TemptationinTartan

by Suz deMello

  Lips and eyes open, she stared into his midnight orbs, seeking and finding his soul. A sad one it was, but she hoped she could kindle a tiny light therein, give him joy and at least a brief respite from his worries.

  When one hand tightened in her hair and the other squeezed her rump, she sensed he was ready. Rearing up, she shifted her body toward the foot of their bed, but didn’t stop when their hips met, didn’t allow him to enter her quim. Instead, she lay between his spread legs and tasted the tip of his shaft, licking the way a cat laps at sweet cream.

  She remained amazed by her husband’s cock. Silk and satin over steel… She never tired of his rod. How could he be so hard and soft at the same time?

  She enclosed the whole of his round head in her mouth and sucked hard. His breath hissed out and she released him only to turn her attention to his cods, nuzzling them, savoring his dusky midnight scent and the scratchiness of his sex hair against her cheeks.

  She wanted to make it last, to completely turn his attention to the delights of their marriage bed so he could forget his troubles. Tomorrow would be soon enough for Laird Kilborn to worry. Tonight was for Kieran, her man, to enjoy.

  She used her tongue to limn a soft line from his base to his head, then flicked all around the rim, knowing that the underside of that tender circle was the most sensitive part of his body.

  He muttered something in Gaelic, then added, “Ah, lass, ye’re everything a man dreams of.”

  Take that, Moira, you witch.

  The thought so startled her—was she jealous?Good heavens!—that she clamped down on Kier’s member, biting harder than she’d intended. A strangled shout and ribbons of his seed erupted into her mouth.

  But she wasn’t done yet. She drank every drop and continued kissing his cock until he hardened anew. This time, she mounted him, easing down slowly onto his length, aware of every thick, luscious inch of him breaching her. When their similar dark beds of hair mingled, she leaned back with a sigh and set her hands on his thighs. Her back arched and her breasts thrust high, nipples tight and so sensitive, aching for his touch.

  She swirled her hips and with each push forward ground against him. His eyes were still open, watching her, his gaze sweeping up and down her body. First his attention went to her swaying breasts, which he cupped and tweaked with one hand. Then he gripped the flesh of her buttock with strong fingers, digging them in to move her the way he wanted. When she’d adapted to the rhythm he demanded, he reached between them and found the kernel of tender flesh that was the core of her desire.

  Slipping a finger between her folds, he spread some of her dew and, with two fingers, pinched hard enough to compel her groan. Another squeeze and she came.

  He lifted her off his body and, taking her hand, pressed her finger inside her tunnel.

  Her inner muscles clutched her finger with unexpected strength. With a gasp, she finished her climax with Kier pushing her finger in and out. “Feel what I feel, wife, when I’m inside you.”

  She sucked in a quivery breath and after a few moments had collected enough of herself to say, “It’s…it’s extraordinary. I didn’t know that I…that I…”

  “Aye. You dinnae merely lie down and receive. Your sweet quim is strong and powerful. Active.” He smiled at her. “Like a laird’s lady should be in all ways.”

  She flushed with pleasure. After everything they’d done, he still knew how to make her blush. She rubbed her face on his chest and reached for his staff. Still hard and ready, and she was ready, also, to satisfy him again.

  He rolled over her, spread her legs and plunged inside, surging against her still-fluttering muscles. She opened wide and lifted her knees, locking her ankles around his lower back before squeezing in every way she could—pressing her thighs against his sides, tightening her quim around his cock, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and hugging him tight.

  He pulled out so only his head remained within her, looking down at her with an odd, quizzical smile on his face. “Ye’ve learned much, kylyrra, in these last few weeks.”

  “I’ve had the best teacher in the world.” She grinned at him.

  “I must be, since ye’ve made me the happiest, most satisfied man in the world.”

  “Good,” she said with satisfaction of her own.

  * * * * *

  By the time the next morn arrived she’d decided that if Kier wouldn’t fully discuss the matter with her, p’raps someone else would. After breakfast, she approached Dugald. With a raised hand, she summoned her husband’s second-in-command.

  “Aye, milady.”

  She hesitated. She knew that this was a delicate subject and this was a delicate time. “Walk with me.”

  She led him to the upper wall-walk. A piebald seabird, p’raps frightened by her approach, dashed away with a flutter of wings.

  She spoke slowly, gathering her thoughts. “I had never seen the like of it.”

  “Of what, milady?”

  She jerked a shoulder. Why was he acting as though he were a dullard? What was he concealing? “The hatred shown by the way Euan’s body was treated frightens me. What did he do to Moira?”

  After a pause, Dugald said, “Ye must ken, milady, how men can make use of a woman.”

  “Yes, I saw what happened when she was in the pillory. But Moira wasn’t chaste. Granted she had, er…a busy afternoon, but…”

  “’Twasn’t anything unusual for her. Moira liked to swive. She was candid about her pleasures.”

  “So what did Euan do to Moira that made her hate him so?”

  “I dinnae ken. He did nothing more than what I did.” He evaded her eyes.

  “So if they’d captured you…”

  “Aye. ’Tis possible ’twould be my headless body that had been burned there, in that clearing.” He blew out a breath.

  She looked over the parapet at the sea, then down at her husband. Kieran was supervising the reconstruction of a battered little fishing boat. It had been outfitted with a platform, though she didn’t understand why. “He’s suffered so much loss. You all have.”

  “As have you, milady. We are united by the sorrows of this life as well as by the joys.” Dugald touched her face, surprising her, and she turned to him. He went on, “Euan was my da and my friend. I dinnae ken how any of us will manage without him in our lives. He’s always been here for us. He was our rock.”

  “May some joy come upon the heels of this sorrow.”

  “I hope so but I doubt it.”

  She looked over the wall to where repairs continued. Kieran helped to raise a tattered red sail onto the mast. In the windless day, it hung forlornly. Others were piling what looked like kindling into the boat, atop the platform. That didn’t make sense. Many matters didn’t make sense. Among the more serious mysteries, ’twas odd to see her husband take an interest in a fishing boat’s maintenance.

  “That sail won’t take the boat very far,” she said.

  “Och, milady, ’twill take my da into the next life.”

  She stared at Dugald. “What are they doing?”

  “Preparing for his funeral.”

  She lifted a brow in silent inquiry.

  “Our Viking ancestors didnae bury their dead. We send them to sea in a flaming ship to meet the gods. Ye’ll see what we do.”

  “That’s right,” she said thoughtfully. “There’s neither church nor graveyard here.”

  “Aye, our ways are different.”

  “My husband believes that Euan’s murder will embolden our enemies. And that we must make ready for war.”

  “He’s right.” Dugald’s jaw squared. “But dinnae worry, milady. Kilborn Castle has never been taken and it never will. ’Tis impregnable.”

  “My father was a general. He said that there was no such thing.”

  His glance strayed to the Dark Tower and his smile was a twisted, grim thing. “We have weapons ye dinnae ken of, milady. Ye neednae fash yersel’.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  As a faintly glimmerin
g sun dropped into a gray and gloomy sea, the clan congregated near the water’s edge. The fishermen drew their craft up onto the cove’s shore, emptying their catches with their families’ help. The shepherds gathered their flocks and, using swift, shaggy herd dogs, penned them in a nearby meadow. Every crofter, from the tiniest bairn to old Mhairi, came slowly and silently to join their kinsfolk. The Garrison Tower was empty of soldiers, and the kitchen dark and quiet, with only massive pots of stew kept a-bubbling for their evening meal.

  As dusk settled over the land, bonfires were lit. Kieran led a cortege consisting of the bier bearing Euan’s body followed by members of the family’s personal guard, including a piper, to the cove. Lydia held her husband’s arm as the bagpipe wailed a somber tune.

  Dugald helped carry the bier and set it carefully onto the newly constructed platform on the old boat. She noticed that, for the first time, he had a massive longbow over his shoulder, his arm thrust through the gap between the bow and the string. His back bore a quiver full of black arrows.

  Dugald waited by the tide line while Kieran released her hand. Though she was gloved, the evening breeze chilled her when he stepped forward to speak in a strange tongue she didn’t understand. ’Twasn’t Gaelic, for she’d learned enough of the language to know. She guessed that some remnants of the clan’s Viking past infused the funeral rite. But hadn’t some berserkers practiced human sacrifice? She hoped that the custom hadn’t endured.

  Kieran fell silent then grabbed the stern of the boat and shoved it toward the sea. Good heavens, she thought. She seen her husband’s great strength many times but each proof of his power awed her anew.

  The hull scraped over wet sand and pebbles and the sound seemed to grate over her very flesh. She rubbed her arms. Though warmly covered by gown and plaidie, she shivered.

  Kier splashed into the shallows, still gripping and pushing the stern’s rim. The red sail filled and the outgoing tide seized the boat and tugged it from his grasp. He came back to shore, smiled wanly at her and again took her hand. As the boat bobbed on the waves, its sail full and red, the piper continued to play and the clanspeople watched, their unnatural quiet weighting the occasion more than any weeping or wailing could. It was as though they were drained dry of tears and conversation, dead husks memorializing a dead man.

  The piper stopped, his instrument belching a last wheeze. She heard the crunch of boots on sand and Dugald stepped forward, bow in hand.

  With the bow now off his shoulder, Lydia could see that it was six feet of well-rubbed wood so shiny that the reflections of the bonfire’s flames danced and glittered on its ebony surfaces. He reached behind his shoulder, took a black arrow from the quiver and held it into a fire. The arrow lit, and he nocked it on the taut bowstring.

  He shot the blazing arrow high and it came down onto the boat carrying his father’s corpse. Two, three, four more arrows followed, then Lydia could see a glow, flickers of smoldering red where the kindling beneath Euan caught fire. The faint crackle of the flames floated across the slap of the waves hissing against the shore.

  The outgoing tide and offshore breeze continued to sweep Euan out into the ocean to his final rest. The fire consuming him roared high, catching the red sail in a violent billow of orange and gold. Holding Kier’s hand, she watched as the boat floated out to sea, a vivid monument to their loss.

  Someone began to sing in a quavery voice… Old Mhairi? Yes, and that was Fenella joining her, then another and another until the entire clan sang a sweet dirge to usher Euan into the next life.

  A curious emptiness pressed around her heart, threatening to consume her. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back. No, she thought. I will not let that witch rob me of my joy in life. She glanced at her husband, reminding herself that despite the clan’s loss, despite the worries that could overtake all of them, she had Kieran, and he was all that mattered.

  He stood, his face as set and quiet as a marble statue’s, reflecting none of the inner anguish she knew tortured him.

  They stood silent as the dirge ended in thin trails of song, threadlike in the misty eve.

  Soft sounds tried vainly to fill the empty air—the murmur of the lapping waves, the sigh of their breaths. The hiss of the bonfires as they burned low.

  He squeezed her hand, telling her without words that it was time to go home. As she turned with him, she thought she saw movement above, on the parapet of the Dark Tower. She nudged Kier’s arm and pointed upward.

  The dimming glow of the bonfires caught the gleam of long white hair and flashed red on a silver clan badge pinning a Kilborn plaid. As she watched, the tall figure turned and disappeared.

  “Was that…him?” she asked.

  “Aye,” Kier said heavily. “I went to the auld keep today to tell him.”

  She wanted to ask who exactly he was, but knew that the question wouldn’t be welcome, not now. Instead, she said, “How did he take it?”

  “Not well. I told ye that he’d known Euan for many years.”

  “I thought he was mad.”

  “Aye, but today he was lucid. His madness isnae a constant thing. He has good days and bad days, like you and me.”

  Kier led her up the trail to their home, with Lydia following. He clearly didn’t want to talk more, and that she understood.

  * * * * *

  Supper began somber and quiet, with clanspeople gathering in greater numbers than usual. Lydia knew that most of the families generally took a small meal at dusk in their own cottages. But tonight, as if by common but unspoken assent, all assembled in the Great Hall for an evening meal of stew, bread and ale.

  As the evening moved on, voices began to chatter, at first low and soft, later louder as the clan recounted their memories of Euan. As she moved through the hall, trying to get a sense of her people’s mood, she heard bits and scraps of talk.

  “He took out two of the scum before he was killed.” Owain looked at Dugald. “Be not grieved, cousin. We all have our time, and he died with honor.”

  On a stool beside the great hearth, surrounded by several of the clan, old Mhairi told a sweeter tale. “I watched auld Euan dandle ye and your cousin Dugald on his knee when ye were wee,” she said to Kieran. She gently bounced the baby in her lap.

  He chuckled. “And ye did a fair amount of dandling yourself.”

  Lydia laughed, envisioning hulking Kier so small that he could fit into the little old Mhairi’s lap.

  “We used to play horsie when I sat on your knee.” Kier wore a fond smile.

  “And Euan’s also. Up and doon, up and doon for hours.” The baby cooed as Mhairi began to sing, “Ride to your daddy, me bonnie laddie, ride to your daddy, me bonnie lamb.”

  “Euan lasted longer,” Kier said.

  “Aye, he was mighty strong, was auld Euan.”

  Though the old lady’s smile lacked a tooth or two, and many crows’ feet surrounded her eyes, Lydia fancied she saw a twinkle in Mhairi’s glance that told of a more intimate relationship with Euan than that of crofter and castellan. That wouldn’t be surprising. Euan’s wife, Catriona, had died when Dugald was but a young lad, and Dugald was only a few years older than Kieran…or so Lydia thought.

  “And ye were a lot of work,” Mhairi continued, winking at Kier.

  “Was I now?” He cocked his head.

  Lydia noticed that he had subtly led the conversation away from mourning Euan’s loss to happier memories. A clever man, her husband.

  Owain approached with Dugald in tow. “Milaird,” he said with a slight bow.

  Kier immediately left the group, Lydia following. “What now?” he demanded.

  “One of the horses is missing,” Owain said.

  “’Tis Sentry.” Dugald looked like a man who’d been pushed to the brink.

  “And though we closed the great gate and lowered the portcullis, it was opened,” Owain continued.

  “Anyone or anything else gone?” Kier asked.

  The men hesitated. “Not that we know of now,”
Dugald finally said.

  “What of…himself?” she asked, for want of a better name. “Have you looked in the Dark Tower?”

  The trio turned to look at her.

  “An interesting possibility.” Dugald’s expression changed to a mixture of aggravation and exasperation. “Well spotted, milady.”

  “I’m learning.”

  “And what else be ye learning, my curious wife?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Ye married a clever woman, milaird,” Owain said to Kieran.

  “Aye, I’m almost afeared of her brains.”

  “Almost? I shall have to work harder to impress you.” She winked at him.

  * * * * *

  Sir Gareth knew Kilborn Castle well. Having ordered one of its many renovations and watched another, he knew its tunnels and warrens, its secret passages and gates better than any man alive, dead or undead. Though protected by a portcullis and a guard-house, the great gate set in the double wall linking the Garrison and Laird’s Towers was no impediment. Though two normal men were needed to open the gate, Sir Gareth possessed the unnatural strength of many despite his age. So he turned the wheels and lifted the heavy bars with ease.

  Taking Sentry, his nephew’s big gray gelding, from his stall, Sir Gareth saddled the mount and rode south. Glancing to his right, he saw the tiniest spark adrift far out on the breast of the waves. He halted Sentry and watched as the north-flowing current seized his brother’s flaming bier and carried it toward their ancestors’ cold, faraway lands.

  He began to sing My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean in a high tenor, but cut himself off when he remembered that the song was about that fool prince. Not a Scot, really, for Charles Edward Stuart had been more Italian than Scottish and more dolt than either.

  Gareth stifled a sigh but was unable to dislodge the pain shrouding his heart. The last companion of his long years was gone. Kieran was a fine lad in his way, and Dugald showed strong vampiric tendencies, but as far as Sir Gareth knew, he was the last of a long line of Kilborn vampires stretching back to the dawn of time.

  He urged Sentry to a canter over the meadows. When boulders appeared and rocky hills lifted their heads, he cut to the left, taking a track that he knew would lead him to the most populated portion of the MacReiver lands. Sentry slowed as the trail narrowed and became progressively steeper as it wound through wooded glen and rocky defile. Sir Gareth allowed the horse his head. ’Twouldn’t do to return a lame Sentry to his nevvy. Dugald would rightly be furious.