TemptationinTartan (10 page)

* * * * *

“I don’t know what came over me,” Lydia said much later. “I
used to be so…”

“Ladylike? Restrained?”

“Yes. My family used to call me Lydia Lambkin, I was so
meek.”

“Lydia Lambkin?” He raised his brows. “I’ve never found ye
meek. How did ye learn some of the language ye use?”

“My brother and my father were, um…not always perfect
gentlemen in their private utterances.”

“Well, I dinnae ken what came over ye either, but ye can do
it anytime.” Kier sent her a lascivious smile.

“I wasn’t sure you liked it.”

He stretched languorously. “I ken I like ye atop of me,
doing more of the work.” He winked at her.

“It wasn’t work.” She smiled back.

“Glad to hear it. Breakfast?” he asked.

“Can we eat here? If we go to the Great Hall, I’ll have to
stand.”

“Moira, also, I reckon.” He laughed.

“What do you think people will say?”

“Dinnae fash yersel’. Each one of us has been thrashed many
a time.”

“You also?”

He chuckled ruefully. “Especially me. Not with the sex, ye
ken.” He tweaked her ear, played with a curl. “But when I was a wee laddie, my
brother and I got into mischief aplenty, and suffered the consequences. As did
all of us. Dinnae worry.” He touched her neck. “I did bite ye deep. ’Twill
cause comment, to be sure, should we go to the Great Hall this morn. But ye
heal fast.”

“I’m not experienced, but…it does seem a peculiar habit of
yours.” She remembered some of the hints Moira had tossed out.

He smiled, a bit uneasily, she thought. “Taking yer blood?”

“Yes. Blood for the clan, indeed.”

“’Tis just that…every part of ye is delicious to me. The dew
of your quim, the taste of your mouth, the flavor of your blood. Do ye not
enjoy tasting my seed?”

Memories of sucking him to completion, his salty-sweetness
flooding her mouth, overwhelmed her and she closed her eyes. “Yes, greatly.”

“Dinnae force me to make a show of ye again, lassie,
please,” he whispered.

Opening her eyes, she gathered her courage. “Then you must
tell me who he was. The man I saw.”

“Ye met him?” Shock infused Kier’s voice.

“I saw a man in a bed. He was…he seemed very old.”

Kier closed then opened his eyes, apparently marshaling his
thoughts. “I, ah…we have a mad old relative. He’s…he can be violent, so we… I
cannae hurt him, ye ken, he’s one of us, so we try to keep him locked in the
tower. I look in on him once in a while, to see how he tarries.”

Lydia stared at her husband and wondered. She was almost
certain that he was telling the truth, but how much of it, she didn’t know.
“He’s violent? He attacks people? How? He seems so old.”

“Old doesnae mean weak, not if ye’re a Kilborn. Look at
Euan.”

She nodded. “True. I’ve seen Euan do jobs I’d expect of a
younger man. Would he…the man in the tower…have hurt me? Killed me?”

“Nay, he…likes women. I dinnae ken of a time he’s killed a
woman.”

“He would have…” Words failed her.

“Aye. Possibly. I trust that the lesson was learned.” He
gazed at Lydia, his thoughts unfathomable, and stepped to the door. “I’ll order
breakfast and a bath for us both.”

Chapter Twelve

Seamas MacReiver rarely found himself venturing onto Kilborn
lands these days. After Kieran Kilborn had killed his brother, the laird,
Seamas had been forced to assume responsibility for the clan until his nephew
came of age and could lead. Until then, Seamas’ formerly carefree life hunting
Clan Kilborn’s game and lifting the occasional Kilborn sheep was over.

But he still led the odd raiding party or two and
occasionally slipped away from his duties to hunt. After all, clan borders were
debatable, and if a stray ewe wandered…well, then, why not? Unlike the
Kilborns, the MacReivers were poor.

This day a magnificent stag, fully fourteen points, had
splashed through a stream before Seamas had been ready and he’d tracked the
beast far from home into an area of the forest he knew wasn’t under his
command.

He trod warily, slipping from tree to tree, mindful of the
fearsome reputations of the lairds of Kilborn—their fierceness in battle, their
odd longevity, their uncontrollable desire to drink human blood.

Scant weeks ago, Seamas had dismissed the rumors as gossip
and myth. Berserker blood drinkers…ha! Only the superstitious and the silly
believed in such twaddle. And when the old laird and his heir hadn’t returned
from Culloden, Seamas’ doubt in the supernatural traits of the Kilborns had
been reinforced. If the Kilborns were something other than men, something
stronger, he reasoned, they would not have died at Culloden regardless of the
carnage.

Then his brother had plotted to raid the Kilborn procession
and kidnap the Sassenach wench, the new Lady Kilborn. She’d bring a rich
ransom, the Laird MacReiver had reckoned. The few men who returned from that
debacle had reported seeing Kieran Kilborn tear apart Seamas’ brother and drink
the living blood flowing from his neck. Seamas shuddered at the image their
stories created. His poor, helpless brother beheaded, his blood sucked by that
monster… Seamas had sworn an oath to kill the devil’s spawn, Kieran Kilborn,
and destroy his clan.

But how? Kieran was canny, and as protective of his people,
lands and sheep as he was of his wealthy Sassenach wife. Groups of his
well-trained guards daily patrolled Kilborn borders, led by Laird Kieran
himself or his seconds, Dugald and Euan. Dugald was himself a strong and hearty
man, a Kilborn cousin and endowed with their unnatural power.

And auld Euan…though Seamas was hidden behind a tree, he
again shuddered with unmanly dread. Old as the glens and tough as an oak, Euan
had been a threatening presence all Seamas’ life. MacReiver mothers used Euan
as a threat to their wee ones to keep them in line. “Dinnae eat that pie—auld
Euan’ll get ye!”

Seamas had seen his brother’s bloody, decapitated body. He
now knew the tales to be true.

He’d sworn an oath, but how to fulfill it? Unsuccessful
raiding parties had robbed the MacReivers of many of their best warriors. Their
numbers thinned of all but the bairns and women, and p’raps a couple of dozen
men, they weren’t capable of mounting a frontal attack upon the more powerful
clan.

And Kilborn Castle had never been taken. Set high on a
cliff, protected by the sea, earthworks and tall, stony walls, triple-towered,
the massive fortress was well protected by design as well as by scores of
trained guards. Seamas did not regret his hasty oath, but carrying it out would
take much planning and warcraft.

But he had a lifetime to contemplate revenge, and if he did
not succeed, his brother’s heir would.

He dropped to his knees and crawled out of the tree’s
shelter, planning to cross a clearing hidden by tall grass. A pool lay between
him and the stag, and the waters clattering over pebbles at one end of the
placid surface would hide the noise of his approach.

He slithered on his belly through the grass, recalling
childhood memories of pretending he was quiet and stealthy as a wee slinking
nathair
.
When he reached the water’s edge, he longed to imitate a frog and belch, but
then the stag would surely be lost.

But what was this? A maiden floating in the pool, so still
that the stag, drinking on the opposite bank, took no notice of her.

Seamas leapt to his feet with a startled cry and the stag
took flight. The naked woman in the water didn’t shift even a bit.

Who was she? And was she dead or alive?

He ventured closer to see her long hair spread out over the
water. It was dark…could she be a Kilborn? Her skin was unnaturally white—all
over—the same moon-pale shade that the evil clan shared. Her breasts floated at
the surface, the nipples tight and hard from the chill.

His rod swelled and he chastised himself for reacting thus
to what could be a corpse. He hoped not, for she was a beauty.

A shaft of sunlight split the air, showing him that her hair
was red. Not a Kilborn, then, for they all shared the same midnight tresses.

He walked into the tarn, reached down and pulled on her
hand, dragging her to the bank. She was a limp, dead weight and he feared the
worst.

At the bank, he rolled her onto her side and pushed at her
ribcage. Water spewed from her open mouth. She began to cough.

Relief flooded him, but only then did he see she’d been
whipped, for five weals laddered the back of each thigh. Her plump arse had
been abused also. Though the skin wasn’t broken, bruises discolored her flesh.

What had happened to this poor, pretty lassie?

On her side, with her head tilted toward the ground, her
neck was stretched and exposed. Two tiny, dark punctures marred her skin,
otherwise bluish with cold.

Seamas’ fists clenched as though they were around Kieran
Kilborn’s throat.

* * * * *

Moira struggled to her hands and knees, trying to remember
what had happened. She vaguely remembered leaving the castle, too angry and
terrified to remain in a place that was no longer safe for her. She’d wandered
through the forest and, when she’d found a pool, had decided to bathe away the
horrors of the night.

The icy water must have caused her to faint, she supposed,
coughing.

A hand slapped her naked back and she flinched away with a
cry.

“Dinnae fash yourself, lassie. I mean ye no harm.”

Turning her head, Moira beheld a brown-haired, blue-eyed,
ruddy-skinned man, physically the complete opposite of a Kilborn. She heaved a
sigh of relief and again began to cough.

When she was able to control herself, she looked once more.
He was clad in worn but serviceable garb—brown leather trews, battered boots
and a shirt topped with a black and white shepherd’s plaidie. Definitely not a
Kilborn. Her clan, because of Kieran Kilborn’s marriage to the Sassenach
general’s daughter, still wore their tartan. Other clans had adopted the plain
shepherd’s plaid under threat of death from the Lobsterbacks.

“Who are ye?” she croaked.

“Seamas MacReiver. And ye, lass?” His gaze strayed to her
neck.

Moira thought fast. The name Kilborn would get her raped and
killed by a MacReiver, given what her laird had done to theirs. “Moira
Cameron.” The Camerons, distant relations by marriage, were a large and
influential clan. She guessed there had to be at least a score of Cameron women
named Moira. Her story would be impossible to disprove.

“How came ye here?”

She didn’t know what to say and affected another bout of
coughing until she’d worked out what to say. “I, er…came with the new Lady
Kilborn. I was her maid.”

“Och, aye… I need not ask who did this to ye.”

He stroked her throat with gentle fingers, as though shy to
lay his hand upon her. She appreciated that.

He went on, “No doubt ’twas that
diabhol
Kieran
Kilborn.”

Moira hesitated, for Seamas MacReiver was staring at her
neck. She knew from long experience that when telling a tale it was best to
keep it as close as possible to the truth. “Nay, ’twas that nightspawn Euan
Kilborn.”

“Auld Euan? He’s still alive, then? Och, he must be older
than the mountains.”

“Aye, and with a soul darker than the caves.”

“And these?” He ran a finger over her thighs.

“He…he forced me.” She blinked to force tears into her eyes.
“Laird Kieran. And when
she
found out…”

“Ah, I ken.” Seamas nodded.

“I was beaten and locked in the auld keep. With
him
.”

“Auld Euan?”

“Nay.” She drooped her head so he couldn’t see her face,
because she couldn’t create more tears, and instead affected shaking shoulders.
It wasn’t hard, considering her memories. “There’s a…
thing
…in the
tower.”

“Ah…so the legends are true. There’s a blood drinker in the
auld keep.”

She raised her head and nodded. “Aye.”

His brow wrinkled. “Know that I have sworn to destroy Kieran
Kilborn for murderin’ my brother.”

“Who was he?”

“My brother was the chieftain of Clan MacReiver.”

* * * * *

Triumph flooded Moira. Here was her instrument of revenge.
She shunted aside her nagging conscience, which told her sternly that her
manipulation of Lady Lydia could have led her laird’s wife to her death. She
bowed her head. “I’ll aid ye if I can, milaird.”

He chuckled ruefully. “Nay, not milaird. I act only on
behalf of the new young laird, a lad of only ten summers. When he comes of age,
he will lead.”

Not if I can help it.
Moira had nearly orchestrated
Lady Lydia’s demise… How difficult could it be to dispose of a ten-year-old
boy?

“With your testimony, I can go to Clan Gwynn,” Seamas said.
“They’re of a religious bent and rightly fear the evil Kilborns.”

She raised her head. Though his mien was serious, his gaze
nevertheless fell on her with desire, his glance stroking her breasts and
lingering on her long red hair.

Seamas MacReiver, acting chieftain of his clan, could be
controlled.

By her. She tried to hide the blaze of power that flared
through her, but a heated flush spread up from her throat to sweep her cheeks.

He set a gentle hand on her forehead. “Ye’re feverish. I’d
best get some food into ye, and soon.” He wrapped her in the plaidie and lifted
her.

Although she was a sturdy girl, solidly built, he was a big
man and carried her with ease. His stride was even and sure despite the rough
track he followed. She tried to stay awake and aware, for she didn’t know if
she should trust a MacReiver. Nevertheless, overcome with exhaustion, she fell
asleep.

* * * * *

Lydia was awakened by a giggling Elsbeth who, accompanied by
one of Kieran’s more attractive guards, delivered a bath full of steaming water
and tucked it behind the reed screen. But Lydia didn’t want to leave the warm,
cozy bed and said so.

“Ye will,” Kieran said firmly. “For ye’ll feel better for a
bath. Are ye not sticky? I am.”

“You shouldn’t be. I bathed you with my tongue, did I not?”

He smiled, a look of reminiscence in his onyx gaze. “Aye, ye
did, and verra pleasant it was. But lassie, truly, a bath is what ye need. The
warm water will soothe ye.”

He got out of bed and bent to slide careful arms beneath her
without contacting her sore buttocks. After he lowered her into the water,
which was sprinkled with dried herbs and flower petals, she touched her feet to
the bottom of the tub to control her descent.

He was right. The water did soothe her hurts. She hadn’t
realized it, but during the punishment all her muscles had tightenedto
an unbearable degree. Even her many releases hadn’t relieved all the tension,but now her body relaxed.

And Kieran helped, tenderl
y
running a soapy cloth
over her, using it to caress her breasts, her quim, her arse. Bending her
forward, he used his smallest finger, coated with slippery soap, to cleanse her
inside and out. She found his ministrations gently erotic and caring, even as
thering of sensitive flesh tingled.

“Ye say ye dinnae like it,” he said, his voice rough, “but
feel how your wee flower clings to me.”

She breathed deeply and let herself open to her emotions.
Lust and joy, yes, but an ache in her chest that, while diminishing, still
lingered. Tears gathered in her eyes.

“I dinnae understand your shame,” he told her.

“It’s, um…William, I suppose.” She blinked the annoying
wetness away. “He didn’t care about how I felt, but even when you were so
angry, even when you were beating me, you cared.”

He turned her around so she had to face him. “I do more than
care. I love ye, Lydia, do ye nae ken?” He kissed her eyes and damp cheeks.

She shifted her glance. “I forgot that yesterday.”

“Did ye and William nae talk?”

“No.”

“Why did ye marry him?” There was no criticism in his
question, but true curiosity.

“He wooed me very sweetly.” William had been attentive. The
day after they’d met at a ball, and every day thereafter, he’d haunted her
family’s London townhouse, sending her flowers and gifts daily, taking her for
rides in Hyde Park, claiming her attention at every opportunity.

“The way I wooed ye?” His glance was knowing, tinged with a
little flirtation.

“Good heavens, no. He was entirely proper.”

Kieran shouted with laughter and she joined him briefly
before sobering. “But everything changed after we married.”

“He went off to war and neglected ye.”

“Yes, and when he was home, he seemed…distant and
preoccupied. Not like you at all.”

He smiled but she thought she discerned a little worry in
his expression. “Talk to me. Tell me before ye do something as foolish again as
enter the auld keep. Promise me.”

“I promise.” But even as the words flowed naturally from her
lips, she wondered why he demanded such a promise. Were there more secrets
beyond the freakish denizen of the Dark Tower?

* * * * *

Lydia ate standing, at an hour when the Great Hall was
thankfully deserted, with the clan working. Kier disappeared briefly before
showing up holding a large basket covered by a quilt. “Come,” he said.