TemptationinTartan (5 page)

“Aye.” He grinned back. “Ye’ll do.”

That night they ate wild salmon garnished with mushrooms,
with the men suspiciously scraping the fried morsels from their fish.

The journey was uneventful until they passed Fort William, a
locale they circled warily due to the presence of numerous Redcoats. The
country grew even higher and wilder with the herds of sheep, plentiful in the
Lowlands, thinning. Inns were fewer and at night Lydia found herself bundled in
plaids with her husband, sharing his warmth as they slept under the stars. Out
in the wild Highlands, she and Kieran ate from the same bowl, shared a spoon,
even bathed together, shivering in the same icy streams. Unable or unwilling to
shave, Kieran gradually turned into the image of the shaggy, wild Highlander
she’d feared marrying. She found she enjoyed this new persona and often rubbed
her face against his when they kissed.

She discovered that the rugged informality of their situation
created a deep intimacy that she’d felt only with her brother and his family.
But her emotions toward her husband were anything but fraternal.

On one such night, they lay together snuggling for warmth,
Lydia clad in her shift and heavy stockings, Kier in his shirt and trews.

“Look.” He pointed up. The stars shone numerous and bright
in the moonless sky. Then a streak shot across the dark, velvety heavens.

“A shooting star! I’ve never seen one before.”

“They’re plentiful here, awa’ from the lights of the city.
Next month we’ll see many, if the fog allows it.”

“Fog?”

“Aye. Kilborn Castle is on the coast, and there are times we
dinnae see the sun for many days. But dinnae worry.” He wrapped his arm around
her. “I’ll keep ye cozy and warm.”

Crawling atop him, she rubbed her face into his chest,
enjoying the feel of his soft linen shirt against her cheek. He undid the two
top buttons and, taking the unspoken invitation, she nuzzled his chest, seeking
his nipples. She’d discovered that Kier’s were as sensitive as hers, and had
also found that she enjoyed playing with them.

She sucked one into a hard nubbin, then softly licked it
into quiescence. Hard, then soft, switching from one to the other, over and
over again. Kier’s arousal nestled between her thighs, thickening with every
pass of her tongue, every nip of her teeth, every twitch of her lips.

She slid lower down his body, relishing the play of his
muscles against her skin. Raising her head, she said, “I’m shy about…” She
looked at their companions, snoring lumps bundled in plaids around the
campfire.

“Come wi’ me, lass.” He stood and took her hand.

She should have been frightened, walking in darkness so
complete she couldn’t see her feet on the ground. But Kieran must have had a
cat’s night vision, for he steered her around every obstacle until they reached
the center of a thicket of trees.

He sprawled onto the grass. “Lie atop me, love.”

Instead, she knelt between his legs, fumbling for the laces
of his trews.

“Och, so that’s the way of it tonight?” Delight infused his
chuckle.

She nuzzled his cods, easily accessible beneath his rising
cock, enjoying the soft scratchiness of his sex hair along with the aroma of
midnight and potent male. His sigh of bliss encouraged her, so she ran her
tongue up his length, then down as his pole lengthened.

“Ah, ye’re killing me.”

Lifting her head, she smiled. “A happy death, I hope.”

“Och, aye.” Another sigh as her husband lay back on the
ground. She sensed his relaxation, his acceptance of her bold moves, and she
was glad. He was hers—hers completely as she explored his member anew, licking
softly before she plunged her mouth over his cock, taking him deep and fast.

His body jerked and every muscle that had relaxed snapped
tight. He thrust into her mouth and she pulled back, her lips around his
cockhead, her fist gripping his rod’s base. He pulsed in her hand and his hips
pumped. A ragged cry of release tore from his throat when his seed spurted into
her mouth.

What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with this?

Lacking other quick options, she swallowed as fast as she
could as he continued coming. Salty and sweet…good, but… A pang of regret
needled her. His seed should be inside her quim, giving her a baby.

Difficult, though, to feel unhappy because she’d pleased her
husband so. The moon’s cool rays, broken by the trees surrounding them, dappled
his body—a sculpted cheekbone, his chest, his cock flaccid but still remarkable
in its male beauty and strength.

He hoisted himself up to a sitting position and reached for
her, kissing first her forehead, then her cheek, ending with her lips before
holding her close for a long, long time.

Chapter Seven

The procession made good progress through the clear summer
mornings and the long afternoons. They passed deserted crofts and villages, with
many burned out. “The clearances,” Kieran explained tersely, and for the first
time Lydia was ashamed of her English heritage.

The days passed and she hoped they approached journey’s end.
One misty morn, she fancied she scented the tang of salt air and sensed breezes
from the sea fresh on her face. She knew she didn’t imagine a new tension in
her husband and his men.

She urged her mount closer to Kieran’s. “What’s wrong?” she
asked.

His shoulders set tight. “We draw close to home but must
pass near MacReiver lands.” He raised his head, sniffed and frowned as though
offended.

She remembered he had scented her, um…womanhood when they’d
met. “What do you smell?”

“Nothing good. Cleanliness isn’t valued hereabouts.”

“Aren’t the reivers border thieves?”

“They’re here also. They dinnae grow much themselves, but
steal from others. We’ve been at war for many a long year, they stealing our
sheep while we attack and kill a few of them.” He offered a rueful smile. “’Twill
probably continue ’til the end of time.”

The procession approached a group of shabby huts, p’raps ten
in all, spread about haphazardly with no plan, rhyme or reason. Narrow tracks,
just wide enough for a small cart, wound through the low, stinking crofts. The
village exuded a stench that even Lydia could smell, an aroma compounded of
animals, feces, urine and smoke. Both Kieran and Dugald covered the lower
halves of their faces with handkerchiefs as they passed.

Skinny hens scratched in the dirt with even skinnier
children, ill-clad, squatting. They toyed with rounded pebbles and sticks—some
kind of game, Lydia imagined. A low, crumbling stone circle enclosed what
looked like a well, for a stake leaning over it held a bucket.

An elderly woman with thinning white hair and a threadbare
shawl came out of one of the huts. Her apron was gray with grime. Her feet were
bare, black with filth and gnarled below a raggedly hemmed skirt. Spying them,
she sucked in a breath. The shape of her grimace said that her gums lacked
teeth. The wizened old woman crossed herself and shooed the children into the
rude shelter. Crude symbols were drawn in whitewash on the door’s lintels, and
the door itself was crowned with an ancient braid of what looked like garlic.

“What was that about?” Lydia asked Kieran.

He shrugged. “A superstitious fool. Sassenachs…well, your
people have an unsavory reputation hereabouts. Unholy, even. And ye’ll hear
many things about my family, lass.”

Her hands involuntarily clenched on her reins and her
gelding shied.

“I imagine ye already have,” he said, his tone cynical. “The
usual bunk about bloodthirsty wild Highlanders or, p’raps, mad berserker
warriors?”

“Well, yes.”

“Ignore it all. Believe the truth of your own eyes, lassie.
They’re not only beautiful but reliable.” He smiled at her.

She tried to put the incident out of her mind, but because
it was repeated in every village, she couldn’t.

* * * * *

Early the next afternoon, they passed through a wooded glen.
From behind her, Lydia heard the scream of an animal in pain followed by
shouts. Swords clanged. Without hesitation, Kieran shouted, “Ride!” and whipped
her gelding on the flank. He turned his horse toward the fight while Lydia
clung to her galloping mount. She bent over his head to encourage him and
heard, to her shock, a bang followed by a whizzing sound above her.

Good heavens. Had that been a pistol ball? Was someone
shooting at her?

In front of her, a big man absurdly mounted on a Highland
pony brandished a pistol. “Get off your horse, lady, or I’ll shoot ye where ye
stand.”

“I’m not standing!” She spurred her horse directly at the
brigand. Her gelding raced toward him, then deftly sidestepped the obstruction.
She caught a glimpse of a grubby, torn shirt and dirtier trews on a
greasy-haired, broken-toothed lout.

She heard a shout in Gaelic behind her—Kieran?—and slowed
her mount, heading into a thicket to hide. Then she turned her horse to look.

Kieran galloped his bay straight at the bandit, who shouted,
“A MacReiver! A MacReiver! Agin the
diabhol
!” and shot at her husband.
Fear seized her as a bright patch of blood bloomed on his gelding’s chest.

Kier leaped from his falling mount and, sword high, swept it
across the MacReiver’s torso. He dropped to one side, toppling off his pony.
Kieran pursued, reaching for Lydia’s attacker and seizing his head. With a
mighty twist, Kieran tore it off. Fountains of blood leaped from the
MacReiver’s neck.

Lydia’s brain stammered to a stop while her heart tried to
leap out of her chest.

Flinging the head aside, Kieran caught the red flowing tide
in his mouth. Blood seeped into his black beard and the muscles in his throat
flexed as he drank.

Her hold on the reins loosened as her world tilted, fell
away and turned black. The last thing she remembered was her husband’s
laughter.

* * * * *

She awoke stiff and sore, stretched on a cold verge, which
she guessed was stony, based on the myriad jabbing pains in her back. Hearing
the splash of water on her right, she turned her head to behold her husband,
naked to the waist, kneeling near a shallow stream. Nearby, her gelding
peacefully nibbled at the few stray blades of grass growing amongst the
pebbles.

Kieran bent, thrust his head into the pool and, withdrawing
it, shook so that water droplets flew off the ends of his hair.

Some splattered over Lydia and she sat up.

He rinsed his bloodstained shirt in the pond, then draped it
over a nearby bush. The water floating away was tinged with red.

He seemed so ordinary, so…Kieran. She knew she hadn’t
imagined what had happened, but…

She rubbed her hand over her damp cheeks, then on her skirt.
Her fingers came away damp and…and reddish. Blood. Whose blood? Hers or someone
else’s?

The memory of a geyser of thick red fluid gouting from the
beheaded MacReiver tore across her mind. Her stomach roiled. She leaned to one
side and heaved up her lunch. Wiping her lips with a shaky palm, she crawled
over to the pool.

Kieran came to her side to help her rinse the sourness out
of her mouth and wash her face. His gentleness seemed so at odds with the beast
who’d…who’d…

Her mind shunted away from the awful truth before she forced
it back. She shoved her fear and horror beneath anger. “What the bloody hell
just happened?”

“Language, my lady wife. Keep it up and I’ll have to take
steps.” The lightness in his voice sounded forced.

She’d have none of it. “Answer the question.”

He sighed. “What do ye remember?”

“I remember you ripping off someone’s head and drinking his
blood.” She gave him a hard stare. “But that can’t be the case, can it?”

He winced. “Aye, I’m afeared that it can.”

“You told me those legends were false.”

“I never said that.” He stared back, holding her gaze with
his dark, impenetrable eyes. Though frightened of the savage lurking within her
normally kind husband, she didn’t move. “Look, lass, I’m as surprised as ye.”

“I greatly doubt that.” She now doubted a number of things,
such as the wisdom of her marriage.

“Truly. I had thought that my father and brother were the
violent ones.” He plopped onto the stony ground next to her.

“P’raps they were, but the same blood runs in your veins.”

Blood.

The word evoked the shocking memory
. My husband tore off
a man’s head and drank his blood.

She edged away.

“That’s so. I cannae explain it, lass, but when I turned and
saw that brute fire at ye…” He shuddered. “I dinnae ken what happened! I felt a
red mist pass over my eyes, and I simply…went for him.”

“You didn’t merely, um…go for him. You—”

“I ken what I did!” He dropped his head into his hands,
scrubbing his pale cheeks with trembling knuckles before looking up. “Lassie,
have ye ever witnessed a battle, or even a fight?”

She shook her head.

“’Tis a messy business. In Edinburgh, I’ve seen paintings of
warfare, with neat rows of uniformed soldiers lined up, each on opposite sides
of a field, firing at each other from a distance. ’Tisn’t that way, not here.”
He turned an unsmiling face toward her. “Firearms are few, so fights are hand
to hand, with claymore, sword or dirk, and are to the death. ’Tis ugly and
brutal. I’m sorry ye had to see such brutality, but I’ll not apologize for
protecting what’s mine.”

He reached out and touched her cheek.

“And I’m yours.”

“Aye, ye’re mine. And I’m yours, always.”

She couldn’t deny the truth of his possession. Since they’d
met, she’d become more aware of her body than ever before. Awake or asleep, her
quim always throbbed with an unstopping beat, juicy and alive with lust. Her
breasts had become heavy and full, with puckered, sensitive nipples pressing
against her shift, seeming to push against her stays in an impossible bid for
freedom. She’d allowed him to take her in any way he pleased, and had enjoyed
all. In her turn, she’d performed acts on his body she’d never before imagined.

Kieran kept her in a constant state of arousal. When they
were in company, his stare lingered on her lips, breasts and backside, palpable
as his touch. When they were alone, even if she was clothed, his hands often
explored the places he stripped with his stare. He didn’t consider any part of
her body off-limits to any part of his, often fondling the crease and rosette
between her buttocks during those few times they found isolation enough for
intimacy.

At first she’d resisted those caresses, both verbally and by
her body’s reluctance. But his touch was so gentle, so skilled—everything
William’s hadn’t been—that she soon became accustomed to intrusions she’d
previously rejected during her first marriage. Even so, she wasn’t sure she
could truly enjoy the sensation of her bottom being invaded by Kieran’s knowing
hands.

She did not know who or what she was becoming. She
recognized General Swann’s daughter in the way she’d managed the rigors of
their travels and in the manner in which she’d confronted her husband’s
ferocity—ferocity that had emerged in her defense.

But as for the womanliness she’d discovered in herself…that
was another matter entirely. She was changing, blooming, blossoming into some
exotic flower she’d never seen or even heard of.

Behind her, a man cleared his throat. She turned to see
Dugald with Elsbeth bobbing behind him, concern on her round face.

“Aye, what is it?” Kieran asked.

“Milaird, the rest of the MacReivers have fled and our
injured have been tended. We’re ready to move on and should reach home by
nightfall if we dinnae tarry.” He handed Kieran a clean, dry shirt and
retrieved the wet one.

Elsbeth whipped out a hairbrush and set to rearranging
Lydia’s hair, then found her hat, which had rolled away when she’d fallen off
her mount.

“Are ye ready? Let’s go, then.” Kieran stood and reached
down for Lydia’s hand.

She took it, wondering at herself and at Dugald. Surely the
man must know what had happened, yet he treated Kieran with even greater
deference than he’d shown before…before…

“What about the bodies?” she asked tightly.

Both men looked at her. “We usually leave them,” Dugald
said. “As a warning.”

He knew. Kieran’s men knew what their laird had done and
accepted it. Welcomed it, p’raps.

“I’ll need a mount,” Kier said to Dugald. He thrust his arms
into the clean shirt.

“I’ll bring mine.”

Kieran raised his brows. “Ye’ll allow me to ride Sentry? ’Tis
an honor.”

“After yer deed this day, there is no honor ye dinnae
deserve,” the other man said formally. He saluted. “Blood for the clan.”

“Blood for the clan.” Kieran’s repetition of the phrase
seemed significant.

“Is that some sort of Kilborn motto?” she asked.

“Aye, exactly that.” He led her to her gelding and helped
her onto it.

Lydia remained in a pensive mood for the rest of the ride to
Kilborn Castle, reliving the horrific event, worrying about what she’d seen and
occasionally stealing glances at Kier’s calm face as he rode beside her.

If she hadn’t witnessed her husband killing the MacReiver in
such a terrifying manner she would not have believed that such an act could
take place. How much force did it require to tear off a person’s head? Kieran
must be far stronger than an ordinary man, she mused.

She sneaked yet another peek at his serene profile as he
easily managed Dugald’s gray, a restive mount, with ease, confidence and even a
little humor as he talked to Sentry in a combination of English and Gaelic that
the horse seemed to understand.

Kier was a puzzle, a man wrapped in mysteries and shadow,
far more so than William had been. For that matter, marriage itself was a
mystery, she realized, with its main part consisting of discovery following
upon discovery, like opening a jewel box to find all manner of strange marvels
within.

* * * * *

Lydia eyed a row of what she believed were Celtic crosses,
massive stone sculptures elaborately carved. Beyond the division, a rolling
meadow dotted with sheep ended abruptly with a flat gray expanse beyond.

Kieran drew his horse up next to hers. “These mark the
boundary of our lands.”

She pointed at the dull gray mass, which was only
occasionally dotted by shining patches. “Is that…the sea?”

“It is. Have ye never before seen it?”

“No.” She was curiously drawn to the water. And far to the
north, still on the coast, she thought she could see a dark smudge perched high
on a cliff. She pointed at it. “And what’s that?”