TemptationinTartan (2 page)

And his fingers limned hot pleasure along her thigh through
her stockings. He reached her garter and, when he finally caressed her naked
skin, her sigh echoed his. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted him to
touch her bare flesh.

He fondled her curls. “Your parsley bed. Your bush.” He
tugged gently.

That little tug sent a jolt of desire through her body.
“Good heavens.” She buried her face in his neck from sheer embarrassment.

He moved his hand and cupped her, one fingertip sliding
around her opening. She drew in a gasp of want, fingers gripping his shoulders.

“Your cunt, darlin’. Your sweet quim.” The words were
carnal, sinful, but coming from his lips they resounded like harmonious chords,
as though this were the way men and women who wanted each other were meant to
speak.

“Quim,” she said, trying it out. “I like that word.”

“Verra well, then. Quim it is.” Then his wicked, knowing
finger traveled to the most tender spot, the place she’d furtively touched when
she could no longer endure the tension in her body. “This lovely little bump is
the pearl of your desire.”

She moaned…yes…

“Your slit.” Probing, pushing until a stab of pain jolted
her. “What’s this?”

“What?”

“Ye’ve been married. Ye should be open.” He eased his finger
inside her again, then stopped as though he’d encountered a barrier.

“Is there…something wrong with me?” She sat up straight. The
movement shifted his finger, eliciting another gasp that she tried vainly to
repress.

“Ye’re a virgin.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“Did your husband put his cock up your quim? I wager he
didnae.” His finger wiggled, torturing her with a rapture almost beyond
endurance.

Squirming from need and flaming with shame, she whispered,
“No, he…went into the other place.”

“Other place?”

“My…bum.” She covered her face with her hands.

“He buggered ye?” Kieran sounded shocked.

“Oh, God, was it wrong?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Kindness had returned to his voice.
“But lass, it’s only one of many ways we can pleasure each other.”

“Pleasure was never a part of it.”

He pulled her hands away from her face. “Pleasure is the
beginning and the ending and the all of it. Let me show you.”

He eased his finger out of her. Her quim was wet and he
moved easily to her folds and found that other spot, the pearl of her desire.
Rubbing her gently, he said, “Kiss me. I love the way you kiss me.”

She traced the line of his jaw before pressing her lips
against his, using them to open his mouth, seek his tongue. He responded
immediately and the joy of his tongue tangling with hers combined with his
finger teasing her, teaching her pleasure, elicited shudders that whirled
through her like wind-whipped waves.

His arm was secure around her shoulders and she knew he
wouldn’t let her fall. Nevertheless, she grabbed the front of his jacket,
anchoring herself against a fierce, rising passion that threatened to engulf
her.

“Let go, lass. ’Twill be all right.” He caressed her pearl,
then fingered her opening while pressing his palm to her needy, hot nubbin, now
the focus of her entire being. He held all of her womanhood in his big, broad,
capable hand.

She breathed deeply and obeyed, grinding herself into his
palm, allowing ecstasy to trap her in unbreakable bonds. Unable to keep
control, she flung her head back and panted. Her body wrenched and she clung to
him, emitting a sharp cry that he quickly captured with his mouth.

“Och, love, I cannae resist…” A tiny but sharp pain, like a
pin pricking her lip, mingled with the pleasure. Kieran sucked, groaning. “Ah,
ye’re so sweet, so tasty.”

Limp in his arms, she glowed with satisfaction.

“Ye’re a fast learner, lassie.” His voice was soft,
hypnotic. “And we can please each other in so many ways.” He touched a finger
to her lower lip, massaging the spot he’d savaged. It tingled with a strange
alloy of pleasure and pain. “Your mouth kissing me…all of me.” He moved so he
could place her hand on his cock.

She was startled out of her bliss. “Th-there?”

“Aye. And I’ll do the same for ye.” He again squeezed her
quim in his palm, and another ripple of heated rapture flowed through her.
“It’s verra nice. Many lassies say it’s their favorite.”

She was dumbstruck. She put two tentative fingers around the
member in question and it jumped in her hand. Kieran groaned.

She jerked away. “Did I hurt you?”

He put her hand back. “Och, no, it just felt so good. We can
please each other with our hands, like I did for ye a little while ago. And ye
for me. All over.” He dipped a hand inside her bodice, searching for a nipple.

He plucked it, watching her, his dark eyes hooded but
glowing with intensity. “Ye have bountiful breasts and nice, big nipples, just
what I like. Are they dusky, Lydia, or rosy pink?”

“Kieran…” She covered her face with her hands. She knew it
wasn’t proper to use his Christian name but calling him Kilborn or
milord—milaird—didn’t seem right, not when they had rapidly become so intimate.

“All right, then.” He stood, helping her up, then retied his
hair. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, then her mouth, very gently. “I dinnae
want to push ye too fast.”

Especially now that I know ye’re still a virgin,
Kieran thought as he took Lydia’s arm and led her back to the musicale. He
didn’t know if he should bless or damn Lydia’s deceased husband. Kieran guessed
that the man had been secretly more interested in others of his gender and had
used his wife as he’d use a catamite.

The fool had maltreated his lady but not destroyed her
passion. Though the sweet lassie was still a virgin, she nevertheless responded
ardently to lovemaking. Kier had enjoyed her untutored kisses and would enjoy
even more initiating her into the delights of the bedroom. He’d treasure her as
she deserved, teach her to fulfill his whims and, in so doing, fulfill herself.

He wondered if she’d developed a taste for buggery. If so,
taking her luscious bum would be another delightful act.

A few yards away, he could see the Swan lingering at the
manse’s garden door, no doubt playing chaperone to his cousin and doing a very
poor job of it.

Kieran stopped and asked Lydia, “So, it’s a match between
us, is it?”

She stopped, too, turned and faced him. “Er, well, I have a
question. Did you fight at Culloden Moor?”

Sorrow clawed his heart, and he sighed. “Nay, lassie, had I
been at Culloden I would not be here with ye today.”

Her brows arched in inquiry.

“The butcher Cumberland ordered every Scot lying wounded on
the moor to be killed.”

She gasped.

“Aye. Every Highlander who fought for the bonnie prince was
spitted like a snared coney, then burned. Ye didnae ken? P’raps they kept the
information secret, or your cousin Colonel Swann didnae want to sully your
ears. But if I’d been at Culloden I’d likely be ashes in a mass grave like my
father, the old laird, and my brother, his heir. That’s why I’m chieftain. I
was left at home to mind the fort until their return. They never came back.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Aye, lass. So am I. But not entirely, not this eve. For it
has brought ye to me.” With Swann watching, Kieran resisted touching her hair,
her face, or kissing that lush mouth.

“Then, yes, we’re a match.” She smiled, and his heart turned
over.

Taking her arm again, he increased the length of his stride.
When they reached the doors, he said to the Swann, “Post the banns.”

“’Tis already done.”

Kieran turned, brows raised.

“You had both agreed.”

“What if the lady had disliked me?”

“There’s nothing to dislike,” Lydia intervened. Evidently
the lass did not want an argument.

Kieran laughed. “Och, lass, in a year or two or ten I
warrant ye’ll find plenty to dislike, but for now, I’ll take your fondness and
run with it, and ye, all the way to the Highlands.”

“When’s the wedding?” Lydia asked, still holding his arm.

“I’ll manage that.” A tall woman in gray spoke with the
certainty of God bringing forth light. Lydia’s mam, Kieran guessed.

He gave her a courtly bow. “I thank ye, ma’am.”

He stood with what he hoped was a calm smile and allowed her
to peruse him. At last a smile flitted over her features. Lydia’s grip eased.
She was attached to her mam, he realized, and hoped his wife wouldn’t be
heartsick for her family. The distance between his castle and England was such
that visits would be quite rare.

He said, “I hope ye’ll allow me to consult with the
preacher?”

“Certainly.” The lady favored him with a regal smile. “The
ceremony will take place at Castle Kirk at Sunday noon. Daughter?”

As Lydia left with her family, she turned and gave him a
flirtatious wink. Yes, the lassie was indeed a quick study.

Chapter Three

Lydia awoke on the morning of her wedding with an
unaccustomed anxiety churning in her belly. She didn’t understand why. This
was, after all, her second marriage. Because both she and her groom were so far
from their respective homes, the event was to be a simple noontime ceremony in
a nearby chapel, rather than the grand public display she’d endured when
marrying William.

Nay, ’twasn’t the wedding that troubled her, but what would
happen afterward. Since their first meeting at the Menhardie musicale, she and
her intended had exchanged p’raps two words, and neither of them in private.
Instead, her cousin, her fiancé and their representatives had pursued tiresome
discussions about dowries and bride-prices, contract terms and property
transfers. Though she was supposedly the focus of the matter, the effect was to
reduce her to a commodity…again.

With some astonishment, she realized she needed to see
Kieran. How was that possible? She’d spent only a few minutes in his presence.

She told herself that her desire to further acquaint herself
with her affianced husband was natural. But she knew she was lying to herself.
The memory of his sweet kisses, wicked hands and lustful words haunted her. His
image had ghosted through her dreams as though he visited her in bed at
midnight, seducing her with his touch, his body hard against hers, with his
sleek, strong fingers drawing forth her arousal with a skill she’d never before
experienced. And she’d reacted to those dreams with entirely wanton behavior,
her eyes closed to better imagine that it was Kieran who rubbed her womanhood
with a slippery finger instead of her own smaller, softer digit.

How could she long for him so desperately? She didn’t know
him.

She couldn’t truly yearn for her fiancé, she admonished
herself. She’d met him only once!

She prayed the reality that would overtake her this night
would match her fevered dreams. She’d seen the happiness her brother and his
wife shared and wanted it too.

But would Kieran change once she was his? As her husband, he
need not show her consideration. Her marriage to William had been one
disappointment after another. While she’d enjoyed the management of her own
home and the freedom that his frequent absences had entailed, she’d neither
enjoyed marital relations nor conceived a child.

Due to her encounter with Kieran, she now understood the
reason. So why should she fear him?

Because people were often not what they seemed. William had been
well-born, handsome, courtly…a true English gentleman. And so striking in his
red and buff uniform! She’d thought he’d give her everything she craved, but
she’d been wrong…so wrong. Her family had supported her choice, and they’d been
wrong too.

So she couldn’t trust her judgment, or theirs. What if she
was making another mistake? She longed for Kieran—not only for his kisses and
his touch, but so she could discover whatever truth his presence would reveal.
She was petrified, but the ceremony couldn’t come soon enough for her.

While Lydia lay in bed and worried, the sun slanted through
the curtains and Elsbeth, her maid, bustled in.

Lydia’s maid was a small, pear-shaped Londoner in plain gray
attire with a white mob cap over brown curls. “Forgive me, my lady, but Lady
Henrietta desires your presence in her dressing room in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes! I’m still abed. ’Tisn’t possible.”

“’Tis gone eleven, my lady.” Elsbeth went to the window and
pulled the drapes aside, exposing the tiny back garden of the townhouse that
Henrietta had bespoken for the few weeks they’d stayed in Edinburgh. “Your
dress has lately arrived.”

Lydia jerked upright, nerves pushing up her anxiety another
degree. Her mother had insisted upon the creation of a new wedding gown for the
occasion, and Lydia had agreed, pleased to wear a new ensemble to begin her new
life. However, she’d forgotten Henrietta’s fastidious, demanding nature. Her
mother had found fault with everything the Edinburgh modiste had produced, from
the fine imported silks and brocades to the tiny, even stitches, which looked
perfect to Lydia’s eye.

She hurried to the dressing room to see the magnificent
creation of gold-shot cream brocade with a matching satin underdress and modest
panniers, which suited her small frame more than the exaggerated styles many
preferred. Though the stomacher pressed her breasts high, ruffled edging
provided modesty.

She submitted to being laced in. Ruby earbobs were donned.
Cream satin shoes with golden embroidery and buckles were set on her feet over
delicate stockings, which were themselves held up by embroidered garters that
matched her stomacher.

All the while she became more and more tense. Trying to
ignore Henrietta’s complaints and Elsbeth’s fussing was more draining then the
ceremony would be, Lydia hoped.

At last she was dressed, and the maid accompanied Lydia back
to her room to attend to her coiffure. As Elsbeth piled her curls atop her
head, Lydia became aware that the worms squirming in her belly had increased a
hundredfold since she’d awoken.

* * * * *

The days had crawled by, occupied as they were by the
endless wrangling of his solicitors and the Swan’s, but on the morn of his
wedding, time seemed to compress. Kieran bathed and shaved carefully, then
dressed in his customary black, unrelieved by any color. Despite his vow and
the Swan’s commitment, he would not flaunt his tartan in the Sassenachs’ faces
unless ’twas crucial.

Suddenly it was noon, the appointed time for the ceremony,
but his bride had not arrived. Kieran paced back and forth outside the kirk,
wondering at his unusual tension. Surely Lydia wouldn’t cry off! He had not
mistaken her passionate response to him in the Menhardie garden. But she was a
Sassenach, a breed renowned for their lack of honor and outright sneakiness.

And what if she did cry off? Would it really matter? His
clan wouldn’t be as wealthy, but they didn’t fare poorly without her. They ate
fish from the sea and hunted game in nearby forests. Greens and herbs were
plentiful—even now he knew they were being dried and stored for the winter.

He worried his lower lip, concerned about reprisals from the
red-coated Lobsterbacks. He’d sworn never to give up tartan or sword and didn’t
want the lovely lassie to make a liar of him.

“Whisht, mon.” Dugald, his second-in-command, tapped Kier’s
shoulder. “Ye’re wearing a track in the stone.”

Kieran stopped, laughed and blotted his brow with a
handkerchief. “Ye’re right. ’Twouldn’t do for the Sassenachs to see me sweat.”
He leaned against a stone buttress, letting its coolness seep through his body
and calm his soul.

“Do ye think ye can protect her? From him?”

Though Dugald did not use a name, Kier had no trouble
interpreting his cousin’s questions. “Aye,” he said. “Euan is safeguarding the
keep. If we’re lucky, the sea will take him if he ventures out through the
caves.”

“That hasn’t happened, and it’s been decades. What of
yerself?” Dugald asked.

Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s in no danger
from me. Yet.”

A coach bearing the Swann arms, two floating white birds
with their necks entwined, drew up and came to a rattling stop. A door opened
and, before a servant could help, a golden-slippered foot shot out and kicked
at the steps. They opened with a clatter and Lydia thrust forth her dark head
and trod on the top step.

“An eager bride,” Dugald said.

Kieran chuckled. “Probably eager to escape that dragon of a
mother.”

As they walked toward the coach, Henrietta’s regal form,
clad in Egyptian brown, descended after Lydia.

“’Twere me, I’d be afeared that the acorn falls not far from
the oak,” Dugald remarked.

“Not Lydia. ’Tis sweet she is. The lemon blossom, not the
sour fruit. ’Tis my task to ensure she stays that way.”

Even while Kier spoke, his gaze never left her. She was so
beautiful that it hurt his eyes to look at her. A golden angel, but with a
sensual mouth he’d been dreaming about night after night. And no celestial
being had breasts like Lydia’s.

He couldn’t bear to be without her touch a moment longer,
and offered her his arm. She took it with a quivering lace-gloved hand and
looked up at him with great, dark, nervous eyes. He smiled, hoping he radiated
strength and reassurance, for he sensed that Dugald was wrong. She was not an
eager bride, but an anxious one. He guessed that because her previous union had
not been happy, beneath her finery she was terrified. Not of him, but of
marriage and the marriage bed.

Had she needed to see him in the last few days as much as
he’d yearned for her?

* * * * *

One look into Kieran’s deep, soulful eyes, warm as a summer
night, told Lydia she’d worried for naught. She was certain of her course. But
she warned herself that she could be wrong. She’d been certain before and she’d
been wrong before. Nevertheless, she took his arm when offered. He placed his
big, brawny hand over her small one and she swayed from the force of her
emotions.

“Are ye all right, lassie?” He sounded concerned.

She was grateful for this proof that he’d treat her kindly.
His hand tightened and she raised her gaze again to search his face. She was struck
by his uncanny male beauty, with chiseled features that no sculptor could hope
to imitate. His pale skin contrasted with the slash of his brows and his
midnight-black eyes, which now glowed with warmth and compassion.

He leaned down a trifle. “Dinnae worry,
kylyrra
,” he
whispered into her ear. “We’ll be comfortable soon, I assure ye.”

How had he known of her feelings? How had she revealed her
unease? She oughtn’t to show weakness in public. She straightened her back,
lifted her chin and allowed him to lead her to the site of their nuptials.

The tiny chapel had been a good choice on her mother’s part.
Without the attendance of family and friends, using any of the larger, more
popular churches would have been frightful. Set to the side of the main kirk,
the chapel, with only a tapestry depicting Christ’s birth, was in comparison
cozy, comfortably holding the few attendees—Lydia’s cousin, her mother, plus
Kieran’s cousin Dugald Kilborn. Kier’s cousin shared what she guessed were
family traits—a tall form, dark hair and that strange, pale skin. P’raps the
Highlands weren’t sunny.

The local cleric stumbled over the words of the standard
Church of England ceremony, and Lydia guessed that her mother had insisted upon
the ritual that was familiar to her rather than what local custom preferred.
Then the fellow spoke a few words in Gaelic and asked her to do the same. She
obeyed, stumbling over the unfamiliar sibilants.

She cast a frightened glance at Kieran, hoping he wasn’t
angry. She hadn’t meant to mock his people…their people. But he watched her,
the slight smile curving his lips the sole betrayal of his mood. His eyes
twinkled reassuringly before one lid dropped, an unmistakable wink.

She completely lost the thread of what the priest had said
and stopped speaking. Instead she simply stood there and stared at him,
blinking in confusion.

His grin stretched wider and he picked up where she’d left
off, repeating the Gaelic with calm certainty. He took her hand and placed his
wrist next to hers. His skin felt cool and a little damp, as though he were
sweating with nerves, but his face showed no hint of anxiety.

The cleric wrapped cloth around their wrists and their hands
became even closer. Despite the tightness of the binding, Kieran turned his
forearm to grasp her fingers. His hold was firm and determined.

She looked down. His hand and hers were as pale as dawn,
indistinguishable in color. Where did she end and Kieran begin?

His fingers tightened and she relished that, noticing his
size and strength compared to hers.

Gasps came from the onlookers and again she blinked,
confused. Then she noticed that the bright swatch of fabric the cleric had
twisted around their wrists was tartan. It bore two shades of blue crisscrossed
by bright yellow and red stripes.

Forbidden, but Kieran had dared.

She met his eyes again and he leaned toward her to whisper
in her ear. “I couldnae resist your dowry,
kylyrra
.”

His breath tickled her ear. Then he shifted to kiss first
her forehead, then her cheek and mouth, just as he had before, giving her an
extra buss on the lips. Affectionate rather than blatantly lustful, and she
liked that.

Then he raised their bound hands high and kissed the back of
hers. His dark eyes surveyed her with a serious regard and even a little
possessive pride. “Ye’re mine, now.”

That evoked a shiver. But why? Surely her second marriage
couldn’t be worse than her first.

His touch, cool but firm, both reassured and excited her.
Her heart began to ease. During their wedding breakfast, which the small group
ate at Henrietta’s townhouse, Lydia couldn’t avert her glance from Kieran’s
lips as he ate and drank, talked and laughed, unless it was to scrutinize his
hands—those marvelously long-fingered, cool hands that had already given her so
much. The mere sight of them brought forth smoldering memories of his caress.

She tried to shift her attention away from her tingling
flesh in order to listen. He spoke of his student days in Edinburgh—Auld
Reekie, he called it—and she realized that her husband was not an uncivilized
Highland warrior. Far from it. He’d read economics, even traveling to Glasgow
to study at the university, preparing himself to help his brother lead their
clan.

While listening, she picked at her food, nervously
anticipating the evening. Kieran didn’t appear to have any similar qualms. He
ate with a fine appetite, devouring salmon as well as beef plus numerous
removes.

At last the afternoon was over, and the few guests seen out
of the door. With palms sweating in her gold-shot lace gloves, she bade her
mother good-bye.