TemptationinTartan

Temptation in Tartan

Suz deMello

She has to marry a monster.

Rumors have followed the chieftains
of Clan Kilborn for centuries. Said to be descended from the Viking berserkers,
they are ferocious in battle, known for tearing off the heads of their enemies
and drinking their blood.

But English noblewoman Lydia Swann–Williston
will marry Kieran, Laird Kilborn, to bring peace to the Kilborn lands after the
horror of Culloden and the brutal pacification. A widow, she also brings needed
wealth to the clan. For her part, eighteen-year-old Lydia wants children. With
her husband killed at Culloden, she will make a new life in the Highlands.

The old chieftain of Clan Kilborn
also died in battle, and Lydia hopes the new young Laird will lack his
ancestors’ ferocity. That hope will go unfulfilled…

Temptation in Tartan

Suz deMello

Foreword and Acknowledgments

This is a work of fiction, so I have taken many liberties
with historical facts and sequences of events. I hope I have offended none but
provided a few hours of enjoyment for all.

Thanks go to Diane Farr, Vanessa Hart, Liz Jennings and
DeAnna Cameron for their critiques and encouragement.

Chapter One

Swanston, England, 1747

“The Kilborns are great warriors, rumored to be descended
from Viking berserkers.” Colonel Swann paced the drawing room, his boots
soundless on the thick rugs.

Lydia’s belly clenched and she drew a frightened breath.
“Berserkers! The savages who raided our shores, murdering monks and,
er…attacking women?”

The colonel stared at her as though a potted plant had
decided to speak. Not surprising, since Lydia had always been known in their
family as the quiet one.

“The same,” he said. “And the Kilborn clansmen have
intermarried for generations. Animals.” He tugged at his tight cravat. Out of
uniform, dressed as a town gentleman, Lydia thought her cousin lost some of his
edge. Scowling, he continued, “By this marriage we seek to dilute the Kilborn
blood and weaken the line.”

“Weaken the line, sir?” Lydia’s mother, Henrietta, raised a
brow. “Do you suggest that my daughter’s lineage is flawed? Ours is one of the
noblest families in the kingdom.”

“True,” he said. “By adding Lady Lydia’s noble blood to the
Kilborn line, we will civilize the wild Highlanders.”

Lydia tried to look civilized and noble, but couldn’t stop
twisting the handkerchief in her lap. She rubbed its black edging, a reminder
of her status as a widow. “You want me to marry an animal. A barely civilized
wild man.”

“The Crown would take your selflessness as a particular
favor,” her cousin said.

She lifted her brows. “Indeed.” As a general’s daughter,
duty pulled at her blood.

“’Tis a perfect solution. ’Tis easier to pacify by marriage
than by the sword. All parties will benefit.” His glance strayed to the bodice
of Lydia’s gown. In half-mourning, she wore gray muslin trimmed with black
piping. “You must desire children. The Highlander is doubtless, uh, lusty.”

She pursed her lips. She’d loved William, but hadn’t grasped
why others made such a fuss about marital relations. But she did want children
and had planned to have several. “You want me to marry a warrior who may have
killed my husband at Culloden Moor,” she said. “I can’t do that.”

Colonel Swann remained silent but looked uneasy as Lydia’s
mother crossed the room. “Your
late
husband,” Henrietta said and sat on
an ottoman next to Lydia.

When her mother took Lydia’s hand, she couldn’t control the
trembling. At eighteen, she knew she simply wasn’t brave.

Unlike her mother, who now peered into Lydia’s eyes. “Child,
what else will you do? Of course, as a widow, you can refuse. But another
marriage may make you happy.”

“Do I have to marry a wild Scotsman? Leave my country and
everything I know?”

“Of course not. But you are already acquainted with all the
other eligible males of our class, and chose William over all.”

“That’s so.” Lydia remembered her days of attending parties
and balls in London a scant three years ago. She sighed.

“You’ll bring great wealth,” the colonel said. “And by your
marriage, Kilborn will be spared the pacification efforts that other clans and
chieftains suffer. You’ll be valued and honored.”

“I have my portion and William’s, but I am not particularly
wealthy,” Lydia said.

“Not by London standards, but for an impoverished Highland
chieftain, you are a rich prize.”

“Lovely.” Lydia stood and walked to the window, her
voluminous skirts rustling.

Below in the garden, she could see her brother playing with
one of his sons. She watched George pick up Andrew, toss the giggling child
into the air and catch him before they collapsed in a laughing heap together on
the sunlit lawn.

Her heart tripped. She might never see George and Andrew
again. But she might become that happy parent, could have babies of her own to
enjoy.

She turned to face her mother. “I’ll do it.”

* * * * *

Kieran, Laird Kilborn, strode along the upper wall-walk of
his castle, his mood as dark as the midnight sky above. Below him, the sea
crashed with the threat of a storm. His retainers scattered at the sight of
their new laird’s frown, for Kieran was known to show his temper. His own
father had borne a scar on his forehead from a tankard a young Kieran had
thrown when the princeling had been but four.

Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose, staring out over Clan
Kilborn’s crofts and lands, lit only by moonlight. His lands, now, following
the deaths of his father and older brother at Culloden. An unexpected
burden—his lands and his responsibility.

“Ye could look forever, but nothing will change.” Euan’s
soft voice intruded upon Kieran’s dangerous mood. “That is, nothing will change
unless ye marry the Sassenach lassie.”

Kieran turned, remembering to soften his frown. No one else
would dare to disturb his thoughts, but Euan was different. The castle’s
steward, he’d been old when Kier was born.

“Aye, the reprisals are cruel.” Kieran rubbed his hand over
the sturdy stone battlement.

“They will only get worse. The Sassenachs are determined to
break all of the Highlands and to destroy the clans who supported the bonnie
prince. ’Tis a stroke of luck that the Swan wants you to wed the lassie.”

“Why, though? What’s the benefit to the Sassenach colonel?”

The smaller man shrugged. “We are a remote holding. ’Tis
easier to pacify us by marriage than by war, and far less costly.”

“I’ll never give up tartan or sword.” A thin, chilly breeze
lifted Kieran’s dark hair off his shoulders. He drew his plaid, vividly
patterned in red, yellow and two shades of blue, more tightly around him.

“Wed the Swan’s cousin and ye willnae have to.”

“I had not thought to wed yet, with everything
so…unsettled.”

“Truly? There’s a certain lassie who’s set her cap for ye.”

“Grizel?”

“Er, I was thinking of Moira.”

“Oh, that one.” Kieran dismissed Moira with a wave of his
hand. “She must know that Culloden changed everything, including her
expectations.”

“Ye must secure the succession.” Euan’s dark, haunted eyes
searched Kieran’s face. “I promised your father that I would see to it.”

“And would he have wanted me to marry outside our blood?”
Kieran asked. His grand-uncle Euan knew more of the secrets of his family than
did Kieran himself.

“Possibly not.” Euan looked troubled. “But marriage to the
Sassenach lady will provide money, safety and heirs.”

“And what shall I do when the dark thirst takes me? Succor
myself at my lady’s throat?”

“There are other ways.” Euan’s eyes were hooded and
unreadable in the moonlight. “Other women—”

“No! ’Tis like unfaithfulness. What of my honor?”

“There is no honor when the dark curse seizes us.”

“I must find a way, for the clan.”

“Then ye’ll marry the Sassenach wench?”

“’Tisn’t so simple. The laird’s consort isnae merely a juicy
quim or a fertile ewe. She must be more.”

Euan shrugged. “She’s a widow, managed her own household.”

“Hmm.” Kieran took a deep breath of the midnight air,
scented with the tang of the nearby sea and the crofters’ hay. “Aye then, I’ll
do it.”

Chapter Two

Kieran disliked Edinburgh at its best. A stinking pile of
narrow alleys and twisted, filthy walkways, it starved his Highland soul for
greenery and open space. And Edinburgh was at its worst when overrun with
Sassenachs, swaggering Englishmen with their loud red coats, odd accents and
arrogant contempt of Scotland and all things Scottish…especially the Scots.
Upon entering the city, he’d decided to marry the Sassenach lassie as soon as
the banns could be posted and to get his new wife home as soon as he could.

But when he’d seen her, uncertainty had gnawed at the edge
of his decision. A jewel shines best in a proper setting, he believed, and clearly
Lady Lydia Swann–Williston’s proper setting was a ballroom or a garden, not a
drafty old castle that harbored secrets older than time.

Or p’raps she belonged in a bedroom. He observed her
covertly from across the crowded drawing room. Lady Menhardie’s musicale had
just concluded and the patient audience, which had sat through Purcell sonatas,
Handel airs and several Bach fugues, concluding with an uninspired performance
by the Lady herself on the harp, now hurried as politely as they could toward the
refreshments. Two of the women, whose wide panniers no doubt aped the latest
London fashion, collided and stuck in a doorway, blocking it for several
amusing moments.

His Sassenach bride was clad in a modest gown of palest
gray, trimmed with silver-shot lace at the cuffs and bodice, with an underskirt
of cream satin. The generous curves above her snug stomacher hinted at glories
beneath. But for her bosom, she was small and delicately built, despite the
modest panniers swelling her hips. Her slenderness gave Kieran pause. The
laird’s lady had to be strong—strong to help to lead the clan, strong to
withstand the harsh Highland winters.

Strong to be his mate, to bear his bairns, to satisfy his
demands.

He drew closer, slipping through the throng like a wraith.
He passed Colonel Swann and gave him a nod, then approached his fiancée.

Lydia had dark hair and eyes, plus a full mouth made for
kissing a man…all over. He imagined her plump lips embracing his rigid length
and wondered if she liked cock. She’d been married, and her preferences would
be dependent upon the whims and talents of her late husband.

Well, if she didn’t like sex, he’d teach her, and relish
every moment.

When Lydia produced a fan from the silvery reticule hanging
from her wrist, Kieran decided to make his move.

“’Tis quite warm in here, milady. P’raps ye’d enjoy a breath
of fresh air?” He nodded toward the unlatched floor-length windows.

* * * * *

Lydia looked at the man who’d accosted her. How had she
failed to notice him before? Bold he was despite his sober dress. Wigless, his
straight hair was unfashionably long and darker than a moonless midnight.
However, his apparel would rival that of the most stylish London dandy. He wore
black, which would have seemed funereal but for the richness of the fine
velvet. Lace lavishly trimmed his cuffs, falling over his strong hands like
spider webs over granite. Stocking-clad calves, exposed beneath black breeches,
were finely turned and muscular.

His eyes also matched his garb, while his skin formed a stark
contrast. Though quite pale, he was unusually attractive. His subdued attire
couldn’t hide the girth of his chest and his potent masculinity. Taller than
the other men in the room, he dominated the space around him.

“Yes, I’d like that,” she said. Widowhood had compensations,
and one of them was being able to walk alone with a gentleman without incurring
the censure of society…or of her mother, who was gossiping with a newfound
friend.

His sudden smile was like the sun breaking through clouds.
He opened the glass door and the breeze swirling through lifted strands of his
hair that had worked loose from the dark ribbon at his nape. Lydia was seized
by the absurd desire to stroke back those wayward locks. She fluttered her fan
to conceal her nervousness.

The mysterious stranger took her free hand and led her into
the garden surrounding the Menhardie mansion. The broad summer moon cast
shadows that shifted with the breeze, so she could see little but could scent
much—the fragrance of plants and newly turned earth, the attar of roses she’d
touched to her pulse points and, daringly, between her breasts. Most of all,
she drew in the male aroma of the stranger who’d taken possession of her hand,
a scent reminiscent of midnight and secret longings.

He led her deeper into the knot garden. Trees, swishing in
the breeze, blocked the manse from her view. She inhaled sharply, realizing
she’d walked willingly, alone, with a man she knew nothing about, into what was
not only a compromising position but possibly a dangerous one.

As though he sensed her fear, he released her hand. “Would
ye wish to sit?” He waved his hand at a stone bench.

She touched it with a forefinger. Moisture seeped through
her glove.

“Dinnae fash yerself.” The stranger sat and held out his
arms. “Come here.”

She hesitated. “I’m affianced. ’Twould offend my new
husband.”

“No one can see us, and I’m just asking ye to sit.” His gaze
was not merely open and guileless, but oddly compelling.

He seemed so kind, and her worries so silly, that she
complied, moving closer. He reached for her waist to help her arrange her
skirts and panniers. Finally she’d settled onto his lap, sitting crossways so
she was looking at his chiseled features, distinct in the moonlight, as pale as
new milk.

A strange energy thrummed through her body. She was acutely
aware of the firm, muscular thighs beneath her, for she had never sat on a
man’s lap before. Neither her father nor her husband had asked for or taken
this intimacy. Did she like it? She wasn’t sure and became even less sure when
the stranger, who had one arm touching her waist already, slid his other wide
palm up her calf toward her knee.

Though his touch sent a tremor of desire shafting through
her being, it unnerved her even more. She squirmed but he held her fast.

“Lassie, what worries ye?”

“You are taking liberties, sir, and we…haven’t been
introduced.” What a stupid thing to have said. He must think her a fool. But
what did it matter? She’d never see him again.

He chuckled. “Let’s just say that I’m a man who finds you
quite alluring.”

Alluring. Lydia blinked. William had never said that.

“Remember, I’m affianced.”

“Ye’re here with me. Do ye love him?”

She cleared her throat. “We’ve never met.”

“Then ye’re sharing a stolen moment with a man you…dare I
say a man you like?” He flirted, but his voice held a dark timbre that seduced
her soul. And yet a note of humor, kindness even, tinctured his tone.

She hesitated, then looked into his eyes and was immediately
calmed. She said, “Yes. You may dare.”

“And what else may I dare?” The hand on her leg rose to her
face to play with a curl, stroke her cheek. She quivered and her breasts
swelled, her nipples rubbing against the lawn of her shift. Flesh for which she
had no words, the secret place at the junction of her thighs, heated, tightened,
moistened.

She shifted on his lap, opening her legs and leaning forward
a trifle, and that sensitive, secret spot rubbed against his leg, bringing a
charge of pleasure she hadn’t known before. She hid her gasp behind her fan.

He smiled at her, his eyes knowing… Did he understand how
powerfully he affected her?

This was wrong, wrong. She had to stop.

“Your eyes are warm chocolate on a chilly day.” His voice
was as soft as the breeze, as soft as his caress down her cheek to her mouth,
which he traced. “Your lips are a temptation that I cannae resist.”

“You presume much, sir.”

“Aye, I do, but I feel I know your heart.”

If he knew her heart, then he knew it beat faster than a
racing stallion’s hooves.

He inclined his head toward her. His lips were carved marble
in the moon’s silver rays. “Ye desire me, do ye not?”

“Desire isn’t enough.” She’d desired William, and her
marriage bed had been either empty of her husband or the scene of brief trysts
devoid of pleasure. She wouldn’t be seduced by a handsome stranger. What for?

“Please.” He asked, but then he took. His mouth felt cool on
hers but with a touch of fire beneath. That fire raced through her, igniting
parts of her she hadn’t known could feel such heat, such rapture. She gasped
again from sheer surprise, and something intruded between her lips… Before
heaven, was that his
tongue?

No,
Lydia thought.
This isn’t me.

She reached for his wrist to slide her fingers toward his
elbow. She wrapped her hand around his arm and dug her thumb into the muscle
just in front of the joint.

He yelped and jerked away, dumping her off his lap. She
landed gracefully, stood and stepped back a pace.

“Good,” she said. “I must have hit just the right spot.”

His eyes were amazed. “Where did a lady like ye learn such a
trick?”

“My brother taught me.” She couldn’t help shooting him a
triumphant smile as she tucked her fan into her reticule.

He shouted with laughter. “Ye’ll do, yes, ye will! Ye’ll
make a fine wife.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said stiffly.

He grinned at her. “I’m Kieran.”

She gaped at him.

“Kieran Kilborn,” he added helpfully. “The man ye’ll marry.”

She glowered, fists on hips. “Why didn’t you introduce
yourself properly?”

He shrugged and sent her an impish smile. “I learned more
this way.”

“What did you learn? That your wife is a wanton who will…who
will…” She turned away, consumed by shame. She had actually contemplated giving
herself to the mysterious stranger.

He rose, taking her into his arms, and she met his insistent
gaze.

“I learned that the woman who is to be my wife has standards
and knows how to enforce them. And yes, I learned that she’s a wanton who will
please me and herself when I take her.”

I’m a wanton? Good heavens.
“You learned all that?”

“Lady Lydia, ye cannae hide yourself from me. I saw these
swell and press against your bodice when ye sat on my lap.”

He ran a hand over Lydia’s bosom and her nipples responded,
again rasping against her shift.

“I smelled your need.”

Horrified, she took a step back. “I…smell?”

He smiled. “Not so anyone else can sense it. I have a good
sense of smell. I could sense your womanhood moistening, becoming ready for
me.”

Her hands, small, startled birds, flew up to clasp her face.
“You can smell my, er…womanhood?”

He nodded, again with that knowing expression. “There are
other words for that wonderful place, but I’m sure that a lady like yerself
doesnae ken them. Unless your husband spoke them to ye in bed.” He looked at
her with inquiry in his dark eyes.

She shook her head, embarrassed. “We didn’t talk
about…that.”

“I dinnae ken why not. Ye’re fair irresistible. Let’s sit
again.”

This time she nestled on his lap with more comfort, knowing
that she wasn’t committing an act of betrayal even before she’d wed. Kieran
moved one of her legs so the toe of her heeled mule rested on the stone
walkway, and the result was to press her womanhood more closely against his
thigh, her knees open. He supported her with one hand on her waist, and she
felt his strength even through the layers of her gown.

“May I?” He touched a finger to her lips.

“I, er…yes.”

Again, his mouth was cool and smooth against hers. This
time, he flicked his tongue against her lips instead of ramming it in. Relief
flooded her and she shyly began to respond to his kiss. Then that fire—the fire
she’d felt before—leaped from him to her, crackling through her body like a
live thing, settling between her thighs, flaring into a blaze.

She shoved her hands into his hair, pulling him closer, and
opened her mouth. His tongue slid inside. His body lost some tension and she
guessed that kissing was very important to Kieran. She wondered why. William
hadn’t been much for kissing.

His tongue danced with hers, flirted the same way she used
her fan. She became entirely absorbed in this new game, playing with his hair,
running one hand down the side of his face. Cool, smooth skin, punctuated by a
very slight stubble.

Fingers dropped to her décolletage, tracing her cleavage’s
lines above her stiff stomacher before dipping into the cleft between her
breasts. She groaned and pressed her womanhood harder against his thigh. His
hand clenched around her waist.

“Aye, love. Rock against me.” His soft voice seductive,
irresistible. “Take your pleasure.”

Heat swept her, a heat she’d never felt before with any man.
She’d felt it in her bath, alone, when she washed, or in bed at night touching
herself. But never had a man’s kiss, his hard thigh beneath her, inflamed her
to such a degree. Her body swayed, no longer her own, and she gripped his
shoulders for support.

Kieran shifted again and she felt
it
. The male part
that William had used on her, in her. It pressed against her thigh, just inches
from her womanhood.

“What is it, love?” His voice was soft, concerned.

“What is what?”

“Your body tightened when I moved my cock against ye.”

She sucked in a startled breath. “Is that what it’s called?
A…cock?”

“Aye, it is, and he wants to nest inside your cunny as soon
as possible.”

“Is…is that what you call my womanhood? My cunny?”

“Aye, there are many words for that sweet place.” He reached
down, lifted up her skirts, and slid a hand beneath layers of fabric and along
her leg, heading for that mysterious spot.

Did she want this? Was this right? She wasn’t sure, but they
were affianced, so surely there was no harm.