along the street once more. “You run the general store, do you not?”

  “I do.” Adie drew himself up proudly and nodded. “My father established it shortly after he and my mum arrived here, and I inherited the business when he died.”