TemptationinTartan (14 page)

She closed her eyes and slid a finger inside her clenching,
gripping channel, groaning as the walls oozed honey. Heat began to gather. She
imagined Seamas. His hard, muscular body was nude, his cock red and rampant.
Ready, with a shining droplet clinging to the tip.

She’d kneel and take it into her mouth…or would she? If she
were playing the innocent, she couldn’t. Not until she invented a plausible
story to explain how she knew about sucking a man’s cock.

“Oh, milaird,” she’d simper. “Look at that…thing! What shall
I do?”

“Come here, lass,” he’d say, voice commanding. “On your
knees.”

She’d obey. His sizable cock would bob in front of her lips,
then push against them, demanding entrance.

She’d look up at Seamas through her lashes with a coy,
questioning look.

“Open your mouth, lassie. I’ll do the same for ye. I
promise.”

She’d do as he demanded and he’d slide between her lips. A
gasp and a choke would herald her “inexperience.” But after a few minutes she’d
be able to stop faking and take Seamas MacReiver into bliss, allowing him deep,
swallowing around his fine cock, licking it up and down… She liked to follow
the big vein that pulsed along a man’s member, then flick her tongue around the
underside of its head.

She licked her lips and rubbed her bump, pleasure vibrating
in tremors through her body. When her knees began to sag, she grabbed a bedpost
for support but continued frigging herself, chasing the relief she knew would
help her maintain her masquerade.

He’d be the one to gasp and groan, shooting his spend into
her mouth. She’d gasp, slapping her hand over her mouth in mock horror, then
swallow before protesting in faked shock at his boldness.

After he recovered—and being a fine young man, he’d recover
quickly—he’d draw her upright and lift her, one hand digging between her
buttocks. A finger would accidentally stroke her back hole and she’d gasp,
exclaiming, “Milaird!”

He’d laugh. “Aye, there also, my sweetling. Your mouth, your
cunny and your arse. I’ll take you everywhere I please.”

Moira groaned at the prospect.

Her fantasy continued. “But for now, just put your legs
around my waist, so.” And he’d continue raising her unresisting body high until
he set her atop his big cock, impaling her.

“Aaah.” She’d scream and writhe as he possessed her…

But how wide and open was her cunt? She again slipped her
finger inside and clenched experimentally. Hmm. She’d claimed that Kieran
Kilborn had raped her, so she could blame any looseness on that abuse.

She pumped her finger, bending her knuckle so she could
brush her special spot, dreaming of how Seamas MacReiver would fill her. He’d
be big, she hoped, stretching her just a little bit, giving her that sweet
sting that would propel her to completion. She’d revel in the strength of his
arms as he squeezed her arse, pushing in a finger to penetrate her doubly while
he fucked her with long, hard strokes that reached all the way to her womb.

He’d back her against a wall, digging in deeper as she flung
her legs wide to accommodate his massive length and girth. They’d come
together, his seed flooding her, giving her the son that would cement her
position with Clan MacReiver.

* * * * *

Seamas didn’t have much in his wardrobe worthy of the
occasion, and bellowed for Dame Ellen for help. He didn’t much like the dame,
but she was the nearest thing the MacReivers had to a castle chatelaine. As
he’d expected, she didn’t take the news of his handfasting with good cheer.

“Isn’t this a little sudden?” She peered at him through
hoary eyes.

“’Tis long overdue. Ye deserve a peaceful life, not to have
to try to manage this auld castle.” Though she’d been an utter failure in that
role, he wouldn’t tell her so. ’Twould be unkind.

“’Tis no problem,” she simpered.

“I’m being handfasted to Moira Cameron this eve, Dame Ellen.
Fetch me proper clothing from the stores.”

“They would be in your room, milaird.”

He nodded tightly. He should have known better than to ask
the old dame for help. Along with her fancy Lowland accent, she had oozed
disdain from the first day she’d stepped over the threshold. Nothing was good
enough for her precious daughter, certainly not anything that Clan MacReiver
possessed.

Before Ellen turned to go, she said, “Be ye wary of that
gel.”

“Moira Cameron?”

“I do not trust her.”

Despite his misgivings about Dame Ellen, he had to ask. “Why?”

“She says she’s from Lochaber, I hear. I don’t believe she
has a Lochaber accent.”

“There’s a Lochaber accent?”

“I believe so. And besides, she’s a redhead. Redheads are
not to be trusted.”

He snorted with disgust. “Superstitious twaddle!”

“You did not think there were vampires, either, did you?”

His laugh died on his lips, but he quickly recovered.
“That’s different.”

“Mark my words.” And with that, the old crone retreated.

Seamas returned to his room and tapped on the door. “Moira?”

“Ah, ah…aye, milaird?” She sounded as though she was
panting.

“Are ye all right?” He pushed the door open and gasped.

She was naked, standing by his bed, clutching one of the
posts. Her red curls hung down her back, damp and disheveled. Her body shone,
still moist from her wash, and her humid, feminine scent tickled his nostrils.

Now, he thought. He advanced into the room and reached for
her. She didn’t resist, instead pinning him with her wide, green, unforgettable
eyes. She had the mien of a lady, but she couldn’t conceal her inner wildness,
which shone out of those eyes.

He took her lips with his. Mindful of her basic innocence
and her recent hurtful experiences, he nibbled tenderly at her lips before
sliding his tongue back and forth, politely asking for entry. She tacitly
agreed, opening a little. He caressed the soft inner lining of her lips before
venturing farther, waiting for her response. After a few seconds, she
hesitantly touched her tongue to his and retreated.

He would have none of it, pursuing, still keeping his desire
leashed but stating his intentions…

Will you?

A firm push against his tongue with hers.
Yes. Yes, I
will.

He pressed her back against the tumbled bed, pushing his
body against hers, letting her feel his need pulsing hard against the soft
curls at the apex of her thighs.

She gasped and squirmed and he let her go immediately.
Twisting, she slapped at her backside. He enjoyed the way her arse jiggled.

“Dinnae smile,” she snapped. “Ye have bed bugs. I’ll not
sleep here, Seamas MacReiver, even if we are handfasted this night.”

His head spun. He hadn’t anticipated this demand, but knew
he should have. “I’ll have the sheets changed and the mattress aired.”

Moira looked calmer.

“I can see you ken there is much to be done here.” He sat on
the bed. “I’ve a hope that ye’ll take us in hand.”

“’Tis true, this castle should be cleaner and better
managed. I didnae want to mention it, but…”

“But since the death of my brother’s wife, the place has
slid downhill,” he finished for her.

“Yes.”

“Ye’ll fix that, will ye?”

She nodded firmly. “And now for a dress, and for ye, a wash
and some clean clothes.” She hastily picked a green gown and held it up to her
body for him to see.

“Aye,” he said. “It matches the color of your eyes.”

He washed in the untouched ewer of water, which was still
warmish, and watched while she found underclothing. Donning a chemise, she
picked up a set of front-lacing stays and slipped them on before tossing the
moss-colored wool over her head.

When she became tangled in the skirts, he dropped the damp
cloth he was using to wash his chest and approached her, helping her with the
dress. When her head emerged, he smiled at her. “Ye’ll have to bear with me
until we find ye a proper lady’s maid.” His voice was husky.

She smiled. “I’d rather have ye than any other help.”

He’d come so very close to making love with her, and didn’t
know how he’d wait ’til that eve. But after the handfasting… He cleared his
throat and went to the door. When a servant arrived, he gave orders for the
dirty bed linen to be replaced and the mattress to be aired.

* * * * *

Moira paced slowly by Seamas’ side, mindful of the solemnity
of the occasion. She knew few of her new clanspeople and understood the
importance of the next minutes. Though the handfasting would be significant,
she had to have the people on her side, or life as a MacReiver would be
difficult.

She wondered if Lydia Kilborn had felt as unsteady and
insecure when she’d arrived at Kilborn Castle, and pushed the notion away.
Sympathy for her enemy had no place in her thoughts.

They descended the stairs with Moira clinging to Seamas’
arm. Then to the Great Hall, flickering with torchlight and jammed with sweaty,
smelly bodies. Though it cost her dear, Moira held her head high and did not
wrinkle her nose at the stench. When she became the laird’s lady, she’d
personally bathe each and every MacReiver if she must.

She knew she looked her best, with the flames bringing out
the red and gold in her long hair. She’d piled some of it atop her head but
left most of it hanging to her waist.

She hoped that the tale of her exploits had spread
throughout the clan while she and Seamas had dallied. Cheers arose, echoing off
the stone walls. She smiled and relaxed. Word had indeed flown from one
MacReiver to another. As they walked, a lane opened among the bodies, leading
them to a small boy who stood beside a large, throne-like chair set at the far
end of the room.

This, then, was Edgar, the ten-year-old laird. She had not
seen him before. Dame Ellen kept the laddie close and safe. Sheltered, he’d no
doubt be a poor excuse for a chieftain if he weren’t educated in lairdship—in
riding, hunting and killing. Skinny and blond, he did not look as though he’d
last that long. She concealed her mirth. The child was no match for her. Had
she not plotted the death of auld Euan?

She schooled her features into solemnity and bowed her head.
“Milaird.”

“We bid you welcome and give you our thanks.” Edgar held out
his hand, which was weighted with a heavy ring.

He had a ring? The laird’s ring? Was she supposed to kneel
and kiss it? When pigs flew.

She cast up a confused glance to Seamas, who lifted his
nephew’s hand and kissed it heartily. “Come, milady, do the pretty.”

Hiding her grimace, she briefly touched her lips to the same
spot that Seamas had kissed. He turned her to face the throng and spoke.

“We stand before this company on this day, the twenty-ninth
of August, the feast of Saint John the Baptist.”

A chill ran through her. The saint had been beheaded at the
request of wicked Salome. She forced the foolishness away. She was no Salome,
and auld Euan had surely been no saint.

While she’d ruminated, the brief ceremony had continued. She
gave her false name and Seamas gave his before the little laird bound their
hands together with a strip of cloth.

And it was over. Or p’raps it was only beginning. She was
chatelaine of MacReiver Castle and Lady MacReiver—despite the presence of
little Laird Edgar.

Seamas kissed her, but she felt nothing as he led her to a
table next to the throne-like chair. “We keep the laird’s chair vacant, though
Edgar has the right to sit in it.”

“Nay,” the boy said. “Not until I have earned it.”

Moira eyed him through the veil of her lashes as Seamas
ushered her to a seat between himself and the Little Laird, as she had started
to think of Edgar.

Exuding a presence that belied his young age and frail body,
Edgar MacReiver epitomized the saying “still waters run deep”, and she
cautioned herself against feeling anything for the bairn. He was an impediment
to her plans, nothing more, and anything that stood between her and her goals
would not stand.

Chapter Sixteen

The atmosphere in Kilborn’s Great Hall that night had
relaxed. People had become accustomed to Moira’s absence, stolidly accepting
that she was gone, probably dead. Kieran sensed a slight unease, no doubt due
to the lack of a body—an unease he shared.

When Fenella entered, he noticed that her eyes were
red-rimmed and puffy. He rose from his place at the high table. Lydia lifted
her gaze in a silent inquiry, and he jerked his chin toward the housekeeper.
His wife nodded in response before returning her attention to her stew.

Kier approached Fenella and took her elbow. “It’s been five
days.”

“I ken.” Shiny tears streaked her face, and her head
drooped.

He pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her. She
blotted her cheeks and eyes as he talked.

“I am sorry if anything I did caused your loss.”

She looked up, visibly surprised. “Milaird, ye have acted
properly in all ways.”

“Ye have heard?”

“Aye, there are few secrets here.” She smiled wanly. “Milady
Lydia could have been gravely injured in the Dark Tower, not only by he who
dwells there but by the very nature of the auld keep itself. ’Tis an evil
place.”

He remained silent. He was not a superstitious man, but
wouldn’t pass judgment on her beliefs.

“Moira wasnae a good girl, but she was mine…” She blinked
and sniffled.

“She was ours,” Kier said firmly. “She was one of us, and we
all grieve with ye.”

He sat her down, ensuring her comfort as best he could in
view of her loss, bringing her a beaker of ale and some choice morsels. While
he was returning to his place, he was intercepted by Dugald.

“Why are ye here?” Kier asked his second. “Are ye no’
supposed to be out on patrol?”

“Aye, I would be, had my da returned.”

Fear seized the pit of Kier’s belly in an icy grip. Euan was
as reliable as the rising sun or the setting moon. “When was he last seen?”

“I’ll find out.” Dugald’s voice was calm, but Kier knew his
cousin well. Dugald was worried. He wouldn’t have bothered bringing Euan’s absence
up if he weren’t concerned.

“Search in force,” Kier said. “No parties of fewer than ten
men.” Despite his age, Euan was tough and strong, but tended to go off alone.
Had he come to grief in the forest, that would mean two of Kier’s people had
been lost within a few days.

He sat down next to Lydia and leaned an elbow on the table,
sighing.

“What now?” she asked.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Euan’s missing.”

She sat up straight, her glance running over the busy Great
Hall. “So he is.”

Had he failed his clan yet again?

* * * * *

“Be quick,” Moira told Seamas.

He hitched himself up onto one elbow and lifted a
questioning brow. “Lasses mostly prefer slow to fast when it comes to bedding.
Are ye not comfortable? The linens are all fresh, no bed bugs. And not a
ceàrnan
in sight to trouble ye.”

“Milaird, I just—”

“My name is Seamas.”

“Seamas, it…this…isnae pleasant for me.”

“You mean that it wasnae pleasant with Kieran Kilborn for
ye.”

She buried her face in the pillow, feigning shame. “Aye,”
she murmured.

“Dinnae be afeared, lassie. I’ll take good care o’ ye. Look
at me.”

When she obeyed, he tried to kiss her lips, but she turned
her face. She didn’t need to feign disgust. Although he’d washed, apparently no
one had taught Seamas about cleansing his teeth with an old cloth and a
stripped rosemary stick, or chewing mint to freshen his mouth.

He transferred his attentions to her neck and she breathed
easier, willing herself to relax. His lips traveled down her throat to her
collarbone while he untied the frayed ribbon at her borrowed chemise’s collar.
His length was warm against her body on what, she had to admit, were adequately
clean, soft sheets that bore the faint scents of stale linen and old lavender.

Parting the soft cloth, he gained access to her breasts and
she sighed in tune with his soft breaths. She was justly proud of her pair.
High and white, perfect even though they’d received more than the usual amount
of attention when she’d been punished. Every female in the clan above the age
of fourteen knew the Kilborn men liked to draw and drink blood from women’s
nipples.

Her nipples, still pale pink despite the rough treatment
she’d received, hardened at the merest hint of arousal. And she was becoming
aroused as Seamas cupped her breasts, massaging them before bending his head to
kiss one nipple, drawing it firmly into his mouth and nibbling on the tip.

He didn’t bite and suckle, as did the Kilborns, she realized
with relief. She liked it rough, but she’d had enough harshness to last her a
lifetime. And if Seamas treated her callously, it would be a sign that he
didn’t value her. She couldn’t stand that. ’Twould make a mockery of the
handfasting.

But he seemed inclined toward gentleness, and she reveled in
that while she could. Men in full rut lost control, and she wanted him to lose
control and enjoy her as he’d never enjoyed another woman.

While he sucked one nipple, he’d been massaging the other.
He raised his head and said, “Ah, wife, your titties are lovelier than the
clouds in spring, and even whiter and more elegant.”

She repressed a giggle. Had he read this in a book
somewhere? Not likely. She’d bet everything she had—not that she had much—that
Seamas MacReiver couldn’t read. “Thank ye, milaird,” she whispered, hoping she
sounded shy and demure.

“Are ye becoming more…desirous?” His length poked her thigh.

“I, er…am.” She rubbed her body against his.

His chest hair scraped her breasts, a pleasant sensation.
She caught her breath. He reached down and slid stubby fingers through the fur
at her notch, seeking her most tender parts, and she tensed, tightening her
parts. She had to make a show of being almost-virgin.

“Easy, lass,” he said, his voice a purr. He scooted down her
body, tongue out, running it down her skin, which prickled in response. He
circled her
ilmeag
but didn’t dip in, instead laying a line of kisses
along her belly before he buried his face in her thatch and sniffed. He parted
her legs with a gentle hand, setting his bulky body between her thighs, his
shoulders spreading her.

She emitted a “frightened” squeak.

He laughed. “Och, lassie, ye have no reason to be afeared.”

“‘Tis….’tis wanton!”

“We’re married. Or at least handfasted. So it isnae wanton, ’tis
right and good that I touch ye any way I please.” He pulled her lower lips wide
and, at the first touch of his tongue onto her bump, a slight tingle skimmed
over her flesh. As Seamas feasted, she gradually relaxed and allowed a moan to
escape her lips, relieved to realize that she could find pleasure with this
man. He wasn’t the best lover she’d taken, but was far from the worst.

He explored her channel and she clenched, feeling every
scrape and bump on his calloused finger. “Och, ye’re tight,” he said, pleasure
in his voice.

“’Twas only the once,” she simpered. “And it hurt.”

“Does it hurt now?”

“Nay,” she whispered. She’d fooled him. She couldn’t be more
pleased, but couldn’t let down her guard yet.

He withdrew his finger and rose above her, his features
weirdly lit by the flickering rushlight. For a moment she was afraid, afraid at
the enormity of the ruse she’d plotted, for it would mean her life if she
failed.

“Dinnae fear it, lass. “’Twill be good, I promise.” And
Seamas reached down and took his cock in hand.

She strained her neck to see it, wondering if she’d be
forced to accept a battering ram or a twig, but the dim light did not help.
Instead she squinched her eyes shut and waited.

A tentative push, and the head breached her, pushing past
her tightening muscles. He gripped her hips and took her slowly, murmuring “
Mo
chroí, mo chroí.
”

Her heart soared. She’d done it.

She slowly bent her knees and drew them up his sides, hoping
that this did not betray her experience, then began to meet him thrust for
thrust. If he asked, she’d tell him that Kier had told her what to do, because
at the moment, she wanted to fuck him back, find her release, take her
pleasure.

Seamas wasn’t huge, but big enough, she reckoned. Closing
her eyes, she relaxed back against the pillows and enjoyed a good, solid
tupping.

* * * * *

The next morning, Lydia told Elsbeth, “The fawn-colored
riding habit, please.”

Kieran, standing at the mirror shaving, set down his razor
and turned. “You usually spend the morn with Fenella.”

“That’s true, but I would like to join you today, husband.”

His face went still. “It could be dangerous.”

She compressed her lips. “I’m not afraid. I wish to be by
your side today.” She couldn’t explain her reasons and didn’t understand them
herself. She merely wanted to be near Kieran.

“Very well.” He picked up the razor, but after a moment
faced her again. “Truth to tell,
kylyrra
, I’ll be glad of your company.”

Ignoring Elsbeth who waited patiently, gown in hand, Lydia
went to him. “’Tis sad you are, and troubled.”

He drew in a heavy breath. “Aye. Ye know my moods, do ye
not?” He forced a smile.

She rubbed his arm. “Aye, that I do,” she said in her best
Highland accent.

This time, his smile was real.

She smiled back, but also said, “Talk to me.”

Returning his gaze to the mirror, he met her eyes in the
glass before continuing to shave. She heard a rustle and noted that Elsbeth had
set the habit on the bed and, with the tact a good servant should display, left
the room. Lydia made a mental note to give Elsbeth a gift or bonus. Not many
maids would have followed their employer to the wild Highlands and performed
her duties in such an exemplary manner.

“Two of my people missing inside a sennight worries me. ’Tis
uncanny.” Kieran scraped at his chin with slow strokes.

“Uncanny?” She’d learned that Highlanders used this word to
describe a variety of things, from oddly breaking waves to the presence of the
fae folk.

“Aye. Uncanny like this strangely misty summer. Uncanny like
the Giant’s Causeway and the echoes in Fingal’s Cave. Uncanny like the cry of
the banshee or the creature that lives in Loch Ness.” There was an intensity
bordering on violence in his voice, a timbre she’d not heard before.

Nevertheless, she maintained her calm. “I’ve never thought
of you as a superstitious man.”

“I’m not.” His tone was low and dark. “Not usually. But for
Euan to vanish… There is evil abroad in the land. I mislike these
disappearances.”

“I wonder if…”

“What?”

She hesitated.

“Be not afraid, my wife, to tell me your concerns.”

She tightened her mouth but decided to forge ahead, come
what may. “Your…our mad old relative. In the Dark Tower.”

The razor slipped and a bright red streak appeared on Kier’s
jaw. He picked up a strip of linen and dabbed it, muttering in Gaelic.

“What? Is he a, er…a possibility?”

“I dinnae believe so,” he said slowly. “Especially not with
Moira or Euan. But he’s mad, ye ken? There are times he knows not who he is,
where he is, who is kin and who isnae. Who is a woman and who isnae. I may have
mentioned that he has never killed a woman.”

“That we know of. And what about Euan?”

“Nay, nay. He is…closely related to Euan. Also, I believe
that these disappearances are linked in some way.”

“How?”

“I dinnae ken…yet. But ’twould be passing strange if two
people went missing in less than a week’s time without a connection between
them.”

“That’s true. ’Tis a mystery.”

“And an unwelcome one. As I say, ’tis uncanny.”

“Come now, husband.” She squeezed his arm. “We will get to
the truth of this. And the answer won’t be the creature in Loch Ness, a kraken
or a kelpie.”

* * * * *

After breaking their fast, they set out, a company of
fifteen, including Dugald. As was his usual custom, he was mounted on Sentry,
his big gray. Lydia rode her bay. After the MacReiver had killed Kier’s mount,
he had acquired a dun-colored horse in an unusual shade he called buckskin. The
gelding was magnificent, over fifteen hands and well able to carry him.

They rode south through the low-hanging fog, along the coast
toward the MacReiver lands, then east along the disputed border. The track,
wide at first, wound through stone-strewn meadows where the sea winds scoured
away everything but grasses and a few stunted shrubs. Then a few twisted trees,
those able to withstand the winter storms, began to appear. The land rose,
rocky and hard, and after they crested the hill, the mist disappeared and forests
took over the leeward slopes. The trail narrowed, with Dugald leading the way
and the rest riding two-by-two.

Lydia rode beside Kieran, a few paces behind Sentry to avoid
the dirt the horse’s hooves kicked up. She felt as though her life had
developed layers, like an onion, or p’raps like swaddling quilts and blankets
on a smothering bed. Mystery upon mystery, secrets cloaked by enigmas enveloped
her family, her castle and her clan. Those mysteries, secrets and enigmas
seemed to increase in number and complexity as time rolled on. Would it always
be so?

She hoped not, but if and when she bore children, surely
they would muddle up matters even further. She was not certain that she wished
to increase, not when odd disappearances haunted the clan. But resisting
Kieran’s lust was impossible. Not because he forced himself upon her…far from
it. Most nights she was the one who reached for him in bed.

Her boldness, her neediness, continued to startle her, while
her husband’s unending desire to please continued to delight her. She prayed
that their lust and love would sustain them through life’s travails.