Desire in Tartan: 2 (Highland Vampires) (16 page)

Tears ran down Ruth’s face and she clutched Alice’s hand, fingernails digging deep. Alice winced but didn’t withdraw. The woman had lost her son and a little pain was of no moment.

Footsteps crunched on the rocky earth behind them and a big hand grasped Ruth’s shoulder. “Shall we go doon to the cove?” milaird asked.

Ruth nodded and released Alice. Milaird took Ruth’s arm and helped her down a rough trail to the crescent-shaped, stony beach. Dugald urged Alice to follow, ensuring she didn’t fall on the steep path.

As the sun slowly sank, fog gathered as did a crowd of silent Kilburns. Bonfires were lit, and Dugald led her close to one for warmth. He whispered in her ear, “Everyone in the clan will gather here and later in the Great Hall to feast, drink and talk of Malcolm. ‘Tisn’t an auspicious occasion but ye’ll meet them all. And they’ll be expecting ye to tell your story.”

“My story?”

“Aye. Ye saw Malcolm die. His mam and others will want to hear all.” He took her cloak from her and draped it around her shoulders.

“I don’t like to think of it, and certainly not to talk of it.”

“’Tis important. They deserve it. And a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved, ye ken?”

Everyone had gathered, even milady with the four children, the three older ones clean, dressed neatly and with somber expressions. Even Marian was quiet in milady’s arms as though the baby understood the solemnity of the moment.

One of the men handed Ruth a shining black longbow fully as long as she was tall along with a black arrow. The arrow bore a swatch of cloth tied around it. She nocked the arrow and pulled it back experimentally, then said, “I’m ready.” Her voice did not waver.

Murdo dragged and Archie pushed the dinghy bearing Malcolm’s remains into the sea, both staying with the boat until its sail rounded with the evening breeze flowing off the land. It shot away toward the sunset.

Ruth approached the bonfire to dip the arrow into the flames. Its sash caught and she quickly aimed it high. It dropped with remarkable accuracy into the boat bearing her son.

First nothing happened. Then a tiny flare glowed across the waves. It grew until flames consumed the boat, its sail and Malcolm. A bagpipe wailed a mournful tune.

Tears gathered in Alice’s eyes.

Later, everyone ate in the Great Hall as Dugald had predicted. Alice was glad he’d warned her that the clan would want to hear of Malcolm’s death, for otherwise she would have been unable to speak of it. And she managed, though she was not sure how she got through the experience. She met every person in her new clan but was certain she’d never remember their names.

By the end of the evening, she felt ready to fall into her own grave from fatigue. She struggled up the stairs, Dugald following. “I’ve ordered another bath,” he told her. “It should already be in our room, ready for us.”

“Good. It has been a long and tiring day.”

“Ye’ve done well, me wife, and I’m proud of ye.”

“Thank you, but why?”

Now in their room, he took her by the shoulders. “I’ve brought ye to the remotest part of Scotland. Ye’ve endured death and flight. Ye handfasted with a wild Highlander, not knowing what would happen, and met an entire clan. And not a hair of your lovely head is out of place. In truth, I doonae ken how ye do it.”

She managed a laugh. “I don’t know either.”

Dugald was right—their bath had arrived and sat in the middle of their room, similar to the huge half-barrel at the MacReiver Castle. The bath’s steamy water was strewn with aromatic flowers with a roundish lump of soap bobbing on top. Linen towels had been hung on a movable rack nearby.

He reached for her cameo and removed it with careful fingers. “Was this your mam’s?” He placed it on her dresser.

“Yes. How did you know?”

His smile flashed. “A good guess. Forgive me, but I noticed ye have few trinkets. In such a situation, finery comes from family. Yer father was a perfessor, so your mam must have been the one to pass the pretties along to you. Was she of noble birth?” He unbuttoned her blouse and ran his fingers across the swells of her breasts above her stays.

“Yes, but her parents disowned her when she married my father.”

“How did they meet?” He unlaced the stays with a frown, then untied the tapes holding her skirt and petticoats.

“He was her tutor.” She reached for his trews.

“Och, aye, I can see how that would come about. Wife, I was a mite startled when ye refused a lady’s maid, but I can see the advantages.”

“More privacy.”

His trews fell to his feet. “But ye have more eagerness than experience. Lass, me boots need to come off first.”

She laughed and knelt to remove the boots, giving his now-naked cock a quick kiss along the way. He took her hairpins out and when her hair was unbound, played with the strands and rubbed the top of her head. She leaned against his legs, sighing.

He picked her up and carried her to the bath. Bits of clothing—her stockings and garters—fell off along the way, loosened by the long day and his busy fingers. When she was naked, he eased her tired body into the bath. With her legs bent—it wasn’t large enough for her to stretch them—she rested her back against its wooden side while he stood behind her, continuing to massage her head and neck.

Moaning, she couldn’t decide whether making love with Dugald was as good as this. She realized she liked how she felt whenever he touched her, wherever he chose to put his hands, his mouth and—how did she dare to think it?—his cock.

Dugald clasped her head in both hands and slowly wiggled it back and forth on the stem of her neck, then gave it a gentle tug up. Her bones gave a series of tiny pops as tension released and fell away. She moaned some more.

“Lassie, ye keep it up and I’ll never have to make love to you again.”

Alice opened one eye. “As far as I am concerned, you never have to do anything else again except what you are doing. This is heaven.”

“Och, no. Heaven is that hot, wet place between your legs.”

She laughed softly, wondering at the changes in herself and her life. She never would have imagined a man—any man, certainly not one like Dugald Kilburn—would describe any part of her as “heaven”.

“Lean forward.”

She did, and he took off the rest of his clothes and slipped in behind her. It was a squeeze and some of the water slopped over the edge. He wrapped his arms around her, cupping her breasts, and eased her back until she was sitting on his lap in the tub, facing away from him, legs bent and draped over his. His cock, firm but not hard, fitted neatly in the crack between her bottom-cheeks.

He opened his knees, forcing her thighs apart. His hand dropped from her breast to her mound, exploring the folds, which drifted apart readily in the warm, scented water. “Be easy, love. Relax,” he murmured into her ear. “This is for ye.”

She obeyed, allowing herself to go limp against him. She closed her eyes while he fondled and played with her breasts, her quim.

Heat gathered in her body, its focus her nipples and her cunny. Dugald’s hand shifted and his finger entered her, with his palm massaging her sensitive bump. She pushed her hips forward, rubbing her flesh harder against him.

She’d thought she was exhausted but her husband’s lovemaking energized her. Waves of pleasure flowed through her and glittering light shimmered behind her closed lids. She moaned and panted, letting her body undulate against Dugald’s.

His cock hardened and pushed against her bottom, which made her a little nervous. She’d sensed that he wanted to put his cock inside her bum and she wasn’t ready for that.

But he’d said that this lovemaking was just for her, and she trusted him. He pulled his finger out and rubbed her bump.

Her world exploded into fountains of glimmering colors. A sharp pain lanced into her neck, so slight that she barely sensed it. And like those times he had spanked her rear, the sensation seemed to heighten her pleasure, lengthening her climax.

He pinched her nipple and she whimpered, writhing in his arms. His cock, now fully hard, nudged her bottom-hole. She rubbed herself harder against it, then harder against her hand, seeking to prolong the ecstasy.

When she was done, she sagged against his solid chest. He nuzzled and licked her neck. “Turn your head, love, so I can kiss ye.”

She did, but the kiss was a short one. The twist in her neck wasn’t comfortable. He lifted and turned her, setting her directly onto his cock. It slid inside her as though the pole had been greased. She gasped at the abrupt intrusion and used her bent knees, now resting on the tub’s bottom, to lift herself into a more comfortable position.

With his cock resting just inside her channel, she kissed him and started to swirl her hips around his tool, gripping his shoulders for support. He fondled her rear as she took him, moving her the way he wanted, but that she found she loved.

Sheer rapture, with both she and Dugald fused into one being, its sole goal to bring pleasure to each other. Still kissing him, she rocked in his arms, on his cock, discovering that this new way of joining with him had definite advantages. With her feet on the tub’s bottom, she had control and her most sensitive flesh, her bump, was snugged tightly against his body. Every slight movement sent a shard of dazzling sensation snapping through her flesh.

He lifted his head away from hers and reached out one hand.

“What?” she asked.

He showed her the soap, which had flower petals embedded in it. “Baths are for washing, ye ken?”

She laughed. “Not for us.”

He chuckled and rubbed the lump over her shoulders, then brought it around to her breasts. Gradually he reached all of her with the soap, which foamed mildly and exuded a slight scent of violets. She breathed deeply and leaned her body back, stretching and flexing her shoulders. He dropped the soap into the water with a little splash, then ran a damp, slippery hand down her back to her bottom cheeks. Still embedded, he drew a line with one fingertip along her bottom crack, ending at her hole.

He pressed his finger inside. Coated with soap, it slid in easily. She gasped and twisted, rubbing her bump against him.

“All right, lass?”

“Ye-es.”

“You doonae sound sure.” But he didn’t stop anything he was doing, not the wicked, clever little prods of his finger inside her back hole nor the powerful surges of his cock in her quim.

“It’s…it’s…strange.”

He stopped. “Strange? Still?”

“It feels good, but…um, strange.”

He looked quizzical.

“Not what I am used to. Even now.”

“Lassie, neither of us are used to any of this.”

She huffed while rocking on his penis. “You’ve far more experience than I.”

“But not recent experience. All of that is with ye.” He snaked his other hand between them and caressed her bump.

She moaned anew as she sought the peak of pleasure. Screwing her eyes tight shut again, she leaned forward, trapping his hand against her while his other hand played with her bottom, one finger sawing busily in and out of her back hole.

Pain and joy… She rubbed her bump harder against his hand and, inside her mind, found that magical place with the shimmering colors. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and the sensation of being completely filled by her man took her apart, then reformed her into a being whose sole purpose was ecstasy.

She arched her back and came.

“Are you ready for your snack?”

“Yes, I’m hungry, Auntie.”

Carrick’s mittened hand clutched Alice’s as they circled slowly around the frozen moat, skates tied to their boots. They slid, teetered and stumbled to the side amid shrieks and hand-flapping, then climbed the bank. His nose was red and running, so she took out her hanky. Cupping it around his nose, she waited until he’d delivered an obedient snort into the cloth. She tucked it away, making a mental note to have it laundered.

After untying their skates, she led him to the kitchen, noticing along the way Grizel entering Mairen’s hut. P’raps they’re friends, Alice thought, recalling that Grizel had once trained as a healer.

Alice had settled into life at Kilburn Castle with surprising ease, enjoying the predictable pattern of her days. Often she and Dugald awakened before dawn and made love, then rested a mite before rising. After they’d washed and dressed, they ate breakfast in the Great Hall with the family and the guard. Then Dugald and Laird Kieran would go on patrol or hunt, rarely returning until nightfall.

While the children were fresh, Alice would teach the two eldest for a couple of hours, focusing on more difficult subjects like French, Latin and mathematics. When they became restless, they’d get a snack. Isobel would often disappear at that point in the day—riding mostly—but Alice didn’t care. She’d learned that the entire clan kept an eye out for the wayward girl.

And although teaching Isobel was important, Ranald needed the bulk of Alice’s attention. So after their break, she and Ranald would do less demanding tasks, focusing on reading, writing and history. Isobel already read and wrote well, so Alice merely directed her toward a couple of histories she’d found in the solar, which boasted a modest library. She also told Ranald and Isobel to read Shakespeare and made a point of discussing the sonnets and plays with them.

After lunch, the two older children read and did lessons Alice set for them. When Carrick awakened from his nap he became the focus of her afternoon. At age four, she didn’t want to press him, but started with his numbers and letters, finding ways to make the lessons fun by combining them with drawing or activities like skating. Isobel often reappeared around teatime, after which the three children would read or draw together before tidying up for dinner.

Dinner was the busiest meal. The guardsmen and patrol on duty at night ate early, their places later filled by the daytime shift. A few crofters would stop by with choice bits of gossip or just for company. Alice was happy to see that Ruth came often.

Though Alice had been told that the Highlands were poor, she noticed no lack of anything she needed or wanted. The castle’s inhabitants ate well. Bannocks, porridge, eggs and sausage were available at breakfast. Lunch was often just oatcakes and meat, while dinners were hot, hearty stews and soups.

The days had grown even shorter and the nights colder until the clan became occupied with preparations for the Yuletide feast. The castle was decorated with lavish swags of evergreen and holly, the red berries harmonizing nicely with the swatches of Kilburn tartan swathing mantles and covering arrow-slits. Because of the cold, much whisky was consumed. With mistletoe hung in every doorway, ‘twas nigh impossible to enter or leave a room without a friendly buss on the cheek from a tipsy lad or lass.

In the kitchen, where she and Carrick now headed, the hustle and bustle had reached a peak. The aromas of baking hung in the air—cinnamon, nutmeg, anise. Giant pots bubbled. She peeked at one to see it full of mysterious cloth-wrapped bundles.

“Carrick, what’s in here?” She lifted him so he could see.

“I doonae ken.”

Nearby, Rose laughed. “That’s cloutie dumpling, mistress.” Already pregnant when Alice had arrived at the castle, Rose looked as though she’d drop her infant at any moment. Alice repressed her envy.

“It is?” Carrick looked as puzzled as Alice felt. The grayish water and dingy old linen didn’t look edible.

“That’s because ye’ve only seen it at table, Master Carrick. We mix dried fruits together with oats, butter and eggs, then boil the whole lot. When we serve it, it’s out of the bag, sliced and on a nice plate for ye.”

Alice set the boy down and asked, “Any scraps for two weary scholars?”

“Och, aye. We’ve some scones for your snackie,” Fenella said. “If ye go up to the solar, I’ll bring tea. ‘Tis almost time.”

Alice smiled at Carrick. “Shall we?”

He slipped his mittened hand into hers and smiled up winningly. “I need to use the gardy-robe first.”

“Yes, and we must take off all these heavy clothes.”

Hand in hand, they went up to the next floor and into the room that Carrick shared with his brother. Isobel, deemed old enough to leave the nursery for her own quarters—she quarreled with her brothers incessantly—had been moved to another room closer to her parents, so they could keep a tighter rein on the girl. Baby Marian still slept in her parents’ room.

The boys’ room bore the marks of Fenella’s tidying, but Alice knew that wouldn’t last long. Carrick pulled off his hat and mittens, then dropped them on the floor, where the ice that had accumulated started to melt and run down in rivulets.

“Carrick, where do those belong?”

He eyed the pegs on the wall. “I cannae reach.”

“I’ll help. Pick them up, please.” She lifted the little boy so he could properly hang his wet clothes to dry, then helped him off with his coat and boots. His socks were damp so she changed them, also, then led him to the garderobe. “Afterward, go back to your room, wash your hands and face and comb your hair. I’ll meet you in the solar.”

Upstairs, she took off her outer clothing and exchanged her wet boots for warm slippers. She adjusted her linen blouse and kerseymere skirt, then smoothed her hair and arranged the tartan shawl Dugald had given her around her shoulders for a little extra warmth. Though everyone struggled to keep the castle cozy, inevitably drafts slipped through the arrow slits, even though they’d been shrouded by hangings and tapestries.

She hurried down to the solar and paused in the doorway. Lady Lydia and the children were already there, with Grizel pouring tea while Fenella served scones. Isobel struggled with embroidery while Ranald, in the window seat, was reading with Carrick nestled by his side. Marian rested in a light wooden cradle that could be moved from room to room.

A fire glowed and crackled on the hearth. Candles and lamps lit the room with a warm yellow glow that reflected off the silver teapot and the thick, glazed mugs the children used. The fragrances of fresh scones, smoke and evergreen infused the air.

Alice blinked away tears. She’d never been happier in her life. She hoped that one day, her children would join their cousins in this comfortable, happy room. She’d tried hard to shove away most of her misgivings about her husband and his past. Nevertheless, a pang needled her heart.

What if she never increased?

Well, ‘twouldn’t be from want of trying. She and Dugald commonly made love at dawn and midnight, and whenever they got the chance to slake their desire for each other in between.

And she still wasn’t pregnant. With a sigh, she stepped into the room and headed for Carrick, checking his hands to find them clean and damp from washing up.

A yelp drew her attention. Isobel sucked her finger. “Do I
have
to do this?” She’d evidently stabbed herself with her embroidery needle.

“Yes,” Lydia and Alice replied immediately and in chorus.

“But
why
? I’ll have
servants
!” Isobel, ever dramatic, often spoke in exclamations.

“Often our lives don’t proceed according to plan,” Alice said, thinking of her mother. “What if you don’t have servants to obey your every whim?”

“But I
will.
I’m marrying
Edgar
.”

“And what if your servants don’t know how to embroider?” Lady Lydia asked. “Or perform other tasks that are needed? ‘Twill be your job to teach them.”

“’Tis true,” Fenella said. “Before milady came, none of us knew how to find the wild mushrooms ye love so dear without killin’ ourselves. She showed us.”

Alice tipped her head to one side and regarded milady. “How did you learn that, milady?”

“My father was a soldier, and he taught my brother and I an assortment of…well, motley knowledge. Bits of this and that. And ‘tis useful to know how to survive in the woods with nothing, or at least very little.”

“But
embroidery
?” Isobel flung the cloth into the fire.

“Isobel!” Lydia stood.

Isobel scrunched into a tiny ball.

Lydia pointed toward the door. “Your room. Now. And I don’t want to see you again until tomorrow morning.”

“You’re sending
me
to bed without
dinner
? But I’m
hungreee
!”

“Go. Now. And another word will earn you a whipping when your father gets home.”

Isobel stomped toward the door, grabbing a scone along her way. As she passed, Alice snatched it back. Isobel turned on her with a scowl but Alice stood her ground. Isobel emitted a little whimper as she slunk out.

“She’ll probably get something from the kitchen later,” Fenella said. “We oft find this or that out of place in the morning. But that could be himself.”

“The old fellow up above?” Alice asked. She took a chair next to Lydia.

“Aye, he keeps odd hours.” Grizel poured tea and reached into her pocket.

“I wonder if I’ll ever meet him. P’raps at the Yule feast.” Alice took her teacup from Grizel.

“I doubt it,” Lydia said. “He’s quite elderly and doesn’t emerge often.”

“Who takes care of him?”

“I do,” Fenella said. “And Dugald.”

“Dugald? He’s never mentioned that.” She sipped her tea, which seemed oddly bitter, and reached for the honey.

Grizel, Fenella and Lydia looked unaccountably nervous before Carrick dropped his mug onto Ranald’s lap, raising a howl. Alice leaped to her feet, napkin in hand, and addressed the situation. After Ranald had been cleaned up and Carrick comforted, two hulking figures appeared at the door. Milaird entered the room, kissed his wife and looked down at his slumbering bairn with a fond smile. Then he greeted Alice.

Dugald waited in the doorway. She glanced at him and raised a brow.

He pointed upward. “Mistletoe.”

She grinned. “Ah.” She went to him.

“Miss me?” He pulled her in tight for a big, romantic kiss. He was as cold as the snow that now melted on his shoulders and in his damp hair.

She drew away and kissed the tip of his nose. “A little.”

He gave a mock gasp.

“Och, laddie, I missed ye a wee bit.”

“Ye’re back to mocking me. Ye ken what that means?”

She leaned in close to his ear. “Aye, I do.” She pinched his bottom.

He laughed. “I see I’m getting my Yule giftie early.” Like everyone else in the castle, he pronounced the word “Yeel”.

“I meant to ask about that. I did not think that the clan would celebrate Christmas, as there’s no church and no one seems religious.”

“We doonae celebrate Christmas. We celebrate the Yule, like our ancestors.”

“They were pagans, you know,” Lady Lydia said. “Their—our—holidays may fall at similar times, but they’re different. More…attuned to the cycle of the year and the seasons.”

“Except for Hogmanay.” Kier picked up Carrick and sat next to Ranald in the window embrasure.

“Isnae that the shortest day of the year, Da?” Ranald asked.

“Nay. It used to be, but now we celebrate the Yule on the winter solstice,” Kieran said. “Hogmanay is the new year’s eve and the biggest
cèilidh
of the winter.” He grinned at Alice.

“A kaylee, milaird?”

“Essentially the whole clan celebrates the entire week between Yule and Hogmanay,” Lydia explained.

“I see.” She returned to her seat and sipped her tea, which was better for the honey. “So nothing gets done except, p’raps, for the emptying of casks and larders.”

Dugald stepped into the room and stood behind her. “Exactly.” He laughed and dug his fingers into her shoulders, then caressed her neck, left bare by the chignon at her nape.

She leaned in to his hands and hummed with joy.

Later, after they’d supped and gone to bed, they lay head to toe in the darkness. With the red bed curtains drawn for warmth, any light in the room from candles was shut out. Dugald’s sensations, already unusually acute, were heightened as they enjoyed a ritual they’d developed in the last weeks.

Because Alice spent much of her day on her feet, running after children, riding with one or the other of the bairns, or p’raps skating, a massage of her feet was something that greatly pleasured his wife. And, while his day was much easier—his horse did the work while he was on patrol or hunting—he enjoyed her caresses because they’d oft lead to more intimate attentions.

He’d found that he enjoyed rubbing each of her little piggies individually with lavender oil, wiggling and stretching each one until it loosened with a tiny pop. And with each little pop, his Alice seemed to relax more. He also noticed that he’d echo her movements, or she his, and following these cues led to more fun.