by Suz deMello
Securing one such oubliette was a rusty gate composed of a latticework of crumbling metal, encrusted by barnacles at the bottom from the high tide. Its crude lock was no more than a twist of wire, too heavy for most men but easily disentangled by Sir Gareth. No light from nature or fire, but the lack of illumination didn’t trouble him.
Inside, secured to rings bolted and sunk into the cliff, was his larder—two men and a woman. They were naked, shivering and close to unconsciousness, hanging from their chains with muscles limp and weak. The woman he’d already sampled, and he knew he liked her. The men—well, they were MacReivers, so how good could they taste? He could save them for later.
He approached Moira and dragged her head to one side by the hair before sinking his teeth into her neck. She groaned and twitched, her chains rattling. He set his other hand on her breast, tugging on her nipple. It hardened and distended between his fingers. She whimpered.
“For Lord’s sake, stop!” The hoarse cry echoed through the dungeon, louder than the rush of the sea.
Louder even than the rush of the blood through his gut and into his veins. Louder than the frantic pulse in the woman’s breast. Sir Gareth removed his teeth from Moira’s neck. “Why?” He pinched her tit.
“She doesnae deserve to die like that! None of us do.”
“Pardon me, but I believe that the three of you are responsible for my brother’s death.” Sir Gareth licked the two wounds he’d left in Moira’s throat.
“Moira Cameron is a fine, brave woman. She defended her honor.”
He threw back his shaggy white head and howled with mirth, the insane laughter bouncing off the damp stone walls of the dungeon. He followed the sound, dancing and jumping about, for the blood burned and boiled and leaped as it flowed within him. And all the time the rushing, the rushing in and out of the tides and the blood in his body and his veins drummed, and the eyes inside wept for Euan.
“So she told you her name was Moira Cameron, did she now?” Sir Gareth pushed his mind past the rushing of the blood and the tide, and the eyes inside went dry and cold and hard. He slapped her face and her head bounced against the stone with a crack like the lightning strike of death. “She’s Moira Kilborn, you great fool.”
“That cannae be.” The fool of a MacReiver was insistent. “She’s got red hair!”
Sir Gareth laughed some more, then calmed, leaning against one of the walls for support. “I’m mad, you know.”
“So it seems.” The MacReiver was grim.
“But I’m not so insane as to forget my family. Her red hair’s from her mother. She’s Moira Kilborn, daughter of Fenella MacLeod and Ivor Kilborn, who was lost at sea five years ago.”
The man sagged in his chains. “She lied to us.”
“Aye, she’s a bitch born. I do not know why. Fenella’s a sweet lassie and Ivor was a fine man. But this one has ever been a trial to the clan.”
“Are you going to kill her?”
Sir Gareth shrugged. “I do not usually kill women, but for this one, I might make an exception. But you, MacReiver, you will surely die in this place. If you worship any god, it is time for you to make whatever peace you can. Especially given the blood on your hands. How did my brother hurt you?”
“What? Who?”
“Euan Kilborn was my brother,” Sir Gareth ground out, the snarl of his voice echoing the great, scowling soul that lurked and hid within him but occasionally insisted upon coming out to play.
“Euan Kilborn was an unnatural freak of nature, something that shouldnae exist. I removed him from the world. ’Twas my duty.”
The laughter and the rage bubbled up again, billowing without mercy, crushing Gareth’s heart. He gripped the fool MacReiver’s head and wrenched it to one side. But he’d tugged a wee bit too hard and the damned thing came off in his hand. He swore and covered the severed throat with his mouth, opening his jaws as wide as he could to catch the spurting red fountain as it leaped from the torn stump.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lydia bathed and, along with the butterflies in her belly, climbed into the bed she shared with her husband.
The nervous fluttering in her stomach was curiously familiar, but she could not identify it right off. She cast through her memory, searching for a time she’d experienced the same emotional chaos.
She nestled deeper into the bedclothes as Kieran, naked and fully erect, sprawled beside her. He slid long, pale fingers into her hair and played with the strands.
Then she recalled, like a torch flaring in the darkness, their wedding night. That was it. Fear and anxiety had possessed her before they’d been replaced by excitement and expectation.
And now she wanted him badly, wanted his rod and his seed inside her, solid proof of his manhood.
“’Twas an odd day. I greatly desired you by my side, but nevertheless, ’twas good you were not. The carnage…” He shuddered and drew her closer, as if seeking her warmth.
Ah. Evidently he wanted to talk rather than tup. She suppressed her desire, cuddled in to his side and settled herself down to listen. He had already alluded to the situation at dinner, but now he seemed to need to share his shock and horror over what he had found. So she listened, and finally she said, “Forgive me, but did you not tear off the head of Edgar’s father?”
Kier stopped talking and stared at her with startled black eyes. “’Twasnae the same thing, not at all!”
“How so?”
“That was an act done without thought. Ye were attacked. I defended my wife.”
“Um…he believed that his clan was attacked. He defended his clan.”
“Aye, but I am laird. He had no right—”
“Does he know that?”
A long pause ensued. “I reckon he doesnae.” Kieran rolled onto his back and blew out a gusty sigh.
“Will he attack Edgar?”
“Not while he’s young, and not after he marries one of us, I believe.”
“Are you sure?”
Another pause. “Nay.”
Lydia sat up. “Let’s go.”
“What? Where?”
“To have a chat with himself.”
Kier flung his arms over his head and laughed, his chest shaking. “Och, what a woman I have wed! Are ye afraid of anything, lassie?”
“Not with you by my side.” Supernatural or not, her husband could protect her from every threat. P’raps his strength wasn’t normal, as the priest maintained, but she didn’t care.
Kier calmed. “I hope I am worthy of your trust. Thank ye, but rather than clamber around a dark, cold tower, I have something else in mind to do.” He rolled toward her.
His embrace was ardent yet cool. She was uncomfortably reminded of the description the priest had provided of vampires’ cold skin, and stiffened in his arms.
He stopped. “We’ve done a deal of talking about my day. What of yours? What did ye think of the Gwynn chapel?”
“All right, I suppose.” Should she tell Kieran of the priest’s suspicions? Probably not. She would feel silly voicing such thoughts. And she didn’t want to damage their marriage by even hinting that she gave them any credence. Best to keep them to herself. Instead she said, “I met the laird and his wife.”
“And how did ye find Laird Hamish and Lady Jacqueline?”
“You’re acquainted with them?”
“Aye. He’s a deal older than I am, but we’ve met a time or two. My da generally dealt directly with the local clans but he’d take along Ranald or myself so as to show us off. ’Twas important for folk like the Gwynns to know that there were not one but two available to lead the Kilborns should the old laird die.”
“And as it turned out, that was fortunate.”
“Aye. This conversation has been quite somber, has it not?”
“Aye,” she said, imitating his accent. “But necessary. It has been a difficult time, husband. I hope that this is the end of it, but I worry.”
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
&
nbsp; “What?” She couldn’t have been more startled if he had levitated or turned into a bat, as the priest had somberly predicted.
“It means dinnae borrow troub—”
“I know what it means. Isn’t it from the Bible?”
“So?” He sounded defensive.
“I didn’t know you were a believer.”
“I’ll take wisdom wherever I can find it. Wife, these worries have always been a part of my life, even before I became chieftain. ’Tis part of my heritage. Ye’ll get used to it in time.”
“I hope so.”
“Though I must admit that for a while it seemed that ‘What now?’ would replace ‘Blood for the clan’ as our motto.”
“Indeed. Are you planning to send Dugald to the MacReiver castle permanently?”
“Aye. He’ll be a loss, but there’s no one more capable.”
She frowned. “So we have lost Euan and Dugald both from our home.”
There was a pause. “Aye.” His voice was heavy.
“Owain and Kendrick—”
“Did they perform adequately today?”
“Yes, but I am not as confident in them as I was with Dugald and Euan.” She hesitated, then said, “Mayhap that is because I do not know them as well.”
“We’ll have to work with them a deal, I ken, because they aren’t as good. Euan had decades of experience, and Dugald also. But, wife, ’tis necessary. Dugald needs to be awa’ from this castle and the memories.”
She nodded. “You’re right.”
“And ye didnae see the great mess we encountered.”
“You mean the mess himself made?”
“Nay, I mean the slovenliness of the castle. It’s in rack and ruin. He didnae tear down walls and throw dirt and dust about, I assure ye. He didnae bring in the vermin.”
“So Dugald will have plenty to do to keep his mind off his loss.”
“Aye. And now…”
His kiss was as fresh as a midnight wind, and Lydia lost herself in it. When he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, she sucked on it greedily and gave him a little bite.
Again, his chest rumbled with laughter, and he raised his head. “Taking a page out of my book, are ye?”
She grinned at him. “It feels good to me. Would not a little nibble feel good to you?”
“Aye, it would.” He settled back against the pillows and hauled her atop his body.
When she kissed him, his rod nestled between her thighs. She pressed her legs together and his erection increased, becoming ever more solid and hard. She shifted her hips back and forth, up and down. She nipped his lower lip.
A gasp followed by a groan. “I like this new game, kylyrra. Is there no end to the surprises you have for me?”
“I hope not.” She sucked his lower lip while continuing to squeeze him between her thighs. She wanted more, so she wriggled down his body until his cockhead was tucked against her notch. She undulated to force his hardness against her pearl, bringing a hot rush of pleasure. The first flood of the ecstasy she knew would follow washed through her.
She moaned. Her breasts were pressed against the planes and plates of muscle that ridged his torso, and as she rubbed herself against him her nipples tightened into sensitive little beads. She licked his areolas, then nibbled on the brown nubs. He arched his back and gripped the headboard, pushing his nipples more firmly into her mouth, groaning.
His cock twitched and she shoved her pearl harder onto the silken steel head. One quick thrust and she’d taken him inside her, but just the thick, round end of his penis stretched her tender opening. She spread her legs and he bucked, easing in another inch. But, using her knees, she kept her distance, prolonging the delight of his entry.
He moaned, “Kylyrra, kylyrra.” His big hands left the headboard to glide down her sides, leaving a sweet, sensual trail.
He clasped her bottom and she expected him to press down so he could have her, but like her he wasn’t impatient. Instead he squeezed and kneaded the twin globes. Each caress shot rapture straight to her quim.
She bore down, still intending to take in only a bit more of his length, but she was so wet that she became thoroughly impaled.
Her cries echoed his. He surged into her, long fingers grasping her hips, taking her as completely as she’d taken him. Short, sharp, stabbing thrusts drew grunting sighs from them both as her pearl pressed against him. Kier released her rear only to smack down both palms onto her buttocks as he thrust upward into her one final time. With a shout, he came in a hot geyser of seed that filled her insides.
He collapsed, hands dropping to the bed, head lolling on the pillow while Lydia continued to climax, her channel clenching and milking his shaft until she sprawled on top of him. Her cheek rested on his chest and she inhaled his musky, midnight scent as every muscle loosened and relaxed.Kieran a vampire? Ha. “Stupid,” she muttered.
He stirred. “What?”
Bloody hell. What could she say now? She remembered that George, when a boy, had recommended part of the truth to get out of trouble. “I was just thinking about the standing stones. We passed them on the way to Straithness.”
“The standing stones are stupid?”
“No, silly. Some say that they are evil. That’s stupid.”
“Oh, aye. Why were you thinking about the standing stones?”
“I was thinking about that the clan needs a festival. That we could revive some of the old ways. Didn’t the ancients hold harvest festivals?”
“Och, but that would be pagan.” There was a smile in his voice.
“I’m not recommending animal sacrifice,” she said stiffly.
“Just a céilidhe.”
“A what-ee?” She laughed.
“Our word for, um…party.”
“Yes. When, do you suppose?”
“Well, if we want to do it up right, the next one would be in a few weeks, when light equals darkness.”
A shiver ran through her. “What do you mean?”
“Twice every year, day and night are in perfect balance. The first day of spring and the first day of autumn. You Sassenachs call it Harvest Home, I believe. Others call it the Kern. The folk in the outer isles say Meán Fóghar.”
“The outer isles?”
“Aye, there are beautiful islands south and west of our lands. Ye’ve never heard of Skye? ’Tis lovely. And Fingal’s Cave is something to behold. I’ll take ye there, p’raps next summer. When everything has calmed down.”
“Now, now.” She wagged a finger at him. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, remember?”
“Aye.” He chuckled. “So ye’re in the mood for a party? How about the twenty-third of September? That’s Meán Fóghar this year.”
“Perfect.” She gave a happy little wriggle. “That gives us plenty of time to plan.”
“Aye.” He played with her hair. “We’ll have a feast, of course, with music, dancing, games…the lot.”
“Umm.” She rubbed her cheek on his chest and drifted off.
* * * * *
Kier waited until he was certain Lydia was asleep before easing himself out from beneath her. She was right. He had to talk with Sir Gareth and make sure that he understood that Edgar was not only an ally but also had become family.
But as brave as his Lydia was, Kier didn’t plan to drag her through the unsafe keep to confront the mad auld vamp. That was the laird’s job, part of his responsibilities as the Kilborns’ chieftain.
He dressed silently and picked up his boots. He’d take them out to the hall to put them on. Lydia stirred without waking and he sighed. Och, kylyrra, I’d rather stay with ye this night.
He left the words unsaid as he slipped out. After donning his boots, he clattered down the staircase and went out to the bailey. Dugald had evidently given orders before retiring, and the night shift of guards worked diligently to pack the supplies Dugald would need to render the MacReiver Castle habitable. Kier hated to leave Dugald the task until Edgar could take the reins of power as lai
rd, for ’twould be a wrench losing Dugald for so long. But no one else was as capable. And, as Kier had told Lydia, Dugald would be the better for it.
Kieran crossed the courtyard and lifted the bar securing the Dark Tower’s massive double doors out of its metal-bound sockets. He nodded without comment at the guard standing near and entered the keep. He surmised that his grandfather would rest after the last tumultuous days. Vamp he might be, but he was still human in his own odd way. Kier reasoned that Euan’s death, the massacre of the MacReivers and the small ritual over Euan’s remains would have drained any creature, supernatural or not.
Kier went to the hidden door tucked beneath the staircase and shoved his sgian dhu into a narrow slit, opening the door. Though the corridor beyond was cold, dank and dark, he walked it with confidence, relying on his excellent night vision.
He wasnae so confident about this meeting. He didnae know if he could find Sir Gareth. And if he did, what kind of temper would the auld vampire exhibit? Would he be sane or no? Even in his most lucid moments, Kier’s grandda wasnae predictable.
Kier told himself he wasnae fearful. Merely wary.
He tapped politely on Sir Gareth’s door, wondering what, if anything, he’d find within. It flew open, and Kier could see the old vamp seated in a deep window embrasure in one of the narrow slits opening onto the sea. A lit candle illuminated the journal in which Sir Gareth was writing.
He set down his pen and smiled. “Good evening, young Kier.”
“Sir.” Kier bent his head. He was always careful to remember small courtesies with Sir Gareth. Who knew what could set off the mad old vamp? “May I?”
Sir Gareth waved his hand. “My home is yours.”
“Thank ’ee.” He entered and sat on the only chair in the room, smelling only his grandda’s dry, papery scent tinctured with the cologne he insisted upon using…and a faint but distinct salty aroma. The sea, p’raps, given Sir Gareth’s long swim, but possibly blood. Aye, blood. He couldn’t identify whose.
