by Suz deMello
Despite her anger, she smiled.
* * * * *
The next day, more search parties fanned out into the surrounding woods, in small groups so as to cover more ground, faster. In a mood fouler than the worst winter weather, Kieran watched them from the upper wall-walk of the castle. With slow, thoughtful steps, he went seaward from the Laird’s Tower and somberly eyed the ocean waves.
Had he done the right thing? Was Lydia correct, and had the punishment Moira had endured driven her away? P’raps he should have been more precise in his instructions to Euan and Dugald. P’raps they’d been too hard on her. Locking her in the Dark Tower overnight… Kier shuddered.
This was the first time he’d had to worry about a decision he’d made as chieftain of Clan Kilborn. He decided he would not start now. What was done was done.
Most importantly, his relationship with his Lydia hadn’t been damaged by the discipline, but the revelations about his past activities with Moira had perturbed his wife more than he would have guessed. He did not comprehend it.
He’d chosen Lydia and she’d chosen him, back in that moonlit Edinburgh garden. He loved her and had told her so. What more could she want?
He sighed. He adored the very stones his Lydia trod, but ‘twas true that there was no end to the aggravation caused by women. Even in her absence, Moira was a thorn in the entire clan’s side.
He stared out to sea. Today, the water kissed the horizon in a gentle meeting, with ocean, mist and humid air joining in a seamless flow. But closer, p’raps a few miles out to sea, a line of current surged swiftly northward. Had the lass been swept away, then? Had she in some despondency braved the eternal oblivion offered by the sea? Had she been taken forever?
A feeling he couldn’t identify bit deep. Did he miss his lost lover? Not a mite. Lydia had eclipsed every other woman he’d ever known, with her wit, her loveliness, her unexpected boldness and strength.
Regret? Nay, but a sense that he’d failed his clanswoman and kinfolk troubled him. Fenella, Moira’s mother, was beside herself. He’d rather cut off a finger than cause kind Fenella pain. Yet she’d said naught to him of his role. Did she blame him or no? Should he ask?
He looked down at the boulders, cliff and pebbled cove below, even though he knew they’d been searched a score of times. Nothing. Again, nothing.
He strode to the opposite wall and contemplated the moat. Probably too shallow to conceal a body, which, in any event, would float, as did the seabirds. Two of them, one dark-feathered and the other white, quarreled over a scrap. Drifting placidly nearby was a piebald bird, possibly the progeny of the two mismatched parents. As Kieran watched, the piebald one ducked beneath the flapping wings and the craning necks of the fighters and snatched the scrap out from beneath them.
He chuckled.
* * * * *
Pushed by guilt, Euan hunted for Moira for more hours than most and went farther afield, even onto Gwynn and MacReiver lands. When out of sight of the other clansmen, he allowed his true speed to propel him swiftly through the forest. One afternoon, racing southward, he blundered into a clearing, running full tilt at a stag drinking from a quiet pool. The stag took flight and Euan followed. With human blood unavailable, the stag would have to suffice. Its strength and speed would become Euan’s, and its flesh would feed the clan.
Euan caught up with the galloping deer and leaped upon its back. He bent low over it, clinging to its neck. Och, it was a bonnie ride, feeling the stag’s muscles bunch and twist beneath him, but he knew he couldn’t maintain his perch for long.
Whipping a long dirk out of its scabbard, he bent low over the stag, pulled back its head and slit its throat. Blood gushed in a rich red stream. The stag fell over onto its side with a crash as Euan slid off. He caught the geyser of steaming fluid in his mouth, drinking until none remained.
The blood flared through his belly, lightning captured and made flesh. Its energy snapped through his limbs, revitalizing him. He quivered from the blessed shock of it and stood, arms upraised, breathing deeply. The blood sank through his gut and he took in all of it, absorbing the stag’s life, reveling in the richness of it and the moment.
Finally he looked down at his fallen comrade. “Thank ‘ee, damh-féidh. Thank ‘ee.”
After unpinning his plaidie, he rolled the animal onto its side and, with the dirk, cut its belly open and sliced around its vent. In one deft motion, he pulled out the entrails, taking care that they stayed in one piece and unbroken. A torn bladder or gut would befoul the carcass, entailing more hard work rinsing it out in a flowing stream.
He tossed the innards aside for scavenging animals and scraped the body’s cavity as clean as he could. He washed in a nearby burn, then folded his plaidie into quarters lengthwise and set it on his shoulders to soften the lumpy load he’d carry, carefully tucking his silver clan badge into a pocket.
He hefted the carcass over his shoulders. The stag’s head lolled against his left arm and its legs flopped grotesquely against his hips as he strode back toward Kilborn Castle.
He’d ventured close to MacReiver lands and was far from home but would have no trouble carrying his kill back, he reckoned, not with so much powerful blood coursing through his limbs. He strode freely and with joy through the forest he’d known and loved so well for so many years.
While he walked, he searched for signs that Moira had been near—a scent marker, mayhap, or a red hair or two clinging to a bush. Nothing at all until he stepped onto a well-traveled trail, one that he used and that he knew was oft trod by the MacReivers when stealing Kilborn sheep or poaching their game. He stopped and lifted his nose into the air, trying to sense what or who was about, a difficult task with the rich aroma of the stag filling his nostrils.
Did he smell a MacReiver’s stench? He wasn’t certain but hurried along the path as best he could with his burden weighing him down.
Suddenly he was surrounded, the triumphant shouts and choking reek of his enemies enveloping him. He lowered his head and charged the circle of threat, but at the last second, swung his head and torso in an arc. A war cry changed to a scream as the stag’s sharp antlers gored one of the MacReivers.
Euan spun and dropped the stag behind him while drawing his dirk. He stabbed the nearest man in the gut, twisting the blade as he pulled it out. A second scream.
He tore his plaidie off his shoulders and flung it over another’s head. Kicking to his right, his foot connected with a soft belly. An oof was followed by a crash, and the rest of the MacReivers quieted, each taking a step back.
He was still encircled but his opponents rightly were afraid of him. He looked around, the fire of battle in his belly and his blood. “Who’s next?” he roared.
He sensed movement behind him an instant too late. A claymore rammed from his back though his chest, and he fell to the ground, impaled.
A last gasp drew in the sweet smell of grass before another sword swept down and took off his head.
Seamas pushed the claymore in deeper, making certain that the diabhol was well and truly pinned to the earth. Black blood spurted from the wounds, drenching the ground.
Moira emerged from behind a tree, having directed the MacReiver war party to this very spot, a place she knew Euan patrolled often. She reached down and picked up his severed head by his white hair, lifting it high. The vampire’s mouth fell open, revealing pointed fangs. Red-tinged drool gushed out in a ghastly stream, flowing down her upraised arm. Her voice rang out. “Thus shall all unnatural enemies of our Lord perish from the earth.”
Seamas’ belly heaved. Was that hideous flow brave Moira’s blood? He swallowed the sour bile, knowing that to show weakness in front of his men would be unwise.
“Well done, Martin,” he said to the man who’d beheaded the vampire. “Archie, see to the wounded. The rest of ye, gather stones and dry wood. Let’s burn the diabhol right here. Who brought the garlic?”
“Nay,” Martin said.
Seamas turned, his features twisting in
to an unaccustomed glower. Who was Martin to argue with his orders?
“We need to bring it back to the castle, mayhap even show it to the Gwynns,” Martin continued. “Why else would anyone believe that auld Euan is dead?”
“He’s right.” Moira took garlic from her pocket and shoved it into the dead vampire’s mouth.
Fergus grunted. “I dinnae want the monster anywhere near my bairns. These diabhols are said to have unnatural powers. What if it comes alive again?”
“Without a head?” Martin asked.
Fergus seized the head from Moira and pushed the cut throat against the severed neck of the torso. After a few moments, skin began to grow at the juncture. Grotesque it was, with the head, lifeless eyes staring upward, starting to knit with the vampire’s flesh.
Fergus tore away the head, and Seamas’ gut lurched anew at the ripping sound. “Here’s proof,” Fergus said.
The watching men dropped to their knees and crossed themselves, Seamas included. As he rose, he realized that he had to recapture authority over his men. “We’ll burn the body here and take the head.”
He pulled out the claymore with a mighty tug and used it to roll the carcass over so its belly was exposed. He slashed down the torso from sternum to crotch, laying it open. “Gather firewood,” he told his men. “Wrap the head in…in something for transport. Its plaidie will do.”
Chapter Fifteen
Moira stood just outside the gatehouse of the MacReiver stronghold as the rest of the triumphant raiding party returned with the head of the diabhol vampire Euan Kilborn, showing that he had been well and truly put to death. The trophy was set upon a pike above the gate for all to see.
A fierce blow had been struck against her clan…her former clan, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
She’d envied her rival with a jealousy so bitter and sharp that she feared it would stab her to the soul. She’d come to hate auld Euan, a fatherly presence all her life, for his betrayal.
But she’d deserted mother, family, safety and clan.
She told herself to banish her confusion, for she’d chosen her road. She had been the one to lead the party to the clearing and organize the ambush. It had been clear to her that none of the MacReivers, from Seamas on down, knew much about warcraft. She’d learned strategy and tactics simply from listening to the unguarded talk of the Kilborn men, superb warriors all.
She had been the one to stuff the head of Euan Kilborn with garlic and carry it back to the MacReivers’ castle. Now, she stood quietly while an argument brewed. Many wanted to destroy it, burn it or batter it beyond recognition, but Seamas ordered its preservation. “We’ll need it as proof for the Gwynns.”
Ale was poured and an overflowing cup thrust into her hand. She gulped it down, hoping to quickly reach a pleasurable oblivion so she could ignore her nagging conscience.
She entered the bailey and watched as the stag was skinned. Its head, with its magnificent rack, was chopped off. She guessed that it would be stuffed and mounted. Then the corpse was turned over to the cooks, who would roast it for the feast.
“Come.” Seamas beckoned to her. “We are expected to preside over the celebration and must make ready.”
Her cheeks warmed. “We?”
“Aye, lass. For ye have proven yerself this day.”
She dropped her gaze toward the rough earth while exulting. “’Twas naught but what I had to do for my honor.”
“And, p’raps, for your new clan?”
“Aye.” She cast him a shy smile.
He responded by visibly puffing out his chest. “Come along, then. We’ll find ye fresh raiment ye’ll need for the new part ye’ll play in our lives.”
That sounded promising. And she was happy to get new and hopefully warmer clothing. By her reckoning, the date was the twenty-ninth of August. Autumn would be short with winter running fast on its heels.
She handed off her mug and followed as he led her to a bedroom larger than the others she’d seen. It was characterized by untidiness. A sword belt hung from a dusty bedpost over a pair of worn trews. Shoes were piled haphazardly in the corners, and used cups, some with ale souring in the bottom, sat on the rough stone windowsill. The place smelled of unwashed clothing and good healthy male.
When he bent to open a chest, she concluded that it was the laird’s bedroom—Seamas’ bedroom. Her heart beat faster, and instinctively she knew that this could be the right time, the perfect moment for their joining. Her blood ran hot from the hunt, the ambush and the kill, and so did his, she reckoned.
When he opened the chest, a miasma of stale air smelling of dry herbs billowed out along with an enormous winged cockroach. It flew at Moira’s face and into her hair. She batted it away with a panicked cry.
“Steady, lass, ’tis just a wee ceàrnan.” He plucked it out of her hair, dropped it onto the floor and crushed it underfoot.
“Th-that’s not wee. That’s a monster!” She sucked in a shuddery breath and fought tears. What had she done with her life? What was she doing in this horrible place? Why couldn’t she go home?
Seamas seized her and drew her close. The comfort he offered threatened to open her floodgates wide even while she fought the inevitable. “Shh, shh, lassie, ’twill be all right.”
She gave in and began to cry in earnest. Even while she was sobbing, she was fighting her tears. She wasn’t a weeper, she told herself as her chest heaved and her nose ran. Men hate weepy women. My nose will get red and my cheeks blotchy. Oh, what have I done?
But Seamas didn’t seem to be repelled. He continued to hold her snugly, patting her on the back while she thoroughly wetted his shirt. Then he surprised her by wiping her runny nose on his shirttail and saying, “Blow.”
She did, and was startled to find she felt better. He sat her down on his bed while he stripped off his shirt and tossed it into a corner.
“I’m sorry about your linen.” She managed a smile for him. Really, he was a very sweet man, even if he was no Kieran Kilborn.
“’Tis all right. I have others.”
He shyly slipped an arm around her and she took the implied invitation, leaning against him. She looked up at him, silently willing him to kiss her.
And he did, first brushing his full lips gently against hers. “Is this…is this all right with ye, lassie? I ken ye’ve been through a lot.”
She gave a throaty sigh, hoping she sounded enticing and forlorn and virtuous all at once. She searched for the right words. “It’s…it’s…all right.”
“Och, then.” He pulled her into his embrace and gave his kiss to her freely, without restraint, since she’d given him permission.
He tasted like the ale they’d drunk belowstairs, and when she slightly moved her lips against his—she didn’t want to seem like a wanton—he opened her mouth with his and slipped in his tongue, seeking hers. She responded with a tiny touch, then withdrew, even though her pulse was pounding a fierce tattoo of want.
He slid a hand down to her left breast and molded it through the shabby gown. “I can feel your wild heart beating, lassie.” He rubbed the mounded flesh and sought the stiff peak, which had grown so tight and hard that it pointed through the cloth.
He pinched it and, with narrowed eyes, watched her reaction, which was an embarrassed yip. “Do ye like this, lass?”
She again cast down her eyes and peeked up at him through her lashes. “Aye, I do, milaird,” she whispered. She reached out a hesitant hand and touched his bare chest with her fingertips, threading her nails through the brown hair lightly furring his torso. The muscles beneath were tense, as though he were holding himself in check.
He sucked in a breath and she knew he was hers. Dropping her gaze again, she saw the effect her slow seduction was having on him, for his trews had tented.
For all her fondness for rough-and-tumble sex, she wouldn’t mind gentle lovemaking. Only a few days had passed since her punishment at Kilborn Castle, and she was aware of her thighs, still sore from the whippi
ng.
She let him take the lead, and he did. With leisurely, respectful movements, he clasped the back of her head and kissed her again, slowly intruding deeper and deeper into her mouth until he was swiving her lips with his tongue.
She took time responding, doing her best to imitate a lass of little experience, drawing upon distant memories of her first sex. But even those recollections weren’t helpful, because she’d been so eager that she’d pushed Kieran Kilborn onto his back in a hayrick and torn off his shirt in her lust for him.
She flung the past out of her mind, telling herself that such musings were profitless, and instead focused on the man holding her. He gripped her hair, his fingers growing clumsy with desire, and eased her body around with his other hand so that they faced each other. Her hands were still on his chest and, without thinking much about it, she caressed and plucked his nipples into kernels of want.
“Och, lassie, wherever did ye learn to do that?”
“I dinnae ken,” she whispered, thinking fast. Why had she forgotten what she was doing? “It seemed…it seemed…like the right thing to do. I, er…liked it when you did it to me.”
“I like it. I like it a lot. But dinnae ye think we’re wearin’ too many clothes?”
Moira continued to try to work out what she should do. She wanted marriage, not a quick tumble in the acting chieftain’s grubby sheets. “I dinnae ken, milaird. I dinnae want to… I’m not a lightskirt. I’m not!”
He held up a hand. “Peace, lass. I didnae say ye were. ’Tis no fleeting tup I offer ye, but a handfasting. Proper like, but you can walk away should I not be to your desire.”
“Ye are every desire I have ever had,” Moira said, and she wasn’t lying. Much.
“We’ll do it tonight, then. Now pick a dress.”
She held up her hands, which still sported bloodstains and traces of ale. “Is there any way I can wash?” She knew a bath would be impossible.
