TemptationinTartan (15 page)

For travails there were.

The trail widened into a clearing and Dugald raised a hand,
signaling a stop. He dismounted and dropped Sentry’s reins. The well-trained mount
stood still, twitching ears and tail but unmoving otherwise. Lydia imitated
Dugald, as did Kier, who held her gloved hand with his.

Dugald’s slow, cautious movements caught her attention. When
he stopped and lifted his face, audibly sniffing the air, the tiny hairs on the
back of her neck shifted…good heavens, were they standing on end?

Kieran was right. The goings-on were indeed uncanny. Her
husband now squeezed her hand before releasing it and went to join Dugald. The
two men exchanged glances laden with meaning. Behind her, strung out on the
trail, the rest of the men dismounted and secured their horses. Some drew
weapons.

She advanced to within a few paces of her husband and his
second. “What?” she asked.

“This place stinks, but not only of the MacReivers.”
Dugald’s glance shifted to a trampled area in the tall grass, now golden in
early autumn.

She looked also.

A body lay there, its dried blood darkening the weeds. She
sucked in a breath and her heart slammed against her breastbone.

Kier approached the corpse. “’Tisnae one of ours,” he said
with relief.

She gulped and followed. It…he was clad in plain dark trews
and a shirt. His black and white shepherd’s plaid, stained with brownish dried
blood, was thrown over his head. A massive wound, which looked as though it had
been made by a large knife, had torn through shirt and gut. She pressed her
lips together. Belly wounds were notorious, the worst way to die, she’d heard
from her father. They were inevitably fatal, but the victim could take a long
time to expire from blood loss, shock or fever.

Not Euan, and her shoulders relaxed a little. This man was
too short and stocky. And Euan always wore a Kilborn plaidie. Guilt flooded her
but couldn’t completely replace the relief she felt. While this man had been
someone’s son, brother or mayhap a husband, he wasn’t Euan. He wasn’t one of
her people.

Kier turned. “All of you, tread carefully,” he said to the
men. “Surround the clearing. Make sure we are not in danger. Owain, Kendrick,
stay with us.”

Heads nodded and warriors obeyed. Owain and Kendrick,
weapons at the ready, followed them as Dugald and Kieran, with Lydia at his
side, explored the clearing.

Clearly the men perceived with more clarity something that
Lydia’s less refined senses could not detect.

Dugald went left and Kieran right, circling the edges of the
clearing, scrutinizing the ground and trees. Her husband, always intense, now
showed a focus she hadn’t seen before. Owain, who stayed with them, didn’t
search but instead kept his head swiveling, watching for enemies. She
appreciated the excellent training that the Kilborn guards exhibited.

Kier stopped so abruptly that she bumped into him. He stood
staring at a tree branch at about the level of his chin. Reaching out, he
detached several…what?

Long strands of red-gold hair.

“Moira,” she breathed.

“Aye.” His voice was grim. “Ye’re right, wife. This isnae
the work of kelpies or krakens.”

“’Tis worse.”

He nodded. “There’s no revenge that a woman willnae take if
she believes she’s been wronged. And Moira’s spirit is a petty, spiteful one.”

“I am quite worried about this, husband.”

“And I also.”

“Kier.” Dugald’s choked cry sounded from across the
clearing.

She turned to behold him dropping to his knees. Kieran
sprinted toward his cousin, stopping short a few feet away. She followed at a
safer pace, stepping over fallen dried logs and…good heavens, was that another
body?

Yes, it was.

But the two men had ignored it in favor of examining
something, or p’raps, someone…something else toward the clearing’s other edge.

She approached, skirting a spill of some dark, evil-smelling
substance she couldn’t identify. Sticks poked out of the stony soil, partially
obscured by the tall golden grass, but when she drew closer, she could see that
they were crude crosses fashioned of tree branches tied together with swatches
of the dried weeds.

P’raps two dozen crosses surrounded a rim of stones shaped
like an oval, mayhap six or seven feet long. A peculiar odor seemed to smother
her like a foul blanket, an odor of scorched meat combined with another stench
she couldn’t identify.

The rocks circled a darkly charred…what?

A darkly charred body. Only the body. Not the head.

Her stomach heaved, but she forced herself to maintain her
composure. She was General Swann’s daughter and Laird Kilborn’s wife. Whoever
had died here would not be desecrated further by her vomit.

She pushed herself to think, to look, to analyze and to
know.

A thick partly burned stick stuck out vertically from what
was left of the corpse where the heart would have been. The body had been
gutted, a long wound carving it from breastbone to pelvis. Looking inside the
cavity, she could see partially cooked organs, thick ropy masses she thought
must be the gut, other mounds that she couldn’t identify.

And smallish pear-shaped bulbs, gone golden-brown and
aromatic from the roasting. Her nose twitched.

Garlic.

Garlic?

A headless body had been burned along with a quantity of
garlic. Good heavens. Had some of the remains been eaten? Were they dealing
with
cannibals
?

Uncanny indeed.

Kier drew his sword as Dugald watched. Both men’s faces were
even paler than usual, set and bleak. She peered more closely as Kieran used
his blade to carefully lift and move parts of the remains.

She could see bits of burned fabric. Some was identifiable.
Dark, heavy cloth she thought might have been trews. Not Moira’s corpse, then.

Kier poked in the ashes, uncovering a round object that
showed a glint of dull metal. “Pewter or silver,” he said. He stooped to pick
it up and rubbed it on his plaidie, before holding it out for both Lydia and
Dugald to see.

A stag’s head surrounded by Celtic knotwork.

Their clan badge.

“Euan,” she whispered. She covered her mouth with a palm.

“Aye.” Dugald’s voice was low and rough. He fell to his
knees and rested his forehead on the ground.

She knelt beside him and put an arm over his shoulders. Not
entirely proper, she knew. Her mother would be scandalized. But the action
seemed right. On Dugald’s other side, Kier did the same.

No one moved for a very long time.

* * * * *

Under Kieran’s direction, a sledlike frame was built of
sturdy branches and covered with a swatch of Kilborn plaid. With great care,
Euan’s body was shifted onto it and covered with another plaid. Four men
carried the makeshift bier. Two were Kier and Dugald.

They began a slow journey back to Kilborn Castle. Lydia’s
mind had gone numb from shock and, looking about, she gathered that everyone
else felt the same way. The procession was absolutely silent but for the
measured thud of the horses’ hooves and the slight jingling of their tack, an
occasional whinny or snort. She couldn’t see her husband’s face or
Dugald’s—they walked ahead of her, leading the group as they carried Euan—but
she could see the slope of Kieran’s shoulders and the tension in his back.

As the day wore on toward night and they approached their
home, her mind began to work again.

She had never seen or heard of anything remotely like the
brutal treatment the MacReivers had meted out to Euan. It was impossible to
tell what exactly had happened, but she guessed that he’d fought several
attackers, bringing down two before he’d been killed. She hoped his death had
been quick, that he’d been beheaded swiftly and hadn’t expired from the wicked
slash down the front of his body or, worse, been burned alive. She believed
that he hadn’t suffered. The body and the ashes in which it lay had been cold,
with no smoldering embers. Euan had been killed and burned the day before
they’d found him, she reasoned.

But what about the horrid desecration of Euan’s remains?
What reason could the MacReivers have had to plant a big stick through his dead
chest, to stuff his body cavity with garlic, to surround it with crosses and to
burn it?

Bad enough that they’d taken away his head, no doubt as a
trophy to show off. Her skin crawled at the thought. She knew that the heads of
criminals were still displayed in the less savory quarters of London, for
ritualized killings of alleged miscreants and felons still took place. But
she’d never seen a head displayed. Disgusting.

And what of Moira? Kier had said that her spirit was petty
and spiteful. It wasn’t difficult for Lydia to put the bits and scraps of
information together. Kier had detected the past presence of MacReivers at the
death site. He’d found strands of Moira’s hair. Euan had been killed and
desecrated there… As Lydia had previously surmised, Moira had indeed left
Kilborn Castle. She’d turned traitor and thrown in her lot with the MacReivers.
She knew where Euan and the others customarily patrolled—along the borders, of
course. Where else?

Lydia eyed Kier’s back and wondered when she should raise
these issues. Best to wait, of course, but how long could she restrain herself?
She was bursting with questions.

They reached the castle at dusk, with Lydia weary to the
bone. Not from the exertions of the day, but from the events and the emotions.
She couldn’t fathom how Kier and Dugald were still standing.

* * * * *

Dinner was a somber affair, with Euan’s body lying in state
in the center of the Great Hall. Kier noticed that no one ate much, and many
tears salted the soup.

Watching his people from his seat at the laird’s high table,
he drank more than he normally did. Beside him, Lydia sat quietly, like a
small, dark shadow, stirring her soup with a spoon.

“Come now, wife,” he said with forced heartiness. “Ye must
keep your strength up. For I may have need of ye tonight.”

She looked at him squarely, and the honesty in her eyes
burned away any pretense.

He leaned toward her and murmured, his voice husky,
“Remember, our confidence is their strength. And lass…I’ll need your comfort
more than ever.”

Turning, she set her hands on his shoulders. “Whate’er you
need, I will give. Whate’er they need, they will have.” She stood and went to
join the mourners around the bier, touching shoulders, wiping away tears,
holding hands.

When she reached Fenella, Lydia placed both palms on the
housekeeper’s wet cheeks before hugging her close in a fierce embrace.

Kier followed, his heart brimming with a welter of
unaccustomed feelings. Pride, pain, worry… He was proud of Lydia, proud of the
way she waded into the maelstrom of emotional Scots surrounding the bier, for
he knew that she’d been raised to be a very private, restrained person. But she
carried out her role as comforter to perfection.

Overwhelming all was his pain. Pain for the loss of his
grand-uncle, for Euan had been the foundation of their lives for three
generations. Pain found a home in his chest, a live, foul monster, trapping his
soul with evil tentacles, crushing it into wee pieces. He rubbed his chest,
then pounded, understanding for the first time the reason that the deeply
grieved did so. They strove to drive out or kill that wicked pain.

Dugald sat quietly nearby, sipping from a tankard. Kier
didn’t say anything, just went over and set his hand on his cousin’s shoulder.
He blinked back hot tears, for ’twouldn’t do for the clan to see him break
down. But his heart was sore rent for the man. The bond between Dugald and his
father had been beyond understanding.

Kier squeezed Dugald’s shoulder, then joined Lydia, who was
vainly trying to comfort Fenella, who had burst into renewed tears. “Och,
milady, milaird, how can ye forgive me?”

“There’s naught to forgive.” Kier spoke firmly.

“How could she?” Fenella asked. “How could that bairn of
mine turn traitor?”

“Fenella. Listen to me.” Lydia gave Fenella a gentle shake
and the frantic weeping stopped. “She wasn’t a bairn. She made bad choices.
That doesn’t mean you were a bad mother. We all know you better than that.”

“Isnae your fault,” Kieran said. “I refuse to allow ye to
blame yourself. In fact, I order ye to cease blaming yourself this minute.”

Fenella visibly pulled herself together. “Aye, milaird.” She
inhaled deeply, pulled her shoulders back and straightened her spine.

“Well done.” He handed her a handkerchief.

“Thank ’ee, milaird.” She retreated to a corner, where she
wiped her cheeks and blew her nose.

Fenella wasn’t the only one suffering. Everyone hurt.
Huddled on a stool near the big fireplace, old Mhairi wept and wailed. She was
now the oldest of their clan, except for Kier’s mad old grandsire hidden in the
Dark Tower.

Worry…here dwelt one of many. How was he going to tell Sir
Gareth that his brother Euan had been killed? And murdered in a way that
revealed that the MacReivers knew all about the Kilborn vampires?

If they hadn’t known before, they did now, Kier realized
grimly. On top of that, who could know what that conniving wench Moira had
said? What did this killing portend for the future of their clan?

Telling Sir Gareth assumed that Kier could find the old
vamp. Euan had been the only one who could navigate the warren of the ancient
keep with any certainty.

Kier sighed, pushed the worries out of his mind and knelt
beside old Mhairi’s stool.

Chapter Seventeen

Later that night, after they’d dried as many tears as they
could, Lydia and Kieran retired to their bedroom. Elsbeth bustled about,
lighting candles and drawing down the bedclothes. Ewers full of hot water
waited, with fragrant, flower-scented steam curling into the air.

“We won’t be needin’ ye any more this eve, Elsbeth,” Kier
said. “Go and seek your rest. And thank ye.”

She nodded and withdrew.

Lydia immediately reached for her husband, tugging off his
shirt and rubbing his knotted muscles. “Take off your clothes and lie down.”

“I’ll have a wash first,” he said, his voice heavy. “I feel
as though I carry the weight of the world.”

She dug her fingertips into his shoulders and he winced.

“Aye,” she said. “I ken that.”

She winked at him and he smiled. They undressed and washed
quietly, speaking only when necessary, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence
but a thoughtful one, she felt.

When he’d obeyed her, she rolled him over and started to rub
scented lotion into his neck and back. His sighs of relief and loosening muscles
told her that what she was doing was right. She took her time, letting her mind
grow still so she could focus on her task, focus on the smoothness of Kier’s
flesh as the knots gave up their tension under her determined fingertips.

As he eased, she wondered if the time was right to bring up
the mysteries that haunted her. When she urged him to lie on his back, she
could tell by the set expression on his face that the answer to her unspoken
question was, “No, not yet
.”
Mayhap never, but she hoped not. For she
couldn’t live without knowing.

Instead, she straddled him and bent over, offering him the
comfort of her breasts. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

“Why?” he asked, his voice muffled by her hair.

She raised her head, startled. Would getting answers be so
easy? “I have been wondering the same myself. ’Twas horrific. I have never seen
or heard of the like. The way his body was treated… What was the meaning of
that, husband?”

He huffed out a breath. “Highlanders…some are verra
ignorant, ye ken? I told ye that ye’d hear tales of bloodthirsty wild warriors
and war-mad berserkers. Some fools believe that certain…rituals will protect
them from us. ’Tis superstitious and silly. Nonsense, ye’d call it.”

She didn’t know if she could accept that explanation, but
for now, she might not be able to get much more from Kieran. “Dangerous
nonsense if it led to…to…”

“Aye.” He rubbed his face and she thought she could see the
shine of tears on his pale cheeks. “But Moira knew better. Didnae she love us? This
was her home! We’re her clan! How could she?”

She settled herself beside him, ready to understand, not
probe. “You said yourself, husband, that hers was a spiteful spirit.”

“Aye, and she has always been so. Spiteful and selfish. When
she was wee, I remember that she would scream for hours if she didnae get her
way.”

“So why did you—”

“She was attractive. Physically, at least. And, she, well…”

Lydia waited, then asked, “Well, what?”

“She was more than willing. Eager. Pushy, even. A young man
finds it hard to resist, do ye ken? And I was young.”

I think that mayhap your lust has got us into a great
deal of trouble.
Was that fair? Probably not, so she didn’t voice the
thought. “How old were you?”

“We were together, on and off, until the old laird and my brother
left to fight for the bonnie prince.” His voice was laden with contempt when he
referred to Charles Edward Stuart. “For then I had to shoulder their duties as
well as my own, so I had no time for a woman, especially for one as demanding
as Moira. She had her moods, ye ken? And then when news of their deaths came—”

“So you broke it off over two years ago.”

“Aye. She wasnae happy about it, but it couldnae be helped.
I thought she understood. She’s been with other men, but…I didnae ken how angry
she was. How spiteful she could be. What she’s done is evil. Traitorous. She’s
struck a blow to our core.”

“I know. Euan was… When I met him, I thought he was like one
of the foundation stones of the castle.”

“Aye, that he was.” Huffing out another breath, he pinched
the bridge of his nose. “How could I have been such a fool?”

“What?”

“I should have seen that this was possible. I should have
known—”

“Nonsense!”

He raised his head. His midnight eyes were shiny, liquid.
“Lass, my decisions have brought great grief to this clan.”

“Possibly, but you can’t blame yourself any more than
Fenella can blame herself.”

“I fear that this murder will bring neighboring clans down
on us. They ken Euan’s value. They ken that his loss will tear out the heart of
us. I’m worried.”

“About war?” She did not know how her voice remained steady.
Inside, a part of her she hadn’t known existed went deadly still, as though it
were poised and waiting, even while her heart kicked and plunged against her
ribs. She’d never experienced an emotion like this. Was this how her father had
felt before leaving them to battle for England?

“Aye, and about…other matters.”

“What are they?”

“I’ve led my clan into grave danger. I’ve let them down.”
His voice was low, rough, tense.

“How? What would you have done differently?”
Other than
not tup that selfish witch.

“I dinnae ken, and that is the trouble. Every decision I’ve
made was right, at the time. But—”

“They seem to have spawned unexpected results and a dubious
future. You can’t help it, Kier.”

“’Tis my fault.”

“You couldn’t predict how Euan would punish her. And Euan
couldn’t control what happened to her in the tower. You still don’t know what
went on.”

“According to Euan, ’twasn’t fatal. And not entirely
unpleasant to a woman of Moira’s…inclinations.”

Lydia swallowed against the knot in her throat and shoved
aside the persistent but unwelcome images of Moira and her husband naked
together. That was the past. The even more unwelcome image of Moira coupling
with the mad creature in the Dark Tower came to mind. She considered it and
asked, “Has anyone else been locked in the old keep as punishment before?”

“Occasionally, for transgressions that were great but didnae
warrant banishment or death.”

“So Moira knew it was a possibility.”

“Aye.”

“So the punishment fit the crime.”

“Possibly. But—”

She slid an arm over his shoulder. “Dinnae fash yerself,
Highlander. Ye’re mighty but cannae predict and shape the future.”

He smiled at her accent, which she guessed was more amusing
than authentic. She continued, choosing her words carefully, using what she
hoped was a quiet, calming tone of voice. “No one could have predicted that she
would have left at all, and no one could have guessed she’d go to the
MacReivers rather than the Gwynns or the Sutherlands or any other clan hereabouts.”

“’Tis true.”

“And no one could have imagined the awful revenge she took
on Euan.”

“Och, Euan…” Kier again rubbed his face, and buried his head
between her breasts.

“Tell me about him. I didn’t know him for very long. What
was your first memory of Euan?” She stroked his back.

“He’s always been with us… I cannae truly remember. My first
memory of anything is eating in the Great Hall. That could be my imagination,
ye ken? For every day of my life I have eaten and supped in the same room, but
for my travels to the Lowlands. But I remember sitting in Euan’s lap, with him
feeding me porridge.”

“Where were your father and brother?”

“We were all at the high table, with my da watching Ranald
and Dugald, and Euan feeding me.”

“Who was Dugald’s mother?”

“She was a MacLeod of Lewis, a sweet woman, name of
Catriona. She died when Dugald was small.”

“I remember the night I got here you told me that Fenella
came here with Catriona.”

“Aye. Ye’ve a good memory.”

“So you were very close to Euan?”

“Aye. I loved my da and my brother, of course, and they
loved me, but truth to tell, they were closer friends to each other than to me.
They were well matched in temperament and…inclinations. So Euan and I were
close, because my mam died when I was so wee.”

“I remember that you once said that you and Ranald had
planned that he’d be the brawn and you the brains. So the old laird and Ranald
were, um…more physical than you? I can’t imagine it.”

He smiled. “My da could read, but disliked it. He had no
head for figures, either. Euan has kept the clan’s records for as long as I can
remember.”

“But you studied at university, didn’t you?”

“Aye. I will take over that task now that Euan’s…gone.” His
voice broke, and he again buried his face in her hair.

She tightened her arm around his heaving shoulders and held
him close, letting his tears seep into her soul, owning them, owning him.

Weak? Some might say so. But she was honored and humbled by
the trust this strong, powerful man gave her, and she’d never loved him more.

She began to make love to him, slowly but without any
hesitation. He was her man and she knew what he needed.

With Kier on his back, she leaned over him, resting her
forearms on the pillow on either side of his head, caging him. She pressed her
breasts over his face, rotating the soft rounds slowly over his cheeks. At this
late hour, the beard that had begun to shadow his jaw gently abraded her
nipples. They stiffened to sharp, needy points.

As he began to respond, licking and sucking, the heat in
them built and she moaned, letting her hips undulate over his solid torso. Her
pearl pressing against his muscles urged forth her sigh, deep and weighted by
desire. Her limbs trembling, she slid down his body until she could enjoy his
mouth with hers.

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.