TemptationinTartan

by Suz deMello

  She panted, close to completion, but he stopped. “Not yet, kylyrra.”

  “Soon?” she managed.

  He smiled. “Soon.” He stepped away to refresh his mouth with water from the ewer. During the brief pause his attention remained fixed on her. She’d never been so closely scrutinized, for his sharp black gaze missed nothing.

  He again towered over the bed, over her, his broad torso shutting out the morning light. “I’m going to put him in ye, lass,” he said, his voice soft. “Are ye ready?”

  She sighed, tears springing to her eyes. “I’ve been ready for years.”

  He levered his body above her. “I’m glad it’s me.” He kissed her long and deep, his tongue exploring her mouth at leisure, rubbing and tangling pleasantly with hers. She sucked and licked, enjoying his flavor.

  His cock bumped her thigh before prodding her quim. He pushed his hips toward hers and reached down with one hand to press his rod inside.

  She winced. He was big and it smarted. Unable to stop more tears, she blinked them away, clinging to his shoulders.

  “Love, I’m sorry, but it will hurt the first time, for a bit. Just a little bit.” His tone was gentle and coaxing. “Then, I promise ye, it’ll be wonderful. Ye want bairns, do ye not?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “Trust me. Please, trust me.”

  She managed a nod.

  Gripping her hip, he lowered his body and thrust his hard length entirely into her. She squirmed and cried out at the ripping, tearing sensation, but he stifled the sound with his mouth. She wrenched her lips away from his, gasping and panting while he stayed still within her. It was as though he’d pierced her entire being all the way through with his thick cock.

  Gradually her panicked breaths stilled as she realized her quim had eased open. She blinked at Kieran.

  “Better?”

  She nodded. Surprise swept her and, yes, desire. She tentatively reached between them.

  “Aye, love, that’s right. Touch yourself, in whatever way feels good.”

  His praise warmed her. She wriggled around to get room to look down so she could feel and see his cock inside her. Their similar beds of dark hair mingled and she parted the curls at their joining to look. Lifting her head, she could see his rod with her quim opened and stretched tight around him.

  “Oh,” she breathed, finding the sight oddly stirring.

  “Aye, ’tis beautiful, isnae it? Touch your pearl.” He began to rock slowly within her.

  She obeyed. The sensations combined to replace the pain with waves—no, floods of pleasure that pulsed through her, unstoppable as their heartbeats. She pushed herself more tightly against him, responding to the rhythm he set.

  He reached down to grab one of her knees and lift it high. “Wrap your legs around my waist, so.”

  She pulled her hand away and obeyed, finding that her hips tipped up and he could take her more deeply, crushing her cunny against him. Every time their bodies slapped together, a burst of flaming ecstasy roared through her in time with the blood singing in her veins.

  His thrusts increased in tempo, slamming the breath out of her. She was entirely within his power and could do nothing but cling to his shoulders and hope she’d survive his passionate onslaught. His tool surged in and out of her channel with her moisture easing away the soreness of her newly opened quim.

  One big hand held her buttock, with a finger caressing her back portal. Desire seized her, held her captive. She rocked her pelvis back and forth, pushing her pearl against him with every stroke. Colors pulsated behind her closed lids as she became a being of pure light. She arched her back and screamed.

  Chapter Six

  They left Edinburgh two days later in a small procession of horses, carts and Highland ponies carrying the provisions Kieran had purchased for the clan. Dressed in a crimson habit, bright against yet another gray morning, Lydia blessed the convention that required women to ride side-saddle. Her thoroughly plundered quim couldn’t have tolerated prolonged contact with a saddle had she adopted the mannish custom of riding astride.

  Mounted stylishly on a pair of flashy bay geldings, she and Kieran, who was clad in his usual black, headed the group. A number of his clansmen had traveled to the city expressly to accompany them back to Kilborn lands for, Kier said, “The Highlands are verra poor, wife, and we are a rich prize.”

  They traveled westward toward the coast. “I plan to cross the Lowlands and visit our distant relations, the Kilbirnies.” His gelding’s harness jingled.

  “The name is quite similar.”

  “Och, the tale is that many centuries ago a Viking boat capsized in a storm and all hands were lost, but for one man. He was the ancestor of all the Kilborns. The Kilbirnies took him in even though he was a Viking and hated. He married into the clan and took their name, but as time passed, found the Lowlands not to his taste. His wife didnae wish to travel to the cold, wild country from whence he’d come, but they moved to the far north of Scotland. They altered their name to avoid confusion but kept a similar tartan.”

  The Lowlands were well-populated and seemed prosperous. They skirted Glasgow to avoid the thieves and footpads infesting the city. “Why did we not purchase what was needed in Glasgow?”

  “Ah, much of what I bought was imported, and cheaper near the coast. I bought much in Leith, Edinburgh’s port. Goods are more costly in Glasgow.” He looked over at her and smiled. “I told ye I’d not waste your siller, lassie.”

  “Our silver, laddie.”

  “Och, laddie, is it?”

  “Och, aye.” She imitated his accent with a wink, and he laughed.

  The Lowlands were as developed as many places in England, with quarries and mines in the hilly areas where the fir-covered slopes allowed. Farms and flocks occupied the meadows. It was a green and lovely land.

  Well-maintained roads paralleling the river Garnock led them to Kilbirnie. Dugald trotted his gray alongside them. “There’s fine fishing in this river.” He shot a glance laden with meaning at Kieran. Lydia smiled.

  “I’m sure we can spare an afternoon for it.” Kieran winked at her. “Do ye fish, then, lassie?”

  She pretended to shudder. “Touch a worm to stab it with a hook? Never, milaird.”

  “Never, eh?” His mouth twitched and he didn’t meet her gaze. Exactly like her brother George when he planned some joke on her.

  She eyed Kier with suspicion. “Do not even think about it, milaird. I am a hopeless fisherman, er…fisherwoman. My father tried. It is a waste of a worm.”

  “Your da took ye fishing?”

  “Yes. It is my belief he would have preferred another son.” She hoped she didn’t sound bitter.

  “One wasnae enough for him?”

  “No, and certainly not when my brother declined to join the army.”

  “So ye married a military man instead?”

  She nearly fell off her horse. She’d never considered the possibility that she’d married William to please her father. She turned that strange new thought over in her mind before she answered. “P’raps so, milaird. Though at the time I thought I’d married to please myself. But I did marry a man very much like my father, and he was someone of whom my father approved, certainly.”

  “Would your father have approved of me, d’ye think?”

  She laughed, thinking of the bedroom games she and her husband played. “Not at all, not if he knew you the way I do!”

  “Och, that would never happen. Didnae your mother approve of me?”

  “Oh, yes. I would not have married you otherwise.”

  “Nay?” He sounded startled.

  “No, for my mother is a better judge of character than I am.”

  “Is she, now? She approved of your first marriage, did she not?”

  “That’s true.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your judgment, milady. Ye chose me, did ye not?” He winked at her, making a jest out of his conceit, and she laughed.

  The castle and town of
Kilbirnie were situated near the river. The setting sun glowed on the castle’s turrets as their procession approached. Their visit eagerly anticipated, the Kilborns were welcomed like long-lost cousins.

  Later, at dinner in the castle’s Great Hall, the countess tried to explain a small part of the tangled web-work of history and relationships binding the clans together.

  “After the first Laird Kilborn left us, taking our laird’s daughter as well as many men and women, he sent tribute to the earls of Clan Kilbirnie. ’Twasn’t until the Kilborns provided succor—and a number of Gallowglass warriors—at the battle of Loudon Hill that the Earl declared the debt satisfied in full.”

  “Er, wasn’t that in, um, 1305?” Lydia ate a mouthful of salmon and chased it with ale.

  “It was 1307.” The countess smiled at Lydia before her glance shifted to Kieran. When he returned her grin, a flush deepened the color of her already florid countenance. Nevertheless, she continued, “Our clans continued to intermarry.”

  “Yes, the clans are close.” Her husband, the earl, smiled genially at Lydia. A round-shouldered fellow in his fifties, he sported the clan features of pale skin contrasting with dark hair and eyes. “Euan, who you’ll meet, was fostered here…oh, in my father’s day. Or was it my grandda’s?”

  “He would have had to have been fostered with your father, dear,” the countess said. “If he’d lived here with your grandfather, well, he’d have to be ninety or a hundred years old!”

  Kieran chuckled, but Lydia sensed an edge of uneasiness.

  “How does Euan tarry?” the earl asked.

  “He’s well.” Kieran cut his meat with tidy, precise motions. “Better than can be expected at his age.”

  “The Kilborns have amazing longevity,” the earl told Lydia. He turned to Kieran. “Just how old was Sir Gareth when he died?”

  “No one’s quite certain.” Kieran sounded evasive and stared at his plate as though his ham slices were the most fascinating morsels ever cooked.

  “Who was Sir Gareth?” Lydia asked.

  “My grandfather,” Kier said. “The tenth laird, and an intimate of His Majesty’s.”

  “Which king?”

  “The Merrie Monarch.”

  “That was nearly a hundred years ago,” Lydia said with wonder.

  “Indeed. Sir Gareth resembled His Majesty, so much so that he played an important part in the Restoration.” Kieran set down his knife. “After we Scots crowned him King, a long struggle began, and Charles’ forces were oft overmatched. He had to flee for his life more than once—in disguise. But he was an unusually tall, dark man.”

  “And the Kilborns are tall and dark also,” Lydia said as understanding dawned.

  “Aye. Because Sir Gareth so greatly resembled the King, he was able to lead more than one group of Lobsterbacks a merry chase through the Highlands.”

  “That’s quite a tale. And Sir Gareth was your great-grandfather?”

  “Nay, my grandda.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “We are quite a long-lived clan.” Kieran’s voice was oddly flat. “’Tis due to healthy Highland living.”

  That still didn’t seem quite right. She eyed him. She didn’t know all her new husband’s moods but sensed that this was a sensitive matter. Making a quick mental note to ask about it later, she changed the subject. “How many children did he have?”

  “Only two. We live long but produce with rarity,” Kieran said. “’Tis a curse of the Kilborns.”

  “Oh.” Lydia’s mood drooped.

  “Dinnae worry, wife. I may take after my mam. The Camerons are prolific breeders.”

  “They have to be,” the countess said with asperity. “They go to war on the losing side again and again.”

  Lydia smiled at the sally but still wasn’t distracted from the main topic, which to her was the odd but exciting Sir Gareth. Hadn’t the Scots crowned Charles II King in 1650 or thereabouts? And he’d been born in, what, 1630? For Sir Gareth to have convincingly played the Merrie Monarch, they would have had to be about the same age.

  If Sir Gareth had been born in 1630, his son, Kieran’s father, would have been born in 1650 or so. But that wasn’t possible!

  However, all of Britain had been in turmoil until the Restoration in 1661, and Charles himself had died in 1685. If Sir Gareth had been an intimate of the King, he may have spent a substantial time at Charles’ court before returning to the Highlands to start a family. Men were capable of siring children when quite aged, and if the Kilborns were long lived…

  Nonetheless, it seemed strange.

  While she’d been woolgathering, the conversation had moved on, but because the earl was discussing the dull subject of coal exports with Kieran, Lydia asked the countess, “How did the Kilbirnies avoid involvement with the latest rising? And the clearances?”

  She smiled. “As you can see by my coloring, I’m not a Kilbirnie.” She was a little sugar-dumpling of a woman, round and rosy, dressed in shades of deep gold. “I’m a Campbell of Argyll.”

  “But we forgive you for it.” The earl broke off his more boring conversation to beam fondly at his wife.

  “’Twas a wise choice,” Kieran said. “Such an alliance must have brought security.”

  “Aye, it did. Just as your da’s marriage to a Cameron of Lochaber brought benefits.”

  “Argyll swore to protect me, and by extension Kilbirnie, come what may,” the countess said complacently. “And that included the clearances. Like Kilborn, we have been spared the worst, though occasionally Redcoats make demands.”

  “Then we appeal to Argyll,” the earl said.

  And Lydia understood the wisdom of the earl’s choice, for not only was the countess a hospitable and charming hostess but the benefits to Clan Kilbirnie couldn’t be denied. She didn’t grasp the entirety of the scores of marriages, pacts and alliances that lightly bound the clans, but she had an inkling of the complex relationships that had evolved and developed over the centuries. She’d gained a sense of history and of the very great age of the clan system, a vast family rooted deeply in Scotland and reaching its branches into the sky of some future realm as yet unknown, despite English efforts to eradicate it.

  It was as though she’d married Scotland and become a part of that ancient family tree.

  A soft-soled boot caressed the side of her ankle and Scotland, in the person of her husband, winked at her, his smile lustful. The boot rubbed up and down her ankle, in the exact cadence with which his cock usually moved inside her. She squirmed, blushed and stared at her plate. To cover her condition she stuck a fork into the salmon, mangling it further. Kieran laughed softly.

  The countess seemed oblivious. “How long will you stay, milaird?” she asked Kieran.

  “Milady, ye’re a fine hostess and this is a cozy castle, but not long. I dinnae want my men eating the entire contents of your larder.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” the earl said, smiling at Lydia. “And to return at any time.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be back.”

  * * * * *

  Camping beside the Garnock the first night away from the castle allowed the Kilborns to fish, as Dugald had desired.

  “My lady wife.” Kieran beckoned to Lydia, one hand behind his back.

  “Ye-es, milaird?”

  Whipping out his hidden hand, he dangled a worm an inch from her face.

  She squawked and jumped back, tripping over a fallen log. The clansmen whooped, clutching their sides.

  Grinning, Dugald lifted her up by the arms. “Kier, your bed will be cold tonight if ye persist teasin’ our lady.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, finding her dignity. “If he can do it, I can too. Just wait a moment. Elsbeth!”

  When the maid trotted forth, Lydia said, “The plain brown sacque, please, behind this tree.” She scooted behind a copse to change into her oldest dress.

  Wearing battered leather gloves, Lydia daintily plucked a worm from the sp
adeful of earth that one of the men overturned. Wincing, she thrust it toward the hook that Kier held.

  She missed and the clansmen howled anew.

  “Lass,” Kier said, “if ye close your eyes, the wee worm will ever miss the mark. We’ll starve before ye get your line into the water.”

  She cut him a glare. “I’ll pick mushrooms instead.”

  “We willnae starve,” Dugald said. “We’ll merely die in agony.”

  “Hah.” She picked up a basket and disappeared into the trees. Her father had shown her and her brother how to hunt for mushrooms when they’d been children. She not only knew a mushroom from a toadstool, but could distinguish the innocent-looking deadly amanita from its edible cousins, knew where to find morels and boletes, chanterelles and caps.

  And the damp woods were a perfect hunting ground. Followed by Elsbeth, Lydia sniffed deeply, enjoying the aroma of the humid pine forest. Her old boots sank a bit into the wet duff, supported in part by dead conifer needles.

  She spotted a clump of golden chanterelles, but worried due to their resemblance to a deadlier species. The cloudy day didn’t offer enough light to easily examine her finds. She skipped them, preferring the more distinctive morel.

  When she returned, Kier and Dugald peered at and poked through her haul. Lifting their heads, they eyed each other, raised identical black brows, then eyed her.

  She tried not to preen. “Well?”

  “We willnae go hungry, that’s for sure,” Dugald said.

  “Nay.” Kier measured her with a glance and nodded, looking impressed. “Ye’ve hidden depths, my lady wife.”

  She winked at him. “I’ll do, shall I?”

  “Aye.” He grinned back. “Ye’ll do.”

  That night they ate wild salmon garnished with mushrooms, with the men suspiciously scraping the fried morsels from their fish.

  The journey was uneventful until they passed Fort William, a locale they circled warily due to the presence of numerous Redcoats. The country grew even higher and wilder with the herds of sheep, plentiful in the Lowlands, thinning. Inns were fewer and at night Lydia found herself bundled in plaids with her husband, sharing his warmth as they slept under the stars. Out in the wild Highlands, she and Kieran ate from the same bowl, shared a spoon, even bathed together, shivering in the same icy streams. Unable or unwilling to shave, Kieran gradually turned into the image of the shaggy, wild Highlander she’d feared marrying. She found she enjoyed this new persona and often rubbed her face against his when they kissed.