by Suz deMello
Temptation in Tartan
Suz deMello
She has to marry a monster.
Rumors have followed the chieftains of Clan Kilborn for centuries. Said to be descended from the Viking berserkers, they are ferocious in battle, known for tearing off the heads of their enemies and drinking their blood.
But English noblewoman Lydia Swann–Williston will marry Kieran, Laird Kilborn, to bring peace to the Kilborn lands after the horror of Culloden and the brutal pacification. A widow, she also brings needed wealth to the clan. For her part, eighteen-year-old Lydia wants children. With her husband killed at Culloden, she will make a new life in the Highlands.
The old chieftain of Clan Kilborn also died in battle, and Lydia hopes the new young Laird will lack his ancestors’ ferocity. That hope will go unfulfilled…
Temptation in Tartan
Suz deMello
Foreword and Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction, so I have taken many liberties with historical facts and sequences of events. I hope I have offended none but provided a few hours of enjoyment for all.
Thanks go to Diane Farr, Vanessa Hart, Liz Jennings and DeAnna Cameron for their critiques and encouragement.
Chapter One
Swanston, England, 1747
“The Kilborns are great warriors, rumored to be descended from Viking berserkers.” Colonel Swann paced the drawing room, his boots soundless on the thick rugs.
Lydia’s belly clenched and she drew a frightened breath. “Berserkers! The savages who raided our shores, murdering monks and, er…attacking women?”
The colonel stared at her as though a potted plant had decided to speak. Not surprising, since Lydia had always been known in their family as the quiet one.
“The same,” he said. “And the Kilborn clansmen have intermarried for generations. Animals.” He tugged at his tight cravat. Out of uniform, dressed as a town gentleman, Lydia thought her cousin lost some of his edge. Scowling, he continued, “By this marriage we seek to dilute the Kilborn blood and weaken the line.”
“Weaken the line, sir?” Lydia’s mother, Henrietta, raised a brow. “Do you suggest that my daughter’s lineage is flawed? Ours is one of the noblest families in the kingdom.”
“True,” he said. “By adding Lady Lydia’s noble blood to the Kilborn line, we will civilize the wild Highlanders.”
Lydia tried to look civilized and noble, but couldn’t stop twisting the handkerchief in her lap. She rubbed its black edging, a reminder of her status as a widow. “You want me to marry an animal. A barely civilized wild man.”
“The Crown would take your selflessness as a particular favor,” her cousin said.
She lifted her brows. “Indeed.” As a general’s daughter, duty pulled at her blood.
“’Tis a perfect solution. ’Tis easier to pacify by marriage than by the sword. All parties will benefit.” His glance strayed to the bodice of Lydia’s gown. In half-mourning, she wore gray muslin trimmed with black piping. “You must desire children. The Highlander is doubtless, uh, lusty.”
She pursed her lips. She’d loved William, but hadn’t grasped why others made such a fuss about marital relations. But she did want children and had planned to have several. “You want me to marry a warrior who may have killed my husband at Culloden Moor,” she said. “I can’t do that.”
Colonel Swann remained silent but looked uneasy as Lydia’s mother crossed the room. “Your late husband,” Henrietta said and sat on an ottoman next to Lydia.
When her mother took Lydia’s hand, she couldn’t control the trembling. At eighteen, she knew she simply wasn’t brave.
Unlike her mother, who now peered into Lydia’s eyes. “Child, what else will you do? Of course, as a widow, you can refuse. But another marriage may make you happy.”
“Do I have to marry a wild Scotsman? Leave my country and everything I know?”
“Of course not. But you are already acquainted with all the other eligible males of our class, and chose William over all.”
“That’s so.” Lydia remembered her days of attending parties and balls in London a scant three years ago. She sighed.
“You’ll bring great wealth,” the colonel said. “And by your marriage, Kilborn will be spared the pacification efforts that other clans and chieftains suffer. You’ll be valued and honored.”
“I have my portion and William’s, but I am not particularly wealthy,” Lydia said.
“Not by London standards, but for an impoverished Highland chieftain, you are a rich prize.”
“Lovely.” Lydia stood and walked to the window, her voluminous skirts rustling.
Below in the garden, she could see her brother playing with one of his sons. She watched George pick up Andrew, toss the giggling child into the air and catch him before they collapsed in a laughing heap together on the sunlit lawn.
Her heart tripped. She might never see George and Andrew again. But she might become that happy parent, could have babies of her own to enjoy.
She turned to face her mother. “I’ll do it.”
* * * * *
Kieran, Laird Kilborn, strode along the upper wall-walk of his castle, his mood as dark as the midnight sky above. Below him, the sea crashed with the threat of a storm. His retainers scattered at the sight of their new laird’s frown, for Kieran was known to show his temper. His own father had borne a scar on his forehead from a tankard a young Kieran had thrown when the princeling had been but four.
Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose, staring out over Clan Kilborn’s crofts and lands, lit only by moonlight. His lands, now, following the deaths of his father and older brother at Culloden. An unexpected burden—his lands and his responsibility.
“Ye could look forever, but nothing will change.” Euan’s soft voice intruded upon Kieran’s dangerous mood. “That is, nothing will change unless ye marry the Sassenach lassie.”
Kieran turned, remembering to soften his frown. No one else would dare to disturb his thoughts, but Euan was different. The castle’s steward, he’d been old when Kier was born.
“Aye, the reprisals are cruel.” Kieran rubbed his hand over the sturdy stone battlement.
“They will only get worse. The Sassenachs are determined to break all of the Highlands and to destroy the clans who supported the bonnie prince. ’Tis a stroke of luck that the Swan wants you to wed the lassie.”
“Why, though? What’s the benefit to the Sassenach colonel?”
The smaller man shrugged. “We are a remote holding. ’Tis easier to pacify us by marriage than by war, and far less costly.”
“I’ll never give up tartan or sword.” A thin, chilly breeze lifted Kieran’s dark hair off his shoulders. He drew his plaid, vividly patterned in red, yellow and two shades of blue, more tightly around him.
“Wed the Swan’s cousin and ye willnae have to.”
“I had not thought to wed yet, with everything so…unsettled.”
“Truly? There’s a certain lassie who’s set her cap for ye.”
“Grizel?”
“Er, I was thinking of Moira.”
“Oh, that one.” Kieran dismissed Moira with a wave of his hand. “She must know that Culloden changed everything, including her expectations.”
“Ye must secure the succession.” Euan’s dark, haunted eyes searched Kieran’s face. “I promised your father that I would see to it.”
“And would he have wanted me to marry outside our blood?” Kieran asked. His grand-uncle Euan knew more of the secrets of his family than did Kieran himself.
“Possibly not.” Euan looked troubled. “But marriage to the Sassenach lady will provide money, safety and heirs.”
“And what shall I do when the dark thirst takes me? Succor myself at
my lady’s throat?”
“There are other ways.” Euan’s eyes were hooded and unreadable in the moonlight. “Other women—”
“No! ’Tis like unfaithfulness. What of my honor?”
“There is no honor when the dark curse seizes us.”
“I must find a way, for the clan.”
“Then ye’ll marry the Sassenach wench?”
“’Tisn’t so simple. The laird’s consort isnae merely a juicy quim or a fertile ewe. She must be more.”
Euan shrugged. “She’s a widow, managed her own household.”
“Hmm.” Kieran took a deep breath of the midnight air, scented with the tang of the nearby sea and the crofters’ hay. “Aye then, I’ll do it.”
Chapter Two
Kieran disliked Edinburgh at its best. A stinking pile of narrow alleys and twisted, filthy walkways, it starved his Highland soul for greenery and open space. And Edinburgh was at its worst when overrun with Sassenachs, swaggering Englishmen with their loud red coats, odd accents and arrogant contempt of Scotland and all things Scottish…especially the Scots. Upon entering the city, he’d decided to marry the Sassenach lassie as soon as the banns could be posted and to get his new wife home as soon as he could.
But when he’d seen her, uncertainty had gnawed at the edge of his decision. A jewel shines best in a proper setting, he believed, and clearly Lady Lydia Swann–Williston’s proper setting was a ballroom or a garden, not a drafty old castle that harbored secrets older than time.
Or p’raps she belonged in a bedroom. He observed her covertly from across the crowded drawing room. Lady Menhardie’s musicale had just concluded and the patient audience, which had sat through Purcell sonatas, Handel airs and several Bach fugues, concluding with an uninspired performance by the Lady herself on the harp, now hurried as politely as they could toward the refreshments. Two of the women, whose wide panniers no doubt aped the latest London fashion, collided and stuck in a doorway, blocking it for several amusing moments.
His Sassenach bride was clad in a modest gown of palest gray, trimmed with silver-shot lace at the cuffs and bodice, with an underskirt of cream satin. The generous curves above her snug stomacher hinted at glories beneath. But for her bosom, she was small and delicately built, despite the modest panniers swelling her hips. Her slenderness gave Kieran pause. The laird’s lady had to be strong—strong to help to lead the clan, strong to withstand the harsh Highland winters.
Strong to be his mate, to bear his bairns, to satisfy his demands.
He drew closer, slipping through the throng like a wraith. He passed Colonel Swann and gave him a nod, then approached his fiancée.
Lydia had dark hair and eyes, plus a full mouth made for kissing a man…all over. He imagined her plump lips embracing his rigid length and wondered if she liked cock. She’d been married, and her preferences would be dependent upon the whims and talents of her late husband.
Well, if she didn’t like sex, he’d teach her, and relish every moment.
When Lydia produced a fan from the silvery reticule hanging from her wrist, Kieran decided to make his move.
“’Tis quite warm in here, milady. P’raps ye’d enjoy a breath of fresh air?” He nodded toward the unlatched floor-length windows.
* * * * *
Lydia looked at the man who’d accosted her. How had she failed to notice him before? Bold he was despite his sober dress. Wigless, his straight hair was unfashionably long and darker than a moonless midnight. However, his apparel would rival that of the most stylish London dandy. He wore black, which would have seemed funereal but for the richness of the fine velvet. Lace lavishly trimmed his cuffs, falling over his strong hands like spider webs over granite. Stocking-clad calves, exposed beneath black breeches, were finely turned and muscular.
His eyes also matched his garb, while his skin formed a stark contrast. Though quite pale, he was unusually attractive. His subdued attire couldn’t hide the girth of his chest and his potent masculinity. Taller than the other men in the room, he dominated the space around him.
“Yes, I’d like that,” she said. Widowhood had compensations, and one of them was being able to walk alone with a gentleman without incurring the censure of society…or of her mother, who was gossiping with a newfound friend.
His sudden smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. He opened the glass door and the breeze swirling through lifted strands of his hair that had worked loose from the dark ribbon at his nape. Lydia was seized by the absurd desire to stroke back those wayward locks. She fluttered her fan to conceal her nervousness.
The mysterious stranger took her free hand and led her into the garden surrounding the Menhardie mansion. The broad summer moon cast shadows that shifted with the breeze, so she could see little but could scent much—the fragrance of plants and newly turned earth, the attar of roses she’d touched to her pulse points and, daringly, between her breasts. Most of all, she drew in the male aroma of the stranger who’d taken possession of her hand, a scent reminiscent of midnight and secret longings.
He led her deeper into the knot garden. Trees, swishing in the breeze, blocked the manse from her view. She inhaled sharply, realizing she’d walked willingly, alone, with a man she knew nothing about, into what was not only a compromising position but possibly a dangerous one.
As though he sensed her fear, he released her hand. “Would ye wish to sit?” He waved his hand at a stone bench.
She touched it with a forefinger. Moisture seeped through her glove.
“Dinnae fash yerself.” The stranger sat and held out his arms. “Come here.”
She hesitated. “I’m affianced. ’Twould offend my new husband.”
“No one can see us, and I’m just asking ye to sit.” His gaze was not merely open and guileless, but oddly compelling.
He seemed so kind, and her worries so silly, that she complied, moving closer. He reached for her waist to help her arrange her skirts and panniers. Finally she’d settled onto his lap, sitting crossways so she was looking at his chiseled features, distinct in the moonlight, as pale as new milk.
A strange energy thrummed through her body. She was acutely aware of the firm, muscular thighs beneath her, for she had never sat on a man’s lap before. Neither her father nor her husband had asked for or taken this intimacy. Did she like it? She wasn’t sure and became even less sure when the stranger, who had one arm touching her waist already, slid his other wide palm up her calf toward her knee.
Though his touch sent a tremor of desire shafting through her being, it unnerved her even more. She squirmed but he held her fast.
“Lassie, what worries ye?”
“You are taking liberties, sir, and we…haven’t been introduced.” What a stupid thing to have said. He must think her a fool. But what did it matter? She’d never see him again.
He chuckled. “Let’s just say that I’m a man who finds you quite alluring.”
Alluring. Lydia blinked. William had never said that.
“Remember, I’m affianced.”
“Ye’re here with me. Do ye love him?”
She cleared her throat. “We’ve never met.”
“Then ye’re sharing a stolen moment with a man you…dare I say a man you like?” He flirted, but his voice held a dark timbre that seduced her soul. And yet a note of humor, kindness even, tinctured his tone.
She hesitated, then looked into his eyes and was immediately calmed. She said, “Yes. You may dare.”
“And what else may I dare?” The hand on her leg rose to her face to play with a curl, stroke her cheek. She quivered and her breasts swelled, her nipples rubbing against the lawn of her shift. Flesh for which she had no words, the secret place at the junction of her thighs, heated, tightened, moistened.
She shifted on his lap, opening her legs and leaning forward a trifle, and that sensitive, secret spot rubbed against his leg, bringing a charge of pleasure she hadn’t known before. She hid her gasp behind her fan.
He smiled at her, his ey
es knowing… Did he understand how powerfully he affected her?
This was wrong, wrong. She had to stop.
“Your eyes are warm chocolate on a chilly day.” His voice was as soft as the breeze, as soft as his caress down her cheek to her mouth, which he traced. “Your lips are a temptation that I cannae resist.”
“You presume much, sir.”
“Aye, I do, but I feel I know your heart.”
If he knew her heart, then he knew it beat faster than a racing stallion’s hooves.
He inclined his head toward her. His lips were carved marble in the moon’s silver rays. “Ye desire me, do ye not?”
“Desire isn’t enough.” She’d desired William, and her marriage bed had been either empty of her husband or the scene of brief trysts devoid of pleasure. She wouldn’t be seduced by a handsome stranger. What for?
“Please.” He asked, but then he took. His mouth felt cool on hers but with a touch of fire beneath. That fire raced through her, igniting parts of her she hadn’t known could feel such heat, such rapture. She gasped again from sheer surprise, and something intruded between her lips… Before heaven, was that his tongue?
No, Lydia thought. This isn’t me.
She reached for his wrist to slide her fingers toward his elbow. She wrapped her hand around his arm and dug her thumb into the muscle just in front of the joint.
He yelped and jerked away, dumping her off his lap. She landed gracefully, stood and stepped back a pace.
“Good,” she said. “I must have hit just the right spot.”
His eyes were amazed. “Where did a lady like ye learn such a trick?”
“My brother taught me.” She couldn’t help shooting him a triumphant smile as she tucked her fan into her reticule.
He shouted with laughter. “Ye’ll do, yes, ye will! Ye’ll make a fine wife.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said stiffly.
He grinned at her. “I’m Kieran.”
She gaped at him.
“Kieran Kilborn,” he added helpfully. “The man ye’ll marry.”
