Temptation in Tartan Suz deMello She has to marry a monster. Rumors have followed the chieftains of Clan Kilborn for centuries. Said to be descended from the Viking berserkers, they are ferocious in battle, known for tearing off the heads of their enemies and drinking their blood. But English noblewoman Lydia Swann–Williston will marry Kieran, Laird Kilborn, to bring peace to the Kilborn lands after the horror of Culloden and the brutal pacification. A widow, she also brings needed wealth to the clan. For her part, eighteenyear-old Lydia wants children. With her husband killed at Culloden, she will make a new life in the Highlands. The old chieftain of Clan Kilborn also died in battle, and Lydia hopes the new young Laird will lack his ancestors’ ferocity. That hope will go unfulfilled…
TEMPTATION IN TARTAN Suz deMello
Foreword and Acknowledgments This is a work of fiction, so I have taken many liberties with historical facts and sequences of events. I hope I have offended none but provided a few hours of enjoyment for all. Thanks go to Diane Farr, Vanessa Hart, Liz Jennings and DeAnna Cameron for their critiques and encouragement.
Temptation in Tartan
Chapter One Swanston, England, 1747 “The Kilborns are great warriors, rumored to be descended from Viking berserkers.” Colonel Swann paced the drawing room, his boots soundless on the thick rugs. Lydia’s belly clenched and she drew a frightened breath. “Berserkers! The savages who raided our shores, murdering monks and, er…attacking women?” The colonel stared at her as though a potted plant had decided to speak. Not surprising, since Lydia had always been known in their family as the quiet one. “The same,” he said. “And the Kilborn clansmen have intermarried for generations. Animals.” He tugged at his tight cravat. Out of uniform, dressed as a town gentleman, Lydia thought her cousin lost some of his edge. Scowling, he continued, “By this marriage we seek to dilute the Kilborn blood and weaken the line.” “Weaken the line, sir?” Lydia’s mother, Henrietta, raised a brow. “Do you suggest that my daughter’s lineage is flawed? Ours is one of the noblest families in the kingdom.” “True,” he said. “By adding Lady Lydia’s noble blood to the Kilborn line, we will civilize the wild Highlanders.” Lydia tried to look civilized and noble, but couldn’t stop twisting the handkerchief in her lap. She rubbed its black edging, a reminder of her status as a widow. “You want me to marry an animal. A barely civilized wild man.” “The Crown would take your selflessness as a particular favor,” her cousin said. She lifted her brows. “Indeed.” As a general’s daughter, duty pulled at her blood. “’Tis a perfect solution. ’Tis easier to pacify by marriage than by the sword. All parties will benefit.” His glance strayed to the bodice of Lydia’s gown. In halfmourning, she wore gray muslin trimmed with black piping. “You must desire children. The Highlander is doubtless, uh, lusty.” She pursed her lips. She’d loved William, but hadn’t grasped why others made such a fuss about marital relations. But she did want children and had planned to have several. “You want me to marry a warrior who may have killed my husband at Culloden Moor,” she said. “I can’t do that.” Colonel Swann remained silent but looked uneasy as Lydia’s mother crossed the room. “Your late husband,” Henrietta said and sat on an ottoman next to Lydia. When her mother took Lydia’s hand, she couldn’t control the trembling. At eighteen, she knew she simply wasn’t brave.
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Unlike her mother, who now peered into Lydia’s eyes. “Child, what else will you do? Of course, as a widow, you can refuse. But another marriage may make you happy.” “Do I have to marry a wild Scotsman? Leave my country and everything I know?” “Of course not. But you are already acquainted with all the other eligible males of our class, and chose William over all.” “That’s so.” Lydia remembered her days of attending parties and balls in London a scant three years ago. She sighed. “You’ll bring great wealth,” the colonel said. “And by your marriage, Kilborn will be spared the pacification efforts that other clans and chieftains suffer. You’ll be valued and honored.” “I have my portion and William’s, but I am not particularly wealthy,” Lydia said. “Not by London standards, but for an impoverished Highland chieftain, you are a rich prize.” “Lovely.” Lydia stood and walked to the window, her voluminous skirts rustling. Below in the garden, she could see her brother playing with one of his sons. She watched George pick up Andrew, toss the giggling child into the air and catch him before they collapsed in a laughing heap together on the sunlit lawn. Her heart tripped. She might never see George and Andrew again. But she might become that happy parent, could have babies of her own to enjoy. She turned to face her mother. “I’ll do it.”
***** Kieran, Laird Kilborn, strode along the upper wall-walk of his castle, his mood as dark as the midnight sky above. Below him, the sea crashed with the threat of a storm. His retainers scattered at the sight of their new laird’s frown, for Kieran was known to show his temper. His own father had borne a scar on his forehead from a tankard a young Kieran had thrown when the princeling had been but four. Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose, staring out over Clan Kilborn’s crofts and lands, lit only by moonlight. His lands, now, following the deaths of his father and older brother at Culloden. An unexpected burden—his lands and his responsibility. “Ye could look forever, but nothing will change.” Euan’s soft voice intruded upon Kieran’s dangerous mood. “That is, nothing will change unless ye marry the Sassenach lassie.” Kieran turned, remembering to soften his frown. No one else would dare to disturb his thoughts, but Euan was different. The castle’s steward, he’d been old when Kier was born. “Aye, the reprisals are cruel.” Kieran rubbed his hand over the sturdy stone battlement.
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“They will only get worse. The Sassenachs are determined to break all of the Highlands and to destroy the clans who supported the bonnie prince. ’Tis a stroke of luck that the Swan wants you to wed the lassie.” “Why, though? What’s the benefit to the Sassenach colonel?” The smaller man shrugged. “We are a remote holding. ’Tis easier to pacify us by marriage than by war, and far less costly.” “I’ll never give up tartan or sword.” A thin, chilly breeze lifted Kieran’s dark hair off his shoulders. He drew his plaid, vividly patterned in red, yellow and two shades of blue, more tightly around him. “Wed the Swan’s cousin and ye willnae have to.” “I had not thought to wed yet, with everything so…unsettled.” “Truly? There’s a certain lassie who’s set her cap for ye.” “Grizel?” “Er, I was thinking of Moira.” “Oh, that one.” Kieran dismissed Moira with a wave of his hand. “She must know that Culloden changed everything, including her expectations.” “Ye must secure the succession.” Euan’s dark, haunted eyes searched Kieran’s face. “I promised your father that I would see to it.” “And would he have wanted me to marry outside our blood?” Kieran asked. His grand-uncle Euan knew more of the secrets of his family than did Kieran himself. “Possibly not.” Euan looked troubled. “But marriage to the Sassenach lady will provide money, safety and heirs.” “And what shall I do when the dark thirst takes me? Succor myself at my lady’s throat?” “There are other ways.” Euan’s eyes were hooded and unreadable in the moonlight. “Other women—” “No! ’Tis like unfaithfulness. What of my honor?” “There is no honor when the dark curse seizes us.” “I must find a way, for the clan.” “Then ye’ll marry the Sassenach wench?” “’Tisn’t so simple. The laird’s consort isnae merely a juicy quim or a fertile ewe. She must be more.” Euan shrugged. “She’s a widow, managed her own household.” “Hmm.” Kieran took a deep breath of the midnight air, scented with the tang of the nearby sea and the crofters’ hay. “Aye then, I’ll do it.”
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Chapter Two Kieran disliked Edinburgh at its best. A stinking pile of narrow alleys and twisted, filthy walkways, it starved his Highland soul for greenery and open space. And Edinburgh was at its worst when overrun with Sassenachs, swaggering Englishmen with their loud red coats, odd accents and arrogant contempt of Scotland and all things Scottish…especially the Scots. Upon entering the city, he’d decided to marry the Sassenach lassie as soon as the banns could be posted and to get his new wife home as soon as he could. But when he’d seen her, uncertainty had gnawed at the edge of his decision. A jewel shines best in a proper setting, he believed, and clearly Lady Lydia Swann– Williston’s proper setting was a ballroom or a garden, not a drafty old castle that harbored secrets older than time. Or p’raps she belonged in a bedroom. He observed her covertly from across the crowded drawing room. Lady Menhardie’s musicale had just concluded and the patient audience, which had sat through Purcell sonatas, Handel airs and several Bach fugues, concluding with an uninspired performance by the Lady herself on the harp, now hurried as politely as they could toward the refreshments. Two of the women, whose wide panniers no doubt aped the latest London fashion, collided and stuck in a doorway, blocking it for several amusing moments. His Sassenach bride was clad in a modest gown of palest gray, trimmed with silvershot lace at the cuffs and bodice, with an underskirt of cream satin. The generous curves above her snug stomacher hinted at glories beneath. But for her bosom, she was small and delicately built, despite the modest panniers swelling her hips. Her slenderness gave Kieran pause. The laird’s lady had to be strong—strong to help to lead the clan, strong to withstand the harsh Highland winters. Strong to be his mate, to bear his bairns, to satisfy his demands. He drew closer, slipping through the throng like a wraith. He passed Colonel Swann and gave him a nod, then approached his fiancée. Lydia had dark hair and eyes, plus a full mouth made for kissing a man…all over. He imagined her plump lips embracing his rigid length and wondered if she liked cock. She’d been married, and her preferences would be dependent upon the whims and talents of her late husband. Well, if she didn’t like sex, he’d teach her, and relish every moment. When Lydia produced a fan from the silvery reticule hanging from her wrist, Kieran decided to make his move.
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“’Tis quite warm in here, milady. P’raps ye’d enjoy a breath of fresh air?” He nodded toward the unlatched floor-length windows.
***** Lydia looked at the man who’d accosted her. How had she failed to notice him before? Bold he was despite his sober dress. Wigless, his straight hair was unfashionably long and darker than a moonless midnight. However, his apparel would rival that of the most stylish London dandy. He wore black, which would have seemed funereal but for the richness of the fine velvet. Lace lavishly trimmed his cuffs, falling over his strong hands like spider webs over granite. Stocking-clad calves, exposed beneath black breeches, were finely turned and muscular. His eyes also matched his garb, while his skin formed a stark contrast. Though quite pale, he was unusually attractive. His subdued attire couldn’t hide the girth of his chest and his potent masculinity. Taller than the other men in the room, he dominated the space around him. “Yes, I’d like that,” she said. Widowhood had compensations, and one of them was being able to walk alone with a gentleman without incurring the censure of society…or of her mother, who was gossiping with a newfound friend. His sudden smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. He opened the glass door and the breeze swirling through lifted strands of his hair that had worked loose from the dark ribbon at his nape. Lydia was seized by the absurd desire to stroke back those wayward locks. She fluttered her fan to conceal her nervousness. The mysterious stranger took her free hand and led her into the garden surrounding the Menhardie mansion. The broad summer moon cast shadows that shifted with the breeze, so she could see little but could scent much—the fragrance of plants and newly turned earth, the attar of roses she’d touched to her pulse points and, daringly, between her breasts. Most of all, she drew in the male aroma of the stranger who’d taken possession of her hand, a scent reminiscent of midnight and secret longings. He led her deeper into the knot garden. Trees, swishing in the breeze, blocked the manse from her view. She inhaled sharply, realizing she’d walked willingly, alone, with a man she knew nothing about, into what was not only a compromising position but possibly a dangerous one. As though he sensed her fear, he released her hand. “Would ye wish to sit?” He waved his hand at a stone bench. She touched it with a forefinger. Moisture seeped through her glove. “Dinnae fash yerself.” The stranger sat and held out his arms. “Come here.” She hesitated. “I’m affianced. ’Twould offend my new husband.” “No one can see us, and I’m just asking ye to sit.” His gaze was not merely open and guileless, but oddly compelling.
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He seemed so kind, and her worries so silly, that she complied, moving closer. He reached for her waist to help her arrange her skirts and panniers. Finally she’d settled onto his lap, sitting crossways so she was looking at his chiseled features, distinct in the moonlight, as pale as new milk. A strange energy thrummed through her body. She was acutely aware of the firm, muscular thighs beneath her, for she had never sat on a man’s lap before. Neither her father nor her husband had asked for or taken this intimacy. Did she like it? She wasn’t sure and became even less sure when the stranger, who had one arm touching her waist already, slid his other wide palm up her calf toward her knee. Though his touch sent a tremor of desire shafting through her being, it unnerved her even more. She squirmed but he held her fast. “Lassie, what worries ye?” “You are taking liberties, sir, and we…haven’t been introduced.” What a stupid thing to have said. He must think her a fool. But what did it matter? She’d never see him again. He chuckled. “Let’s just say that I’m a man who finds you quite alluring.” Alluring. Lydia blinked. William had never said that. “Remember, I’m affianced.” “Ye’re here with me. Do ye love him?” She cleared her throat. “We’ve never met.” “Then ye’re sharing a stolen moment with a man you…dare I say a man you like?” He flirted, but his voice held a dark timbre that seduced her soul. And yet a note of humor, kindness even, tinctured his tone. She hesitated, then looked into his eyes and was immediately calmed. She said, “Yes. You may dare.” “And what else may I dare?” The hand on her leg rose to her face to play with a curl, stroke her cheek. She quivered and her breasts swelled, her nipples rubbing against the lawn of her shift. Flesh for which she had no words, the secret place at the junction of her thighs, heated, tightened, moistened. She shifted on his lap, opening her legs and leaning forward a trifle, and that sensitive, secret spot rubbed against his leg, bringing a charge of pleasure she hadn’t known before. She hid her gasp behind her fan. He smiled at her, his eyes knowing… Did he understand how powerfully he affected her? This was wrong, wrong. She had to stop. “Your eyes are warm chocolate on a chilly day.” His voice was as soft as the breeze, as soft as his caress down her cheek to her mouth, which he traced. “Your lips are a temptation that I cannae resist.” “You presume much, sir.”
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“Aye, I do, but I feel I know your heart.” If he knew her heart, then he knew it beat faster than a racing stallion’s hooves. He inclined his head toward her. His lips were carved marble in the moon’s silver rays. “Ye desire me, do ye not?” “Desire isn’t enough.” She’d desired William, and her marriage bed had been either empty of her husband or the scene of brief trysts devoid of pleasure. She wouldn’t be seduced by a handsome stranger. What for? “Please.” He asked, but then he took. His mouth felt cool on hers but with a touch of fire beneath. That fire raced through her, igniting parts of her she hadn’t known could feel such heat, such rapture. She gasped again from sheer surprise, and something intruded between her lips… Before heaven, was that his tongue? No, Lydia thought. This isn’t me. She reached for his wrist to slide her fingers toward his elbow. She wrapped her hand around his arm and dug her thumb into the muscle just in front of the joint. He yelped and jerked away, dumping her off his lap. She landed gracefully, stood and stepped back a pace. “Good,” she said. “I must have hit just the right spot.” His eyes were amazed. “Where did a lady like ye learn such a trick?” “My brother taught me.” She couldn’t help shooting him a triumphant smile as she tucked her fan into her reticule. He shouted with laughter. “Ye’ll do, yes, ye will! Ye’ll make a fine wife.” “I beg your pardon?” she said stiffly. He grinned at her. “I’m Kieran.” She gaped at him. “Kieran Kilborn,” he added helpfully. “The man ye’ll marry.” She glowered, fists on hips. “Why didn’t you introduce yourself properly?” He shrugged and sent her an impish smile. “I learned more this way.” “What did you learn? That your wife is a wanton who will…who will…” She turned away, consumed by shame. She had actually contemplated giving herself to the mysterious stranger. He rose, taking her into his arms, and she met his insistent gaze. “I learned that the woman who is to be my wife has standards and knows how to enforce them. And yes, I learned that she’s a wanton who will please me and herself when I take her.” I’m a wanton? Good heavens. “You learned all that?” “Lady Lydia, ye cannae hide yourself from me. I saw these swell and press against your bodice when ye sat on my lap.”
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He ran a hand over Lydia’s bosom and her nipples responded, again rasping against her shift. “I smelled your need.” Horrified, she took a step back. “I…smell?” He smiled. “Not so anyone else can sense it. I have a good sense of smell. I could sense your womanhood moistening, becoming ready for me.” Her hands, small, startled birds, flew up to clasp her face. “You can smell my, er…womanhood?” He nodded, again with that knowing expression. “There are other words for that wonderful place, but I’m sure that a lady like yerself doesnae ken them. Unless your husband spoke them to ye in bed.” He looked at her with inquiry in his dark eyes. She shook her head, embarrassed. “We didn’t talk about…that.” “I dinnae ken why not. Ye’re fair irresistible. Let’s sit again.” This time she nestled on his lap with more comfort, knowing that she wasn’t committing an act of betrayal even before she’d wed. Kieran moved one of her legs so the toe of her heeled mule rested on the stone walkway, and the result was to press her womanhood more closely against his thigh, her knees open. He supported her with one hand on her waist, and she felt his strength even through the layers of her gown. “May I?” He touched a finger to her lips. “I, er…yes.” Again, his mouth was cool and smooth against hers. This time, he flicked his tongue against her lips instead of ramming it in. Relief flooded her and she shyly began to respond to his kiss. Then that fire—the fire she’d felt before—leaped from him to her, crackling through her body like a live thing, settling between her thighs, flaring into a blaze. She shoved her hands into his hair, pulling him closer, and opened her mouth. His tongue slid inside. His body lost some tension and she guessed that kissing was very important to Kieran. She wondered why. William hadn’t been much for kissing. His tongue danced with hers, flirted the same way she used her fan. She became entirely absorbed in this new game, playing with his hair, running one hand down the side of his face. Cool, smooth skin, punctuated by a very slight stubble. Fingers dropped to her décolletage, tracing her cleavage’s lines above her stiff stomacher before dipping into the cleft between her breasts. She groaned and pressed her womanhood harder against his thigh. His hand clenched around her waist. “Aye, love. Rock against me.” His soft voice seductive, irresistible. “Take your pleasure.” Heat swept her, a heat she’d never felt before with any man. She’d felt it in her bath, alone, when she washed, or in bed at night touching herself. But never had a man’s kiss, his hard thigh beneath her, inflamed her to such a degree. Her body swayed, no longer her own, and she gripped his shoulders for support. 12
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Kieran shifted again and she felt it. The male part that William had used on her, in her. It pressed against her thigh, just inches from her womanhood. “What is it, love?” His voice was soft, concerned. “What is what?” “Your body tightened when I moved my cock against ye.” She sucked in a startled breath. “Is that what it’s called? A…cock?” “Aye, it is, and he wants to nest inside your cunny as soon as possible.” “Is…is that what you call my womanhood? My cunny?” “Aye, there are many words for that sweet place.” He reached down, lifted up her skirts, and slid a hand beneath layers of fabric and along her leg, heading for that mysterious spot. Did she want this? Was this right? She wasn’t sure, but they were affianced, so surely there was no harm. 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.”
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“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?”
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“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.
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“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.
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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
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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
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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. 19
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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. 20
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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.
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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. Surprisingly, she found a tear in her eye, and even Henrietta’s cheeks were moist. They didn’t hug—most improper—but Lydia hoped the clasp of her hand told her mother how grateful she was and how much she’d miss her. “Tell George…tell George and Jane…” She faltered and couldn’t continue. Clearing her throat, she called upon centuries of breeding, saying formally, “Please convey to my brother and his wife my best regards, and to their children also.” She turned to her husband, who smiled at her and said, “It’s time.” Taking her hand, he led her to the coach he’d hired. He settled her in the forward-facing seat, taking care to cover her bare arms with a carriage shawl for warmth. When she was comfortable, he sat back and eyed her. “So, my lady wife. How are ye?” She smiled, shrugged. “Well enough, I trow.” Truth be told, the worms in her belly had transmuted into monsters out of a troubled child’s nightmares. His dark gaze swept her. “I missed ye these past days.” “And I, you,” she said, grateful he’d admitted his longing first—she hadn’t quite had the courage. “I was afraid that you’d… That we’d…” “That the kisses we shared were only a dream, a fantasy born of our cravings? Or p’raps that we were making a mistake?” “Yes, exactly.” She was startled that he not only understood her feelings, but that he shared them and discussed them openly. “Besotted, we are.” His smile was rueful. “Besotted and without reason. We don’t know each other.” “We’ve a lifetime to learn, but I know quite a bit about ye.” She lifted her brows. “The former Lady Lydia Swann–Williston, now Lady Lydia Kilborn. Second child of General Lord Arthur Swann, deceased, and Lady Henrietta, neé Davenport. Older brother George, married to Jane, two sons, Andrew and Arthur.” “How did you find out all this?” He winked. “You came out at age fifteen and were presented at court. You married The Honorable William Williston, a career officer, about a year later and were widowed soon after when he died at Culloden Moor. No issue of the marriage.” “And you?”
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“Kieran Kilborn. Age thirty. Son of Laird Carrick Kilborn and Lady Robina. My mam was a Cameron. She died in childbirth when I was five.” He sighed. “And ye know what happened to my father and brother.” “Was your brother also educated?” “Nay, Ranald didnae hold with book learning. He was to be the brawn, I the brain. At least that was the plan.” His expression was momentarily bleak. She leaned forward and touched his hand. “I’m sorry. So now you must be both.” “Aye, but I have a deal of help.” He nodded at the window. Outside, Dugald Kilborn rode a massive gray charger. “Dugald and his father, auld Euan, who you’ll meet, are my seconds. They’re verra capable men at arms. We maintain a permanent garrison of about three score men and patrol regularly. And all the clansmen train.” “How many did you lose in the uprising?” “Not many, for few could be spared from their fields or families. My da and brother went only because of our Cameron connection. When the Cameron came out for Bonnie Prince Charlie, Clan Kilborn was obligated.” His tone had turned hard and p’raps a little sarcastic. He paused before saying, “And now ye know me.” “Not at all,” she said. “Enough for now, I believe.” The coach slowed, then stopped. “Ah, we’re here.” A footman opened the carriage door in front of an inn Lydia didn’t recognize. “My lodgings. Your maid should already be here unpacking.” Despite the frantic thrumming of her heart, she controlled her tension and set aside the carriage shawl, preparing for the next step in her new life.
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Chapter Four Kieran ushered Lydia into the inn, then led her upstairs and into the lodgings he’d selected. When she entered, she noted that the place was neither ostentatious nor shabby, but clean and well-appointed. With a start, she saw he’d bespoken only one bedroom. Of course there’s only one bedroom, you ninny, she told herself. Though Kieran didn’t seem impoverished, he no doubt shared the Scots’ legendary thriftiness and wouldn’t rent a room he didn’t plan to use. And she was certain that her new husband didn’t intend her to sleep alone. He’d made that quite clear. He smiled at her. “I’ll arrange supper and baths for the morn.” When he left, she examined her new quarters. The large bedroom had wardrobes aplenty, a dresser and a few other pieces of furniture, but was dominated by a tester bed covered by a red velvet quilt. Heavy curtains were tied around the posts, ready to be loosened to protect the occupants from drafts. When she beheld that big bed, Lydia’s throat went dry while her quim dampened. Attempting to distract herself from thoughts of the night, she busied herself directing Elsbeth to unpack and arrange her bits and bobs—hairbrushes, scents, powders. Her clothing was already tucked into the wardrobes alongside Kieran’s plain shirts and trews, from riding habits to warm cloaks, plainer day sacques and a formal gown or two with panniers and stomachers to discipline her curvy torso into the conical style long in favor. Elsbeth took down Lydia’s hair and started to change her out of her gown by removing the stomacher and loosening the stays. Then shoes clattered on the hallway planks and her new husband entered, a dark, wickedly seductive presence. Though she’d expected him, her heart stuttered. What had he called her? Alluring? If that was so, he took allure to a new place. Whenever she looked at him, even thought about him, her quim fluttered and moistened, readying her for his…cock. She’d been in a heightened nervous state since they’d met, and everything about the day had added to that edginess. Now, with their wedding night upon them, she was almost impossibly anxious and aroused, a quivery mass of feeling. “Taking over my room, are ye?” His merry voice was a contrast to his somber dress. “Aye, milord, er…milaird. That is what happens when a man marries.” She peeked at him through her lashes, hoping he’d enjoy that bit of flirtation. He smiled. “Dinnae get too cozy. We’ll be here only a few more days, just enough time to purchase some provisions for the clan and arrange for transport.”
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“Well, I must unpack some clothing.” His brows lifted. “I dinnae see why.” Elsbeth giggled and clapped a hand over her mouth, turning red. “That will be all, Elsbeth,” Lydia said. “Get yourself some supper.” Addressing the maid, Kieran produced a few coins. “We won’t be needing ye agin tonight.” Looking pleased, Elsbeth scooted out of the door. “Where does your girl spend the night?” he asked. “She has a room at home, of course. When we traveled, she usually found a spot in front of the fire. She has a good quilt to wrap herself in.” Lydia turned to Kieran. “Milaird, it’s kind of you to concern yourself with my maid’s comfort.” “Thank ye, but my motives are selfish. I dinnae want her stepping into our room during an intimate moment.” Kieran’s dark eyes were intent. “And to ye, my name is Kier or Kieran, not milaird.” “Yes, my— Kieran.” “My Kieran. I like the sound o’ that. And ye’re my Lydia, always.” He moved toward her, sinuous as a cat, and ran a finger down the side of her face, tracing the curve of her cheekbone. “That would be…all right.” “Would you prefer…my sweetling?” The cool finger, which somehow left a scorching trail, slid down her neck. “That—that’s fine, too. I suppose.” “Ye suppose, do ye?” That elegant, knowing finger delved beneath her loosened stays, found her nipple, flicked it. It jumped into a point. Lydia stood perfectly still before him, trying not to quiver, wondering what she felt, what she should feel. “Nice,” he said, and flicked the other, harder. “Verra responsive, ye are.” She sensed her face flushing, heat that spread down to her chest. He tore away the laces and the stays dropped to the ground. He cupped her breasts over her shift before pinching the tips. She moaned and he pushed her back, back toward the bed, untying the tapes of her skirt. Overskirt, underskirt, petticoat, panniers, another petticoat…all slipped off her body and were left in jumbled disarray. She was losing her breath, but managed to say, “You’re very…good at this.” “At what, my sweet wife?” “Taking off a woman’s clothes.” “Long practice.” He chuckled. “And it will be even easier when we’re home. Ye won’t be needin’ your fancy gowns.”
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“Not one?” “Well…one, p’raps.” She was naked but for her stockings, and those bid fair to be lost, for her garters had loosened when her skirts fell. Her shoes were likewise hidden in the mass of fabric on the floor. Kieran was still clothed, eyes glittering like onyx stars. The air seemed charged with a mysterious energy, prickling her bare skin. He caressed her belly and eased her back onto the bed. Standing between her spread legs, he skittered light fingertips around her breasts and down her sides before fondling the tender folds between her legs. She tried to cover herself from his lusty gaze, but he stopped her, seizing her hands in a firm grasp. “I’m just lookin’ at ye, lassie.” “It’s…it’s indecent.” Not even William had studied her in the intent, wicked, sinful way Kieran did now. Her first husband had come to her in the dark of night, forced himself on her and left. She struggled for a moment, and he said, “Kylyrra, do I have to tie ye up?” She stared at him, struck mute. “Aye, I think so. It might be easier for ye.” Still holding her wrists, he used his body to sprawl her flat on the bed. He untied his black cravat with his free hand and used it to secure her wrists to one of the bedposts. Binding her hadn’t taken him more than a moment. With her snugly fastened, he smiled down at her. She was still speechless, shaking with outrage and more than a little fear. William had hurt her in bed without tying her up. What would Kieran do? She remembered his reputation and scooted back, as far away as she could go, drawing her legs beneath her. He wasn’t even a civilized English gentleman but a wild Highlander, descendant of the Viking warriors who’d struck England’s coasts again and again, burning villages, butchering the men and raping the women. But their descendant didn’t seem to be following his ancestors’ lead. The summer night was finally falling, and as gloom descended, Kieran went from lamp to lamp, candle to candle, lighting each until the room glowed. The space was redolent of beeswax, her rose scent and his midnight aura. Then he toed off his shoes and removed his jacket and waistcoat. Without his cravat, his collar hung open, and Lydia thought that she could see a hint of his broad chest beneath the half-open shirt. Soon he would be naked, and then he’d… “What—what are you going to do?” He stopped undressing to turn and look at her, smiling. “I’m going to love ye better than anyone ever has.” He pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto a nearby chair. She’d rarely seen William naked, and she remembered he’d been thin and wiry, with small tufts of pale brown hair. Kieran was completely different—tall and broad, 26
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with pale skin smooth over ridges of solid bone and muscle. Black, masculine hair curled over a chest that seemed fashioned of polished white marble. She’d ignored her fear in favor of examining her husband and now anticipation tingled along her skin, lifting the tiny hairs. She squeezed her thighs together to control the odd ache that had possessed her quim. However, the press of her flesh heightened her desire. She wanted him, and wanted to trust him, but feared the inevitable pain and shame. “Now I can truly look at ye, my bonnie wife.” His voice was husky as he approached her. He leaned over the bed and took her ankles. She drew in a nervous breath as he stretched her out flat to look his fill. Each time his gaze passed up and down her body, it was as though he stroked her with his big, strong hands. Her flesh twitched, every cell shifting, her body moistening, readying for him. She could see her left breast bounce with the pounding of her heart. Moisture oozed from her quim. She wanted to touch herself, to touch him, and jerked against the bonds. “Aye, ye’re beautiful bound.” Kieran spread her knees wide apart and knelt between them. His satin pantaloons slid cool and slick against her thighs. She found herself thrusting against him to get relief for her pulsing, aching core. “Please…” She didn’t recognize the husky voice as hers. What was she doing? What was she becoming? “I don’t know what to do,” she choked out in a whisper. He laughed softly, but without any meanness, just joy. “Whatever ye wish, lassie. Let go. Let me in.” Leaning forward, he kissed her open, panting mouth, using his tongue and teeth on her. She allowed the invasion and pushed her body against his. Her breasts pressed against his solid chest and a bolt of pure want stabbed through her. She wanted more, but he pulled away to test the tightness of the cravat around her wrists. He nodded, evidently pleased, then scrabbled with gentle fingernails down her arms to her breasts. He pinched the nipples, which had beaded as hard as pink pearls. “Palest rose. Beautiful.” He looked her in the eyes. “And a bonnie blush.” That heat had spread to her entire being, but she was beyond embarrassment, writhing now with desire, thrusting her breasts up into his hands. He continued speaking in a conversational tone. “They’ll turn dark when you bear our bairns. Did ye know that, Lydia?” “N-no,” she managed to say, though her lips and tongue were thickened with passion. “Aye, they will. Beautiful either way.” He leaned down again and set his mouth on her breast, sucking hard. His unbound hair stroked her belly. Emitting a small scream, she jerked up her knees and frantically shoved herself against him. He allowed her to struggle and thrash, undulating beneath him and 27
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yanking on the cravat while he enjoyed her breasts. Each tug and pull of his lips drew forth a corresponding chord of passion that resounded through her. She found herself moaning, little incoherent cries of lust she hadn’t known she could utter. “Aye, lassie. Wrap your legs around me.” He reached down to help, and the position angled her quim against his body. He banged his body against her repeatedly, setting up a rhythm, and she responded. Her frantic thrashing became more disciplined and he murmured, “Aye, like that.” He gave her one last suck and a nip so hard that pain mixed with passion before releasing her nipple. Wet and hard, it glowed red in the mellow lamplight. He kissed away a tiny rivulet of blood that wept from the tip. She panted, wordless except for, “Please, please, please…” He smiled slowly. “Aye, kylyrra. I’ll give ye what ye need. What ye want.” Down her body he went until his eager gaze feasted on her wet, open quim. She tried to close her legs, but he wouldn’t let her, instead holding her knees high and wide. She resisted and he slapped her thigh. “Nay, lady. Ye’re mine to enjoy any way I choose. And I choose this.” She drew in a shocked breath, for the spank had stung. Then the little pain settled into her quim, adding an unexpected layer of heated passion. She was wet, so wet that her juices flowed along her folds and creases, a tickly feeling that increased her bewildered embarrassment. Her shock increased when he bent his dark head and lapped at her pearl. Closing her eyes, she saw dark flares of brilliance flash against her shuttered lids with every flick and push of his tongue. Oh, it was wicked and wanton, but so good that she opened her legs wider and pressed herself onto his mouth. She remembered he’d said, “Many lassies say it’s their favorite.” Now she knew why. As he licked her, he reached up and tweaked her breasts again, igniting twin fires in the tips. She was aflame with a desire she had never known she could feel. She was panting with the exertion, with want, struggling toward a fulfillment that eluded her. He rubbed his tongue hard against her bump and slid first one finger then another inside her, but that wasn’t enough. She blinked, writhed, wanted, pulling against her bonds. He raised his head, his midnight eyes bright. “Kylyrra, I think I understand what ye need. Close your eyes again and trust me.” She sucked in a deep, desperate breath and obeyed him. Then something wet entered her bum, where William had violated and hurt her. This—Kieran’s finger?— didn’t hurt, but it was wrong, so perverted that she squirmed and cried out with despair because it felt so good. Every quiver of her body, every gentle swirl of Kieran’s finger inside her backside took her higher until she leaped over the edge into oblivion. She tensed then released, glittering stars shining behind her closed lids, but sobbed, “No!”
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“It’s all right, kylyrra, whatever you feel is all right.” Kieran’s voice was soothing. When her trembling stopped, he slowly removed his finger and crawled up her body, covering her with his strength, his tenderness. He untied the cravat and took her into his arms. Lydia was weeping. “I d-don’t understand!” He held her tight and murmured softly and sweetly into her ear, words in his strange language that she didn’t comprehend but that nevertheless comforted her. When she’d calmed, he said softly, “’Tis simple, love. Your first experience in bed was with your husband using your backside. Though it hurt, it also stirred your blood, didnae it?” “Yes,” she whispered, so ashamed she did her best to bury her face into his chest. “’Tis all right, sweetling. Our experiences shape us, especially the first time. ’Tis natural ye’d be stirred by the same act. Dinnae worry. I’ll not hurt ye.” Lifting her head, she narrowed her eyes at him. “You slapped my leg.” He laughed. “But I didnae hurt ye. It also stirred ye. Admit it.” “Ye-es,” she murmured sulkily. Still smiling, he laid her on the pillows and kissed her. First her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips. He rose and went to the dressing table, where he poured water from a ewer into a bowl and washed, stripping off the rest of his clothes. She watched with fascination as he unfastened his breeches and cleaned his cock, which hung from a dark nest of hair. He seemed entirely relaxed with his nakedness, behaving as though they’d been married forever. She wondered if she’d ever reach a like state.
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Chapter Five When Lydia awoke, she was alone. The curtains were drawn around their bed and only Kieran’s distinctive male aroma was present. She stretched, remembering how she’d felt after her first wedding night, She’d also awakened alone, but in a bed that stank of feces and blood with a raw, sore bum and an even more injured heart. This day, she felt rested and pleased with the risk she’d taken by wedding her not-so-wild Highlander. He’d been gentle and considerate, eschewing his pleasure in favor of beginning what she guessed would be a long initiation into the joys of lovemaking. She had never before heard of anything Kieran had done in bed, except for the kissing, and wondered what more he would reveal. Now she understood what some of the other married women of her acquaintance had hinted at but wouldn’t discuss. Now she understood the reason George and Jane would frequently cast sidelong glances at each other and disappear at odd hours, then show up with big smiles and disheveled clothing. Sitting up, Lydia pushed the curtains aside. Elsbeth appeared as though she’d popped out of a Jack-in-the-box. Lydia grabbed the sheet and covered her naked breasts. “When did you get here?” “Milaird bade me enter at dawn, my lady.” “Where is milaird?” “I don’t know, my lady. He went out after bidding me to fetch your breakfast when you awakened. He told me to serve you in bed.” “Did he now?” Lydia lay back onto the pillows, smiling. She had finished eating when Kieran entered. “And where have you been, husband?” “Kisses first, questions second.” Elsbeth scurried out when he approached the bed, a dark presence looming over Lydia. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her mouth. “I’ve been spendin’ yer dowry.” “On what?” He sat on the side of the bed, which creaked. “Things for the clan, provisions for the winter that we cannae make or grow ourselves. Dinnae worry, wife, I’ll not waste your siller.” “I feel as though you married me for my money. ’Tis an odd feeling.” 30
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“I betrothed ye for your money, but after we met I married ye for purely carnal reasons.” He leaned over and nipped her neck. “Kieran!” “If ye dinnae want to be attacked in bed, ye should probably get out of it.” She winked at him, feeling feminine and daring. “P’raps I’ll stay here for the nonce.” He yanked off his jacket and sprawled beside her. “P’raps I’ll join ye.” He rolled atop her, pressing her down. She gasped for breath and he rolled back. “Sorry. I dinnae know my own strength.” “It’s all right. Just for a moment I felt a little…trapped.” He eyed her. “Och, I can guess why.” “William.” “Aye, William, both blessed and damned. When will he get out of our bed, lassie? ’Tis a mite crowded in here with the three of us.” Kieran’s voice was kind but firm. She breathed, sighed, relaxed. “As soon as I can boot him out.” “Let’s start getting rid of him now.” He tossed the quilt and sheet to the foot of the bed, baring her body. She blushed but endured his stare, knowing that if she resisted he might tie her up again. She didn’t want to risk her maid seeing her in such an embarrassing state. He caressed her breasts, cupping and examining them with his dark, curiously intent gaze. He pinched one and she vaguely remembered that he’d bitten her sharply on that nipple the previous night. But it appeared unharmed, though a little more swollen than usual. As he fondled her, the tips firmed and hardened into tight cones of arousal. She leaned back into the pillows and drew deep breaths, letting her breasts thrust into his hands. He squeezed and shaped while she allowed herself to enjoy the pressure, the tugging, the pulling. She moaned. Her hips jerked and her quim moistened, fluttered, opened, waiting for him. He spread her legs and said, “What’s this?” “What?” “Your courses, I believe.” He pushed in a finger and she heard a squelching sound. “Oh, no.” She tried not to cry, but tears sprang to her eyes despite her determination. “Oh, no…what?” Kieran asked. He pulled out his finger and licked off the red fluid that coated it. “I willnae stop having ye for a week every month, wife. ’Tis too much to ask.” She watched, amazed. William had avoided her when she bled. Kieran seemed to relish it. “Ye look right funny with yer mouth open like that.” She shut it with a snap. 31
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“Ye know what a man likes to do with a lassie’s open mouth, don’t ye?” “Kiss it?” “Nay.” “Um, put his tongue into it?” He stood, unlaced his trews and took out his cock, running his fingers along its already nerve-racking length. He smoothed away a fleshy covering to reveal a thick, rigid pole. She gaped. William hadn’t been as big. What could Kieran do to her with this weapon? “Exactly so, my wife. Shall we try this?” His voice was soft and supplicating. Reassured, she managed a nod. Her gaze remained fixed on his thickening member as he pulled off boots and stockings, shirt and trews. Her gaze flashed up to his chest, muscular, white-skinned and furred with black curls, then back to his cock and down. His legs were as hard and brawny as the rest of him, with the shapely calves she remembered from the first time they’d met. His member again seized her attention. She was fascinated by his tool, framed as it was by a thick bed of black hair. “I, er…I’ve never known anyone who could divest himself of his clothes so quickly.” “Ye’re a lass of limited experience, but ye’ll not hear me complain.” Reaching for her ankles, he tugged them down, then arranged a pillow beneath her head, elevating it for…what? “Ye seem right curious about my friend, here.” He fondled his rigid length, its vivid color a contrast with the pale skin that covered the rest of his muscular body. “Er, yes.” “Explore all ye wish, my bonnie wife. He’s yours to use as ye will.” Kieran climbed back onto the bed, kneeling with one knee on either side of her torso. He smiled down at her. She reached out with a hesitant finger and touched the tip. Firm, round and red. She stroked, and from beneath the surface smoothness a hard core jutted into her hand. “Oh!” She jerked her fingers away. He replaced them. “He often does seem to have a mind of his own, but I try to think with the one in my head.” He gave her his impish grin. She smiled back and gave him a hesitant squeeze. Sucking in a breath, he closed his eyes. Encouraged, she squeezed more firmly, then ran her fingertips up and down, watching and listening as well as feeling. A musky aroma mingled with Kieran’s usual fresh scent and her roses. She leaned forward to sniff his privates and inhaled deeply, her nose nuzzling his cods.
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His cock, swaying, bumped against her cheek and she used her lips and tongue to move it away. Another indrawn breath from her husband, this one louder. Interesting. She turned her head to one side and again put her mouth to his shaft. “Yesss…” Aha. She slid her lips up and down his length, eliciting a groan. She hoped it was a happy groan, and looked up to see Kieran’s eyes closed and an ecstatic expression on his face. Pleased, she continued, flicking her tongue around randomly until she reached the dome-shaped head. The tiny hole on the top was a little intimidating, so she contented herself with following the ridge around. Another groan. Ah. Emboldened, she traced a line over the top, pausing briefly at the little slit. It had produced a shiny droplet of some kind of fluid…did she need that to get a baby? She was about to ask Kieran to put it inside her before she remembered she had her courses. A renewed wave of disappointment washed over her and she leaned back against the pillows. He opened his eyes to look down at her. “Thank ye, my wife. Thank ye.” He slid down her body, making her aware of every ridge of his muscles. His chest hair scratched pleasantly, raising her nipples to tight little kernels of want. His head ended up where it had been the night before and she couldn’t restrain a delighted giggle. This time he pressed his tongue against her pearl, forcing a quiver of arousal through her before he focused on licking out her quim, using his fingers to open the narrow slit for better access. The flesh tingled, even stung a little when he thrust two fingers into her wetness. Then he kissed her pearl again and the sting transmuted into a sizzle. She panted, close to completion, but he stopped. “Not yet, kylyrra.” “Soon?” she managed. He smiled. “Soon.” He stepped away to refresh his mouth with water from the ewer. During the brief pause his attention remained fixed on her. She’d never been so closely scrutinized, for his sharp black gaze missed nothing. He again towered over the bed, over her, his broad torso shutting out the morning light. “I’m going to put him in ye, lass,” he said, his voice soft. “Are ye ready?” She sighed, tears springing to her eyes. “I’ve been ready for years.” He levered his body above her. “I’m glad it’s me.” He kissed her long and deep, his tongue exploring her mouth at leisure, rubbing and tangling pleasantly with hers. She sucked and licked, enjoying his flavor. His cock bumped her thigh before prodding her quim. He pushed his hips toward hers and reached down with one hand to press his rod inside. She winced. He was big and it smarted. Unable to stop more tears, she blinked them away, clinging to his shoulders.
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“Love, I’m sorry, but it will hurt the first time, for a bit. Just a little bit.” His tone was gentle and coaxing. “Then, I promise ye, it’ll be wonderful. Ye want bairns, do ye not?” “Ye-es.” “Trust me. Please, trust me.” She managed a nod. Gripping her hip, he lowered his body and thrust his hard length entirely into her. She squirmed and cried out at the ripping, tearing sensation, but he stifled the sound with his mouth. She wrenched her lips away from his, gasping and panting while he stayed still within her. It was as though he’d pierced her entire being all the way through with his thick cock. Gradually her panicked breaths stilled as she realized her quim had eased open. She blinked at Kieran. “Better?” She nodded. Surprise swept her and, yes, desire. She tentatively reached between them. “Aye, love, that’s right. Touch yourself, in whatever way feels good.” His praise warmed her. She wriggled around to get room to look down so she could feel and see his cock inside her. Their similar beds of dark hair mingled and she parted the curls at their joining to look. Lifting her head, she could see his rod with her quim opened and stretched tight around him. “Oh,” she breathed, finding the sight oddly stirring. “Aye, ’tis beautiful, isnae it? Touch your pearl.” He began to rock slowly within her. She obeyed. The sensations combined to replace the pain with waves—no, floods of pleasure that pulsed through her, unstoppable as their heartbeats. She pushed herself more tightly against him, responding to the rhythm he set. He reached down to grab one of her knees and lift it high. “Wrap your legs around my waist, so.” She pulled her hand away and obeyed, finding that her hips tipped up and he could take her more deeply, crushing her cunny against him. Every time their bodies slapped together, a burst of flaming ecstasy roared through her in time with the blood singing in her veins. His thrusts increased in tempo, slamming the breath out of her. She was entirely within his power and could do nothing but cling to his shoulders and hope she’d survive his passionate onslaught. His tool surged in and out of her channel with her moisture easing away the soreness of her newly opened quim. One big hand held her buttock, with a finger caressing her back portal. Desire seized her, held her captive. She rocked her pelvis back and forth, pushing her pearl
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against him with every stroke. Colors pulsated behind her closed lids as she became a being of pure light. She arched her back and screamed.
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Chapter Six They left Edinburgh two days later in a small procession of horses, carts and Highland ponies carrying the provisions Kieran had purchased for the clan. Dressed in a crimson habit, bright against yet another gray morning, Lydia blessed the convention that required women to ride side-saddle. Her thoroughly plundered quim couldn’t have tolerated prolonged contact with a saddle had she adopted the mannish custom of riding astride. Mounted stylishly on a pair of flashy bay geldings, she and Kieran, who was clad in his usual black, headed the group. A number of his clansmen had traveled to the city expressly to accompany them back to Kilborn lands for, Kier said, “The Highlands are verra poor, wife, and we are a rich prize.” They traveled westward toward the coast. “I plan to cross the Lowlands and visit our distant relations, the Kilbirnies.” His gelding’s harness jingled. “The name is quite similar.” “Och, the tale is that many centuries ago a Viking boat capsized in a storm and all hands were lost, but for one man. He was the ancestor of all the Kilborns. The Kilbirnies took him in even though he was a Viking and hated. He married into the clan and took their name, but as time passed, found the Lowlands not to his taste. His wife didnae wish to travel to the cold, wild country from whence he’d come, but they moved to the far north of Scotland. They altered their name to avoid confusion but kept a similar tartan.” The Lowlands were well-populated and seemed prosperous. They skirted Glasgow to avoid the thieves and footpads infesting the city. “Why did we not purchase what was needed in Glasgow?” “Ah, much of what I bought was imported, and cheaper near the coast. I bought much in Leith, Edinburgh’s port. Goods are more costly in Glasgow.” He looked over at her and smiled. “I told ye I’d not waste your siller, lassie.” “Our silver, laddie.” “Och, laddie, is it?” “Och, aye.” She imitated his accent with a wink, and he laughed. The Lowlands were as developed as many places in England, with quarries and mines in the hilly areas where the fir-covered slopes allowed. Farms and flocks occupied the meadows. It was a green and lovely land. Well-maintained roads paralleling the river Garnock led them to Kilbirnie. Dugald trotted his gray alongside them. “There’s fine fishing in this river.” He shot a glance laden with meaning at Kieran. Lydia smiled. 36
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“I’m sure we can spare an afternoon for it.” Kieran winked at her. “Do ye fish, then, lassie?” She pretended to shudder. “Touch a worm to stab it with a hook? Never, milaird.” “Never, eh?” His mouth twitched and he didn’t meet her gaze. Exactly like her brother George when he planned some joke on her. She eyed Kier with suspicion. “Do not even think about it, milaird. I am a hopeless fisherman, er…fisherwoman. My father tried. It is a waste of a worm.” “Your da took ye fishing?” “Yes. It is my belief he would have preferred another son.” She hoped she didn’t sound bitter. “One wasnae enough for him?” “No, and certainly not when my brother declined to join the army.” “So ye married a military man instead?” She nearly fell off her horse. She’d never considered the possibility that she’d married William to please her father. She turned that strange new thought over in her mind before she answered. “P’raps so, milaird. Though at the time I thought I’d married to please myself. But I did marry a man very much like my father, and he was someone of whom my father approved, certainly.” “Would your father have approved of me, d’ye think?” She laughed, thinking of the bedroom games she and her husband played. “Not at all, not if he knew you the way I do!” “Och, that would never happen. Didnae your mother approve of me?” “Oh, yes. I would not have married you otherwise.” “Nay?” He sounded startled. “No, for my mother is a better judge of character than I am.” “Is she, now? She approved of your first marriage, did she not?” “That’s true.” “There’s nothing wrong with your judgment, milady. Ye chose me, did ye not?” He winked at her, making a jest out of his conceit, and she laughed. The castle and town of Kilbirnie were situated near the river. The setting sun glowed on the castle’s turrets as their procession approached. Their visit eagerly anticipated, the Kilborns were welcomed like long-lost cousins. Later, at dinner in the castle’s Great Hall, the countess tried to explain a small part of the tangled web-work of history and relationships binding the clans together. “After the first Laird Kilborn left us, taking our laird’s daughter as well as many men and women, he sent tribute to the earls of Clan Kilbirnie. ’Twasn’t until the Kilborns provided succor—and a number of Gallowglass warriors—at the battle of Loudon Hill that the Earl declared the debt satisfied in full.”
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ale.
“Er, wasn’t that in, um, 1305?” Lydia ate a mouthful of salmon and chased it with
“It was 1307.” The countess smiled at Lydia before her glance shifted to Kieran. When he returned her grin, a flush deepened the color of her already florid countenance. Nevertheless, she continued, “Our clans continued to intermarry.” “Yes, the clans are close.” Her husband, the earl, smiled genially at Lydia. A roundshouldered fellow in his fifties, he sported the clan features of pale skin contrasting with dark hair and eyes. “Euan, who you’ll meet, was fostered here…oh, in my father’s day. Or was it my grandda’s?” “He would have had to have been fostered with your father, dear,” the countess said. “If he’d lived here with your grandfather, well, he’d have to be ninety or a hundred years old!” Kieran chuckled, but Lydia sensed an edge of uneasiness. “How does Euan tarry?” the earl asked. “He’s well.” Kieran cut his meat with tidy, precise motions. “Better than can be expected at his age.” “The Kilborns have amazing longevity,” the earl told Lydia. He turned to Kieran. “Just how old was Sir Gareth when he died?” “No one’s quite certain.” Kieran sounded evasive and stared at his plate as though his ham slices were the most fascinating morsels ever cooked. “Who was Sir Gareth?” Lydia asked. “My grandfather,” Kier said. “The tenth laird, and an intimate of His Majesty’s.” “Which king?” “The Merrie Monarch.” “That was nearly a hundred years ago,” Lydia said with wonder. “Indeed. Sir Gareth resembled His Majesty, so much so that he played an important part in the Restoration.” Kieran set down his knife. “After we Scots crowned him King, a long struggle began, and Charles’ forces were oft overmatched. He had to flee for his life more than once—in disguise. But he was an unusually tall, dark man.” “And the Kilborns are tall and dark also,” Lydia said as understanding dawned. “Aye. Because Sir Gareth so greatly resembled the King, he was able to lead more than one group of Lobsterbacks a merry chase through the Highlands.” “That’s quite a tale. And Sir Gareth was your great-grandfather?” “Nay, my grandda.” “How is that possible?” “We are quite a long-lived clan.” Kieran’s voice was oddly flat. “’Tis due to healthy Highland living.”
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That still didn’t seem quite right. She eyed him. She didn’t know all her new husband’s moods but sensed that this was a sensitive matter. Making a quick mental note to ask about it later, she changed the subject. “How many children did he have?” “Only two. We live long but produce with rarity,” Kieran said. “’Tis a curse of the Kilborns.” “Oh.” Lydia’s mood drooped. “Dinnae worry, wife. I may take after my mam. The Camerons are prolific breeders.” “They have to be,” the countess said with asperity. “They go to war on the losing side again and again.” Lydia smiled at the sally but still wasn’t distracted from the main topic, which to her was the odd but exciting Sir Gareth. Hadn’t the Scots crowned Charles II King in 1650 or thereabouts? And he’d been born in, what, 1630? For Sir Gareth to have convincingly played the Merrie Monarch, they would have had to be about the same age. If Sir Gareth had been born in 1630, his son, Kieran’s father, would have been born in 1650 or so. But that wasn’t possible! However, all of Britain had been in turmoil until the Restoration in 1661, and Charles himself had died in 1685. If Sir Gareth had been an intimate of the King, he may have spent a substantial time at Charles’ court before returning to the Highlands to start a family. Men were capable of siring children when quite aged, and if the Kilborns were long lived… Nonetheless, it seemed strange. While she’d been woolgathering, the conversation had moved on, but because the earl was discussing the dull subject of coal exports with Kieran, Lydia asked the countess, “How did the Kilbirnies avoid involvement with the latest rising? And the clearances?” She smiled. “As you can see by my coloring, I’m not a Kilbirnie.” She was a little sugar-dumpling of a woman, round and rosy, dressed in shades of deep gold. “I’m a Campbell of Argyll.” “But we forgive you for it.” The earl broke off his more boring conversation to beam fondly at his wife. “’Twas a wise choice,” Kieran said. “Such an alliance must have brought security.” “Aye, it did. Just as your da’s marriage to a Cameron of Lochaber brought benefits.” “Argyll swore to protect me, and by extension Kilbirnie, come what may,” the countess said complacently. “And that included the clearances. Like Kilborn, we have been spared the worst, though occasionally Redcoats make demands.” “Then we appeal to Argyll,” the earl said. And Lydia understood the wisdom of the earl’s choice, for not only was the countess a hospitable and charming hostess but the benefits to Clan Kilbirnie couldn’t 39
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be denied. She didn’t grasp the entirety of the scores of marriages, pacts and alliances that lightly bound the clans, but she had an inkling of the complex relationships that had evolved and developed over the centuries. She’d gained a sense of history and of the very great age of the clan system, a vast family rooted deeply in Scotland and reaching its branches into the sky of some future realm as yet unknown, despite English efforts to eradicate it. It was as though she’d married Scotland and become a part of that ancient family tree. A soft-soled boot caressed the side of her ankle and Scotland, in the person of her husband, winked at her, his smile lustful. The boot rubbed up and down her ankle, in the exact cadence with which his cock usually moved inside her. She squirmed, blushed and stared at her plate. To cover her condition she stuck a fork into the salmon, mangling it further. Kieran laughed softly. The countess seemed oblivious. “How long will you stay, milaird?” she asked Kieran. “Milady, ye’re a fine hostess and this is a cozy castle, but not long. I dinnae want my men eating the entire contents of your larder.” “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” the earl said, smiling at Lydia. “And to return at any time.” “I’m sure we’ll be back.”
***** Camping beside the Garnock the first night away from the castle allowed the Kilborns to fish, as Dugald had desired. “My lady wife.” Kieran beckoned to Lydia, one hand behind his back. “Ye-es, milaird?” Whipping out his hidden hand, he dangled a worm an inch from her face. She squawked and jumped back, tripping over a fallen log. The clansmen whooped, clutching their sides. Grinning, Dugald lifted her up by the arms. “Kier, your bed will be cold tonight if ye persist teasin’ our lady.” “It’s all right,” she said, finding her dignity. “If he can do it, I can too. Just wait a moment. Elsbeth!” When the maid trotted forth, Lydia said, “The plain brown sacque, please, behind this tree.” She scooted behind a copse to change into her oldest dress. Wearing battered leather gloves, Lydia daintily plucked a worm from the spadeful of earth that one of the men overturned. Wincing, she thrust it toward the hook that Kier held. She missed and the clansmen howled anew.
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“Lass,” Kier said, “if ye close your eyes, the wee worm will ever miss the mark. We’ll starve before ye get your line into the water.” She cut him a glare. “I’ll pick mushrooms instead.” “We willnae starve,” Dugald said. “We’ll merely die in agony.” “Hah.” She picked up a basket and disappeared into the trees. Her father had shown her and her brother how to hunt for mushrooms when they’d been children. She not only knew a mushroom from a toadstool, but could distinguish the innocentlooking deadly amanita from its edible cousins, knew where to find morels and boletes, chanterelles and caps. And the damp woods were a perfect hunting ground. Followed by Elsbeth, Lydia sniffed deeply, enjoying the aroma of the humid pine forest. Her old boots sank a bit into the wet duff, supported in part by dead conifer needles. She spotted a clump of golden chanterelles, but worried due to their resemblance to a deadlier species. The cloudy day didn’t offer enough light to easily examine her finds. She skipped them, preferring the more distinctive morel. When she returned, Kier and Dugald peered at and poked through her haul. Lifting their heads, they eyed each other, raised identical black brows, then eyed her. She tried not to preen. “Well?” “We willnae go hungry, that’s for sure,” Dugald said. “Nay.” Kier measured her with a glance and nodded, looking impressed. “Ye’ve hidden depths, my lady wife.” She winked at him. “I’ll do, shall I?” “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.
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“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
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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“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 47
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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 48
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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?” He nodded at the smudge. “Kilborn Castle. ’Tis further away than it appears. We’ve two more hours on horseback, wife, before ye’ll see your bedchamber.” “I’d rather see a bath and clean clothes.” Her habit was not only bloodstained but travel-worn, the bright red now dull and dirty. “Easily enough done. Dugald!” He trotted his horse alongside and Kieran said, “Send a fast rider ahead of us. Tell Fenella to make the castle ready, including our bedchamber. Milady desires a hot bath. As do I.” “I’ll see to it myself.” “Take Sentry.” Kieran reined in the big gray, slid off his broad back and offered the traces to Dugald, who immediately left. Her husband mounted the smaller horse, remarking, “’Tis a small price to pay for your comfort, wife.” He seemed overly solicitous. Guilt, p’raps. “And yours also, husband,” she said. “True enough.” He smiled at her and she forgot herself for long enough to smile back. Then she remembered. “Will I ever see ye smile at me again?” “I don’t know.”
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“I cannae change what I am, wife. I’m a Kilborn, sworn and committed to your welfare and that of my clan.” He looked at her, his eyes suddenly feral, blazing. “I’ll do what I must to protect you. He had to die, do ye no’ understand that?” She paused and finally said, “I understand that. It’s the rest of it—” “Aye, I ken. I dinnae ken what came over me, either. It has never happened before, truly.” She remembered the unusual deference Dugald had shown. “I believe you.” But what of Kieran’s ancestors? What of the old laird? Kieran had said, “I had thought that my father and brother were the violent ones.” If the tendency toward viciousness were passed from parent to child, what of the children she’d bear?
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Chapter Eight Kilborn Castle, Lydia’s new home, was backlit by a muted sun struggling to glow through fog before slipping behind the waves. With the clan informed of their impending arrival, she wasn’t surprised to see their journey watched by the curious. Few at first, but as they approached the fortress, crofts and huts thickened until they reached a village clustered near the castle’s base. She could smell fresh grass and cooking meat and could hear running water. A stream? A moat? Excited chatter rose as their advent was noted, for the members of her new clan came out of their homes to catch their first glimpse of her and to welcome their laird home. Even in the indigo dusk, the way was lined by people of all ages bearing the Kilborn tartan, worn proudly as a sash diagonally across the chest or as a shawl. Pinning them were clan badges adorned with the image of a stag glinting reddish-silver in the torchlight. Despite her ancestry, she found the sight uplifting. Clan Kilborn would never bow to an invader, she thought, and decided she’d also wear a tartan shawl, law or no law. She was now Lydia, Lady Kilborn, and she’d dress the part. Her new clansmen and -women seemed friendly, waving and holding up their babies to see the procession pass. She worried for a moment about her unkempt appearance before remembering she’d washed her face in the stream, had a hat on and, even better, was cloaked by darkness. The flickering torchlight would hide many sins of omission. So she cheerily waved back at everyone, as did Kieran. The castle was set on a high promontory jutting into the sea, meaning that from two directions it was impregnable except by seabirds. The third wall was high and thick, constructed from massive blocks of reddish stone. The portions of the fortress accessible from the land were protected by great earthworks mounded against them. A general’s daughter and a soldier’s widow, she knew they’d protect the walls and towers from artillery and cannon fire. As she rode closer, she could see a crescent-shaped moat, on which a bird or two floated. She guessed that the berm had simply been dug from the moat and the dirt thrown against the walls. The massive gate was open, the portcullis drawn high. A wooden drawbridge spanned the moat. Towers marked the fortress’s three corners, the one closest to the ocean a rounded structure with high but crumbling parapets. “That tower looks very old,” she said to Kieran, pointing. “Aye, it is,” he said. “’Tis the original keep, close on a thousand years old, ’tis said. We call it the Dark Tower.”
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“Built by the Viking berserkers?” She grinned at him. “Possibly. But I must warn ye not to enter it. ’Tis too dangerous.” She didn’t have a chance to ask why because the crofters’ greetings swelled into shouts of joy as they crossed the bridge and entered the castle courtyard through the open portcullis. Within the torchlit castle’s walls, the servants and their families crowded, apparently eager to see their laird and his new lady. A grunting wheeze was followed by the wild skirl of bagpipes, and she jerked in surprise. A boy hit a softskinned drum with a padded mallet while the piper followed the primitive beat. “They’ve gone all out for ye,” Kieran shouted over the racket. “’Tis sure that they’ve ne’er greeted me with the pipes and drum!” She handed her reins to Dugald and dismounted with Kieran’s help, stretching. She was sore because she’d fallen off her horse when she’d fainted, and looked forward to a hot bath. Her mind shied away from the memory of the reason she’d fainted. She’d been over and over what had happened, with none of her thoughts bringing her to any satisfactory conclusion. Now she decided to cast the event out of her mind. Kieran was generally a wonderful husband, generous and kind, always careful to assure her comfort and happiness. And she believed him when he said that the same sort of thing hadn’t happened before. She prayed with all her heart that it wouldn’t happen again. She also had to admit to herself that she’d fallen for him “arse over teakettle”, as her brother George would have said, and wondered how far that love would extend. She hoped her commitment wouldn’t be tested in the future. At the bottom of the crumbling keep something moved, and Lydia gasped. A man so old and pale that he seemed a creature of the ancient stones emerged from the massive moonlit blocks as if by magic. Kieran spied him at the same time as she and promptly dismounted. “Euan.” The two men grasped forearms, a warmer and closer clasp than merely shaking hands. Sensing their bond and curious about it, Lydia sidled closer. Kieran turned to include her, saying, “Euan, here is my lady wife.” “Milady.” Euan bent his head. “Lydia, our grand-uncle Euan has served the lairds of Kilborn as steward for many a long year.” Kieran had introduced her to the steward, and not the other way around, as would have been proper. Rather than taking offense, she wondered why and extended her hand to Euan. He took it, bowed over it and looked at her face with a twinkle in his bright, dark eyes. She returned his scrutiny with frank curiosity, noting his short-cropped white hair and beard on a deeply seamed visage. His aged features contrasted with the remarkable height and straightness of his body. He was not a stooped old man, but a vital and vigorous fellow who happened to be an elder of his clan.
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He said something in Gaelic to Kieran, and both men laughed. “What’s the jest?” she asked. “And when may I learn Gaelic?” The men laughed more loudly, and Kier wrapped a brawny arm around her shoulders. “Keep awa’ from her, ye old lecher!” She jumped, but Kieran gentled her with a stroke. As if she were a fractious steed, she thought, and shot him a glare. He laughed some more as he led her away from the ancient keep and past a pillory toward the tower that she guessed was their home. Its lower casements were festooned with bright swatches of tartan and, lit from within, the mullioned windows glittered as if newly polished. He ushered her inside to meet the housekeeper, Fenella, and members of her family. Lydia gathered that they were distant relatives working in the castle, “Keeping us comfortable and well-fed,” Kier explained. “Fenella, here, wasnae birthed a Kilborn but a MacLeod. She came to us with Catriona, who left Euan a widower long years ago. And this is Moira, her daughter.” A couple of the women eyed her with more intensity than did others, she thought. Both were attractive and of marriageable age, but she didn’t see rings on their fingers. Had they been close to her husband? She hoped not—having Kieran’s jilts around would be impossible—but Lydia did not think she mistook the coldness in red-headed Moira’s piercing green eyes or the predatory expression on her otherwise pretty face. A jealous frown was cast by thin, blonde Grizel, whose prominent front teeth and protuberant eyes gleamed in the lamplit tower’s front hall. Fenella, however, welcomed Lydia with a kind smile and presented her with a huge ring of the castle keys. She handed them back, saying, “Tomorrow morn is soon enough for you to acquaint me with my new duties.” The housekeeper bobbed a brief curtsey. “Thank ’ee, milady.” Fenella, a short, solid woman whose auburn hair was streaked with gray, seemed visibly aware of the trust Lydia showed, for normally the new chatelaine of the castle would promptly claim the keys. On a quick order from Fenella, the household servants began to unpack the goods they’d brought. Kieran surveyed all with satisfied eyes and said to Lydia, “And now for that bath.” Taking her hand, he led her through the castle’s main hall. Elsbeth, who’d been riding in one of the carts, hurried in Lydia’s wake, following as Kieran led them up a broad flight of stone stairs. The upper gallery, which appeared quite modern, branched in two directions. Kier nodded at one archway. “’Tis the solar. It gets the best light. There’s a garderobe over here.” “A garderobe? Good heavens.” “’Tis a medieval castle, my wife. But it’s kept clean for ye. Opposite is our bedroom, with our dressing room attached.”
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Lydia touched the latch with tentative fingers. What if she didn’t like their room? Kieran’s hand covered hers, cool and firm, and opened the door to show her their spacious, lamplit quarters. Fashioned of a warm, reddish stone, the curving walls were punctuated by slits that revealed the mist-laden sea. “In the winter we cover the arrow loops with tapestries for warmth, but that isnae necessary now,” he said. Woven wool rugs softened the polished planks beneath, which shone from the embers of a fire glowing in a recessed hearth. Their bed was large and wooden, with sturdy posts and blue hangings. Testing it with a palm, she found it fresh and soft. “’Tis new wool with a featherbed atop it,” he said. “I ordered it done before I left for Edinburgh. I wanted to make sure it pleased you.” She raised her gaze to his. “It does.” He moved toward her, and Elsbeth scurried toward the dressing room. “I believe the lass to be afeared of me.” “I wonder why.” Lydia didn’t keep the edge off her voice. Kieran grinned, his smile bright against his beard. “There’s a cot in the dressing room for her.” “And a solidly built door, I hope.” She cuddled close as he took her into his arms. “Aye, it is. Are ye hungry?” “Just a little soup, I think.” “Your bath is here behind this screen, and I’ll see to the soup.” After tugging on a bell pull, he gestured at a set of woven reed screens that gleamed golden in the mellow light. He then gave an order in Gaelic to the housemaid who came to the door. Behind the screen, Lydia found a large, round tub filled with steaming water dotted with floating lumps of soap and dried flowers—lavender, rose, vervain—which scented the humid air. Swaths of soft, worn linen were set on a nearby dresser. Old sheets, she supposed. She shed her grubby habit and removed her boots, sighing with gratitude as she slid her aching body into the water. Kieran reappeared. Stripping off his dirty clothes, he bent and kissed her. She liked his beard’s shagginess against her skin. “Room for me?” he asked. She eyed his big body, then the tub. “’Twill be a tight squeeze, I fear.” “Hmm…lean forward and bend your knees.” She did, and he eased into the bath behind her. She relaxed back against his chest and his rapidly hardening cock prodded her bottom’s crease. The heat that swept her had nothing to do with the bath, but she said, “This is a surprisingly large bath for a medieval castle.” “There was a custom, or so I’m told, for noble visitors to the castle to be bathed by the lady chatelaine.” He chuckled.
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“Indeed? Shall I be called upon to perform this ritual?” She craned her neck to watch his reaction. “For no one but me,” he said firmly. His rod twitched against her rear. “Is this a medieval bathtub?” She fiddled with the wooden rim. “Nay. ’Twas built for old Sir Gareth, my grandda. Remember, he was a Cavalier, one of the Merrie Monarch’s men. He had an eye for his comforts.” She frowned, again trying to remember her history and puzzle out the maths. “When did your grandfather know the King?” “I dinnae ken the dates, actually, and for the nonce have other matters to think of.” He lifted her by the hips, pressing her shoulders forward and adjusting her so his rod prodded her quim. Her breath whooshed out of her. “Ah. I, er…see,” she managed to say. He slipped inside her moist channel in one long, slow motion and she moaned at his thickness and the wondrous pressure inside her tight passage. They hadn’t enjoyed much privacy since they’d found the tiny wooded copse in the moonlight. Neither had been inclined to share their intimacy with the entire procession, so many days had passed since she’d had him. With shock, she recognized that she needed him inside her, and that his entry not only satisfied her but completed her in a way she hadn’t expected. Spreading her legs wide, she bounced up and down on his prick, letting gravity push him deeply inside until he knocked at her womb’s door. With each thrust, energy charged through her. She leaned farther forward, holding on to the tub’s side, and he pounded into her, gripping her hips, his grasp like steel bands holding her in place for his pleasure. And what pleased him drove her higher until he reached for her pearl and shoved her over the edge. She wailed at the intensity of her release, and he let her hips go and bent forward to cover her. He cupped her breasts, trapping the nipples between his fingers and pinching lightly. She shivered, for he was still hard and clearly wanted more. Knees between hers, he pressed them outward, opening her wider before he pushed his cock in deeper and dropped his head to her shoulder. His beard caressed her neck before his teeth scored her. She jerked, reminded of the MacReiver’s death. He gentled her with a stroke down her back before lifting her hips out of the water and slapping her bottom. “Kieran!” He chuckled, a deep, rich sound. “I cannae keep my hands from your bum, lassie.” He spanked her again. She groaned as the sting traveled from her rear to her cunny. Heat gathered again, propelling her toward another climax. He surged in and out of her, setting up a seductive rhythm before he slid a soapy finger up her back passage. She gasped and
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twisted, drawing another spank as he rode her. The smacks were perversely pleasurable, and she writhed with mingled rapture and shame. Leaning forward again, he spoke into her ear. “I’m gonna swive ye harder, wife. Can ye take more?” She rested her forehead on her hands, folded on the tub’s rim, and wondered if she really had a choice. But did that matter? When had Kieran failed to take her to heaven and back? She sucked in a tremulous breath and nodded. He plunged into her hard and fast, sawing his finger in and out of her arse in time with his cock. Ecstasy enveloped her and she screamed again with fear and joy as he took her to a place she’d never imagined could exist. His tool swelled inside her. Hauling her upright, he pulled his finger out of her rear so he could again seize her breasts, again nibble on her neck. This time she accepted his mark without resistance and he sucked the tender flesh into his mouth as she trembled in his arms, her bottom sizzling inside and out. The fire crackled as Kieran tore his lips and teeth away from her. He came with mighty spurts that washed hot and thick over her womb. Long moments passed as they knelt, bodies locked together in the tub. His hand snaked around to caress her pearl. “So big, so swollen and tender.” His voice held amazement. “You make it so, husband,” she whispered. The aftermath of their loving rolled through her in hot waves. “Let’s to bed.” He lifted her out of the tub, helping her when her trembling limbs faltered, and dried her with the old, soft linens. When she was dry and nestled beneath the sheets and quilts, he fetched a tray set outside their door. After sharing soup, they lay together, wrapped in a contentment that was beyond any dream Lydia had ever cherished.
***** A waft of cold air awoke Lydia. Where was Kieran? Though it was still dark, he wasn’t in bed. The bed hangings were parted slightly, allowing in a thin, chill breeze. She guessed that he was down the hall using the necessary in the old-fashioned garderobe, and rolled over to go back to sleep. Lydia woke again to a sound she hadn’t heard since childhood, that of a razor stropping against a leather strap. She opened the bed hangings to see that their tub had been removed and the screen folded back. Clad in trews, Kieran stood before a mirrored dresser, sharpening his razor. He put down the strop, tested the edge of the razor and, evidently finding it sharp enough, poured steamy water into the basin from a ewer. 56
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Picking up a cake of shaving soap and a brush, he lathered his face and shaved off his beard with deft hands, wiping himself clean with another strip of soft linen. He then washed his torso. She smiled, remembering the times she’d covertly watched her father engaged in the same ritual. She’d never shared such intimacy with William, who, as a soldier, had been frequently absent and when he was present, had never shared a room with her—had never awoken with her. She now realized that he’d never been a true husband to her and certainly not a friend. Kieran was all that and more. He turned and, seeing her, came to their bed still holding the strip of linen. He passed it around her neck and used it to draw her close. “Good morrow, wife.” “Good morning, sir.” She strove for a demure tone. “And how did you sleep?” “Well enough.” He tugged her closer and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips. “Umm.” She kissed back, then rubbed her face against his newly shaven cheek. She’d enjoyed his beard but liked him smooth as well. She pulled away to regard him and stretched her arms over her head, pleased to see Kier’s dark, intent gaze fixed on her breasts as they lifted. “Ah, ye’re bonnie.” He dropped the linen and cupped them just as Elsbeth entered the room. With a squeak, she darted back into the dressing area. Lydia giggled as Kier shouted with laughter. “Lassie, lassie.” He hastened to the dressing room. “If ye flee every time my wife and I touch, ye’ll be hidin’ all day long.” Lydia covered her breasts as he came back leading the maid. Elsbeth looked at the floor, seeming to scrutinize the planks. “Yes, milaird.” “Ye’ve no reason to be afeared,” he told her, picking up a shirt. “Now help milady dress for breakfast.” “The green robe a la Française, Elsbeth,” Lydia said. A more comfortable style than the panniered gowns she’d worn in England and Edinburgh, it featured loose back pleats that fell from the neckline but lacked a stomacher. “And a scarf for my neck.” When she’d been dressed, Kieran handed her a round silver brooch. “Here’s something for ye, wife.” “Thank you.” Smiling, she examined it closely. A stag’s head surrounded by elaborate filigree, similar to the carvings she’d seen on the Celtic crosses. “’Tis quite handsome. Is this our clan’s badge?” “Aye, it is.” He used it to fasten the scarf that Elsbeth had brought, then tucked her arm into his. Lydia had been too tired the night before to observe the fortress’s layout. Now she noted that the Laird’s Tower, in which they resided with some of their servants, was separate from the Garrison Tower that held the kitchen and the eating hall on its lower floor, with the armory and select warriors housed above. “A neat plan,” she told Kieran.
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“Aye, it lessens the danger of fire destroying our home and hurting the bairns, when we have them.” His smile was laden with promise. A tingling expectation shot through her limbs. “Who else lives in our tower?” “Your maid and just a few other family. Euan and Dugald live above and there are storerooms also.” She didn’t say so, but was happy that neither Moira nor Grizel lived in their home. On their way to the Garrison Tower for breakfast, she saw that each of the three towers, including the Dark Tower, were connected by colonnades abutting the courtyard and linked above by battlement-trimmed walkways that functioned as lookouts. Sea-mist shrouded the fortress, softening the castle’s stony edges, and she wondered if she’d ever see the sun again. Passing by the guards, she entered the Garrison Tower with Kieran holding her elbow. The aromas of baking bread and frying meat overwhelmed her and her belly gave an unladylike rumble. She felt her cheeks redden, but he laughed and took her directly into the tower’s Great Hall, which, with the kitchen, occupied the ground floor. “’Tis a newish addition, the kitchen,” he said. “P’raps fifty years old or so. More or less.” “Ah,” she said. “Newish.” “And the hall has been altered a time or two.” Long tables lined with stools stretched the hall’s length. A massive open fireplace dominated the center of the longest wall. A steaming cauldron sat on the hearth, with a servant ladling out bowls of oat porridge and handing them to the guards. One table was placed on a dais a step or two above the rest. The laird’s high table? Her breath stuck in her throat. Good heavens. It was like being a queen. The weight of her new role struck her and she swayed in Kier’s grasp. “Steady, now,” he murmured in her ear. “The clansmen are watching ye. They’re always watching to see signs of weakness in us. Our confidence is their strength.” She straightened her spine and lifted her head. She was a Swann, member of a family whose blood was nobler than that of the Hanoverian royals. She could do this. She paced by Kieran’s side, wondering if a gracious smile was enough or if she ought to attempt a wave. Instead, she imitated what her husband did. The hall was warm and she unpinned the scarf she’d arranged to hide the marks Kier had left on her throat the night before. He’d been deliciously fierce… She wasn’t prepared for the gasps and outright finger-pointing. “Good heavens,” she said to Kieran. “What’s wrong? Is there a smut on my nose, or is my hair sticking up?” He grinned. “They’re looking at your neck.” She promptly replaced the scarf. “Have we no privacy?”
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“Very little. That’s what being the laird’s consort is about. You belong to the clan, now.” He seated her at the high table, where carved chairs awaited them. “Cannae ye manage it? For ye must, ye know.” “Of course,” she said, putting on her best regal mien. He laughed. “Elsbeth, take yourself some provender and sit.” He nodded at a stool near Lydia’s chair. A servant approached bearing plates. Baked bannocks and fried sausage, hot and aromatic. Lydia ignored the clan’s whispers and dug in with an appetite. Every meal was a revelation. She’d been given the impression that the Highlands were poor and was surprised at the amount and variety of food available. All manner of fish and whelks from the sea, plus game from the surrounding mountains. Occasional mutton from an elderly sheep. Herbs, fruit and vegetables both cultivated and wild. In midsummer the clan ate well and focused on stockpiling food for the winter. Meat and fish were smoked, vegetables, fruit and herbs dried. In the lee of the castle, silted fishponds were dug out and replenished. Oats and barley were coaxed from the stony earth wherever possible. The additional foodstuffs Kieran had purchased were properly stored. Most nights Lydia slept like the dead, given that her days were so full. After a breakfast of oat porridge or bannocks with fried sausage, she’d meet with Fenella to learn Gaelic and discuss matters relating to running castle and clan. She rarely saw Kieran during the day because he hunted and, with his men, patrolled the clan borders. During the afternoon she visited crofters’ huts to cement her relationship with the clanspeople and, with Fenella’s help, ensured that they had everything they needed. She met old Mhairi, mother to several clanswomen and grandmother to Moira and Grizel, who were cousins. Mhairi was the clan’s herbalist, midwife and general healer. Lydia gathered that Mhairi did a good job, for few babies or mothers died in childbed. “’Tis because our lairds protect us.” Fenella poured an infusion for the three of them. Mhairi rocked and nodded in her chair. “Aye,” the elderly woman said. “And we eat well, from the land and the sea. The mothers and bairns, all are healthy.” “Do many become ill in the winter?” Lydia sniffed the steam rising from her mug, and detected rose, lavender, honey and a few other flower scents she couldn’t name. “Aye, well, we have our share of sniffles and sneezes. But we are careful, except for the fishers.” Mhairi frowned. “The fishers?” She cautiously tasted the brew. Hot but delicious. “Niall and his cousins, our little fishing fleet,” Fenella explained. “They insist on going out in all weather.” “I’ll see about that,” Lydia said. “What are the fishponds for if not to feed us when the sea is too rough?” “The ocean sprites call them, milady,” Mhairi said. “They cannae be stopped.”
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Ocean sprites indeed! Lydia stopped her contemptuous snort and instead looked about. The cozy cottage was clean, lacking the animal odors that she’d been led to expect by her cousin, who had described the crofters’ dwellings as “middens”. Quilts, patchwork and knitted both, adorned simple wooden chairs. Garlands of herbs and garlic were draped over the whitewashed door frame. She learned quickly to question everything she’d been previously told about the Scots and Highlanders. The English said that the Highlanders were filthy savages. But here, homes were clean, as were their inhabitants. The Highlands were said to be poor. Though she’d seen impoverished villages on her journey north, Kilborn Castle was comfortable and the clan ate well. Highlanders were supposedly ignorant, but her husband had attended university. Her days were full of new discoveries. So she generally slept well, but on more nights than she liked she was awakened by a cold blast of air flowing through a slit in the bed hangings, and invariably she’d find that her husband was gone. When she awoke for the fourth time in a week, it was soon enough to reach out and grab his hand. “What troubles you, husband?” she asked. “Nothing. I’ll be right back.” His tone was evasive, even dismissive. He’d never spoken to her in that manner before. “You get up night after night. Something’s wrong.” He sat down heavily and the bed creaked. “I am sometimes wakeful and go to talk with the guards or walk the wall.” He kissed her forehead, cheek and chin—a bit hastily, she thought—before he left. She lay back in the cooling bed linen. P’raps he referred to the upper castle walk but she wasn’t sure she believed him. That was new, also. New and unsettling. She hadn’t had any reason ever to doubt Kieran’s word. She didn’t now, not really. She couldn’t accuse him of lying to her. But she knew something was amiss.
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Chapter Nine The next night she awoke alone, Lydia got up and looked for Kieran, wondering what errand would take him from their bed—an errand that he concealed from her. If she saw him in the courtyard or walking the wall, well and good, she’d go back to bed and rest with an easy mind. If not… Clad only in a nightgown with a plaid thrown over her shoulders for warmth, she slid her feet into a pair of mules and went down to the lower hall. No Kieran. Outside. no Kieran in the courtyard, which was lit softly by torches nearing the end of their fuel. Guards huddled in a cluster across at the Garrison Tower, playing some sort of dice game while they kept watch, but her husband was not among them. But above and toward the sea, she heard the faint creak of hinges. She looked up to see Kieran step out of a door in the side of the crumbling old keep. Shoulders slumped, he slouched along the upper walkway in her direction and was joined by the castellan, Euan. Kier’s gait was utterly different from his usual confident stride. Her curiosity building, she reentered their tower and climbed several flights of stairs, went through a storeroom and emerged on the same walkway, staying in the shadow of a battlement. She was familiar with the way because she also frequently walked the wall for the view or to watch the birds in the moat. No graceful swans as swam the ponds in Surrey, though. These were raucous seabirds of several breeds she couldn’t identify, fighting over whatever edible bits found their way into the moat. And she could look for hours at the sea below, crashing with mighty waves against the cliff and the castle’s walls, watch the clan’s fishermen pulling their light craft up onto their cove’s small, rocky beach before unloading their catch, smile at their children paddling in the shallows, collecting whelks and shellfish, listen to the cries of gannets and gulls as they floated above. But she usually walked during the day, most often in the warm afternoons, when the sun occasionally peeked out to light a glittering blue-gray ocean. Now stars gleamed overhead and a waning moon cast shadows made angular and awkward by the crenellated parapet. The night was still but for a slight breeze off the water, which brought snatches of conversation to her ears. “Did ye find anything tonight?” Euan asked. Or so she thought. The men were a distance away and spoke in a patois of English and Gaelic. “Nay, just dust and rats.” Lydia heard frustration in her husband’s voice. “I dinnae know if I want to find him or not, ye ken?” “Aye, I ken.”
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“I worry that one day I will end up the same way, alone but for the rats and mice.” Her heart ached to hear the pain and uncertainty in her husband’s voice, though she didn’t understand the reason. The same way as what? “Ye are your own man and in control of your fate.” Euan sounded calm and certain. “But have ye told Lady Lydia? About him, about us?” Him? Who was “he”? Who was “us”? The clan, the family, or just Euan and Kier? “Are ye mad?” her husband answered Euan. “She was affrighted enough on the way here.” “Aye, I heard about it. Ye dinnae think she’s suspicious of a man who ripped off the head of his enemy and drank his blood?” Kieran laughed bitterly. “At least she doesnae suspect the truth. I doubt she’s ever heard the word ‘vampire’.” Lydia strained her ears. She thought her husband said something like “vespers”, but didn’t understand what evening prayers had to do with a secret her husband was keeping from her. Was it a Gaelic word she didn’t yet understand? A secret that others knew—possibly many others. Lydia remembered how crofters from neighboring villages had crossed themselves as they’d passed. Kieran had told her to pay them no mind, that up in the Highlands Sassenachs were few and of unsavory, even unholy, reputation. But how could the Highlanders know she was English? What if he’d deliberately misled her? What if the peasants were afraid of Laird Kilborn and not of his Sassenach wife? “Have you taken from her?” Euan asked. Taken what? Lydia wondered. “Aye. Like the finest whisky, she is. Sweet, but…oh, how she burns. She fires my soul. Intoxicating.” Her cheeks flamed. “Have a care,” Euan said. “I will, I will. Though ’tis hard. She slakes my thirst like no other.” Kieran groaned. “Och, it’s afraid I am. If I lose control, take too much from her, turn her or worse, kill her—” “Ye willnae,” Euan said while Lydia’s heart stuttered. Turn her into what? Kill her? Her husband planned to kill her? But he sounded frustrated, even despondent, not desirous of her death. His thirst? His thirst for her? For sex? For what? “We’re born, not made,” Euan continued. “And what was I born?” “We willnae ken for a long time. Dinnae worry about it now.” “I am afraid of what I am and what I may become.” Kier sounded miserable. 62
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Lydia was astounded. She’d thought he was happy and hadn’t had any inkling of some hidden sorrow. “Dinnae fear the change.” Euan touched Kier’s shoulder. “In this way, we protect the clan.” “Is it worth the cost?” What under heaven was going on? She sensed someone by her side and turned. Moira’s catlike green eyes gleamed in the faint light of the tiny candle-stub she carried. “Ye must wonder,” Moira said without preamble. Lydia paused. How much should she say? “Yes, I do.” “The answers ye seek are in that auld keep.” Moira gestured with the candle, which sat in a small but ornate pewter holder. Her red curls floated on the chilly sea breeze. Lydia shivered. “Milaird forbade me to enter the Dark Tower.” “Dinnae ye wonder why?” The woman was so close to Lydia that she could smell the lavender Moira used to keep her plaidie fresh. After a brief hesitation, Lydia said, “Of course. I’m but human.” Something strange edged Moira’s chuckle. “I dinnae doubt it.” An odd statement. “Why should I trust you? You want my husband. I feel your jealousy.” “’Tis true.” Moira shrugged. “The brothers, Kieran and Ranald both, didnae hesitate to take us when they, and we, pleased. Along with the old laird.” “Do not use his name.” Lydia’s unaccustomed temper burned white-hot. Moira ignored the command, instead continuing, “We all know what the Kilborns are.” “What they are? What do you mean?” “He hasnae told ye, has he? Ask him what happened to his mam.” “I know what happened to his mother. She died in childbirth.” “Did she now?” Moira’s mirthless laugh was high and frenzied. Fortunately, the wind blew from the sea to land and didn’t carry the uncanny sound to Kieran and Euan. “He bites your neck and drinks from ye. Dinnae ye worry that one day he willnae stop?” Lydia’s brain froze. No, the thought had never occurred to her. Unwillingly, her memory brought forth the sickening sight of her husband slaking his thirst with the MacReiver’s blood. “He’s quit yer bed night after night…dinnae ye wonder where he goes?” “Not to you,” Lydia snapped.
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“Aye, ’tis true, that is. He takes from ye so often, ’tis a miracle ye’re still able to stand upright. Besotted with ye, he is.” Moira’s open hostility unnerved Lydia. Were the Kilborn women as wild as the Kilborn men? And what did she mean by, “takes from ye so often”? “What do you—” “He goes to the auld keep.” Moira nodded at the two men, who still stood near the ancient door, conversing in low tones. As she left, she flung a final taunt. “Dinnae ye wonder why?”
***** The next morn, Kier’s footfalls dragged as though he struggled through a marsh rather than the gentle mist that shrouded the way to the Great Hall. He glanced at Lydia and saw that a slender line, probably invisible to anyone but him, had appeared between his wife’s fine, dark brows. A worry line it was, and he continued to study it throughout their mostly silent repast. Something was on the lassie’s mind, and he hesitated to ask her what it might be. What if she asked again about his nocturnal ramblings? What if she saw him slip inside the keep? What if she followed? He couldn’t continue to evade her questions without lying outright and his feelings for her, as well as his honor, wouldn’t allow that. He was aware of the gossip. Had she also heard the muttering and the murmurs? News traveled around the clan in Gaelic so mayhap the blather hadn’t reached her ears. What he’d done to the MacReiver had spread among the crofters like spilled blood and this morning, like every morning at breakfast in the Great Hall, guards and servants peered at Lydia’s delicate throat, noting every mark and nibble. He couldn’t stop, not with her tender neck offered so sweetly and she so eager… The pointing and whispers wouldn’t stop either. Might as well try to prevent the tide from coming in or the fog settling on the meadow. But he could distract his wife. She had shown a love for the sea. P’raps an outing would shift her attention. He gestured and a servant hurried to his side. “Owain, please fetch Niall when he returns from the sea this day.” “Niall the fisherman?” Lydia asked as Owain left. “You know of Niall?” “Yes, he and his family often eat here and I have been to their croft.” “Have ye, lassie?” “Of course.” Her expression became regal and he couldn’t suppress his grin. Despite that new wrinkle between her brows, Lydia was adjusting to her new role with grace. “What do you think I do with my days while you are out hunting, milaird?”
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He leaned back in his chair. “Och, I dinnae ken. Embroidering bonnie pictures in the solar, p’raps?” Her frown could have soured fresh milk, but not his hopes. “Dinnae be angry at a bit of teasin’, lass, for we’ll have a fine day.” Kier winked at her and was pleased when the curve of her lashes swept her blushing cheek. “Niall possesses the means to a great adventure, milady wife.” He enjoyed the way her expressions shifted from annoyed to confused to delighted. “His boat? His boat! We’re going on his boat!” She bounced in her chair like an excited wee bairn. Distracted, she was. So far his plan was working.
***** Instead of waiting for Owain, Lydia insisted upon going down to the beach to watch Niall bring in his morning catch. So he wouldn’t miss his midday meal, servants brought baskets of food for the excursion—ale and whisky, plus hot bannocks and sausage, venison pie and a fruit tart. She’d donned her old brown woolen sacque with a plaidie thrown over for extra warmth. Kieran was in his customary black and the fishermen’s children, waiting on the beach to help their fathers, wore a motley assortment of rags and tatters. Had Lydia not been to their crofts and huts, she would have been disturbed by the sight of so many barefoot ragamuffins. As it was, she knew they wore their shabbiest garb to bring in the catch. Like the others, Niall’s boat was small, the better to drag it up onto the beach, for the clan lacked a pier. She guessed that any mooring would be smashed in the brutal tides of winter. The narrow cove was strewn with more pebbles than sand, and the cliff bounding it was pocked with caves. Above them, gannets and other seabirds wheeled and cried. Mist still hung in the air, unusual for such a late hour. Most often it burned off by eleven or noon, but the sun would not peek out this day. The air was still. How could they sail? But Niall and the other fishermen apparently knew how to maneuver their craft, for the clan’s tiny fleet—all seven boats—came into sight just as Lydia began to wonder if her feet would ever feel warm again. Wiggling her toes in the stout boots she’d bought in Edinburgh, she watched the red-sailed boats tack this way and that, catching every stray wisp of breeze while avoiding the sea stacks that rose from the ocean just off the promontory. The first boat to gain the shore was Niall’s. She recognized his shaggy reddish brows and bright blue eyes peering at her above a scrap of tartan wrapped around the lower half of his face. He leaped out of his craft and dashed to where she was standing while Kieran helped to drag the boat ashore.
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He dragged off his scarf so he could speak while bowing swiftly. “Milady! Is there aught amiss?” A tiny gold ring in his left ear glinted in the dim sunlight. She realized that her presence at his landing was unusual and to Niall could mean ill news of his family. “Oh, no, not at all. All’s well. We just… I believe my husband has a favor to ask of you. Involving me.” She wasn’t certain of her right to ask Niall to take them aboard his boat. Kieran advanced, rubbing wet hands on his leather breeks. “Ho, there, Niall.” He tugged a flask from his pocket. “A wee dram to warm your bones?” “Thank ’ee, milaird.” Niall took the flask and drank deeply. “In the mood for a pleasure sail? Milady wishes to see the ocean close, as it were.” Niall finished drinking and wiped his mouth with the back of his toil-roughened hand. “We brought food,” Lydia said. “Lots.” A grin split the fisherman’s face. “So milady knows the way to a man’s heart?” She grinned back. “How about fresh, warm venison pie?” They ate watching his mate—his eldest son, Ian, a lad of p’raps thirteen years—and the other children unload the catch, mostly herring and whitefish. Lydia put down her bannock and went to see, with Kier following. Among the silvery fish, a wet brownish mass lay quivering. “What is that?” she asked, prodding it with the toe of her boot. Kier bent down and seized it, whipping it around. Tentacles swung, some just an inch from her face. She gasped and jumped back while he and the children laughed. He waved it at her, grinning. “’Tis just a wee gibearnach, what you would call a squid. Nothing to be afeared of.” She gave it a closer look. Mottled and gray-brown, it looked like offal, but it didn’t smell…yet. A tiny tooth broke the dully shining surface and its many tentacles writhed. “Ugh. Who would eat that?” His mouth twitched with distaste. “None of our people. We use it for bait.” He tossed it back onto the pile and went to the shoreline to rinse his fingers. After they had eaten, Kieran lifted her aboard Niall’s boat, an undecked craft that had but one mast with two sails. With Niall’s help, and grasping the slippery side rail in her leather-gloved hands, she inched to the back of the boat—the stern, Niall called it— and sat gingerly on a plank set athwart the boat’s two sides. The three males set themselves at the pointed prow and shoved it hard backward into the cove’s softly lapping waves, then jumped aboard. After grabbing oars, Niall and Ian rowed them out until the limp sails caught the breeze flowing from the north, then tacked to the east. At the same time, she thought she sensed an opposing tug from below. Subtle, almost lost amidst the pitch and heave on the small boat on the swells, it was nevertheless there.
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She trailed a hand in the water, trying to feel the pull of the current, but that slight energy was lost in the boat’s motion, for a brisk snapping gust had caught the craft. She thought she saw a line of current out to sea. Kieran set a hand on her shoulder. “The ocean flows from the south, but the wind opposes, blowing from the north, especially in winter. ’Tis a fine trick, taking advantage of each depending upon the direction of sail.” “Where are we going?” She gulped deep breaths of the chilly air, controlling her belly, which seemed to pitch and heave along with the ocean. “Northeast, but not far, for ’tis but a small craft. Duck!” She did, and the jib swung around as the boat tacked in the opposite direction. The sail grabbed the breeze and sped along the coast. Her seasickness fled, replaced by wonder. To her right, she could see the stony coast, riven occasionally with deep clefts. Where the land sloped to the sea, meadows topped the dark cliffs. Rough pillars of pale stone stood on one, sentinels watching over land and sea. “What’s that?” she asked. “Ah, memorials of my pagan ancestors.” He winked at her. “They are standing stones, great blocks of rock arranged in a circle, just so, catching the sunlight perfectly.” “When there is some,” she said, wry, turning her head away as they sailed past the stones. He grinned. “The ancient ones used them for rites at midsummer and winter solstice, and at other times of the year.” The clouds broke and allowed a ray of light to shaft from the heavens to the coast, briefly illuminating a massive Celtic cross set atop the cliff. “That marks the border of our lands,” Kier said. He swiped a hand through his dark hair, gathering it at his nape, and tied it with a thin leather strip. She shivered. “So that’s the MacReiver clan’s outpost?” She pointed. “Nay, they’re in the other direction. This is the Gwynn’s.” He sniffed the wind. “What do you smell?” “Nothing much. Not like the MacReiver lands, for example. They are somewhat odorous.” “What’s our relationship with Clan Gwynn?” He shrugged. “We’re not enemies, but not bosom bows, either. We get along with them well enough.” “Does the cross mean there’s a church?” “Aye, there’s a wee kirk. Do ye wish to attend services? They’re Papists, ye ken.” “P’raps,” she said with a flash of guilt. She had been so busy that she hadn’t missed church. “We lack kirk or chapel?” “Aye, we’re so isolated that no priest will stay.”
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She wanted to know why Clan Gwynn managed to keep a priest but the Kilborns couldn’t, but a distant expression in Kier’s eyes kept her silent. Instead, she again slipped off her glove and bent to the side to slide her hand through the cool, flowing water, and looked in the other direction, toward the dim horizon. “I’m drawn to it,” she said. “The sea.” Niall, approaching, must have heard her, for he laughed. “Have a care, milady, for what the sea wants, she will have.” His laugh had been bitter, not merry. “What do you mean?” she asked, remembering old Mhairi’s talk of sea sprites. “I’ve lost my brother and my da to these waters. Dinnae love them too much. She’ll return your love with heartbreak.” “Why do you do it?” “It’s what I ken,” he said simply. “And, like ye, I love her. I cannae help myself. One of these times I ken she’ll take me, and my wife will have to use this for my funeral.” He touched the golden earring he wore and left them again to tend to the mainsail. Kieran glanced at her. “We Kilborns are full of tales of the sea and the fearsome creatures that live beneath its waves and on its shores. Did ye ever hear of the kraken?” She shook her head. “Och, the kraken is a fearsome beastie indeed.” Kier settled his back against the gunwale. “Ye recall the wee gibearnach ye met this morn?” She winced at the memory. “Well, the kraken is also a gibearnach, but so great that it can wrap its tentacles around a boat and crush it.” She shivered but found her voice. “Nonsense!” “’Tis true, milady,” Ian said “When ye see the spars of a destroyed boat wash ashore in midsummer, when there have been no storms, it be the kraken at work.” The lad stared at her with the same blue, somber eyes as his father. “A little boat like this would be a tiny bite to a kraken, and we but teatime snacks,” Kier said. “Then I s’pose we needn’t worry.” The men laughed. “That’s the spirit, milady,” Niall said. “Do you go out in all weather?” she asked. Niall hesitated. “Nay,” he finally said. “Though the sea may cry for us in winter, we try to ignore her pleas.” “Her pleas?” “The crash of a stormy sea is a powerful call.” “She calls to you in the wind and the waves.” Staring at the line of current far out to sea, Lydia understood. 68
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His smile flashed white against sun-darkened skin. “Aye, a call, a test of skill and bravery.” She glanced at Kieran. “Those are calls and tests that must be resisted,” he said stiffly. “Ye’re too good a man to lose to such foolishness, Niall.” The fisherman bowed his head in apparent acquiescence, but Lydia caught a secret smile that he vainly tried to hide. “That was how we lost Ivor.” Kier continued to scowl at Niall. “Who was Ivor?” she asked. “Ivor Kilborn, a clansman and good Fenella’s husband. Father to Moira.” “Ah.” “Aye, he wished to test his mettle against the wild winter storms. ’Twas foolish.” The day darkened toward nightfall and Niall turned the craft homeward. With the wind in their favor, the boat sped over the flat sea. Scant minutes later, a light gleamed through the gathering darkness: Castle Kilborn. As they approached, Lydia was startled to see a glow emanating from the seaward tower…the old keep. She nudged Kieran and pointed, raising her brows. His forehead wrinkled. “That’s not possible,” he muttered. “Or is it?” “Someone’s in there,” she said. “Isn’t the Dark Tower forbidden to everyone?” “Aye, it is, but for me and Euan, and Euan should be out on patrol.” He looked grim, his jaw set. “Niall, make all speed.” In the back of the boat, Niall adjusted the tiller and his craft leaped over the waves. She grabbed Kieran as she bounced up and down on the hard seat. He hauled her onto his lap. Bending his head, he murmured into her ear, “I like your bottom burning, but not from a wood plank.” Embarrassed, she turned her face into his chest. “Kier!” she snapped in a fierce whisper. His low laughter vibrated against her cheek, but stopped as he gazed at the mysterious light in the forbidden keep. When they gained the pebbly beach, he jumped ashore and quickly helped to drag the boat up beyond the tide line. “Niall, help her ladyship to the Laird’s Tower,” he called over his shoulder before dashing up the cliffside trail to their fortress. Lydia stared after him, astounded by his odd behavior. Orders or no orders, she’d investigate the keep.
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Chapter Ten The next day, after finishing her duties with Fenella, Lydia again donned her old brown sacque, warm gloves and sturdy boots, then climbed the stairs in the Laird’s Tower to the upper walkway. Kieran had left in the morning to hunt, and most days he didn’t return to the castle until nightfall. His seconds, Euan and his son Dugald, patrolled the clan’s borders night and day. She’d noticed that their duties were at opposite times of the day and night. She assumed that they rested whenever they weren’t on horseback. Guards did patrol the castle walk, but she chose the midday hour, when many were eating and their shifts were changing, to quietly enter the old keep’s upper door. She was reasonably sure she wouldn’t be seen. The door’s hinges seemed well-maintained, opening and closing with nary a squeak after she’d disengaged a metal latch. The latch was also in good repair, as though Euan, the castle caretaker, sought to keep something in rather than others out. She wondered about that, and about the door itself, which was stoutly fashioned of good wood rather than rotted away, which would be more likely in such an ancient structure. Inside, the keep was much like the other towers, built of stone with wooden floors and walls. It was lit only by thin light filtering through the narrow arrow slits. Above her, the wooden ceiling was rotting, pierced by random holes. Desiring to avoid notice, she had not brought candle, lamp or torch, and trod with caution. Though the door had been rebuilt, she wasn’t sure of the quality of the wood beneath her feet. As she walked, she stared at the floor, examining it before taking each step. The room smelled of dust and ancient, rotted things, things she didn’t wish to contemplate. Probably mice, she told herself. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and held it to her nose. The deathly still character of the place led her to move quietly, slip so slowly and carefully that the ring of keys hanging at her belt, the chatelaine’s keys, mark of her authority, didn’t clash together and chime to announce her intrusion. The bare, dusty room bore a track through the dirt to a narrow archway she guessed led either to a staircase or another room. She crept forward, the oppressive silence grating on nerves already jangled by the guilt of disobeying her husband. She quaked to think of Kieran’s reaction should he discover her transgression. He was normally the mildest-mannered of men, but she had seen his temper when roused, and feared it. The archway did lead to another room on what she judged to be the courtyard side of the keep. She avoided chance observation by anyone down on the ground or in the other towers by staying away from the cuts in the stone. Larger than the usual arrow 70
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slits, for they faced away from potential invaders, they admitted a fair amount of afternoon light. Though with wildly beating heart and trembling step, she explored farther. The Dark Tower was a warren of small, low-ceilinged, interconnected rooms and twisting corridors. She didn’t know much about the history of the place, but she imagined that it had been in use for centuries, housing generations of Kilborns. Finally she believed she’d searched the upper floor, so down she went, carefully negotiating the broad wooden stairs. A board squeaked beneath her boot, a scream in the unearthly quiet. She stopped with one hand on the wall to support herself, the other at her nose. The handkerchief fell from a nerveless hand. She placed a palm over her madly racing heart. Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. Silence held the tower in its sure grip. Finally she bent to retrieve her handkerchief. She didn’t dare to leave a single trace of her presence. The stairs weren’t as dusty as the rooms, so she tucked the scrap of cloth back into her pocket. When she could raise her foot, heavy in her boot and weighted with trepidation, the board again squeaked. She froze in place. Again, silence. The wood is fragile, she told herself. The stairs aren’t haunted by anything but your fear. Stop it! Step by dread-laden step, she reached the middle story of the tower, which seemed barren of anything but dust. Not even the scurrying paws of a rat or a mouse disturbed the eerie silence. Again, footfalls had cleared trails across the grubby planks. Some led her to…what? Walls? But most led to the next room, and the next, and the next, and then to the ground floor. This staircase was also wide but lacked side rails, and she kept to the wall to her left, trailing her hand along it for balance. The old keep’s Great Hall was grimy with the smoke of ancient fires. The creaking floor had not been well maintained and she could see cracked boards and many holes. The air was colder. She caught the scent of the sea through the few very narrow slits. More fetid odors emanated from the gaps underfoot, reminding her of rotting seaweed and even less savory dead things returning to the earth. Occasionally a waft of stale urine reminded her that live people and animals often tarried there. Closing her eyes, she visualized the view of the keep she’d seen from Niall’s boat. Its base was built into the cliff, which itself was pierced with narrow openings, sea caves, p’raps. She guessed that she was now above those caves.
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She shivered. Had Kieran’s berserker ancestors used them as oubliettes? She glanced fearfully at the rotting floorboards. She was already careful but vowed to double her caution, now wishing she’d decided to bring a candle. A soughing sound from beneath the staircase again froze her in place. Was it the sea? But p’raps some living thing other than herself lingered in the tower. She could see little detail of the wood siding that clad the base of the staircase… Might it be hollow? She tapped. Yes, hollow. What could be inside? She ran a gloved hand over the rough planks, tugging futilely on each edge and board. Nothing, until… One of them gave way with a squeal that was echoed by Lydia’s own frightened squeak. Then silence, the sighs hushed. Beneath the oddly wide staircase was yet another corridor, dim and dark, but there was a little light, just enough that she could fumble her way along as it sloped, first down, then up. One side was wood and the other stone. Not hewn blocks like the rest of the castle, but rough, as though she’d reached the cliff itself, the rocky promontory that protectively embraced the base of the keep. But how could that be? She’d gone upward, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she? She’d lost track. Where was she? The wood disappeared and she was left in a hallway, black as tar. Even though she knew that outside was a late summer afternoon, inside it could have been midwinter at midnight for all the light and warmth that had seeped through the damp rock. She’d kept her trembling, gloved hands on the walls, but here and there the stonework fell away, as though opening onto rooms. A few steps more and her footfalls echoed with a different timbre. Was she in a room? She’d lost touch. Could she hear the ocean, or was that the roar of her blood rushing through the chambers of her terrified heart? Her belly twisted with dread. Where the bloody hell was she? If she didn’t know where she was, how could she get out? She wished with all her soul she hadn’t disobeyed Kieran. Her eyes adjusted so that she could see a bed thick with hangings, now securely closed, with a small half-moon table nearby. A looking-glass hung on the wall, cracked and crazed with age but clean, as though someone had recently dusted. She crossed the room on shaky legs and stared at her pale, tense face in the glass. Over her shoulder, she could see the bed. Hung atop a bedpost was a dark hat with a curly brim and a long, extravagant plume. An old style, she thought. She’d seen similar in portraits of her Cavalier ancestors. The room smelled of stale perfume and body odor tinctured with…what? An aroma that was animal, yes, but not musk or bodily waste. What was it? 72
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And who lived here? As she left, she brushed the bed’s tightly closed hangings. A light riffle of dust fell, as though its denizen were a careless housekeeper. She opened the bed’s curtains with a hesitant hand, laughing at herself… Who could be there? He sat up in the bed and regarded her, his face an ancient mirror of her husband’s. Her shriek stuck in her throat and he reached out toward her neck with a long, white hand. “Good morrow, my dear.” She whirled and stumbled out of the room, whacking into the rock walls as she fled. She didn’t know how, but after interminable minutes she gained the crude doorway, slammed it behind her and set her trembling body against it. Despite her shock, or p’raps because of it, she remembered every detail of the creature. Long, wavy hair, thin and white with age; a deeply seamed visage with a hawk nose and full lips; a yellowing, creased nightshirt…the midnight eyes that seemed to be characteristic of her husband’s family. He had to be a Kilborn, but who? Kier’s brother and their father, the old laird, had both perished at Culloden. The creature she’d met seemed quite old, older even than Euan, whom Kier had introduced as his grand-uncle. While she ruminated, the sun shifted. A silvery glint caught her eye and she crossed to what she guessed was the seaward side of the hall. A small pewter candle holder sat in the arrow slit facing the water. She picked it up and stared at it. Where had she seen it before? She took another step, shifting her weight, and her booted foot sank through a rotted spot on the floor. “Bloody hell!” She tried to wrench her foot free, but succeeded only in twisting her ankle to and fro. Door hinges squealed and Kieran entered. The holder fell from her suddenly limp hand. It rolled across the wooden floor, the sound seeming to boom and echo in the tense silence. He advanced, his face grim. “Is this how ye obey your laird?” His voice was soft but all the more threatening because of that deceptive gentleness. “I, uh, I, I…” “At least you thought to bring a light.” He stooped to pick up the candle holder in hands clad in black leather gloves. She found the ability to form words. “Th-that’s not mine.” He touched the wax, which didn’t give way. The burned wick broke. “This must have burned yestereve. So we saw this last night.” “You didn’t find it when you looked?”
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“Nay, I didnae. ’Twas too dark.” He seized her by the elbows and lifted her free, then dragged her toward the open door. “Dugald!” This afternoon the courtyard was busy, but Kieran’s shout carried and Lydia saw Dugald as he left a group of guards lingering at the base of their tower. “Why, Lydia? Why?” Kier asked. “I was curious, and Moira said—” “She said what?” His black eyes narrowed. “I, er…I had noticed you leave our bed often, husband.” Gathering her courage, she tugged her arm out of his grip and faced him. “I wondered why. She told me that the answers were in this tower.” She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Dugald had stopped at a respectful distance. Kieran turned his head. “Find out whose this is.” He tossed the candle holder to Dugald. “I can tell you,” she said. “’Tis Moira’s. I saw her with it one night, when I’d followed you.” Dugald and Kieran stared at each other in silent communication. “She tempted ye, did she, milady?” asked Dugald. He didn’t seem surprised. “Aye, that she did,” Kier said, his jaw set with uncompromising solidity. “Both of you will have to be punished.” “P-punished?” She couldn’t stop her voice from squeaking. An image of the MacReiver’s severed head gouting blood flashed through her memory. “Aye. The auld keep is forbidden to all but Euan and me. Worse, your disobedience has been seen by everyone here today. I cannae allow this transgression to go without penalty.” He grabbed her again, this time around the waist, and slung her over his shoulder. She emitted a small, unladylike shriek that she stifled immediately. Maybe if she kept quiet, no one would notice this humiliation. She squirmed, trying to get away, but he held her tightly. Upside down, she squeezed her eyes shut, but nevertheless tears leaked out. She found herself overwhelmed by other sensations. The hardness of Kieran’s body. His male scent. His brawny arm heavy on her thighs, anchoring her securely. She couldn’t imagine that he was thinking about sex, but despite the situation she couldn’t think about anything else—not with her buttocks sticking up in the air inches away from her husband’s face and with his arm so close to her body’s most sensitive places. She had to have lost her mind. He stopped to give orders, so she knew others witnessed her disgrace. She squirmed anew and Kieran slapped her across the haunches with his free hand. Someone laughed and her heart plummeted.
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Kier spoke briskly. “Dugald, Euan, find Moira. Punish her. Do what ye will, and dinnae be kind. She misled my lady to her shame.” He gripped Lydia’s bottom, squeezed it hard through her gown. Her quim throbbed despite herself and she stifled a moan of desire. “Aye, milaird.” Euan sounded eager. “Milaird?” Dugald’s voice was puzzled. “Aye. I believe she wanted him to find my wife.” The crunch of his boots and the jolt of his stride told Lydia that Kieran was crossing the courtyard. She pounded on his muscled back with an angry fist. “Him? Who is he? Who lives there?” “Never ye mind. Are ye not in trouble aplenty from your curiosity? Ye could have fallen through the floor to the dungeon, or drowned when the sea came in.” She was rapidly becoming a little ill from her position, topsy-turvy over his shoulder, but could tell when they entered the Laird’s Tower. He mounted the stairs, carrying her without strain or effort into their room. Kicking the door closed, he flung her onto the bed. She landed in a dizzying tumble of skirts, but before she could compose herself he’d seized her arms and pulled her upright. “Take off your clothes.” She stared at him. “Take off every stitch or I’ll cut ’em off ye.” He drew a small knife from his boot. The sharp silver blade glinted. Her head spinning, she thought she’d faint but managed to remain upright. She tugged off her gloves and, with quivering hands, fumbled at the laces of her bodice. He leaned against the bedpost, watching her with cold, onyx eyes, the eyes of an angry stranger—the same stranger who’d killed the MacReiver. Her fingers simply couldn’t work the ties and she watched, frozen stiff in place, as Kier stepped toward her, his knife gleaming. The tip rose toward her chin then came down, decisively ripping through the laces. Her bodice opened, revealing her stays. “Lydia.” His tone carried warning. She tried again. The stays proved to be even more difficult. Another slash of that wicked knife, and another. The stays, cut at each shoulder, dropped to her hips. He ripped them off her. She stood in her shift, knees weak, but with every muscle alert and tight. “Lydia…” His voice was hard, as hard as the member thrusting against the front of his trews. As hard as her nipples had become in the cool air.
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She was not aroused. She couldn’t be! Yet a telltale stickiness gummed her thighs together. Her limp fingers strayed to the ribbon tying the neck of her chemise. She fumbled at it. Her hands dropped. The shining knife’s tip winked for a moment before Kieran set it into the shift at its top. He cut it off her, the knife sliding through the thin pink silk with a hiss. She stood before him, naked but for her garters, stockings and boots. He threw the knife and it thwacked into the wooden bedpost. Boneless, she dropped onto the bed. “Take off your shoon.” When she was done, he hauled her to her stocking feet and, turning her away, tethered her wrists to the upper rail of their bed. She was stretched high, her toes barely touching the floor, her knees bumping the mattress. Horribly exposed, yes, but her lifted breasts ached for his touch. He ran a gloved hand down her quivering body and she moaned from the pleasure of it, anticipating relief regardless of his temper. He pinched her nipple, searched between her legs. He caressed the moisture there and she pushed against him. When he pulled away, she groaned in protest. This was not so different from the twists and turns that their lovemaking occasionally took… Had he forgotten her punishment? She allowed herself to relax, closing her eyes and tipping her head back, enjoying the sweep of her long hair against her naked back. His gloved hand swatted her exposed buttocks, fierce as a whip. The shock of it sank into her for a moment before the burn began. Shock and sizzle… Though he’d spanked her rear before, she realized he’d been holding back. “Ye understand why I must do this, don’t ye?” His fingers roved across her stinging bottom, delved into her crack, circled her rosette. Swallowing her gasp, she said, “Yes, I do. But…” “But what?” Each word was punctuated with a slap. She squirmed. “Your power as laird…what of mine as your, as your…?” What was she? Lady Laird? Lairdess? Surely not. “Lydia, look at me.” Holding her hips, he turned her around. Gone was the stranger. Kieran, her husband, had returned and he spoke with authority. “Your influence as my wife and consort willnae be diminished. I promise ye, any man or woman who disobeys ye risks the pillory or worse. See here.” He untied her and wrapped a plaid around her naked body, then urged her through the door. “Get ye gone,” he snapped to a group of the curious who’d clustered outside in the hallway. They scattered. He took her to the window opposite, which overlooked the courtyard, and stood behind her so she could see. He leaned against her, forcing her forward over the deep 76
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embrasure. His cock pressed against her tender bottom cheeks. She wanted to be worthy of her birth and rank, but was quivering from a strange brew of dread and desire. Below, Moira was bent over a barrel with her arms and head locked in the pillory. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist, her naked buttocks exposed. They were already red with weals, five distinct welts marking each thigh. She’d been whipped. Lydia doubted that Moira would be able to sit for a week. Kier leaned out of the window. “Know this!” His voice echoed through the bailey, and all activity below stopped. Heads craned to regard them and to hear their laird’s latest orders. “I have been merciful this one time. Anyone who endangers my lady or imperils her in any way will be severely punished.” As Lydia watched, one of the clanswomen spat in Moira’s face, then slapped her. “And stay away from my man!” “She isnae popular,” Kieran said. “Except with some.” A line of grinning guards had formed behind Moira. Most had their trews open and were fondling their parts while they watched others use her. As one left, another began. One of the guards approached her naked posterior, tugging on his big, curved penis, which grew ever more distended. Lydia gasped. “He’s huge.” “Aye, Bod an Deamhain, we call him. Duncan’s got the devil’s own cocky.” She twisted her head to regard Kier, disgusted. “You sound…admiring.” He chuckled. “We males measure ourselves by our parts, ye know?” “That’s silly.” Below, Duncan punched his devilishly large shaft into Moira’s swollen cunt. “He’s…he’s raping her!” “Nay,” Kieran said. “Moira isnae chaste. She gives her favors freely to the guards. Watch.” Moira grunted loudly enough for Lydia to hear and pushed back against Duncan with cries that spoke of pleasure rather than pain. He swived her vigorously before he pulled out and came, spurting thickly on her reddened arse. The onlookers cheered. “It’s still wrong,” Lydia said, some slight sympathy for Moira stirring. “Ye cannae think that every time a woman is pilloried or put in the stocks she escapes untouched. Even in your bonnie England.” She bit her lip. “That’s true.” Lifting the plaid, Kier ran gloved hands over Lydia’s trembling body, caressing her hard nipples, questing between her legs until he came to her bedewed quim. He plunged a finger inside. Rough and thickened by the leather glove, it scraped her inner walls. She sucked in panting breaths and raised herself onto her toes to get away from the probing, torturous pressure.
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“Dinnae fight me, wife.” He rubbed his thumb up and down her crack, then pushed it into her backside. Doubly pierced, she held as still as she could, though her body was shuddering. “I ask ye again, do ye understand why I must do this? For ye cannae disobey me.” “I understand,” she whispered, remembering the fearsome creature she’d met in the tower. “You’re right. I could have been hurt or killed.” “Blood for the clan.” He went deeper. She gulped. “Blood?” “Aye, mayhap. Can ye take it?” Her mind was awhirl. She couldn’t think from sheer panic, but her pulse beat a tattoo of want. Need roared through her. He moved his finger and thumb inside her with surprising ease, massaging both passages internally. She choked back a cry. Despite herself, despite the pain and the pressure, she undulated against his wicked, probing hand. “I willnae rape ye, wife. Dinnae claim ye’re not stirred.” She closed her eyes. She wanted to scream and weep and come. She could barely force out the words. “Blood for the clan.” “Know that I willnae stop if you protest.” She opened her eyes, turned her head to meet his gaze. Hard as obsidian and implacable, but this was Kieran and she trusted him. “Yes.” He dragged his hand out of her and she whimpered, as much from the sudden emptiness as from the rasp of his gloved digits against her tender channels. Again his gloved hand beat her bottom. Her tortured cry rang through the bailey. The courtyard went silent. Faster than she’d have dreamed possible, he hauled her back into their room, shoved her onto the bed, grabbed his leather strop and cracked it across her bare buttocks. She crawled across the mattress to get away, shrieking as the strike knifed through her. He pinned her down and whipped her again, allowing her keening wail to be heard before slamming the door. He bound her arms behind her with the strop. “Now,” he said, panting from exertion. “Now.” He opened his trews before pulling her onto his lap and began spanking her with his gloved hand. With each blow she wriggled against his wickedly hard cock, hoping to push her pearl against him to get some sort of relief. For she was beyond aroused now, writhing with the fused rapture and torment he inflicted. He shifted his attention from the fullest rounds of her buttocks to the curve where they met her thighs, a sensitive area he’d not previously touched. “Nooo…” She moaned, unsure if she could take any more. His rod swelled beneath her, prodding her cunt. “Yes.” Five more strikes down her legs to her knees before he stopped, stroking and squeezing her burning flanks. 78
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He rolled her off his lap and onto the mattress, where she squirmed helplessly, wrists bound at the small of her back, imprisoned by the sensual web he’d spun. She rubbed her nipples and mound against the coverlet, frantic. Gripping her hips, he tugged her back until she was on her knees, her legs wide apart and cunt presented to him as he stood at their bedside. She whimpered, tears flowing from pain and tension and the sheer emotion of the day. “What, kylyrra?” “Please, please, please, please…” she sobbed. “Please what?” She moaned. He fumbled between her legs, giving her a brief swipe across her pearl that wasn’t quite enough. “You bastard!” “Language, my lady wife. Ye’ve earned yourself more punishment.” “No!” “Yes.” She panted, trying to speak. “Tell me what ye want. Now.” She couldn’t deny that the brutal treatment had forced her to a level of desire she’d never before experienced. She needed his cock more than her next breath. “I want you. I want you!” “Verra well.” With one long surge, he sank into her to the cods, the way moistened by the rich flow of her honey. She screamed as her body, no longer her own, bucked and jerked, but he didn’t allow her release, instead pulling out. “No!” Another hard swat, the leather stinging. “Ye must learn, lady, that ye’ll do it my way. I’m your husband and your master and your laird. Remember it, always.” She buried her face in the covers. She hadn’t wanted to shame herself by sniveling but it was far too late for that. She wept from frustration before she felt his cockhead bump against her back door. “No!” “Yes. I know ye’re afeared of this, and it’s a suitable punishment for your acts this day.” He rose and left her to worry about what was going to happen. Turning her head, she saw him strip, finally removing those tormenting gloves. Despite her anger—was this punishment equal to the crime of trespassing? Surely not!—she was still drawn to his pale, sleek, muscular body, the body she knew could deliver ecstasy. Or torture, as she’d learned. 79
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He hunted on her dresser until he found what he wanted—a pot of lotion. Opening it, he smeared some on his thick, fully erect cock, his gaze never leaving her bottom. He rubbed the lotion up and down and his tool grew larger, redder, its vivid color contrasting with the nest of black hair from which it rose and the skin of his torso, pale as the whitest marble. He came to her and seized her buttocks in his cold, steely grip. Renewed arousal smoldered and she moaned, half in fear, half in anticipation of the pleasure she knew he could deliver. What would he choose? He kneaded her flesh. Desire bolted through her and her moans rose when he pried her buttocks apart to enter her. She wasn’t entirely tight. William’s exertions and Kier’s own fingers had opened her back portal again and again. Still, she twisted against a disquieting fullness that seemed to possess her unto her vitals. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but a startling fusion of sizzle and sting seized her and didn’t let go. She let out a shuddering cry as Kier took her arse with hard strokes that left no doubt that he was her master. He embedded himself inside her rear until his sex hair scratched her sensitized rump. Then he reached around, parted her folds and caressed her pearl with a slippery hand. A banshee wail of shame and surprise came from her depths as a firestorm of bliss consumed her. His weight pressed her down into the bed, his thickness stabbing deep in quick, heavy thrusts. She thrashed against the bedclothes, lifting her hips and pushing back, desperate to take all of him inside her despite her topsy-turvy emotions. He bit her neck as he came, with his big body sprawled atop her, his groans of completion sweet in her ears before her world went dark.
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Chapter Eleven After he’d left Moira in the pillory for an hour, Euan scattered the guards and clansmen who’d come to take their pleasure of her, as well as those who’d thrown rotten vegetables at her head. Then he released her. Dugald slung her battered body over his shoulder and carried her to an upper floor of the Laird’s Tower. He lowered her into a cool bath and she sighed as the water soothed her abused haunches. She let herself slide beneath the water. A bath was a luxury she didn’t often enjoy, and now that her public humiliation was over she began to think that mayhap she’d be all right. The water penetrated to her scalp. She tipped her head back as she surfaced, letting her long red curls drape down her back, aware that the two men were watching. Confidence buoyed her. She could handle them. The worst was over and she guessed that her enemy wasn’t faring well. As she’d been carried up the tower stairs, she’d been able to hear Lydia’s shrieks. Moira smiled. She’d had most of the Kilborn men, with the exception of Euan, the castellan. And what could he do? He’d been old when she’d been born. “Out of the bath, wench,” Euan said. “’Tis for our pleasure, not yourn.” “What do ye mean?” She turned her head to look at him. “I dinnae enjoy hot buttered buns, not when they’ve been greased with the spunk of twenty men.” Dugald hauled her out of the bath and carried her squirming form over to a refectory table. Euan shoved the used plates and mugs aside to make room, and they bound her in a St. Andrew’s cross to the table’s legs. Turning her head, Moira saw Euan smile at her, his teeth gleaming, but it wasn’t a happy grin. Though she’d known him all her life, she noticed for the first time the unnatural perfection of his smile. His seamed visage wasn’t that of a cheerful young man, but his teeth shone unnaturally white and even except for the incisors. Those were pointed, almost like an animal’s, she thought. Like fangs. Dugald twisted his fingers through the red nest of curls atop her mound and tugged. She tried to think, to remember, but blood rushed through her veins as her heartbeat tripled. Like many clanswomen, she’d experienced Kieran and Ranald’s odd sexual tastes more than once. They’d liked to bite her, their sharp teeth slicing her thigh or her neck or nibbling on her cunt while in the throes of their insatiable lust. Despite the feminine cries nightly heard from Laird Kieran’s chamber, despite Lady Lydia’s bruised neck, Moira envied her rival with a jealousy so gnawing that she’d plotted Lydia’s downfall.
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But…auld Euan? Moira’s mind couldn’t grasp the reality of the ancient castellan’s glistening fangs until he bent over her and sank them into her neck.
***** At sundown, when they’d finished, Dugald and Euan washed Moira again. They covered her eyes and wrapped her limp, trembling body in a sheet before Dugald slung her over one brawny shoulder. He climbed the stairs of the Laird’s Tower to its topmost story and exited behind Euan. His tread heavy on the upper walkway, Dugald followed Euan to the old keep and after Euan had unlatched the door, Dugald dumped Moira in the dusty room beyond. Euan locked her inside, then looked at Dugald, who said, “’Tis a cruel punishment.” “But fitting to the crime.” “What will he do, do ye think?” “I dinnae ken. My brother was ever a man of refined tastes. Moira might not be to his liking.” Dugald licked his lips. “I found her tasty enough, as did ye.” “Aye, my thirst is slaked for the nonce. But as for himself, well…he isnae sane, do ye ken? So we lock him in the tower as best we can. I dinnae ken if he’ll stop at a wee dram or two. And as for his other desires…” “Who knows?” Dugald asked. “Who knows,” Euan responded flatly.
***** Moira awoke warm and cozy in a sumptuous bed, but couldn’t move, not with her arms over her head and her wrists trussed to a bedpost. Darkness enveloped her and she realized she was blindfolded. A man’s thumb rubbed back and forth over her engorged clit, forcing shards of desire through her. She groaned…how much more could she take? She had lost count of the climaxes that had claimed her imprisoned flesh since she’d been pilloried. Each pleasure, sharpened by pain, had been more intense than the last. Weak from lack of food and loss of blood, her tug against the bonds was feeble. “Good evening.” The voice was deep and cultured. She froze but his continued fondling drew her gasp. A finger entered her. She opened her thighs and thrust her hips toward pleasure’s source.
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The digit withdrew and she didn’t stifle her protesting moan. Cool hands pulled her knees high and wide. She was ready to be mounted, but by whom? She only half-believed the legend of the mad blood drinker in the Dark Tower. He had long been a threat parents used to keep bairns obedient, like the kelpies or the fae folk. Nay, she had hoped that Kieran would catch and punish Lydia, or p’raps that her rival would come to grief in the crumbling, dangerous keep. Anyone falling through its rotting floors could drown in a sea cave overwhelmed by high tide. “Who are you?” She was ashamed of the weakness of her voice. “Very nice,” he said, ignoring her question. His voice held a Scots accent tinctured by something else…English, p’raps. Something odd, almost like the elegant tones Milady Lydia affected. His moist finger circled her bud. “Delightfully clean and fresh. My brother always knew my tastes.” “Your brother?” “Aye, lass. Euan.” Her mind buzzed. “That cannae be!” “It is.” He again speared her channel with one, then two fingers, spreading them so she opened. His other hand seized her knee and smooth, cool lips caressed her thigh for a moment before pain lanced through her. She thrashed, but he held her firmly as he drank from her thigh for many minutes, until her head swam. His fingers inside her excited her despite the bite, the sucking, the dread… Euan’s brother. The mad vampire in the tower. Could it be? When he finally stopped, she was near to fainting and feared for her life. Then his mouth, now warm, sought her cunt again and she sighed with relief as his stiff tongue urged her to completion. She cried out and her hips bucked before an engorged shaft breached her. He sank his thick pole deep, swiving her powerfully. Shouting with rapture, Moira came as his hot seed pumped into her. As he climaxed, he tore away her blindfold. An ancient face with bloodied lips, framed by stringy white hair…one look, and Moira knew nothing more. Before dawn, Moira staggered out of the old keep. Wrapped in a tattered plaid, her hair and eyes wild, she made her way to the open portcullis and left Kilborn Castle.
***** Warm and cool… Lydia’s body was warm where her belly pressed into the feather bed, but cool above, where ribbons of sweet comfort delivered blessed relief to her sore bottom and
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thighs. She smelled roses, and awoke realizing that her husband was gently stroking her flanks, smoothing scented lotion into her skin. “Madainn mhath, kylyrra.” “Er, good morning.” Hesitant, she wondered how the turbulence of the day before would affect their marriage. “Ye ken why I had to punish ye so severely?” Her buttocks and thighs still ached, though the soreness was diminishing beneath Kieran’s gentle fingertips. Had she developed bruises? When would she be able to sit again? Nevertheless, she said, “Yes, I do.” Setting down the lotion, he lay beside her and she turned her head to regard him. His eyes were serious. “I’ll no’ deny there was pleasure in it for me.” She bit her lip. “And for me also, but…” How could she be a lady and still enjoy the bizarre perversions that Kieran preferred? Her devilishly clever husband knew what brought her to the heights of ecstasy or to an abyss of shame. She didn’t know who she was anymore, and that frightened her. “It was too much,” he said, as if divining her thoughts. “Yes. Too much.” Relief swept her. He understood. He understood and shared her feelings. A trembling sort of giddiness possessed her and a smile came unbidden to her lips as she examined her husband with an intent gaze. “You mean… Milaird was wrong?” “Aye. I was wrong.” “The great Kieran Kilborn was wrong?” His wife’s eyes widened. One eyebrow lifted and she gave him a wide, disbelieving smile edged with mockery. “Now, Lydia.” On his side, he tucked an arm beneath his head. “P’raps the sun has risen in the west, or the sheep fly and instead, birds crop the grass. I must check.” She rose from the bed, wincing a little. He watched her bonnie pink arse twitch as she pranced over to one of the arrow slits and peered out. When she returned, she held lengths of the worn linen they used as towels. She again smiled at him. He distrusted that impish smile, accompanied as it was by twinkling eyes. “So,” she said. “Kieran was wrong. Kieran’s been a naughty fellow indeed.” She took his arm by the wrist, brought it to the bedpost above his head and wrapped a strip of linen around both, binding him. Bold she was, and lust curled deep in his belly. His prick twitched with dawning arousal. “I daresay I’ve been a bad, bad boy.” “Oh, yes.” She took another linen strip, rolled him onto his back and trussed the other hand high. Then she walked away from him. What did she have in mind? 84
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She had evidently learned plenty during the few weeks they’d been married. She dipped a third swatch of fabric into a ewer of water and let the chilly liquid drip onto his chest, then swished it back and forth from nipple to nipple. They tightened into taut little kernels and his cock jumped, stiff and hard as an oaken club. Her smile broadened. “I like this,” she said. So do I, he thought, but made a show of struggling against his bonds. “Lydia—” She chuckled and slid the cold, wet linen down his belly to his staff. Despite the temperature, despite his already intense arousal, he thickened and lengthened. “I wonder…” she said meditatively, scrutinizing his cock. She ran the cloth through her fingers and smiled. She rubbed him with the wet linen and despite the chill he swelled. She tickled his rod so it became even harder, then wrapped his member in the fabric until only the broad, round head was exposed. With each caress of her clever wee hands and each touch of the soft, damp towel, he grew bigger and more aroused until he was about to explode. Bending over, she gave him a little flick of her tongue and he groaned, his hips jolting up. She laughed. “How does that feel?” She kissed his cockhead again, opening her mouth wide to encompass all of his roundness. Lightning flashed through him and he wondered if his trapped flesh was going to burst. She gave him a little nip and he started violently. “I asked you a question.” Her voice was cool and even. She nibbled on him again. He jerked up, hoping to force his rod further into her mouth and p’raps get some relief, but she was too quick for him and the wicked bond holding his cock kept him on the boundary between pleasure and pain. He could not come until she chose to release him. He was hers to control, utterly. “Lydia, please…” “Please, what?” “Please! I’m afeared this will do me harm.” “Really? As much as a beating?” “Are ye angry with me?” “Nay, husband, but what’s sauce for the goose…” She left the remainder of the quote unsaid. “What would ye have me say or do?” She ran her hand over his ballocks and they contracted. He was frantic to shoot his load, and writhed on the sheets. “You’re mine, do you hear?” She tugged on his cock. “That was never in question!” “You’re my slave as much as I am yours. Admit it!” 85
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He tossed his body from side to side. “Yes! Yes!” He sensed the justice of her actions and did not want to fight her. And he’d give up one of his balls to come. “Very well, then.” She tugged away the binding, then pinched the base of his rod, hard. A blast of pure pain shot through him and he clamped down on his frustrated shout. She climbed atop him to rub her slick cunny over his cock, and he was instantly ready again. He twitched with need, pushing his rod upward toward her slit. Kneeling, she lifted up then dropped down, her magnificent breasts bobbing. His cockhead lodged inside her. He groaned with need and relief. She liked what she was doing, he reckoned, because the walls of her quim were fluttering and clenching. Tight, hot and wet… She eased down onto him. He’d surely died and gone to heaven. He shouted, “Rach air muin!” and came in thick jets, coating her channel. He lifted his hips and thrust until he hit the barrier of her womb. She took all he had, bearing down on him so her cunt slid against him, taking her pleasure as he took his. She flung her head back as she came, riding him like a stallion, gripping his shoulders for support. The little stabs of her fingernails drove him higher and he swiveled his hips, swirling his cock inside her. With a gasp, she collapsed over his chest. Her splendid breasts caressed his nipples, shooting him into ecstasy one more time. Minutes later she stirred, then reached up and released his wrists. He grabbed her in a tight embrace, locking her to him without restraint, taking her mouth in a deep kiss. Their tongues tangled, warred, played…eased into gentler loving. They lay side by side, regarding each other, startled, sated and pleased. He looked into the warm chocolate depths of her eyes, seeking and finding her soul. His gaze rested within hers for a long while. Gradually, her breaths and his slowed, evened and matched.
***** “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.”
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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.”
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“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.”
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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!” 89
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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.
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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.” 91
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“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
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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 tightened to an unbearable degree. Even her many releases hadn’t relieved all the tension, but now her body relaxed. And Kieran helped, tenderly 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 the ring 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, 93
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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. He led her out of the castle toward the hills. As they walked, sunlight dappled with cloud-created shade alternately darkened and lit the fields. Dotted with puffy sheep, the grass flowed like a river driven by the breeze off the sea, except where the animals had cropped it. Behind her, glittery patches decorated the white-capped water and the turrets gleamed in the fading light. Following Kieran, she climbed the first hill, on which stunted trees grew, blown sideways by the constant wind. But over the top, forest claimed the land, with the copses and glens watered by burns and the occasional gleaming pond. The woods thickened. Little sunlight penetrated, except for a spot by a stream that had slowed and widened. The little hollow was fringed by ferns and punctuated by the tall, spiny canes of berry bushes, heavy with ripe fruit. Kieran pulled the blanket from the basket, folded it twice and draped it over the sunny spot and gestured. “Your throne, milady.” She sat gingerly, aware of the hard ground beneath, but found that the quartered quilt did much to ease her, as had the long walk. He set the basket nearby and unpacked—ale, hearth-baked bread and a roasted fowl, now cold. And napkins, actually old, soft cloths like their towels. “A frugal people, our clan,” she said, shaking one out and setting it onto her lap. “Nothing wasted.”
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“Nay, we’re no’ in a position to do so.” He dropped beside her, folding his legs crossways. A stag burst forth from the trees beyond the pond, leaped over it and shot into the forest. All the air exploded from Lydia’s lungs and her heart raced faster than the deer had fled. Kieran stood and stared after it. “I wonder what startled him so?” “Surely not us.” She gestured with a chicken leg. “We’re just sitting.” “Aye. He came from the direction of the MacReiver lands.” Kieran’s voice was thoughtful. Raising his head, he sniffed the air. “Anything?” “Nay, just the stag himself.” “He’s beautiful.” “Aye, ’tis a glorious animal. Did ye see? He must have fourteen points at least.” “Does that mean he was fourteen years old?” “Nay, age and antlers are no’ so closely related. He’s in his prime, p’raps eight years old.” He lifted ale to his lips and drank. She watched the long muscles in his neck flex. In his way, Kieran was as magnificent a male animal as the stag. How had she been so lucky as to become his mate? When she shifted on the ground, a renewed ache reminded her that all gifts are measured and p’raps she was not so lucky. But she’d meant what she’d said. Even when he disciplined her, he acted with love. He knelt beside her and set the bottle down before taking her by the shoulders and drawing her close. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, then her lips, slowly at first, just brushing his mouth lightly over hers. She reached for him, clinging to his forearms while her arousal gathered and built. He fed the fire patiently with his hands and lips and tongue, waiting for her, and she knew he’d wait forever if need be. She sagged in his arms at the realization that they belonged to each other as surely as the sun belonged in the sky. “Have a care, lassie.” His voice was husky. “Ye’ll be more comfortable atop me this time.” “And for a good few days, I trow,” she murmured. “Come here.” He pulled her forward, reaching beneath her to tug her skirts out of the way. He rucked up her gown and shift to her waist. “Open your legs.” She did, and wrapped them around him as best she could. Her bare flesh was snug against his leather trews, an odd but arousing sensation. He shoved a hand between their bellies and tugged at his laces. “There has to be an easier way.” She grinned at him. “As in our bed.” “I dinnae want to wait. Do ye?”
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She wriggled against the leather. “No, not really.” Finally the tugging and the pulling resulted in his cock coming free to press against her thigh, and she shifted so the head was against her quim. “Are ye ready?” He tried to squirm a hand between them to touch her, but they were tight together, with Lydia rubbing herself against him, his knob pressing on her most sensitive places. “Not quite…ahhh…” Two more pushes and presses on her pearl and he slipped inside. She moaned and so did he, the joining of their bodies, flesh against flesh, amazing her in its wonder and delight, as it did every time. Clinging to his shoulders, she rocked a little, slowly taking him deeper. They usually swived quickly, frantically, each seeking one swift release after another, but today, lulled by the quiet clearing and the sun-dappled afternoon, the unhurried lovemaking brought her a more mellow pleasure. She needed the languorous renewal of their love, his patient fingers sliding down her throat into her bodice, lifting, releasing. When the taut buds of her breasts were revealed, his sigh of admiration was equally welcome. He lifted her up and almost off him so he could kiss the tight peaks, lowering her while he scattered kisses along her neck, dotting them on her chin, her jaw, her mouth. A nip to her earlobe brought a gasp and a groan, and she dropped down again to take him entirely inside her dewy channel. She flung her head back and ground against him with new urgency as the passion built. He’d taken her to a heightened state in slow and caring stages, and now she spun toward completion, digging her knees into the quilted ground, swirling herself around his rod into sublime ecstasy that captured all her senses—the fragrances of woodland and forest mingled with her husband’s unique scent, the rippling water merging with their pants and sighs, the dappled sun forming patterns on her closed lids that constantly changed as she swayed. She licked and sucked, tasting salt on his skin and the bitterness of ale on his tongue, delicious contrasts. Gripping his shirt, lifting herself up by the knees, she then eased down, taking as much care as he did, using his body as her pleasure toy. Up again, with light friction mediated by her slickness, until his knob dwelt at her opening. When she slid down his pole she stopped midway, sensing a sharper arousal, and when she twisted, she cried out and so did he.
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Chapter Thirteen Moira awoke when Seamas set her down on a grassy bank. Blinking, she watched as he disappeared into a thicket. After p’raps three minutes, he emerged with a brace of dead rabbits in hand. “Snares,” he explained. “I set them regularly.” “Och, aye. Are we now on MacReiver land?” “Aye,” he said, and Moira relaxed. “Can ye walk, lass?” She thought fast. Should she continue to feign weakness? She wasn’t sure, so she said, “I can try.” He held her arm as she lurched to her feet. She didn’t have to fake her unsteadiness, but nevertheless walked with his help southward to a sunny glade divided by a swiftly moving stream. There, he gutted the rabbits, throwing the offal into the surrounding bushes for scavengers to take later. He cleaned the carcasses in the stream while Moira, anticipating his needs, gathered dry twigs. When he returned, he sent her a quick smile of thanks and competently kindled a fire. They worked together in silent accord. She encouraged the tiny blaze with bits of dried leaf so it caught and grew, then fed it larger branches while Seamas skewered the rabbits to roast. She found herself staring at his broad, skillful hands, and wondered if he was as skilled at sex. She fervently hoped so. Her plans hinged on this man and enjoying him would be a bonus. She’d show all of them, all the Kilborns, when she reappeared as Lady MacReiver…especially if she could engineer the revenge she’d started to plan. She needed to bed Seamas soon if any bairn she carried was to be “his”. She refused to think about what could happen if Euan had impregnated her or, worse, the creature in the Dark Tower, which would be obvious if the child turned out to be dark of hair and eye, with white skin and an unnatural hunger for human blood. Grease from the rabbits’ cooking flesh dropped to the hot embers, spitting and hissing. The aroma of roasting meat filled the glade and Moira’s belly rumbled. She clutched it and looked at Seamas. Had he heard the embarrassing noise? Raising his head from his work turning the spitted animals, he grinned at her. “’Twill be only a few more minutes, lassie.” When the rabbits had cooked, he offered her one and set to eating the other. The juicy, aromatic meat burned her fingers and mouth. She wanted to devour her portion
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but controlled herself. She hadn’t eaten since the previous noonday meal, which had been a bowl of soup, and knew she could become ill if she rushed.
***** Seamas watched as Moira tugged bits of roasted meat from her rabbit. She blew on each morsel before placing it daintily in her mouth. Every now and then, her pretty pink tongue would dart out and lap stray droplets of the meat’s juices from around her lips. He did not know the lass but watching her made him hard as one of the bones he now sucked. He wondered how soft her tongue and lips must feel and imagined them lapping his cock and balls. Kieran Kilborn could not be blamed for taking the wench. But did Seamas truly want spoiled goods? He was acting chieftain of his clan. He could have anyone he wished. He did not need Kilborn’s castoff. On the other hand, Moira was a Cameron. Could Clan Cameron become an ally? Before Culloden, Cameron had been a power in Scotland. Now, who knew? Though decimated, mayhap even the remnants of Clan Cameron could be useful. While he’d ruminated, Moira finished eating. She tucked the bones behind a bush for the woodland scavengers to find, then washed her hands and face in the stream. He followed, impressed by her fastidiousness. She was clearly a lady. A new and disturbing thought occurred to him—was he worthy of her? He was wearing ancient trews and even older shoes, topped by a dirty shirt. While her back was turned, he covertly sniffed his armpits. He smelled like a midden. He offended himself. He sidled closer to the stream’s edge, staying well away from Moira. He did not wish her to think he’d force himself on her. He rinsed his hands before removing his shirt. He’d have taken off his trews also but did not want to frighten the bonnie lassie. Plunging his head into the chilly water, he washed himself and his shirt as best he could, then sat on the sunny bank to dry, spreading out the cloth on a nearby shrub. He leaned against a warm boulder and closed his eyes.
***** Moira watched him, had watched him every moment while hoping he would not notice her intense scrutiny. Winning this man over was the linchpin of her future plans. Without Seamas, she’d be nothing and would have nothing. Now he seemed relaxed and she gathered that they were in no danger. She shrugged her shoulders and stretched out nearby. She awoke with her head tucked underneath Seamas’ arm but could not remember how she’d got there, held so closely and comfortably to his body. He smelled clean and
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felt good. Strong, but not unnaturally so. She shuddered with remembrance and his arm tightened around her. “Are ye all right, lassie?” “Aye.” She hated the tremble in her voice. He slid a slow finger beneath her chin. “Ye seem troubled. Know that I’ll never force ye.” His blue eyes searched her face. She kept her reaction muted, but inside she was exulting. He wanted her and was ready to do her bidding. How fast or slow should she go? She needed to bed him quickly in case she was already pregnant, but she wanted more. She wanted marriage. She wanted to be a laird’s wife. She wanted to be called “Lady” for all the days of her life. She never wanted to be helpless again. She cast her gaze downward in what she hoped was a demure and ladylike fashion. “I want ye, but…ye ken what just happened to me.” “Aye, I ken that diabhol Kilborn forced ye.” “It was…terrible.” She blinked as though casting away tears. “I had…I had been planning to marry, ye ken, before Culloden, but my man…” “Och, I’m sorry.” She shrugged and produced a wan smile. “Well, if it’s meant to be, it will be.” He drew her to her feet. “Let’s away. The afternoon isnae growing any brighter. I want to get ye into a hot bath and some decent clothes.”
***** Moira stared in shock. The MacReiver “stronghold” was little more than a crumbling tower. Perched on a modest crag, it was surrounded by stinking, smoky mounds of aged wattle and daub cottages in which the poorest crofters shared their living quarters with their livestock when the weather was harsh. She wished desperately she hadn’t given into her most base urges to hurt Lydia Kilborn. Moira wanted to be home, home in Kilborn Castle’s vast, friendly Great Hall, eating with her mother Fenella and cousin Grizel, smelling the rich aromas of stew and baked bannock, sausage and herbs. She longed for simpler days when her worst duty was scrubbing the garderobe or feeding the pigs and goats. She glanced at her rescuer. Och, but Seamas MacReiver was a fine specimen of a man. He was not Kieran Kilborn—who was?—but he was close unto a laird, and she would work with that. And maybe, just maybe, she could revenge herself on the Kilborns.
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Seamas led her into the tower. Wrapped only in his plaidie, she felt dreadfully exposed to the searching glances of his men, but he whisked her up the worn stone stairs and into a small room with a comforting speed. An elderly woman entered, casting her a disapproving glare while managing to beam sunnily at Seamas. “This is Mistress Ellen,” he said. “I’ll leave the two of ye alone.” Mistress Ellen carried an old gown over one arm. “This belonged to my daughter, the murthered laird’s lady.” “Please thank her for me.” Moira kept her voice calm and, she hoped, sweet. “She’s dead. She died birthing her bairn, the young laird.” The old woman cast a baleful glower at Moira and dropped the drab dun gown onto the filthy floor. It was followed by a pair of rough shoes. “I am the Dowager Lady MacReiver.” Moira bent her head. “Milady.” “Ha,” Ellen snapped. “Be downstairs shortly. The men will wish to question you, Kilborn lassie.” “My name is Moira Cameron.” She raised her head and met Ellen’s frown squarely. Don’t fool with me, old woman. I’ll squash ye like the vermin ye are. Ellen left and Moira struggled into the too-small gown with difficulty. She was strapping, big-boned and healthy, which had helped her through her recent ordeals. But now her size was a disadvantage. The ugly gown strained across her back and choked her at the neck. The laced dress barely covered her torso. She lacked proper underclothing, so her breasts, belly and privates hung embarrassingly unsupported and free. She didn’t normally mind flaunting her body, but in this situation she wanted to impress in a different manner. But she still had the black-and-white plaid. Wrapping it around her shoulders and neck and allowing the ends to trail down the gown’s skirt did a great deal to conceal the faults of the hand-me-down dress. She hoped that neither gown nor plaid harbored lice. The shoes were nothing more than rough leather laced to oval soles, but they appeared clean. She promised herself that she’d not be wearing shabby castoffs for long. She found what passed for the MacReivers’ Great Hall and peeked inside to see another crumbling, dirty room, with a rough wooden ceiling stained by the smoke of innumerable fires. Several hard-faced men sat around a long table. Bracing herself with a deep breath, she told herself that she was an expert at managing males, and she’d manage this rough lot with ease. But when the questioning started, she lost a trace of her certainty. These ruffians weren’t ready to accept everything she said as the truth. The decision would not be made quickly. Nor should it, she realized.
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The questions came at her fast and hard, like rough sex. And like rough sex, Moira enjoyed them, glorying in her ability to manipulate the situation. Seated on a stool facing the group, she worked to maintain her poise and win them over. “Where are ye from?” “Lochaber.” She named a town so far away that even if the MacReivers sent a messenger to check her story, the man mightn’t return for months, if at all. And if the rumors were to be believed, Lochaber, the Cameron seat of power, had been well-nigh destroyed by the Lobsterbacks, their clan leaders killed, scattered or exiled. No information would be forthcoming from Lochaber. “Did not Lady Lydia bring her own maid?” “The Lady Lydia’s maid was a young English lass from London. She didnae want to come to the Highlands. She was afraid—and rightly so—of Laird Kieran. She ran off in Edinburgh.” “I thought ye said ye’re from Lochaber.” “I am. But wi’ the clearances, there’s little there. No home, no croft and no work. No crops, cattle or sheep.” She made her eyes round and afraid. “Wi’ the men in my family killed at Culloden, there was nae reason to stay. Many of us—women and children— fled to Glasgow or Edinburgh to find work. ’Twas there Lady Lydia found me. I was working in the home of, um…a Lobsterback’s wife. Colonel Swann.” She had overheard Lydia and Kieran discussing her cousin, Colonel Swann, and now Moira blithely invented for him a household, complete with maids. She freely embellished her tale. “Colonel Swann was ordered back to England, but I didnae want to leave Scotland. I was fortunate that Lady Lydia wished to hire me.” “Yes, fortunate indeed,” one said sourly. She remembered that Angus was the steward of the clan, sort of like auld Euan. She glanced at him. His twisted face, broken nose and cauliflower ears would give a bairn nightmares. But she refused to be cowed and stared back, meeting the steward’s gaze with steel of her own. Through it all, Seamas remained her steadfast protector and strongest supporter. He believed because he wanted to believe, she knew, whereas those who did not decided she was lying because they feared the inconvenience and risk of war. What would persuade them? Self-interest, of course. She began to tell of Kilborn wealth, which, amended by Lady Lydia’s riches, was a fine prize that could be had if the Kilborn lands were taken and the clan’s power broken. She found allies. “Why should we be content,” asked Martin, “wi’ a sheep or two when we could have the whole flock?”
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Her heart lightened and her tense shoulders eased. She had identified Martin as Seamas’ second-in-command. Even better, a rumble of assent rose from a few of the group. “Castle Kilborn has ne’er been taken,” Angus said. “’Tis unconquerable.” “There’s no such thing,” Martin said flatly. Moira cleared her throat. All eyes turned to her. “I can gain entry into the castle.” “Talk of taking the castle is too hasty.” Seamas stood and strode up and down the hall, his boots clattering. “I propose we approach Clan Gwynn. We will have Kilborn surrounded and helpless.” “Hardly helpless.” Angus snorted. “Remember what Kieran Kilborn did to our laird?” Seamas wheeled to glare at him “I cannae forget. The sight of his body haunts my nightmares and my daily hours. I have sworn to avenge him.” “How? Why would Gwynn help us, with success so doubtful?” an older man asked. This was Fergus, Angus’ brother. “’Tisnae doubtful. God will be on our side agin the diabhol Kilborn.” “Willnae work,” Angus said. “The Gwynns are obsessed with Christ and Mary, not with power. They’ve no interest in conquering Kilborn.” “The Kilborns are bloodsucking demons and must be cast out!” Moira smacked her hand on the table. “Why should we listen to a woman?” Angus asked. An uneasy murmur rose from the men. Seamas, now behind Moira, seized her long hair to force her head to one side, exposing her neck. “Isnae this proof enough of Kilborn’s ungodliness? The Gwynns will be forced by their holy duty to root out the hell spawn.” Moira reached up and loosened her hair from Seamas’ fist. “Och, I’d like to keep my hair on my head, laddie.” Her gentle humor had the effect she wanted, defusing the tension in the room. “I believe that a show of success against the Kilborns may help persuade the Gwynns to support us,” she said. “How?” the steward asked. “I know the routes and timing of the Kilborns’ hunting and scouting parties. Come upon them unawares and take Euan, the auld castellan. But be careful how ye kill him.” She pointed at her neck. “’Twas he who did this to me.” “Ah…” The sighs of comprehension—and agreement—floated through the room. Moira smiled.
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Chapter Fourteen The first inkling that something was amiss came the next morn at breakfast in the Great Hall. Fenella, wringing her hands, told Kieran that no one had seen Moira for two days. He immediately called for Dugald and Euan. Though the men’s voices were lowered, Lydia listened attentively to the conversation and managed to hear most of it. She concealed her interest by pretending to nibble on bits of hash made from the roasted boar and potatoes she recognized from the previous night’s meal. “Ye put her in the tower? When?” Kier demanded. “Night before last,” Euan said. Dugald nodded in confirmation. “Has she been seen since?” The two men exchanged uneasy glances. “Not by either of us,” Dugald said, and Euan bobbed his head. “Dugald, question the guards on duty that night and yesterday morn,” Kier said. “Euan, search the tower.” “Today, milaird?” “Today. If you see him, try to get a sensible answer or two.” She guessed that Kier meant the crazed-looking old man she’d seen in the ancient keep. “Lydia, where did ye see him?” Kieran asked her. She set down her cutlery. “I’m not sure where it was.” “Was it in the central part of the tower or somewhere else?” Euan’s voice was gentle. She shut her eyes. “It…he was in bed. In a bedroom. Behind a door under the stairs.” Reliving the horror, she shivered. The three men were now entirely focused on her, and Kier nudged his chair closer to hers and took her hand. “On what floor were the stairs?” “The ground floor, I believe.” “Thank ‘ee. Lassie, ye’re icy cold.” Her husband chafed her fingers before enclosing them in his big, warm hand. “Elsbeth, bring milady a bowl of hot porridge.”
***** Euan left and crossed the courtyard to the Dark Tower. The great double doors were heavily bound with iron, with a thick, sturdy crossbar securing it. The crossbar’s
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ends fitted into iron-clad bar holes. Strong though he remained, he could not maneuver the crossbar out alone, and gestured for one of the guards to help. Once inside, he raised his nose and sniffed, but did not scent Moira’s presence. He would know if she were near, for he’d tasted her blood and taken her intimately. Now his senses, finely honed from over a century of experience as well as from the fresh infusion of human blood, told him that she was not in the old keep. But someone—or something—was. Euan crossed to the wide staircase and without hesitation opened the hidden door to his brother’s favorite lair. He walked without faltering along the path. Where others might stumble, he strode, his vision clear even in the murk. He found Sir Gareth seated in front of a mirror, brushing what was left of his scanty, yellow-white locks. He wore a nightshirt stained by droplets and streaks of dried blood. The room smelled of his perfume, now stale, and underlying that lingered the faint scent of Moira’s blood. Euan’s heart pounded and his mouth watered. He swallowed. Sir Gareth’s hands stilled. “Have you come to kill me, brother?” His gaze met Euan’s in the mirror. Euan sighed. “Nay, ye ken I cannae do that.” “But I’m mad, you know.” From his tone of voice, Sir Gareth might have been discussing the latest London gossip. “Aye, I ken.” Euan walked over to the bed and pulled back the hangings. The linens were crumpled and, as with his brother’s nightshirt, the occasional smear of dried blood darkened the sheets. Some of the stains were very old. A few strands of red hair clung to the pillows. Euan bent his head and sniffed, learning that his brother had taken Moira in this bed. But he could not detect the stench of death, a distinct odor. However, he wanted confirmation, and turned to Sir Gareth with a raised brow. “Thank you for the gift you sent,” Sir Gareth said. “She was quite a tasty piece, and pretty too.” “Aye.” Euan couldn’t stop his smile of reminiscence. “Do ye ken where the wench might be?” “Nay. After I bedded and blooded her, I let her go. Surely you didn’t think I killed her, did you?” “Nay, ye always had a soft spot for the ladies.” “Especially for ladies with spots as soft and sweet as hers.” He licked his lips. Euan examined his brother, who ignored him in favor of fiddling with his hair and humming as he swayed randomly in his seat. He looked well, especially considering that he had left the century mark behind decades before and had been confined to the Dark Tower for nearly fifty years. Moira’s blood had been good for both of them. “But where is the lassie?” Euan wondered aloud.
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“She seemed well-used, p’raps a little too well.” Sir Gareth stood and stretched. “She deserved it.” Euan was grim. “How so?” “She tricked our laird’s new wife. Ye met Lady Lydia, did ye not?” “The dark-haired, very frightened young woman?” He chuckled. Euan nodded. “Lady Lydia, you say? Then she’s young Kieran’s wife?” “Aye, that she is.” Gareth huffed. “She’ll have to grow a backbone if she’s to help lead the clan.” “Lady Lydia has plenty of backbone. She came all the way here from England, and she’s only eighteen. Ye’d frighten a wolf out of his whiskers, ye would.” Sir Gareth laughed. “She’s English, then? I could not tell. Her scream lacked an accent. Where’s she from?” “Swanston. I dinnae ken where that is.” His brother’s forehead crinkled even more, if that were possible. “Surrey, I believe. Is she General Arthur Swann’s get?” “Aye. How did ye know of her father? He was after your time.” “I was speaking of her, um…I imagine her great-grandfather. The Swanns have long been a military family. She’s got good breeding. She should bear a strong son or two, and they will be fine warriors. I approve,” he said loftily. “I’m sure Laird Kieran will be glad to hear of your approval.” Euan didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “He’s been seeking ye, ye ken.” “Why?” “To see ye, to tell ye of his marriage. Out of respect, ye old knave.” Gareth snorted. “Whyever for? I’m mad.” “Not today.” One of his good days, Euan thought, for Gareth was reasonably lucid. “Nay, not today. The fresh human blood helps.” “Not the sheep?” “No, nor the dogs. It is human blood from which our power and strength are drawn.” His voice had taken on a solemn note. “And ye feel no guilt?” “Not a shred. Does a wolf feel guilt when he takes a fawn?” “‘Tisn’t the same thing.” Euan sat on the bed facing his brother. “It is to us. ‘Tis a matter of survival.” “I can do without it.” “What about the red-headed wench? She might have died.” Gareth’s tone was mild.
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After a brief flash of pity, Euan hardened his heart and shrugged his shoulders. “I dinnae believe so.” “Then why are you here?” “The red-headed wench. She’s gone missing.” “You can’t find her corpse?” Again, Sir Gareth’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Nay.” “Look for vultures or ospreys. The sea eagles will eat dead human flesh as well as live fish.” Humming The Oak and the Ash, Sir Gareth turned back to primping what was left of his long, curly hair.
***** Euan left the Dark Tower and his brother in a considerably more troubled frame of mind than when he’d entered. Though Gareth was mad and occasionally deluded, he wasn’t a liar. Euan believed his brother when he said he had not killed Moira. So where was the wench? At low tide, he took several men down to the cove and searched the sea caves. No circling ospreys and no Moira, but he found detritus indicating that Sir Gareth had been about—an empty bottle of fine French wine. How had it come to land on their remote shore? P’raps his brother had continued his lengthy relationship with the local smugglers. Euan couldn’t help admiring Gareth’s enterprising nature. But did the miscreants understand the nature of the danger they courted when they dealt with the old vamp? Surely not, for if he ever caught one of them alone, the unfortunate would surely slake Gareth’s thirst…to the death. Gareth took a care with females and never drank from a child. But men were fair game, as long as they weren’t family. Gareth would ne’er touch Kier or Dugald or Euan himself, possibly because Kilborn men were so tough and strong. Gareth also had the famed Kilborn strength, but he couldn’t match a younger Kilborn, one who was truly alive as opposed to drawing his waning power from the blood. With the sea caves eliminated as a hidey-hole—or a deathtrap—for Moira, search parties were formed and lined the cliffs, studying the rocks below. Lydia joined one of them, walking in her serviceable boots and an old dress while younger, nimbler clansmen clambered down the steep crags to explore the tumbled stony boulders. No Moira. The hardiest young men braved the tides to swim out to the sea stacks. Their efforts and the risk they took were futile. The fishermen, upon their return, had nothing to report. As far as anyone knew, she hadn’t drowned. The nearby crofts and meadows were searched. Nothing. As the afternoon wore on, Fenella, who walked by Lydia’s side, became more and more distraught, as did everyone else.
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Kieran’s mood darkened from anxious to somber. That night before bed, Lydia asked him, “Are people often lost?” “Nay. Every once in a long while a bairn may wander off, or a fishing boat be blown off course. We usually find them. I cannae remember another time that anyone has just…disappeared.” She was quiet for a moment before asking, “Have you considered the possibility that she left?” He turned from where he sat on the other side of their bed, eyes bright and curious. “Whyever would she do such a thing, desert home and clan?” “Being pilloried, whipped and taken by so many men must have been beyond humiliating. P’raps she couldn’t face everyone after that. P’raps she was a little out of her mind!” “She’s not the first to be pilloried nor will she be the last. Ye sound as though ye’re sympathizing with her, and lassie, had ye been hurt or killed in the Dark Tower, ‘twould be Moira rejoicing over your sorry fate.” She shook her head. “I’m not sympathetic. I know she hates me and wants you.” She tucked her legs under the quilt. Guilt flashed across his face. “You said she wasn’t chaste. Have you had her?” she asked. He looked even more uncomfortable. “Good heavens, Kier! Have you not considered how she must have felt when you brought me home?” “Of course. I’m not entirely witless.” He climbed into bed beside her. “Moira understood that everything changed after my da and brother died at Culloden.” “Do you mean that you two were planning to marry?” Lydia’s gut twisted. “Och, no, but we were…well, ye ken.” She levered herself up onto her elbows and glared at him. “What exactly do you mean? Do you love her?” “No! Lydia, kylyrra, I’ve never loved any woman but ye. And my mam, of course. I’ve never told another woman that I love her. Ye must believe me!” She relaxed a bit. “But why was one of your jilts working for me?” He huffed out an exasperated breath. “I couldnae send her away.” “Why not? Though it appears to me that she’s taken herself away.” Lydia found herself smacking the pillows, really to avoid smacking her husband. “No doubt when you became laird, she fancied herself as Lady Moira.” The bed creaked as he shifted position. “‘Twas a good year or two after I became laird that I married ye. By then, Moira must have realized that she wouldnae be my wife.” “Did you discuss the matter with her?” 107
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“It was obvious!” She sighed. “Of course it was obvious. As chieftain, you couldn’t marry someone who wasn’t chaste. And she wouldn’t bring any political or monetary advantage to the union. It was obvious to everyone but Moira.” “What do ye know of her thoughts?” “I know she was jealous enough of me to tempt me into exploring the Dark Tower, knowing who…what lives there.” She shuddered. “‘Tis true,” he said slowly. “After that, no one here could ever trust her again, especially not you, me, Dugald or Euan. No one who matters. No one who has any power.” “What would a lass like Moira do with power?” “I don’t know, but I know she was clever enough to manipulate me. How do you think she would have behaved had you married her?” He shrugged. “After I became laird, the possibility never crossed my mind. I had more than enough to think about.” “I cannot accept that one of your jilts worked for me. Please do not allow that to happen again.” Lydia rolled over, presenting her husband with her back. She wanted to sleep, but was sure her seething emotions would chase sleep far, far away. How dare he? Kieran wasn’t usually stupid, but in this instance, he’d been an utter blockhead. A gentle finger stroked her back, tracing her shoulder blade. “‘Tis our first argument.” “No, it’s not,” she said coldly, without turning toward him. “It’s the first one you’ve noticed.” The finger stilled. “What else is there between us?” “That…that creature in the old keep.” “Enough about him!” Kieran hauled himself out of bed and grabbed his trews. Tears forming in her eyes, she watched in shock as he slammed out of their room. What had happened to their happy marriage? Where had everything gone wrong? Was it her fault for disobeying him, or did the chasm run deeper? She could have simply done everything he asked of her and closed her eyes to the obvious mysteries shrouding Kilborn Castle, Clan Kilborn and its chieftain. She could have continued to be Lydia Lambkin, placidly doing what was expected of her, questioning nothing. But that wasn’t possible. First off, deep down that wasn’t who she was. She was General Lord Arthur Swann’s daughter and Kieran, Laird Kilborn’s wife. She was responsible and would respond to whatever crisis came her way.
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On top of that, she’d changed greatly since her marriage. Not only as a woman, but as the laird’s lady and chatelaine of Kilborn Castle, she was now accustomed to giving orders to a large staff, to the numerous guards who populated the castle, advising crofters and clanswomen. She expected to see her orders carried out to perfection, and so they were. She’d survived a grueling journey from her home in Surrey to this remote castle and adapted to her new surroundings. She’d not merely survived but thrived. But what of her husband and their marriage? Would she have to sacrifice what she most loved and needed to uncover the truth? She sank down into the bedclothes and tried to hold her tears back, without success. Finally she rolled over and allowed them to flow freely into her pillow. The spate was brief, and she rose to wash her face in the cold water in the ewer, grateful that some was left. Bathing her sore, tired eyes helped her to sleep. Still overheated from excessive emotion, she left the bed’s curtains open, and was awakened when the setting moon’s light slanted through the arrow slits. Her husband was back in bed, his big body curled around hers. Lost in the depths of slumber, his breaths were quiet in her ear. One arm was flung protectively over her. Despite her anger, she smiled.
***** The next day, more search parties fanned out into the surrounding woods, in small groups so as to cover more ground, faster. In a mood fouler than the worst winter weather, Kieran watched them from the upper wall-walk of the castle. With slow, thoughtful steps, he went seaward from the Laird’s Tower and somberly eyed the ocean waves. Had he done the right thing? Was Lydia correct, and had the punishment Moira had endured driven her away? P’raps he should have been more precise in his instructions to Euan and Dugald. P’raps they’d been too hard on her. Locking her in the Dark Tower overnight… Kier shuddered. This was the first time he’d had to worry about a decision he’d made as chieftain of Clan Kilborn. He decided he would not start now. What was done was done. Most importantly, his relationship with his Lydia hadn’t been damaged by the discipline, but the revelations about his past activities with Moira had perturbed his wife more than he would have guessed. He did not comprehend it. He’d chosen Lydia and she’d chosen him, back in that moonlit Edinburgh garden. He loved her and had told her so. What more could she want? He sighed. He adored the very stones his Lydia trod, but ‘twas true that there was no end to the aggravation caused by women. Even in her absence, Moira was a thorn in the entire clan’s side.
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He stared out to sea. Today, the water kissed the horizon in a gentle meeting, with ocean, mist and humid air joining in a seamless flow. But closer, p’raps a few miles out to sea, a line of current surged swiftly northward. Had the lass been swept away, then? Had she in some despondency braved the eternal oblivion offered by the sea? Had she been taken forever? A feeling he couldn’t identify bit deep. Did he miss his lost lover? Not a mite. Lydia had eclipsed every other woman he’d ever known, with her wit, her loveliness, her unexpected boldness and strength. Regret? Nay, but a sense that he’d failed his clanswoman and kinfolk troubled him. Fenella, Moira’s mother, was beside herself. He’d rather cut off a finger than cause kind Fenella pain. Yet she’d said naught to him of his role. Did she blame him or no? Should he ask? He looked down at the boulders, cliff and pebbled cove below, even though he knew they’d been searched a score of times. Nothing. Again, nothing. He strode to the opposite wall and contemplated the moat. Probably too shallow to conceal a body, which, in any event, would float, as did the seabirds. Two of them, one dark-feathered and the other white, quarreled over a scrap. Drifting placidly nearby was a piebald bird, possibly the progeny of the two mismatched parents. As Kieran watched, the piebald one ducked beneath the flapping wings and the craning necks of the fighters and snatched the scrap out from beneath them. He chuckled.
***** Pushed by guilt, Euan hunted for Moira for more hours than most and went farther afield, even onto Gwynn and MacReiver lands. When out of sight of the other clansmen, he allowed his true speed to propel him swiftly through the forest. One afternoon, racing southward, he blundered into a clearing, running full tilt at a stag drinking from a quiet pool. The stag took flight and Euan followed. With human blood unavailable, the stag would have to suffice. Its strength and speed would become Euan’s, and its flesh would feed the clan. Euan caught up with the galloping deer and leaped upon its back. He bent low over it, clinging to its neck. Och, it was a bonnie ride, feeling the stag’s muscles bunch and twist beneath him, but he knew he couldn’t maintain his perch for long. Whipping a long dirk out of its scabbard, he bent low over the stag, pulled back its head and slit its throat. Blood gushed in a rich red stream. The stag fell over onto its side with a crash as Euan slid off. He caught the geyser of steaming fluid in his mouth, drinking until none remained. The blood flared through his belly, lightning captured and made flesh. Its energy snapped through his limbs, revitalizing him. He quivered from the blessed shock of it and stood, arms upraised, breathing deeply. The blood sank through his gut and he took in all of it, absorbing the stag’s life, reveling in the richness of it and the moment. 110
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Finally he looked down at his fallen comrade. “Thank ‘ee, damh-féidh. Thank ‘ee.” After unpinning his plaidie, he rolled the animal onto its side and, with the dirk, cut its belly open and sliced around its vent. In one deft motion, he pulled out the entrails, taking care that they stayed in one piece and unbroken. A torn bladder or gut would befoul the carcass, entailing more hard work rinsing it out in a flowing stream. He tossed the innards aside for scavenging animals and scraped the body’s cavity as clean as he could. He washed in a nearby burn, then folded his plaidie into quarters lengthwise and set it on his shoulders to soften the lumpy load he’d carry, carefully tucking his silver clan badge into a pocket. He hefted the carcass over his shoulders. The stag’s head lolled against his left arm and its legs flopped grotesquely against his hips as he strode back toward Kilborn Castle. He’d ventured close to MacReiver lands and was far from home but would have no trouble carrying his kill back, he reckoned, not with so much powerful blood coursing through his limbs. He strode freely and with joy through the forest he’d known and loved so well for so many years. While he walked, he searched for signs that Moira had been near—a scent marker, mayhap, or a red hair or two clinging to a bush. Nothing at all until he stepped onto a well-traveled trail, one that he used and that he knew was oft trod by the MacReivers when stealing Kilborn sheep or poaching their game. He stopped and lifted his nose into the air, trying to sense what or who was about, a difficult task with the rich aroma of the stag filling his nostrils. Did he smell a MacReiver’s stench? He wasn’t certain but hurried along the path as best he could with his burden weighing him down. Suddenly he was surrounded, the triumphant shouts and choking reek of his enemies enveloping him. He lowered his head and charged the circle of threat, but at the last second, swung his head and torso in an arc. A war cry changed to a scream as the stag’s sharp antlers gored one of the MacReivers. Euan spun and dropped the stag behind him while drawing his dirk. He stabbed the nearest man in the gut, twisting the blade as he pulled it out. A second scream. He tore his plaidie off his shoulders and flung it over another’s head. Kicking to his right, his foot connected with a soft belly. An oof was followed by a crash, and the rest of the MacReivers quieted, each taking a step back. He was still encircled but his opponents rightly were afraid of him. He looked around, the fire of battle in his belly and his blood. “Who’s next?” he roared. He sensed movement behind him an instant too late. A claymore rammed from his back though his chest, and he fell to the ground, impaled. A last gasp drew in the sweet smell of grass before another sword swept down and took off his head.
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Seamas pushed the claymore in deeper, making certain that the diabhol was well and truly pinned to the earth. Black blood spurted from the wounds, drenching the ground. Moira emerged from behind a tree, having directed the MacReiver war party to this very spot, a place she knew Euan patrolled often. She reached down and picked up his severed head by his white hair, lifting it high. The vampire’s mouth fell open, revealing pointed fangs. Red-tinged drool gushed out in a ghastly stream, flowing down her upraised arm. Her voice rang out. “Thus shall all unnatural enemies of our Lord perish from the earth.” Seamas’ belly heaved. Was that hideous flow brave Moira’s blood? He swallowed the sour bile, knowing that to show weakness in front of his men would be unwise. “Well done, Martin,” he said to the man who’d beheaded the vampire. “Archie, see to the wounded. The rest of ye, gather stones and dry wood. Let’s burn the diabhol right here. Who brought the garlic?” “Nay,” Martin said. Seamas turned, his features twisting into an unaccustomed glower. Who was Martin to argue with his orders? “We need to bring it back to the castle, mayhap even show it to the Gwynns,” Martin continued. “Why else would anyone believe that auld Euan is dead?” “He’s right.” Moira took garlic from her pocket and shoved it into the dead vampire’s mouth. Fergus grunted. “I dinnae want the monster anywhere near my bairns. These diabhols are said to have unnatural powers. What if it comes alive again?” “Without a head?” Martin asked. Fergus seized the head from Moira and pushed the cut throat against the severed neck of the torso. After a few moments, skin began to grow at the juncture. Grotesque it was, with the head, lifeless eyes staring upward, starting to knit with the vampire’s flesh. Fergus tore away the head, and Seamas’ gut lurched anew at the ripping sound. “Here’s proof,” Fergus said. The watching men dropped to their knees and crossed themselves, Seamas included. As he rose, he realized that he had to recapture authority over his men. “We’ll burn the body here and take the head.” He pulled out the claymore with a mighty tug and used it to roll the carcass over so its belly was exposed. He slashed down the torso from sternum to crotch, laying it open. “Gather firewood,” he told his men. “Wrap the head in…in something for transport. Its plaidie will do.”
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Chapter Fifteen Moira stood just outside the gatehouse of the MacReiver stronghold as the rest of the triumphant raiding party returned with the head of the diabhol vampire Euan Kilborn, showing that he had been well and truly put to death. The trophy was set upon a pike above the gate for all to see. A fierce blow had been struck against her clan…her former clan, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She’d envied her rival with a jealousy so bitter and sharp that she feared it would stab her to the soul. She’d come to hate auld Euan, a fatherly presence all her life, for his betrayal. But she’d deserted mother, family, safety and clan. She told herself to banish her confusion, for she’d chosen her road. She had been the one to lead the party to the clearing and organize the ambush. It had been clear to her that none of the MacReivers, from Seamas on down, knew much about warcraft. She’d learned strategy and tactics simply from listening to the unguarded talk of the Kilborn men, superb warriors all. She had been the one to stuff the head of Euan Kilborn with garlic and carry it back to the MacReivers’ castle. Now, she stood quietly while an argument brewed. Many wanted to destroy it, burn it or batter it beyond recognition, but Seamas ordered its preservation. “We’ll need it as proof for the Gwynns.” Ale was poured and an overflowing cup thrust into her hand. She gulped it down, hoping to quickly reach a pleasurable oblivion so she could ignore her nagging conscience. She entered the bailey and watched as the stag was skinned. Its head, with its magnificent rack, was chopped off. She guessed that it would be stuffed and mounted. Then the corpse was turned over to the cooks, who would roast it for the feast. “Come.” Seamas beckoned to her. “We are expected to preside over the celebration and must make ready.” Her cheeks warmed. “We?” “Aye, lass. For ye have proven yerself this day.” She dropped her gaze toward the rough earth while exulting. “’Twas naught but what I had to do for my honor.” “And, p’raps, for your new clan?” “Aye.” She cast him a shy smile.
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He responded by visibly puffing out his chest. “Come along, then. We’ll find ye fresh raiment ye’ll need for the new part ye’ll play in our lives.” That sounded promising. And she was happy to get new and hopefully warmer clothing. By her reckoning, the date was the twenty-ninth of August. Autumn would be short with winter running fast on its heels. She handed off her mug and followed as he led her to a bedroom larger than the others she’d seen. It was characterized by untidiness. A sword belt hung from a dusty bedpost over a pair of worn trews. Shoes were piled haphazardly in the corners, and used cups, some with ale souring in the bottom, sat on the rough stone windowsill. The place smelled of unwashed clothing and good healthy male. When he bent to open a chest, she concluded that it was the laird’s bedroom— Seamas’ bedroom. Her heart beat faster, and instinctively she knew that this could be the right time, the perfect moment for their joining. Her blood ran hot from the hunt, the ambush and the kill, and so did his, she reckoned. When he opened the chest, a miasma of stale air smelling of dry herbs billowed out along with an enormous winged cockroach. It flew at Moira’s face and into her hair. She batted it away with a panicked cry. “Steady, lass, ’tis just a wee ceàrnan.” He plucked it out of her hair, dropped it onto the floor and crushed it underfoot. “Th-that’s not wee. That’s a monster!” She sucked in a shuddery breath and fought tears. What had she done with her life? What was she doing in this horrible place? Why couldn’t she go home? Seamas seized her and drew her close. The comfort he offered threatened to open her floodgates wide even while she fought the inevitable. “Shh, shh, lassie, ’twill be all right.” She gave in and began to cry in earnest. Even while she was sobbing, she was fighting her tears. She wasn’t a weeper, she told herself as her chest heaved and her nose ran. Men hate weepy women. My nose will get red and my cheeks blotchy. Oh, what have I done? But Seamas didn’t seem to be repelled. He continued to hold her snugly, patting her on the back while she thoroughly wetted his shirt. Then he surprised her by wiping her runny nose on his shirttail and saying, “Blow.” She did, and was startled to find she felt better. He sat her down on his bed while he stripped off his shirt and tossed it into a corner. “I’m sorry about your linen.” She managed a smile for him. Really, he was a very sweet man, even if he was no Kieran Kilborn. “’Tis all right. I have others.” He shyly slipped an arm around her and she took the implied invitation, leaning against him. She looked up at him, silently willing him to kiss her.
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And he did, first brushing his full lips gently against hers. “Is this…is this all right with ye, lassie? I ken ye’ve been through a lot.” She gave a throaty sigh, hoping she sounded enticing and forlorn and virtuous all at once. She searched for the right words. “It’s…it’s…all right.” “Och, then.” He pulled her into his embrace and gave his kiss to her freely, without restraint, since she’d given him permission. He tasted like the ale they’d drunk belowstairs, and when she slightly moved her lips against his—she didn’t want to seem like a wanton—he opened her mouth with his and slipped in his tongue, seeking hers. She responded with a tiny touch, then withdrew, even though her pulse was pounding a fierce tattoo of want. He slid a hand down to her left breast and molded it through the shabby gown. “I can feel your wild heart beating, lassie.” He rubbed the mounded flesh and sought the stiff peak, which had grown so tight and hard that it pointed through the cloth. He pinched it and, with narrowed eyes, watched her reaction, which was an embarrassed yip. “Do ye like this, lass?” She again cast down her eyes and peeked up at him through her lashes. “Aye, I do, milaird,” she whispered. She reached out a hesitant hand and touched his bare chest with her fingertips, threading her nails through the brown hair lightly furring his torso. The muscles beneath were tense, as though he were holding himself in check. He sucked in a breath and she knew he was hers. Dropping her gaze again, she saw the effect her slow seduction was having on him, for his trews had tented. For all her fondness for rough-and-tumble sex, she wouldn’t mind gentle lovemaking. Only a few days had passed since her punishment at Kilborn Castle, and she was aware of her thighs, still sore from the whipping. She let him take the lead, and he did. With leisurely, respectful movements, he clasped the back of her head and kissed her again, slowly intruding deeper and deeper into her mouth until he was swiving her lips with his tongue. She took time responding, doing her best to imitate a lass of little experience, drawing upon distant memories of her first sex. But even those recollections weren’t helpful, because she’d been so eager that she’d pushed Kieran Kilborn onto his back in a hayrick and torn off his shirt in her lust for him. She flung the past out of her mind, telling herself that such musings were profitless, and instead focused on the man holding her. He gripped her hair, his fingers growing clumsy with desire, and eased her body around with his other hand so that they faced each other. Her hands were still on his chest and, without thinking much about it, she caressed and plucked his nipples into kernels of want. “Och, lassie, wherever did ye learn to do that?” “I dinnae ken,” she whispered, thinking fast. Why had she forgotten what she was doing? “It seemed…it seemed…like the right thing to do. I, er…liked it when you did it to me.”
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“I like it. I like it a lot. But dinnae ye think we’re wearin’ too many clothes?” Moira continued to try to work out what she should do. She wanted marriage, not a quick tumble in the acting chieftain’s grubby sheets. “I dinnae ken, milaird. I dinnae want to… I’m not a lightskirt. I’m not!” He held up a hand. “Peace, lass. I didnae say ye were. ’Tis no fleeting tup I offer ye, but a handfasting. Proper like, but you can walk away should I not be to your desire.” “Ye are every desire I have ever had,” Moira said, and she wasn’t lying. Much. “We’ll do it tonight, then. Now pick a dress.” She held up her hands, which still sported bloodstains and traces of ale. “Is there any way I can wash?” She knew a bath would be impossible. “Och, aye, I ken we are both a bit, erm…fragrant.” He grinned at her before stepping to the door to shout an order. In a few minutes ewers of steaming water, cloths and bowls for washing were brought. “Er, milaird…” “What is it, lass?” “Could I, ah, have a little privacy?” She had to play the part of a shy, gently bred young lady, even though privacy was not what she truly wanted. She’d rather undress in front of her target and show him what he was going to have, just to cement his lust. “Och, of course.” He turned toward the door, but before he left, returned to kneel at her feet. She was startled by the action. He looked up at her and said, “I’m sorry, lass, if things here…if people here are not what a lady like ye are used to. If I’m not enough for ye. If ye want to leave, go elsewhere, handfast or marry another…I’ll understand.” “No!” The word burst out of her too violently and he blinked with astonishment. She softened her tone and said, “I was telling the truth to ye, Seamas MacReiver, when I said that ye’re every desire I have ever had.” He stood. “Well, then. I’ll expect ye’ll take matters into hand when ye’re this castle’s chatelaine, will ye no’?” He stepped into an adjoining room—a dressing room, she guessed—and she could use the time to relax a little bit. Keeping her act up every moment was taking a toll on her usual liveliness, darkening her mood. The day had been long and bid fair to lengthen before she and Seamas would bed this night. And even then the sham would have to continue. Sighing, she stripped off the drab gown, now foul with the sweat and dirt of that day’s hunt. It reeked of Euan Kilborn’s black blood, and dark stains of the vampire’s poisonous taint had dripped down the dress’ front. She threw the dress into the same
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corner that Seamas had tossed his shirt, and then, on second thought, picked it up and shoved it out of the window. She didn’t bother looking to see where it landed. Her skin prickled with the cold. No tapestries softened the stone walls of the MacReiver lair, not even in the laird’s chamber. She should have kept the old dress. That, with other discarded fabrics like her old tattered plaidie, could be made into quilts to warm the walls and floors. The last laird’s lady must have been a lackwit or, because she’d died ten years before, the castle had fallen into rough ruin, unclean and uncomfortable. And the so-called “Dowager” Ellen was useless. If there was anything that Moira understood, it was the proper management of a castle. And after her newfound clan allied with the Gwynns and destroyed the Kilborns, Kilborn wealth would flow to the MacReivers. Kilborn lands would be divided and their riches divvied up between the victorious clans. Her life would be all that she wanted. That new life had begun the moment she’d left Kilborn Castle, but would truly flower tonight, when she was handfasted to Seamas MacReiver. She dipped an old cloth into the steaming water and began to wash, starting with her face. She made certain that her cunny was clean, and wished for perfume, but she was sure there would be none in the hovel that the MacReivers called a stronghold. After rinsing the rest of her body, she found a comb on what passed for Seamas’ dresser and ran it through her hair before using the dregs of the wash water to cleanse her messy curls as best she could. She wondered if she could train one of the girls here as a lady’s maid. Probably not. She ran her fingers down her body, pinching her nipples lightly before combing her nails through her bush. One digit stabbed through her folds and she thought…yes, why not? A climax now and she’d be better able to control herself when it came time to bed Seamas MacReiver. ’Twouldn’t do to reveal that there was little she didn’t know about tupping, sucking and swiving. She had to stay in control, maintain the act that she was virtually an innocent. Before she lay down on Seamas’ bed, she shook out the linens and looked closely at them. Dark dots moved and she jumped back with a squeak. Bed bugs, of course—what else could she expect here? The previous nights, she’d rolled herself in a clean plaidie and dozed in front of the Great Hall’s fire, avoiding vermin. She’d demand that the sheets be changed. How would Dame Ellen take to a new castle chatelaine’s assumption of authority? Moira chuckled to herself. Who cared what the old besom thought? Ellen hadn’t taken care of croft or castle, that was clear. Moira lifted one foot, kicked the dirty bed linens aside and set her sole onto the thin, woolen pad that served as a crude mattress. She slid her longest finger into her slit, seeking her moisture. Gathering some, she drew it out and spread it on her bump, rubbing and pinching the firm twist of flesh.
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But her desperate situation weighed on her mind. What would put her in the mood? Unwittingly, a vision of Kieran Kilborn, naked and erect, swam into her brain. No, she told herself. He can’t be mine. She thought about Seamas, his full lips, blue eyes and barrel-shaped torso. What was his cock like? How would it feel, sliding into her ready quim? 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.
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“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!” 119
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“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?”
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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
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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 thronelike 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.
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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 126
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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.”
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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. 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.
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“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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.” 134
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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.”
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“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.”
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“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.
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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.
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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 stillfluttering 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. He pulled out so only his head remained within her, looking down at her with an odd, quizzical smile on his face. “Ye’ve learned much, kylyrra, in these last few weeks.” “I’ve had the best teacher in the world.” She grinned at him. “I must be, since ye’ve made me the happiest, most satisfied man in the world.” “Good,” she said with satisfaction of her own.
***** By the time the next morn arrived she’d decided that if Kier wouldn’t fully discuss the matter with her, p’raps someone else would. After breakfast, she approached Dugald. With a raised hand, she summoned her husband’s second-in-command. “Aye, milady.” She hesitated. She knew that this was a delicate subject and this was a delicate time. “Walk with me.” She led him to the upper wall-walk. A piebald seabird, p’raps frightened by her approach, dashed away with a flutter of wings. She spoke slowly, gathering her thoughts. “I had never seen the like of it.” “Of what, milady?” She jerked a shoulder. Why was he acting as though he were a dullard? What was he concealing? “The hatred shown by the way Euan’s body was treated frightens me. What did he do to Moira?”
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After a pause, Dugald said, “Ye must ken, milady, how men can make use of a woman.” “Yes, I saw what happened when she was in the pillory. But Moira wasn’t chaste. Granted she had, er…a busy afternoon, but…” “’Twasn’t anything unusual for her. Moira liked to swive. She was candid about her pleasures.” “So what did Euan do to Moira that made her hate him so?” “I dinnae ken. He did nothing more than what I did.” He evaded her eyes. “So if they’d captured you…” “Aye. ’Tis possible ’twould be my headless body that had been burned there, in that clearing.” He blew out a breath. She looked over the parapet at the sea, then down at her husband. Kieran was supervising the reconstruction of a battered little fishing boat. It had been outfitted with a platform, though she didn’t understand why. “He’s suffered so much loss. You all have.” “As have you, milady. We are united by the sorrows of this life as well as by the joys.” Dugald touched her face, surprising her, and she turned to him. He went on, “Euan was my da and my friend. I dinnae ken how any of us will manage without him in our lives. He’s always been here for us. He was our rock.” “May some joy come upon the heels of this sorrow.” “I hope so but I doubt it.” She looked over the wall to where repairs continued. Kieran helped to raise a tattered red sail onto the mast. In the windless day, it hung forlornly. Others were piling what looked like kindling into the boat, atop the platform. That didn’t make sense. Many matters didn’t make sense. Among the more serious mysteries, ’twas odd to see her husband take an interest in a fishing boat’s maintenance. “That sail won’t take the boat very far,” she said. “Och, milady, ’twill take my da into the next life.” She stared at Dugald. “What are they doing?” “Preparing for his funeral.” She lifted a brow in silent inquiry. “Our Viking ancestors didnae bury their dead. We send them to sea in a flaming ship to meet the gods. Ye’ll see what we do.” “That’s right,” she said thoughtfully. “There’s neither church nor graveyard here.” “Aye, our ways are different.” “My husband believes that Euan’s murder will embolden our enemies. And that we must make ready for war.” “He’s right.” Dugald’s jaw squared. “But dinnae worry, milady. Kilborn Castle has never been taken and it never will. ’Tis impregnable.” 140
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“My father was a general. He said that there was no such thing.” His glance strayed to the Dark Tower and his smile was a twisted, grim thing. “We have weapons ye dinnae ken of, milady. Ye neednae fash yersel’.”
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Chapter Eighteen As a faintly glimmering sun dropped into a gray and gloomy sea, the clan congregated near the water’s edge. The fishermen drew their craft up onto the cove’s shore, emptying their catches with their families’ help. The shepherds gathered their flocks and, using swift, shaggy herd dogs, penned them in a nearby meadow. Every crofter, from the tiniest bairn to old Mhairi, came slowly and silently to join their kinsfolk. The Garrison Tower was empty of soldiers, and the kitchen dark and quiet, with only massive pots of stew kept a-bubbling for their evening meal. As dusk settled over the land, bonfires were lit. Kieran led a cortege consisting of the bier bearing Euan’s body followed by members of the family’s personal guard, including a piper, to the cove. Lydia held her husband’s arm as the bagpipe wailed a somber tune. Dugald helped carry the bier and set it carefully onto the newly constructed platform on the old boat. She noticed that, for the first time, he had a massive longbow over his shoulder, his arm thrust through the gap between the bow and the string. His back bore a quiver full of black arrows. Dugald waited by the tide line while Kieran released her hand. Though she was gloved, the evening breeze chilled her when he stepped forward to speak in a strange tongue she didn’t understand. ’Twasn’t Gaelic, for she’d learned enough of the language to know. She guessed that some remnants of the clan’s Viking past infused the funeral rite. But hadn’t some berserkers practiced human sacrifice? She hoped that the custom hadn’t endured. Kieran fell silent then grabbed the stern of the boat and shoved it toward the sea. Good heavens, she thought. She seen her husband’s great strength many times but each proof of his power awed her anew. The hull scraped over wet sand and pebbles and the sound seemed to grate over her very flesh. She rubbed her arms. Though warmly covered by gown and plaidie, she shivered. Kier splashed into the shallows, still gripping and pushing the stern’s rim. The red sail filled and the outgoing tide seized the boat and tugged it from his grasp. He came back to shore, smiled wanly at her and again took her hand. As the boat bobbed on the waves, its sail full and red, the piper continued to play and the clanspeople watched, their unnatural quiet weighting the occasion more than any weeping or wailing could. It was as though they were drained dry of tears and conversation, dead husks memorializing a dead man. The piper stopped, his instrument belching a last wheeze. She heard the crunch of boots on sand and Dugald stepped forward, bow in hand. 142
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With the bow now off his shoulder, Lydia could see that it was six feet of wellrubbed wood so shiny that the reflections of the bonfire’s flames danced and glittered on its ebony surfaces. He reached behind his shoulder, took a black arrow from the quiver and held it into a fire. The arrow lit, and he nocked it on the taut bowstring. He shot the blazing arrow high and it came down onto the boat carrying his father’s corpse. Two, three, four more arrows followed, then Lydia could see a glow, flickers of smoldering red where the kindling beneath Euan caught fire. The faint crackle of the flames floated across the slap of the waves hissing against the shore. The outgoing tide and offshore breeze continued to sweep Euan out into the ocean to his final rest. The fire consuming him roared high, catching the red sail in a violent billow of orange and gold. Holding Kier’s hand, she watched as the boat floated out to sea, a vivid monument to their loss. Someone began to sing in a quavery voice… Old Mhairi? Yes, and that was Fenella joining her, then another and another until the entire clan sang a sweet dirge to usher Euan into the next life. A curious emptiness pressed around her heart, threatening to consume her. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back. No, she thought. I will not let that witch rob me of my joy in life. She glanced at her husband, reminding herself that despite the clan’s loss, despite the worries that could overtake all of them, she had Kieran, and he was all that mattered. He stood, his face as set and quiet as a marble statue’s, reflecting none of the inner anguish she knew tortured him. They stood silent as the dirge ended in thin trails of song, threadlike in the misty eve. Soft sounds tried vainly to fill the empty air—the murmur of the lapping waves, the sigh of their breaths. The hiss of the bonfires as they burned low. He squeezed her hand, telling her without words that it was time to go home. As she turned with him, she thought she saw movement above, on the parapet of the Dark Tower. She nudged Kier’s arm and pointed upward. The dimming glow of the bonfires caught the gleam of long white hair and flashed red on a silver clan badge pinning a Kilborn plaid. As she watched, the tall figure turned and disappeared. “Was that…him?” she asked. “Aye,” Kier said heavily. “I went to the auld keep today to tell him.” She wanted to ask who exactly he was, but knew that the question wouldn’t be welcome, not now. Instead, she said, “How did he take it?” “Not well. I told ye that he’d known Euan for many years.” “I thought he was mad.” “Aye, but today he was lucid. His madness isnae a constant thing. He has good days and bad days, like you and me.” 143
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Kier led her up the trail to their home, with Lydia following. He clearly didn’t want to talk more, and that she understood.
***** Supper began somber and quiet, with clanspeople gathering in greater numbers than usual. Lydia knew that most of the families generally took a small meal at dusk in their own cottages. But tonight, as if by common but unspoken assent, all assembled in the Great Hall for an evening meal of stew, bread and ale. As the evening moved on, voices began to chatter, at first low and soft, later louder as the clan recounted their memories of Euan. As she moved through the hall, trying to get a sense of her people’s mood, she heard bits and scraps of talk. “He took out two of the scum before he was killed.” Owain looked at Dugald. “Be not grieved, cousin. We all have our time, and he died with honor.” On a stool beside the great hearth, surrounded by several of the clan, old Mhairi told a sweeter tale. “I watched auld Euan dandle ye and your cousin Dugald on his knee when ye were wee,” she said to Kieran. She gently bounced the baby in her lap. He chuckled. “And ye did a fair amount of dandling yourself.” Lydia laughed, envisioning hulking Kier so small that he could fit into the little old Mhairi’s lap. “We used to play horsie when I sat on your knee.” Kier wore a fond smile. “And Euan’s also. Up and doon, up and doon for hours.” The baby cooed as Mhairi began to sing, “Ride to your daddy, me bonnie laddie, ride to your daddy, me bonnie lamb.” “Euan lasted longer,” Kier said. “Aye, he was mighty strong, was auld Euan.” Though the old lady’s smile lacked a tooth or two, and many crows’ feet surrounded her eyes, Lydia fancied she saw a twinkle in Mhairi’s glance that told of a more intimate relationship with Euan than that of crofter and castellan. That wouldn’t be surprising. Euan’s wife, Catriona, had died when Dugald was but a young lad, and Dugald was only a few years older than Kieran…or so Lydia thought. “And ye were a lot of work,” Mhairi continued, winking at Kier. “Was I now?” He cocked his head. Lydia noticed that he had subtly led the conversation away from mourning Euan’s loss to happier memories. A clever man, her husband. Owain approached with Dugald in tow. “Milaird,” he said with a slight bow. Kier immediately left the group, Lydia following. “What now?” he demanded. “One of the horses is missing,” Owain said. “’Tis Sentry.” Dugald looked like a man who’d been pushed to the brink.
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“And though we closed the great gate and lowered the portcullis, it was opened,” Owain continued. “Anyone or anything else gone?” Kier asked. The men hesitated. “Not that we know of now,” Dugald finally said. “What of…himself?” she asked, for want of a better name. “Have you looked in the Dark Tower?” The trio turned to look at her. “An interesting possibility.” Dugald’s expression changed to a mixture of aggravation and exasperation. “Well spotted, milady.” “I’m learning.” “And what else be ye learning, my curious wife?” “Not nearly enough.” “Ye married a clever woman, milaird,” Owain said to Kieran. “Aye, I’m almost afeared of her brains.” “Almost? I shall have to work harder to impress you.” She winked at him.
***** Sir Gareth knew Kilborn Castle well. Having ordered one of its many renovations and watched another, he knew its tunnels and warrens, its secret passages and gates better than any man alive, dead or undead. Though protected by a portcullis and a guard-house, the great gate set in the double wall linking the Garrison and Laird’s Towers was no impediment. Though two normal men were needed to open the gate, Sir Gareth possessed the unnatural strength of many despite his age. So he turned the wheels and lifted the heavy bars with ease. Taking Sentry, his nephew’s big gray gelding, from his stall, Sir Gareth saddled the mount and rode south. Glancing to his right, he saw the tiniest spark adrift far out on the breast of the waves. He halted Sentry and watched as the north-flowing current seized his brother’s flaming bier and carried it toward their ancestors’ cold, faraway lands. He began to sing My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean in a high tenor, but cut himself off when he remembered that the song was about that fool prince. Not a Scot, really, for Charles Edward Stuart had been more Italian than Scottish and more dolt than either. Gareth stifled a sigh but was unable to dislodge the pain shrouding his heart. The last companion of his long years was gone. Kieran was a fine lad in his way, and Dugald showed strong vampiric tendencies, but as far as Sir Gareth knew, he was the last of a long line of Kilborn vampires stretching back to the dawn of time. He urged Sentry to a canter over the meadows. When boulders appeared and rocky hills lifted their heads, he cut to the left, taking a track that he knew would lead him to the most populated portion of the MacReiver lands. Sentry slowed as the trail narrowed
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and became progressively steeper as it wound through wooded glen and rocky defile. Sir Gareth allowed the horse his head. ’Twouldn’t do to return a lame Sentry to his nevvy. Dugald would rightly be furious. Moira’s blood, days old, had lost much of its power and he reckoned he’d better take someone weak first, a straggler who had wandered from the herd. He scented the reek of the MacReivers and left Sentry tethered to a tree a few yards beyond the first of the wattle and daub stinking piles surrounding MacReiver Castle. He crept forward until he sheltered behind a bank of shrubs near a lean-to. He deduced by its rank stench that it was the clan privy. He waited, watching a crone have a piss p’raps ten feet away. He didn’t plan to take any woman but one. The next person to use the local pissoir was a youngish man. Possibly a guard, for he bore a shortsword in a scabbard hanging from the rope belt that supported his trews. He stank of ale, and Sir Gareth decided to allow his victim to relieve himself before striking. No sense getting piss on his fine boots. He glanced down, enjoying the sight of his well-polished boots, high-heeled and buckled in the Cavalier style, and allowed himself to reminisce for a brief moment. An image of his monarch floated through his mind, the dark-visaged Charles, a fellow who had loved a good tup and a good time. They’d often gone a-wenching together, but with Sir Gareth careful to hide his predilection for blood from his friend. The memories reminded him of his losses. After his son Carrick and grandson Ranald had been killed, his brother Euan had been the last person with whom Sir Gareth had been able to be truly open. The sound of urine hitting the wooden lean-to’s back stopped, and he drew his dirk. As the guard turned, fumbling with the laces of his trews, Sir Gareth pounced. He wrenched his victim’s head back and punched his dirk directly into the neck’s big artery, then dragged him back into the shadows. The dead man quickly lost a lot of blood, Sir Gareth noted with resentment. At least the gouting red fluid hadn’t soiled his breeches, though something had soiled the guard’s. Sir Gareth wrinkled his nose at the stink of shit before daintily bending his head to drink, careful not to stain his shirt or plaidie. He took many minutes to drain his victim, then tucked the body beneath the shrubs. Energy sank through his gut, sang through his veins. Stretching his arms high, he exulted in the new power and strength that the guard’s blood had delivered. Without fear, he stalked to the nearest hut and entered. A woman sat near a fireplace that was no more than a round of stones set in the center of the scraped earth floor. A vent in the ceiling allowed smoke to escape. Small and young with grimy yellow hair, she wore an oversized dress of rough brown wool that he guessed had been a hand-me-down based on its poor fit and even poorer condition. Her feet were bare and cracked. A bairn, p’raps two years old, played
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on the dirt floor near her as she licked her bare fingers and cautiously turned over bannocks baking on a flat stone set in the embers. A great hand squeezed Sir Gareth’s heart. Beneath the dirt on her careworn face, she was pretty enough that had she been born a princess in the House of Hanover or even a Campbell of Argyll, she would have led a life of ease, wealth and privilege. She would have married well and never wanted for anything. Instead she lived like a pig in a hovel. ’Twasn’t fair. ’Twasn’t right. Despite a long-held vow never to kill a woman, he wondered if p’raps it would be kind to release her from the burden of her existence. Her baby fussed and she immediately stopped her baking to pick up the wee one. She started crooning to it. “Hush-a-bye bairnie, dinnae say a word…” When the wee one had quieted, Sir Gareth cleared his throat. Looking up, the woman nearly dropped her bairn into the fire. “Whisht, madam. I mean thee no harm.” But he knew he’d frightened her. He was unnaturally tall and pale, with long, wavy white hair hanging to his shoulders, clad all in black and, when he wanted to be, silent as a shadow. “Who are ye? What do ye want?” He decided to adopt the burr he’d left behind long ago. “What news be there hereabouts? I have heard that the MacReivers killed one of the diabhol Kilborn blood drinkers.” “Och, ’tis true, kind sir.” She stood and settled the baby on her hip. “How was it done? Do ye ken?” “’Tis said that Moira Cameron, the woman who’s handfasted to Seamas MacReiver, knew of the diabhol Kilborn’s haunts.” Moira Cameron. Tha thu ’nad luid. So she was calling herself Moira Cameron. The lass had more cleverness than he’d known. “She led a war party to a glade,” the woman continued. “There our Seamas ran the hell spawn through and his second-in-command, Martin, beheaded him.” “Who is Seamas MacReiver?” “He is our leader until the young laird can rule. Able he is. He took an oath to destroy the Kilborns when Kieran Kilborn murthered our laird and drank his blood. And he has already killed auld Euan.” The relish with which this one told her tale destroyed any mercy lingering in Sir Gareth’s soul. He smiled at her and advanced, intending to take her. She shrank away. “Ye said ye would do me no harm!” Halting, he tipped his head to one side. “So I did. And ye have done me a service this eve. I thank ’ee.” He sketched her a bow and stepped toward the hut’s opening. She called after him, “If ye wish to see the head of the auld diabhol, it’s piked above the castle gate.”
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He stopped short his retreat, deciding that p’raps mercy was less important than old Billy Shakespeare had thought. Sir Gareth had never felt the tendency drop on him as a gentle rain. Still, be he man or vamp, he had to keep his word. Instead, he turned and bared his fangs, hissing at her. With a short scream, she fainted dead away. The bairn crashed to the floor and began to cry. He smiled. There was no need for mercy at the next hut, nor the next, nor the next, until he reached the castle. And those who didn’t die would wish they had.
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Chapter Nineteen The next morning, Dugald joined Kier and Lydia at the laird’s table. When Owain strode toward them with intention in his steps, her belly contracted. What now? “Good morrow, milady.” Evidently distracted, Owain nevertheless spoke politely. “Milaird, Sentry was discovered early this morn.” She sensed a bit of Dugald’s tension fall from him like a discarded plaidie. “Where?” he asked. “In his stall, curried and fed.” She dropped her spoon, which clattered on the polished wooden table. “He was ever a courtly, polite one,” Dugald said. “Er, himself?” she asked. “Aye.” Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose. Another scrap of information to add to her trove. Sooner or later she’d be able to piece together a quilt that would reveal all. “Two other horses were discovered wandering in the near meadow,” Owain said. “They aren’t ours.” “They are now, I suppose.” Kier lifted a brow. “I wonder what his errand was.” “I dinnae ken, but I ken what mine is this day.” Dugald shifted in his seat to face Kier. While the men talked, Lydia had picked up her spoon again and dipped into her oat porridge with a heartier appetite. Nothing bad had happened and she hoped that nothing would, but forgoing breakfast wouldn’t help if another crisis beset them. “I would ride to the MacReivers’ castle and take back me da’s head.” She dropped her spoon again. This time, it fell into her bowl with a splash. “Milady wife, the porridge needs no further stirring. I assure you that the cooks ken how to make it properly.” She pressed her lips together and strove to control her reactions. Kier turned back to Dugald. “I agree. We ride in force. Their men will be out at midday, hunting and patrolling. We’ll strike then.” She cleared her throat. “Milaird, I ask a boon.” “Aye?” “’Tis Sunday, and I find myself in need of spiritual solace after…after all the tumult of the past days. I wish to attend services at the Gwynn chapel.”
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He hesitated for a moment, then said, “They be Papists. Do ye want to see Mass and take communion?” “I don’t see why not. God is God wherever I may be.” When a frown passed over his face, she pressed on. “You did tell me that I might if I wished it.” “I did, and I pride myself on being a man of my word. If that is your wish, of course.” She was surprised that he’d so easily acceded to her request. “You dinnae ask for much, kylyrra,” he said, as though looking into her mind. “I do require that you be accompanied by an escort.” “Of course. These are trying times.” “And we’ll have to send a messenger in advance to Laird Hamish, the Gwynn chieftain, to tell him of your arrival. I dinnae want to start a clan war over your desire for spiritual solace.” He rubbed his chin. “Dugald, we’ll suspend the regular patrols and hunts this day. We’ll take thirty men, and twenty will accompany Lady Lydia, including Owain and Kendrick. Keep the rest here. I want constant vigilance from atop the walls, and sentries ringing the castle in various placements, on guard until we return.”
***** Kieran hadn’t known what to expect when he approached the MacReiver stronghold but complete silence wasn’t it. At Kilborn Castle and the surrounding village, the hum and bustle of activity always filled the air. People talked and laughed as they spun cloth, tended bairns or cooked meals. Hammer clanged upon anvil as the blacksmith worked. Chickens scratched between the cottages and crofts, with puppies chasing kittens, and goats eternally gnawing on their tethers. The nearby meadows were dotted with sheep and those herding them, human and canine. But the low, smelly huts around the crumbling bulk of MacReiver Castle were oddly quiet. A hen or two huddled in the shadows. Skinny dogs napped, with an occasional fly buzzing. No smoke emerged from the crofts’ vent-holes. He reined in his buckskin and raised a hand. The line of men behind him stopped. With a faint jingle of harness, Dugald rode to Kier’s side. Today he was mounted on a black, allowing Sentry to rest after his nocturnal adventure. Kier lifted a brow at his second-in-command. What now? “I dinnae ken.” “We’ll learn naught by sitting on our horses.” Kieran dismounted and peered into the nearest hut, drawing his short sword. Dugald followed. A man’s body lay on the earthen floor, with a dark substance pooling around it. Kier sniffed and scented drying blood, not too much and not too old.
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He entered, then stopped short when he saw that the body had no head. “Ah,” he breathed, spying it flung into a corner. Closer examination revealed that the head had been twisted off the corpse, which had been drained of most of its blood. He heard a rustle of cloth rubbing against cloth and whirled. A mass of bedding stirred and a woman emerged, puffy-faced and red-rimmed of eye. “Have ye come to kill me too?” Her voice was raspy, from crying, he reckoned. “Nay.” He sheathed his sword. “What happened here?” She sat up. She wore a tired gray gown and a defeated expression. “The diabhol came to visit last eve. He killed everyone.” “Ye’re alive.” Her laugh was short and joyless. “I might as well be dead. I cannae survive without my man. None of us can.” “What do ye mean?” “All the men are dead, except a few who were out on patrol or somehow…escaped or were overlooked.” “This diabhol,” Dugald said. “Did ye see it?” “Nay.” She closed her eyes. “I was spared the sight. But others werenae.” “What did the others say?” Kier asked. “Black as the night and swift as a shadow, but with eyes blazing icy fire and a halo of silver hair.” Kier caught Dugald’s glance. “The women and bairns were spared, were they no’?” Dugald asked. “Aye, but cold comfort that is. How are we to survive without the men? Who will hunt? The young laird is but ten years old. Who will protect us?” “I will.” Kier sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But who are ye?” “Your new laird, Kieran Kilborn.” She gasped and shrank back. “Fear not. I’ll not harm ye, and I’ll set all to rights.” He glanced at Dugald. “Let’s ride to the castle.” Looking up at the fortress’s collapsing upper battlements as he approached through the eerie quiet, Kier couldn’t see anyone on duty. Likewise, the gate, open to allow anyone to enter, appeared to be unguarded. He set his warriors roundabout to warn of the approach of any enemy before entering the bailey. Silence had captured the castle, except for the odd animal sleeping or foraging. He caught Dugald’s eye. “Secure this fortress,” Kier said softly. “I ken that our lands have grown greatly this day, though I doubt that was the auld vamp’s intention.”
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“Nay. There was great anger here, I feel.” Dugald lifted his nose into the air and sniffed. Kier did the same. “Aye. He killed many and fed well last eve. And we will reap the benefits of his anger.” Though he knew he should be saddened by the carnage that Sir Gareth had wrought, Kier was relieved, and soon a strange levity overtook him as he searched the castle for survivors. Others felt the same way. He even heard Dugald humming Blow Awa’ the Morning Dew as he went about.
***** Untrained in warcraft, unable to even ride a horse or lift a claymore, Edgar MacReiver felt as useless as a cat’s second tail. Awakened the previous night by the screams of women and the dying gurgles of men, he’d huddled in a linen closet until the morning. When he’d crept out, he’d discovered only females and boys under the age of twelve. Though he was ashamed of having hidden, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he would have been spared even if he had tried to confront the monster who had finished the job Kieran Kilborn had started—that of destroying his clan. Even so, a heavy weight sank into his belly. He was laird, and he had failed. The ancient feud between their clans had ended last night when someone—or something— had taken an awful retribution. His fears had been confirmed when he had climbed to the upper gate in the early morn to see the lay of his lands. The head of the one his Uncle Seamas had called the diabhol, Euan Kilborn, was gone. The creature that had killed scores of men and striplings had taken it, Edgar guessed. But who could it have been? Definitely a Kilborn, for he had heard the tale of his father’s death. Though no one had ever told him the reason the Kilborns were devils, he had reckoned that a race of beings who killed by personally tearing off the heads of their enemies surely were the children of hell, even if he wasn’t sure that such a place existed. When Edgar heard voices in the lower hall, he sprinted to the upper wall-walk of the castle. Parts of it had fallen into ruin, and he had vowed that when he became laird, he’d rally the people away from their usual indifference and repair it, make the castle into a proper stronghold. But even in its current decrepit state, enough of the higher reaches were in decent enough condition to allow him to clamber over the big rough stones to see below. Mounted warriors—a lot of them—were fanning out over the land…his land. And they were wearing Kilborn plaidies. His breath hitched in his chest and his heart began to pound like a blacksmith’s hammer. They were directed by a massive figure, larger than the rest, seated on a big horse whose hide gleamed golden in the midday sun. He had to be Kieran Kilborn, his 152
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father’s murderer. Had he also come last eve to kill every man jack in the MacReiver clan? As Edgar reclaimed his spot in the linen cupboard, he nevertheless marveled at their boldness, for everyone knew that the Sassenachs forbade the wearing of the tartan. Kieran Kilborn had to have the ballocks of an ox, as his father would have said. He fell into a fitful rest until the cupboard’s door flew open. “Laddie, ye can come out now.” “How did you know I was in here?” Edgar peeked out at the speaker. He squatted, filling the gap with his bulk. Even in the shadows, Edgar saw a face as white as cloud, with eyes and hair like the deepest midnight. A Kilborn, then, and possibly their chieftain, for he greatly resembled the man on the horse. “I didnae,” the Kilborn said. “We’re looking everywhere for survivors. Show yourself. Ye’ll not be harmed.” “How can I trust you?” “Do ye have a choice?” The Kilborn had a point. Choices were few. And how should he, the laird of his clan, meet his death? Cowering in a closet or with courage? Edgar shoved the Kilborn’s knees and he fell back on his arse with an oof. Edgar took the chance offered to dart around him, but was snared by one outstretched arm. “Let me go!” Edgar shoved at the man’s arm, digging in his finger at the soft place near the elbow, the way his da had taught him. Kilborn turned his arm one-quarter, moving Edgar’s finger to a spot that wouldn’t hurt. “Go where?” the man asked reasonably. “There isnae much in this storeroom.” Edgar stopped struggling. The man’s arm tightened, lifting Edgar onto his lap. For long moments, neither moved. Edgar’s frantically racing heart stilled, allowing him to become aware of the Kilborn’s clean scent and non-threatening stillness. Kilborn shifted, setting Edgar to one side. Now on the floor, he missed the cozy cuddle. He blinked. He was not a wee bairn. He would not cry. “I find that I am hungry.” Hungry? The statement startled away Edgar’s tears. The Kilborn reached into his sporran and took out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. He opened it, revealing a bannock. Edgar’s stomach rumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. And the bannock, while a little squashed, was crisply browned. It looked tasty and smelled even better. The man broke a little off one side and offered it. Edgar eyed it with suspicion. The Kilborn chuckled and ate it himself, then thrust the bannock at Edgar. “Here, lad, choose your wee snackie.” He hesitated. “I couldnae have poisoned the whole thing.” 153
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’Twas true. And though he wanted to devour every last crumb, Edgar broke off about a third of the toasted oat cake and nibbled on it. “What be your name, lad?” He swallowed. Should he lie? “Edgar.” “Ah, the young MacReiver. So this be your castle.” The man’s tone was still calm, without tension. Edgar wondered what to say, and fell back on the shreds of the manners his grandmam had taught him. He waved an arm. “Welcome.” The Kilborn roared with laughter. Another man entered the room, another Kilborn by the looks of him. The first Kilborn said, “Dugald, this be the Laird MacReiver.” “Is he now?” The man, nearly as big and broad as Edgar’s new friend, advanced with a frown. He set a hand on his small sword. Edgar squeaked, cowering behind his new friend, and the two men erupted with laughter. “Dugald, Dugald, ’tis no time for the playing of pranks.” A grin split Dugald’s face and his hand fell from his sword. Edgar relaxed. “Let’s see ye, young MacReiver.” Dugald reached down and pulled Edgar to his feet, surveying him. “Well, ye’re too wee to be managing everything here yourself.” Edgar slumped. “I’ve failed.” The two men exchanged quick glances. “Ye’re but a young lad,” the first Kilborn said. He stood and stretched long limbs. “Ye’ll have many more chances to fail, I assure ye.” Edgar glanced up at him. “Who are you?” “I be Kieran Kilborn.” His belly clenched. “You killed my father.” What would the Kilborn do to him? “So I did. But he attacked my wife, do ye see? A man cannae allow that.” The Kilborn laird’s tone of voice still remained reasonable. Friendly, even. “That’s so.” Edgar frowned. “Milaird Edgar, ye’ll have to come wi’ us.” Kieran Kilborn was polite but firm. “Why?” “Because ye’re a smart lad and ken ye have no other choice.” “Why not the Gwynns or the Sutherlands or the MacLeods?” “A good question.” Again, the two Kilborns exchanged glances, as though talking without using words. Milaird continued, “Well, ye’d have to pass through my lands to get to the Gwynns. We be related by marriage to the Sutherlands and the MacLeods.” “Oh.”
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Kieran Kilborn knelt, facing Edgar eye to eye. “How about this? Foster wi’ us for five years. Then come back and take this castle as your own, as our ally. I offer ye the succor of my home, the protection of my clan and my firstborn daughter.” Edgar’s mind whirled. He had oft wished that his father and uncle had spent more time teaching him what he needed to know to rule. He stared at Kieran Kilborn, feeling very small. But so far the Kilborn had been kind. He’d shared his food. They’d broken bread together. “Do you have a daughter?” “Not yet, but I will. If not, a highborn lassie of my clan. Our clan.” Edgar considered as best he could. “Yes,” he said, and put his hand into Kieran’s. They walked from the room and down a hall. “Who d’ye think, Dugald? Milady would enjoy this one.” Dugald looked down and Edgar looked up. Dugald’s mien softened. “We canna keep him to ourselves in the Laird’s Tower. ’Twould cause jealousy. Auld Mhairi, p’raps.” “Who’s old Mhairi?” “She’d be like yer grandmam,” Dugald said. “You mean she smells like liver and cabbage soup?” Edgar wrinkled his nose as they descended cracked, worn stone stairs. The men again shouted with mirth. Edgar wondered at their high spirits. Was he suddenly so funny? When they’d calmed, milaird said, “Nay, she smells more like roses and honey, for she dries flowers and herbs, and tends bees.” “She sounds nice.” “Fenella be saddened these days,” Dugald said. “P’raps the lad would lift her spirits.” “Why is she sad?” “Her daughter Moira…did a very bad thing.” Milaird’s voice had gone dark. Edgar’s curiosity was aroused. “Moira? Moira Cameron?” “Och, so that was what she called herself. Nay, she be Moira Kilborn. What do ye ken of her?” Kieran Kilborn asked. “I met her once. My uncle Seamas was besotted with her, but my grandmam said she was not to be trusted.” “Your grandmam was right. Have ye seen Moira since last night?” Edgar shook his head. “Hmm.” Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose. Again the two men exchanged glances.
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“Fenella would be a good choice,” Dugald said, and Edgar sensed that the topic of Moira should not be pursued. “Aye, and that would keep Milaird Edgar in the castle, close by. For his lessons.” Milaird eyed him. “Lessons?” Edgar tugged his hand away. “Aye. Ye’re to be laird of your clan and my ally. Ye’ll need lessons.” “Laird of who? Everyone’s dead.” “Nay, not everyone.” Milaird repossessed Edgar’s hand. “With proper management this land will prosper.” A shriek erupted as they reached the lower hall. “My Edgar! My Edgar! My wee bairn!” “What now?” Kieran asked Dugald. A miasma of moldy cabbage blanketed Edgar as his grandmam enveloped him in a hug. He cast a desperate look at the Kilborns. Help me! He struggled out of her tangled skirts and stifling embrace. “This is my grandmam, Ellen. Kieran, Laird Kilborn and, er, Dugald Kilborn.” “Milady.” Kieran said, and both men dipped their heads respectfully. Edgar thought that the briefest twitch of a smile lifted milaird’s lips. She glowered. “And where were you taking my wee one? To murther him, I’ll be bound!” “Nay. If we’d wanted to kill him he’d already be dead,” Kieran said, sounding reasonable. Edgar had learned that this was his usual tone of voice. She wailed, clutching Edgar’s shoulder with bony fingers. He wrenched away and rubbed his flesh. It hurt, and he wondered when she’d last cut her nails. “He’s coming with us.” A note of command had entered milaird’s voice. “No!” “The agreement has already been made,” Kieran Kilborn said. “Laird Edgar is bound by his word.” “He’s but a wee lad! He has not the brain to agree to anything!” Edgar flinched. Kieran glanced at Edgar. Was there sympathy in milaird’s eyes? “He has plenty of brains and plenty of sense. More than ye. Ye can come—” Edgar waved frantically at Kieran, silently mouthing, No! No! Had a slight smile again crossed milaird’s lips? P’raps. Kieran continued talking with Edgar’s grandmam. “Ye can come to visit any time ye wish. For the nonce, ye’re needed here to put this castle and these lands back into order. For Milaird Edgar to take over when he be ready.” “What?” His grandmam seemed confounded.
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“He’ll be fostering with us. ’Tis the usual thing, for his education, dinnae ye ken?” “I know what fostering means,” Grandmam said stiffly. “Do you pledge his safety?” “As much as anyone can assure the safety of an active young lad. I’ll take him home and treat him as my own.” She sniffled and drew Edgar close, but he guessed that Kieran had won the day. “Find the stables and saddle a mount for young Edgar,” Kier said to Dugald. Dugald cocked his head at Edgar. “Laddie, have ye a favorite ride?” “Yes.” Edgar again untangled himself from Grandmam’s stifling embrace. He knew she meant well, but… He followed Dugald to the stable. When they emerged, with Edgar leading Scout, his Highland pony, he heard Kieran giving a brisk series of orders. “Ross, Dirk, stay here with two dozen men. Search the area, find everyone and bed them in the castle. Pen the livestock outside, an’ the poultry in the bailey. Gather the corpses awa’ from the castle and the watercourses, and let the women decide what to do with their men. Bury ’em or burn ’em, I care not.” He turned and regarded Dugald. “Check the stores and supplies and return to Kilborn knowing what is needed here.” “Aye, milaird.” “Ross, we’ll send what ye’ll need on the morrow. Meanwhile, gather what food ye may find. Locate fresh water.” Milaird stopped and huffed out a breath, seeming to order his thoughts, then continued. “Search the crofts and take what can be used, including good wood, brick and stone. Then burn ’em.” Edgar’s mouth dropped open. “Do ye not agree, milaird?” Kieran regarded him. “Yes, but…how did you know what to do so fast?” Kieran laughed. “One more thing.” Dugald knelt beside Edgar. “The head of the auld Kilborn who was killed.” “The one they called the diabhol.” Edgar huffed then caught himself, realizing that he may have sounded like he was mocking the Kilborns. He hoped that none would take offense then said, “I do not think I believe in devils.” “Good,” Dugald said. “For there are none. Do ye know where the head might be?” Edgar looked up at the gate and shook his head. “Nay. Day before last, my uncle Seamas took it away, but brought it back. ’Twas up there above the gate last eve, but gone this morn.” “Ah.” “Be back home by sundown,” Kier told Dugald. “Thank ’ee, milaird.”
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Again, the men exchanged one of those glances accompanied by lifted black brows. Edgar scratched his head while Scout chuffed in his ear. P’raps the Kilborns did have mysterious powers. Milaird seemed to be able to see into the minds of others and speak without words.
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Chapter Twenty Even accompanied by a large escort, Lydia made good time toward the Gwynn lands via the cliff path. When they reached the ring of standing stones, she reined in her gelding and wound through the great circle, struck by its beauty and mystery. Hewn out of granite, each monolith was fully twenty feet tall. She’d seen ancient stone circles before. There was one at Avebury and another near Salisbury. Stonehenge, she thought it was called. They’d always intrigued her. She recalled that Kieran said that his ancestors had used them in rituals, and that the sun would slant just so through the stones. No sun today but, impressed by the place, she decided to ask Kieran if they could possibly hold a festival of some sort there. She couldn’t say she’d enjoyed Euan’s funeral, but she’d been moved and wondered if more of the ancient customs could be honored. Had Kieran’s ancestors celebrated the harvest? If so, p’raps the tradition could be revived. The clan needed a festival after so much grief and worry. A happy occasion would lift everyone’s spirits. Despite her interest in the stone circle, she didn’t wish to tarry. She knew she’d probably missed morning services, but Papists prayed frequently throughout the day. She hoped that the Gwynn’s priest observed that particular tradition. If not, she could sit in the chapel and pray alone. She wasn’t a Catholic and didn’t need a priest…at least not for prayer. When they passed the great Celtic cross marking the border of the Kilborn lands, they turned eastward away from the sea, losing the fog over the second hill. They rode into Straithness, the Gwynn clan’s main settlement, just before the sun reached its zenith. As in most clan centers, a castle crouched protectively over the town, which was larger than theirs. The church sat at the far end of the village, its bell tolling as soberly dressed folk exited. Having already guessed she’d miss mass, Lydia wasn’t disappointed. Instead she dismounted, handing her reins to one of her escorts, and approached the entrance of the small stone church with Owain closely following. Kendrick left with half a dozen men to make renewed contact with the local laird to again assure him of their peaceful intentions. Today the Kilborn party wore plain shepherd’s plaidies, tactfully avoiding any hint of privilege. A priest stood in the church’s doorway, shaking hands and chatting as congregants left. She gave him a friendly smile as she entered while the remainder of her guard fanned out over the surrounding area, ambling rather than striding. A few, including Owain, followed her into the kirk but tactfully allowed her privacy.
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She looked around. The small church closely resembled the tiny chapel attached to her family’s estate in Swanston, but for a large wooden structure off to the side which looked rather like a cage with curtains. A couple of people waited near a draped opening. This, she realized, was the confessional, where Papists told their sins to the priest and were instructed to pray for absolution. She sniffed. ’Twould be far better if people actually went forth and obeyed the admonition to sin no more. But why would they bother to change their behavior when forgiveness was so easily obtained? She wouldn’t hide in the booth but would confront her fears and state them directly. She sat in a front pew, facing the altar. The great cross on the wall before her was adorned with a writhing Christ complete with wounds dripping wooden blood. She averted her gaze and closed her eyes to absorb the peace of the sanctuary. The crunch of soles on pavers told her of someone’s approach. She opened her lids to see the priest smiling down at her. To her right, a yard or two away, Owain hovered. She smiled, first at Owain, then at the priest. “I dinnae believe we’ve met.” The priest spoke with an accent she recognized from her weeks in Edinburgh. She rose and extended a hand. “I’m Lydia Kilborn.” “Milady.” He bowed properly over her hand. “I was told you’d visit. In need of, um, spiritual solace?” His hazel eyes twinkled. “Yes, and I have some questions.” He sat on the steps leading up to the altar in an attitude that showed that he was ready to listen. She resumed her seat on the first pew. “Something…something happened for which I have been unable to find an explanation.” Both Kieran and Dugald had been uninformative. She couldn’t ask anyone else, given her husband’s admonition that the clan’s confidence stemmed from the attitude of their laird and lady, so she didn’t wish to mention her concerns to anyone but the closest family. Choosing her words with care, she told the priest of Euan’s murder and the desecration of his body. “I understand the viciousness,” she said when concluding. “The person responsible felt greatly wronged and was very angry. But the garlic and the crosses mystify me, sir, er…Father. I thought that due to the presence of the crosses you might have some clue to this mystery.” The priest hesitated. “There are many superstitions hereabouts.” Lydia sighed. Did she again have to endure the “just superstitious nonsense” speech? It seemed calculated to conceal rather than reveal. “Could you relate these superstitions to me with particularity?” she asked. “Let me ask you a question or two, milady, if I may be so bold. Have you ever seen your husband in the sunlight?” “I beg your pardon?” Lydia stared. He repeated the question. 160
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She blinked. “There’s precious little sunlight where we live by the seacoast. I would imagine so, but I can’t recall a specific time.” He leaned forward. “So your answer would be no.” “I suppose so.” “Is he oft awake and abroad at night?” Awake, yes. Abroad, sometimes. But she didn’t feel that she wanted to discuss the intimacies of her marriage with this priest. “He is a restless sleeper, so…yes.” “I have heard that the Kilborn lairds have midnight black hair and eyes, with ghostwhite skin that is cool to the touch. Does that describe your husband?” “Yes,” she said with some surprise. “What do you know that I do not?” He ignored her question and continued. “Is he unusually strong?” “Yes, he’s big, and very strong. But I don’t understand—” “Lady Lydia, it is said that the Kilborn lairds are vampires.” He stared at her throat, covered with a frilled stand-up collar. She dimly remembered hearing the strange word once before, but where? When? “Vam…what?” She listened to the priest’s explanation, open-mouthed, at first disbelieving. Much of what he related was preposterous, insane and yet… He said that unnatural creatures called vampires drank blood. Kieran drank blood. Vampires were neither truly alive nor dead, but in a twilight state that the priest called “undead”, characterized by oddly pale, cool flesh…flesh like Kieran’s. Vampires were virtually immortal. Euan had been very old. The creature in the tower was very old. But vampires could be rendered truly dead instead of “undead” in a very specific way—beheaded, stabbed through the heart and burned. Euan had been beheaded and burned, and a wooden stake had been driven through his heart. But the manner of this murder, Lydia reasoned, reflected the killers’ beliefs. Vampires were immensely strong, and she’d watched her husband tear off a man’s head and drink his blood. Could it be? Could he be? Lydia left the church in considerable confusion of mind, but had no opportunity to order her thoughts. For as she stepped into the afternoon’s golden light, she was met by a tall man with streaks of white in his tawny hair. He wore a shirt and trousers topped by a black jacket, all very finely made. His Sunday best, she presumed. He smiled at her with slightly crooked teeth. “Milady, I’m Hamish Gwynn.” Recognizing the name, she curtseyed. “Milaird.” Her guards offered polite bows. “My wife and I would invite you for tea,” the Gwynn chieftain said.
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She accepted the invitation and his escort to Straithness Castle. Once inside, she was ushered into what appeared to be an immaculate drawing room, perfect in every detail, where waited a tiny porcelain doll of a woman. P’raps in her middle thirties, she was blonde, buxom and quite enceinte. “Milady.” The women exchanged polite greetings while Owain, who had followed, lingered by the door. “What a pretty room.” Lydia gazed with appreciation at the damask-covered walls and brocade hangings. Everything was in a delicate shade of sea-green, with darker green accents. “Very soothing.” Hamish Gwynn seated her on a green velveteen chair opposite his wife. “Aye, milady Jacqueline brought her entire morning room with her from Paris.” He smiled proudly at his wife, who was dressed to match her sea-green room. Lydia was aware of the close historical connection between Scotland and France, but hadn’t known that it persisted. “It’s a pleasure.” She didn’t quite know what else to say. Lady Jacqueline poured tea. “Thank you. It creates such ennui, the roughness of these Scottish castles.” Her voice was heavily accented. Lydia accepted a steaming cup while keeping her face still. She refrained from making any comment that could offend, though she herself was offended at the sly slap at her adopted country. Instead, she said, “I have never experienced France.” Lady Jacqueline drew in a deep breath. “Ahhh…the beauty of Versailles is incomparable. I had hoped to create a petite Versailles here, but the weather… Quite impossible to grow a proper garden.” “Yes, I understand that much of the charm of Versailles is in its gardens.” Lydia sipped. A Gwynn servant tapped at the door and handed Laird Hamish a note. “Forgive me, ladies, but I must attend to a matter.” He left with quick steps, and Lydia’s interest was piqued. She had heard that the Gwynns were religious, and the presence of the priest, the well-kept church and the number of congregants she’d seen all gave credence to that rumor. What, then, would call Hamish Gwynn from his Sunday rest? She cast a quick glance at Owain, watching quietly at the door. He raised a brow and left, but only for a few moments.
***** Hamish Gwynn headed directly toward the church and the priest who had sent the message. He hadn’t failed to note the presence of Lydia Kilborn’s large escort. Had the Kilborns not sent a messenger ahead telling of Lady Lydia’s visit and informing him that she would be heavily guarded, he would have taken umbrage at the many warriors who had accompanied the lady. As it was, the size of the escort had caught his interest. He sensed trouble brewing and wondered if violence would engulf his clan.
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That would be unfortunate. Matters had not gone well for the Gwynns, who had sent a large detachment to the support of the Catholic bonnie prince. The Lobsterbacks knew of his clan’s participation in the Rising, but the remoteness of the Gwynn holdings had protected them. Or so Hamish hoped. He did not want his corner of the Highlands to attract the attention of the Redcoats through the breakout of clan warfare. And for purely practical reasons, no one could afford strife at this time…except p’raps the Kilborns. Hamish had heard the gossip about Lydia Kilborn’s wealth and connections, and envied Kieran Kilborn his bride. Nothing Hamish could do about it, though. His French wife had brought wealth also. She had already borne him three sons and a daughter. Though he admired Lady Lydia, he didn’t regret his marriage. He entered the cool stone church. Sunlight streamed through the modest rose window above the altar. Laird Hamish wetted his fingers in the font and crossed himself before approaching the priest. Father Paul took him back through a door and down a flight of stairs to the undercroft, where five men and one young woman waited. She was pale, trembling and terrified. Hamish wrinkled his nose. They smelled as though their skins had not touched water in years. Lacking windows, the church’s basement did not disperse the miasma but held it in. Two visits from MacReivers within three days? Something stank worse than these men. Hamish inclined his head at one he remembered. “Angus MacReiver, is it not?” “Aye, and we bring desperate news.” “More so than the head of the, er…vampire you showed me the other day?” That had been startling, and Hamish hadn’t known what to do about it. He had closely examined it, assuring himself that the fangs were real. But it was proof of nothing except unnaturally long, sharp teeth. It wasn’t proof of vampirism. Angus took a deep breath. “We have been attacked. Ye’re looking at the last of the MacReiver men.” That caught Hamish’s attention. “Who? How?” “We were out on patrol last night and when we returned at dawn, everyone was dead.” “Everyone?” Angus confirmed with a nod. “Every male above the age of thirteen.” “The bairns and the women?” “Untouched but terrified. They spoke of a monster who tore off the heads of their sons and husbands and drank their blood. This one saw the diabhol who butchered our clan.” He dragged the woman forward. She had dirty blond hair, a dirtier brown dress, and clutched a bairn covered by a shepherd’s plaidie to her bosom.
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With gentle hands, Hamish urged her onto the only stool in the room. “What be your name, lassie?” “Greer, milaird.” “Well, Mistress Greer, tell me what ye saw.” “He…it came into my hut after sundown.” She gulped. Hamish listened while the girl told of a tall, thin being who had entered her home, questioned her and terrified her, showing her long, bloodied fangs. “Old,” she said. “Very old, with more wrinkles than last winter’s apples. White, white skin, like a corpse. Long white hair that stood out from its head like a demon’s halo. And its mouth…” She shuddered. “Hmm,” he said. “There is a rumor of a very old blood sucker who lives in the ruined tower at Kilborn Castle.” “’Tisn’t a rumor,” Angus MacReiver said. “’Tis true. Others saw him. He murdered every man in my clan last night.” Hamish rubbed his chin. “If that’s true, none of us roundabout is safe.” “And what of the other Kilborns?” Angus asked. “Kieran Kilborn tore off my laird’s head and drank his blood. I was there. I saw it. I saw the body.” “Ye were there? How did ye survive?” Angus flushed and turned away. “I ran,” he said in a low voice. “May God forgive me, I saw the diabhol Kilborn behead my laird with his bare hands and I ran.” Another man touched Angus’ shoulder. “’Tis no shame to live to fight another day.” Angus straightened his back and faced Hamish. “And so I shall fight another day. With or without ye.” “Where is your laird?” Hamish asked, aware that Angus had no power. “The young laird is missing and so is his uncle, who has been leading us until Laird Edgar is of age.” Hamish nodded slowly, his mind churning. Empty land meant strife. If the Kilborns did not take the MacReiver lands, another clan would move in. War would likely follow. Would it be best to keep out of the inevitable violence? Father Paul cleared his throat. “The minions of the devil must be cast out. I have spoken with Lydia Kilborn this day and she has confirmed that Kieran Kilborn is a vampire.” He fixed Hamish with a steady gaze. “She said he was a vampire? She used that word?” “Nay, but—” “What, exactly, did she say?” “Her husband is oft abroad at night. She cannae recall a time when she has seen him in the sunlight. His icy skin is like white paper and his eyes and hair the color of the devil’s heart. We already ken he’s a blood drinker. There is neither priest nor church 164
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at the Godless castle the Kilborns call home.” The priest’s voice rose. “He is unnaturally strong. Milaird, thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” Hamish rubbed his chin. “I need not be reminded of my duty to my clan and my God.”
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Chapter Twenty-One When Owain returned from reconnoitering the area, Lydia glanced at his frown and finished her tea. She thanked her hostess, explaining that she was needed back at Kilborn Castle before sundown. She rode back home with a head full of questions and misgivings, unable to sort them out as her gelding clippety-clopped along the cliffside trail. Kieran a vampire! It couldn’t be, and yet… He waited for her at the gate, smiling. She practically fell off her horse in her eagerness to hold him again and reassure herself of his humanity, but stopped when she saw that a boy lingered by his side. “And who have we here?” She knelt so she was at the child’s eye level. He was grubby, skinny and blond, p’raps ten, she reckoned. Older than her brother’s sons, but with an ancient soul that shone out of his clear blue eyes. “This is Edgar, Laird MacReiver. He will be fostering with us.” There was pleasure in Kieran’s voice, and something else she couldn’t identify. She looked at her husband, seeing an unfamiliar expression of…pride? Joy? Good heavens. She’d known he wanted her to increase and took every chance he could to get her pregnant, but she hadn’t realized that he liked children. She’d rarely seen him roughhousing with one of the clan’s younglings. But now he seemed truly pleased by the small hand clutching his, and glanced down frequently as if to reassure the child, who seemed to be unusually interested in the ground beneath his feet. No doubt terrified, the poor little mite. She smiled at the boy. “Welcome, Edgar. I’m Lydia.” “Milady.” He executed a bow that was quite elegant, considering he was only ten. Looking up at her through downy golden lashes, he gave her a quick, shy smile and she was lost, ignoring the flow of warriors leading their mounts around them and into their stables. Her scrutiny was interrupted only when Kier nudged her. “Milady, we must away.” “Away where? I just got back.” Kieran nodded upward. “Come.” Still holding Edgar’s hand, he led them to the highest wall-walk, facing the ocean. A flattened round sun was setting, glimmering red-orange through the mistshrouded evening. She glanced at her husband. He seemed unperturbed by its light, such as it was. She resolved to wait. Surely the sun would shine brightly at some point in their lives, and she’d know. In the meantime, she would watch to see if Kier ate the
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boar sausage their kitchen produced, which was heavily flavored with herbs and wild garlic, or if he turned into a bat, or… What silliness. How could one know if anything the priest had said was the truth? He’d seemed to believe what he said, but surely he was wrong. Mayhap part of it was true and the rest fancy. Foolish, the tales of creatures who didn’t cast reflections and who slept in coffins. But the parallels did trouble her. She had cast aside her concern about the killing of the MacReiver. P’raps now that his son was part of their household that old worry had re-emerged. The scrape of boots on stone warned of someone else’s approach. Dugald. He was panting as though he’d rushed. “Ye’re just in time.” Kieran looked over the parapet to the cove. Dugald followed suit and Kier lifted Edgar up to see, keeping a firm hold on the boy by grasping the waistband of his trews. Lydia noticed that the pants were not only grubby—which she would have expected, considering that their owner was a ten-yearold boy—but worn and odorous as well. She decided that a bath and clean clothing were in Edgar’s immediate future, hoping that he wouldn’t resist. At times her nephews had stridently resisted bathing. She peered over the wall. Far below, on their pebbly beach, stood a gaunt, whitehaired figure clad all in black. She sucked in her breath. “Is that…himself?” “Aye,” Kier said. Dugald’s features were set and still. Edgar watched wide-eyed and silent while the thin old man put a plaidie-wrapped bundle into a wooden box. He then set it on a flat platform that bobbed in the surf rolling ceaselessly onto the cove’s shore. Apparently unconcerned about the effect of the seawater on his rather fine buckled boots, he walked the raft-like platform out into the ocean. When he was hip-deep, he took a tinderbox from inside his shirt and struck sparks into the box. She guessed that the plaidie was dry, for a plume of smoke soon emerged. He continued walking the platform out, then began to swim. She was astonished to see the speed at which he cleaved the water, even while pushing the box in front of him. Darkness continued to fall. Kieran put his free arm around her waist and she snuggled into his bulk. “That’s its…um…his head, is it not?” Edgar’s voice was high and a little scared. “Aye, I believe so,” Kier said. “Aye.” Dugald sounded hoarse. Edgar opened his mouth, then closed it. Lydia sensed that the child was full of questions but politely restrained himself. An interesting ten-year-old, one who had learned rigid control and at such a young age. But at what cost? She looked out over the sea. He was now far from shore, but she could still see them, the old man and his glowing burden. She blinked back tears. Though she feared the tower’s crazed inhabitant, she found this small ceremony to honor Euan deeply 167
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touching, even heroic. She wondered how he had retrieved the head and resolved to ask Kieran during a private moment. When she had regained her equanimity, she saw that the old man and his burden had disappeared, swallowed by the darkness and the fog. She touched Dugald on the shoulder. “’Tis full night, sir. Will you join us for a bit of supper?” He glanced at her. His eyes were puffy and his skin pale. “Thank ’ee, milady, in a few. I have duties to perform before I may rest.” He glanced at Kieran. “As do we.” Kier looked from Dugald to Edgar to Lydia. “Ah,” she said. “I understand.” “I don’t.” Edgar now sounded plaintive. “When may I learn this trick of speaking with few if any words?” Lydia joined in the men’s uproarious laughter.
***** Kier was still laughing later at dinner, when, damper than before, he led an even wetter Edgar into the Great Hall. Though the boy had been towel-dried, his blond hair was still dark with moisture. He was dressed in a clean shirt and fresh trews. Lydia couldn’t see bruising on either her husband or the boy, so p’raps Edgar was more obedient than her nephews. He certainly seemed to have a tight hold on his dignity, seeming older than his stature indicated. That troubled her, but she didn’t know the reason. Seemed unnatural. Kier led him to the high table, where tonight extra places had been laid. He described what they’d discovered that day and explained the terms of the truce to Lydia. She tipped her head to one side and regarded the two of them. “So you’re to be my son in marriage as well as my fosterling?” Edgar bent his head. “Aye. If you’ll have me, milady.” “Well, as we don’t yet have a daughter, the matter is one of speculation, is it not?” She eyed her husband. Kieran grinned back. “P’raps we need to be more, um…determined on that score.” “I don’t know how we could be.” She returned his smile. “Mayhap we should discuss that…later. In any event, Edgar, you are welcome in our home, for as long as you like.” The boy’s cheeks grew pink and she hurriedly said, to cover his discomfort, “Please, sit. Have a bite to eat. You must be famished.” After Edgar had toyed with his stew and even swallowed a few bites, Kier tugged him to his feet. “Now, lad, your first lesson. Ye must always talk to your people as honestly as ye can.”
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He was every inch the proud papa as he led Edgar to each group of clansmen during the meal, introducing the boy and explaining the situation. From her seat, she could see the people’s reactions. The usual tumult that reigned in the Great Hall at dinnertime quieted, then rose again as noisy discussion exploded. After initial reluctance to welcome a MacReiver as anything but a prisoner, the clan was won over by the excellent terms. And why not? Clan MacReiver’s lands were, in effect, added to Clan Kilborn. And everyone liked their new fosterling. The women wanted to cuddle the skinny, quiet child while the men wanted to toughen him up so he’d become a proper laird, a strong ally and a good husband to their unborn princess. As Kier and the boy traversed the room, oohs and ahs sounded with necks craned to see the lad. “Welcome!” someone called. Lydia thought it was Niall. More voices joined in. Cheers sounded and cups were raised as the pair returned to the laird’s table. Edgar turned astonished eyes on Kieran. “I have always been told the Kilborns were our enemies.” “Friends are better,” Kier said. “Elsbeth, a stool for young Edgar. Dugald, sit and eat with us.” As the males attacked the venison stew, Lydia folded her hands in her lap and looked at them. She’d wanted a family of her own, and here it was. Not the family she’d envisioned—her children would come later—but a family nevertheless. And she hoped that the spate of terrible events and bad luck had come to an end. What more could happen? Then she remembered Kieran’s warning—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. But who would attack them now? The MacReivers were destroyed and the Gwynns seemed peaceful. Nice, even. And they were religious. Hadn’t Christ said, “Love your neighbor”?
***** Sir Gareth swam back to the cove after pushing the raft with Euan’s remains out into the north-flowing sea current. By that time, the wooden box and its contents had almost completely burned, and he was sure that no further defilement of his brother would take place. Though he’d drunk his fill the previous night, the exertion had left him cold and hungry. After walking to the back of the sea caves in the cliff, he found a narrow staircase—really no more than rough cuts in the rock with a few ancient metal cleats here and there—and climbed it to the next level. Unused by others, it was twisting and
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rickety. It led to the oubliettes, dark cells pocking a rough rock corridor winding through the interior of the sea cliff beneath the Dark Tower. Securing one such oubliette was a rusty gate composed of a latticework of crumbling metal, encrusted by barnacles at the bottom from the high tide. Its crude lock was no more than a twist of wire, too heavy for most men but easily disentangled by Sir Gareth. No light from nature or fire, but the lack of illumination didn’t trouble him. Inside, secured to rings bolted and sunk into the cliff, was his larder—two men and a woman. They were naked, shivering and close to unconsciousness, hanging from their chains with muscles limp and weak. The woman he’d already sampled, and he knew he liked her. The men—well, they were MacReivers, so how good could they taste? He could save them for later. He approached Moira and dragged her head to one side by the hair before sinking his teeth into her neck. She groaned and twitched, her chains rattling. He set his other hand on her breast, tugging on her nipple. It hardened and distended between his fingers. She whimpered. “For Lord’s sake, stop!” The hoarse cry echoed through the dungeon, louder than the rush of the sea. Louder even than the rush of the blood through his gut and into his veins. Louder than the frantic pulse in the woman’s breast. Sir Gareth removed his teeth from Moira’s neck. “Why?” He pinched her tit. “She doesnae deserve to die like that! None of us do.” “Pardon me, but I believe that the three of you are responsible for my brother’s death.” Sir Gareth licked the two wounds he’d left in Moira’s throat. “Moira Cameron is a fine, brave woman. She defended her honor.” He threw back his shaggy white head and howled with mirth, the insane laughter bouncing off the damp stone walls of the dungeon. He followed the sound, dancing and jumping about, for the blood burned and boiled and leaped as it flowed within him. And all the time the rushing, the rushing in and out of the tides and the blood in his body and his veins drummed, and the eyes inside wept for Euan. “So she told you her name was Moira Cameron, did she now?” Sir Gareth pushed his mind past the rushing of the blood and the tide, and the eyes inside went dry and cold and hard. He slapped her face and her head bounced against the stone with a crack like the lightning strike of death. “She’s Moira Kilborn, you great fool.” “That cannae be.” The fool of a MacReiver was insistent. “She’s got red hair!” Sir Gareth laughed some more, then calmed, leaning against one of the walls for support. “I’m mad, you know.” “So it seems.” The MacReiver was grim. “But I’m not so insane as to forget my family. Her red hair’s from her mother. She’s Moira Kilborn, daughter of Fenella MacLeod and Ivor Kilborn, who was lost at sea five years ago.”
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The man sagged in his chains. “She lied to us.” “Aye, she’s a bitch born. I do not know why. Fenella’s a sweet lassie and Ivor was a fine man. But this one has ever been a trial to the clan.” “Are you going to kill her?” Sir Gareth shrugged. “I do not usually kill women, but for this one, I might make an exception. But you, MacReiver, you will surely die in this place. If you worship any god, it is time for you to make whatever peace you can. Especially given the blood on your hands. How did my brother hurt you?” “What? Who?” “Euan Kilborn was my brother,” Sir Gareth ground out, the snarl of his voice echoing the great, scowling soul that lurked and hid within him but occasionally insisted upon coming out to play. “Euan Kilborn was an unnatural freak of nature, something that shouldnae exist. I removed him from the world. ’Twas my duty.” The laughter and the rage bubbled up again, billowing without mercy, crushing Gareth’s heart. He gripped the fool MacReiver’s head and wrenched it to one side. But he’d tugged a wee bit too hard and the damned thing came off in his hand. He swore and covered the severed throat with his mouth, opening his jaws as wide as he could to catch the spurting red fountain as it leaped from the torn stump.
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Chapter Twenty-Two Lydia bathed and, along with the butterflies in her belly, climbed into the bed she shared with her husband. The nervous fluttering in her stomach was curiously familiar, but she could not identify it right off. She cast through her memory, searching for a time she’d experienced the same emotional chaos. She nestled deeper into the bedclothes as Kieran, naked and fully erect, sprawled beside her. He slid long, pale fingers into her hair and played with the strands. Then she recalled, like a torch flaring in the darkness, their wedding night. That was it. Fear and anxiety had possessed her before they’d been replaced by excitement and expectation. And now she wanted him badly, wanted his rod and his seed inside her, solid proof of his manhood. “’Twas an odd day. I greatly desired you by my side, but nevertheless, ’twas good you were not. The carnage…” He shuddered and drew her closer, as if seeking her warmth. Ah. Evidently he wanted to talk rather than tup. She suppressed her desire, cuddled in to his side and settled herself down to listen. He had already alluded to the situation at dinner, but now he seemed to need to share his shock and horror over what he had found. So she listened, and finally she said, “Forgive me, but did you not tear off the head of Edgar’s father?” Kier stopped talking and stared at her with startled black eyes. “’Twasnae the same thing, not at all!” “How so?” “That was an act done without thought. Ye were attacked. I defended my wife.” “Um…he believed that his clan was attacked. He defended his clan.” “Aye, but I am laird. He had no right—” “Does he know that?” A long pause ensued. “I reckon he doesnae.” Kieran rolled onto his back and blew out a gusty sigh. “Will he attack Edgar?” “Not while he’s young, and not after he marries one of us, I believe.” “Are you sure?” Another pause. “Nay.” Lydia sat up. “Let’s go.” 172
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“What? Where?” “To have a chat with himself.” Kier flung his arms over his head and laughed, his chest shaking. “Och, what a woman I have wed! Are ye afraid of anything, lassie?” “Not with you by my side.” Supernatural or not, her husband could protect her from every threat. P’raps his strength wasn’t normal, as the priest maintained, but she didn’t care. Kier calmed. “I hope I am worthy of your trust. Thank ye, but rather than clamber around a dark, cold tower, I have something else in mind to do.” He rolled toward her. His embrace was ardent yet cool. She was uncomfortably reminded of the description the priest had provided of vampires’ cold skin, and stiffened in his arms. He stopped. “We’ve done a deal of talking about my day. What of yours? What did ye think of the Gwynn chapel?” “All right, I suppose.” Should she tell Kieran of the priest’s suspicions? Probably not. She would feel silly voicing such thoughts. And she didn’t want to damage their marriage by even hinting that she gave them any credence. Best to keep them to herself. Instead she said, “I met the laird and his wife.” “And how did ye find Laird Hamish and Lady Jacqueline?” “You’re acquainted with them?” “Aye. He’s a deal older than I am, but we’ve met a time or two. My da generally dealt directly with the local clans but he’d take along Ranald or myself so as to show us off. ’Twas important for folk like the Gwynns to know that there were not one but two available to lead the Kilborns should the old laird die.” “And as it turned out, that was fortunate.” “Aye. This conversation has been quite somber, has it not?” “Aye,” she said, imitating his accent. “But necessary. It has been a difficult time, husband. I hope that this is the end of it, but I worry.” “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” “What?” She couldn’t have been more startled if he had levitated or turned into a bat, as the priest had somberly predicted. “It means dinnae borrow troub—” “I know what it means. Isn’t it from the Bible?” “So?” He sounded defensive. “I didn’t know you were a believer.” “I’ll take wisdom wherever I can find it. Wife, these worries have always been a part of my life, even before I became chieftain. ’Tis part of my heritage. Ye’ll get used to it in time.” “I hope so.”
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“Though I must admit that for a while it seemed that ‘What now?’ would replace ‘Blood for the clan’ as our motto.” “Indeed. Are you planning to send Dugald to the MacReiver castle permanently?” “Aye. He’ll be a loss, but there’s no one more capable.” She frowned. “So we have lost Euan and Dugald both from our home.” There was a pause. “Aye.” His voice was heavy. “Owain and Kendrick—” “Did they perform adequately today?” “Yes, but I am not as confident in them as I was with Dugald and Euan.” She hesitated, then said, “Mayhap that is because I do not know them as well.” “We’ll have to work with them a deal, I ken, because they aren’t as good. Euan had decades of experience, and Dugald also. But, wife, ’tis necessary. Dugald needs to be awa’ from this castle and the memories.” She nodded. “You’re right.” “And ye didnae see the great mess we encountered.” “You mean the mess himself made?” “Nay, I mean the slovenliness of the castle. It’s in rack and ruin. He didnae tear down walls and throw dirt and dust about, I assure ye. He didnae bring in the vermin.” “So Dugald will have plenty to do to keep his mind off his loss.” “Aye. And now…” His kiss was as fresh as a midnight wind, and Lydia lost herself in it. When he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, she sucked on it greedily and gave him a little bite. Again, his chest rumbled with laughter, and he raised his head. “Taking a page out of my book, are ye?” She grinned at him. “It feels good to me. Would not a little nibble feel good to you?” “Aye, it would.” He settled back against the pillows and hauled her atop his body. When she kissed him, his rod nestled between her thighs. She pressed her legs together and his erection increased, becoming ever more solid and hard. She shifted her hips back and forth, up and down. She nipped his lower lip. A gasp followed by a groan. “I like this new game, kylyrra. Is there no end to the surprises you have for me?” “I hope not.” She sucked his lower lip while continuing to squeeze him between her thighs. She wanted more, so she wriggled down his body until his cockhead was tucked against her notch. She undulated to force his hardness against her pearl, bringing a hot rush of pleasure. The first flood of the ecstasy she knew would follow washed through her. She moaned. Her breasts were pressed against the planes and plates of muscle that ridged his torso, and as she rubbed herself against him her nipples tightened into sensitive little beads. She licked his areolas, then nibbled on the brown nubs. He arched 174
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his back and gripped the headboard, pushing his nipples more firmly into her mouth, groaning. His cock twitched and she shoved her pearl harder onto the silken steel head. One quick thrust and she’d taken him inside her, but just the thick, round end of his penis stretched her tender opening. She spread her legs and he bucked, easing in another inch. But, using her knees, she kept her distance, prolonging the delight of his entry. He moaned, “Kylyrra, kylyrra.” His big hands left the headboard to glide down her sides, leaving a sweet, sensual trail. He clasped her bottom and she expected him to press down so he could have her, but like her he wasn’t impatient. Instead he squeezed and kneaded the twin globes. Each caress shot rapture straight to her quim. She bore down, still intending to take in only a bit more of his length, but she was so wet that she became thoroughly impaled. Her cries echoed his. He surged into her, long fingers grasping her hips, taking her as completely as she’d taken him. Short, sharp, stabbing thrusts drew grunting sighs from them both as her pearl pressed against him. Kier released her rear only to smack down both palms onto her buttocks as he thrust upward into her one final time. With a shout, he came in a hot geyser of seed that filled her insides. He collapsed, hands dropping to the bed, head lolling on the pillow while Lydia continued to climax, her channel clenching and milking his shaft until she sprawled on top of him. Her cheek rested on his chest and she inhaled his musky, midnight scent as every muscle loosened and relaxed.Kieran a vampire? Ha. “Stupid,” she muttered. He stirred. “What?” Bloody hell. What could she say now? She remembered that George, when a boy, had recommended part of the truth to get out of trouble. “I was just thinking about the standing stones. We passed them on the way to Straithness.” “The standing stones are stupid?” “No, silly. Some say that they are evil. That’s stupid.” “Oh, aye. Why were you thinking about the standing stones?” “I was thinking about that the clan needs a festival. That we could revive some of the old ways. Didn’t the ancients hold harvest festivals?” “Och, but that would be pagan.” There was a smile in his voice. “I’m not recommending animal sacrifice,” she said stiffly. “Just a céilidhe.” “A what-ee?” She laughed. “Our word for, um…party.” “Yes. When, do you suppose?” “Well, if we want to do it up right, the next one would be in a few weeks, when light equals darkness.”
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A shiver ran through her. “What do you mean?” “Twice every year, day and night are in perfect balance. The first day of spring and the first day of autumn. You Sassenachs call it Harvest Home, I believe. Others call it the Kern. The folk in the outer isles say Meán Fóghar.” “The outer isles?” “Aye, there are beautiful islands south and west of our lands. Ye’ve never heard of Skye? ’Tis lovely. And Fingal’s Cave is something to behold. I’ll take ye there, p’raps next summer. When everything has calmed down.” “Now, now.” She wagged a finger at him. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, remember?” “Aye.” He chuckled. “So ye’re in the mood for a party? How about the twenty-third of September? That’s Meán Fóghar this year.” “Perfect.” She gave a happy little wriggle. “That gives us plenty of time to plan.” “Aye.” He played with her hair. “We’ll have a feast, of course, with music, dancing, games…the lot.” “Umm.” She rubbed her cheek on his chest and drifted off.
***** Kier waited until he was certain Lydia was asleep before easing himself out from beneath her. She was right. He had to talk with Sir Gareth and make sure that he understood that Edgar was not only an ally but also had become family. But as brave as his Lydia was, Kier didn’t plan to drag her through the unsafe keep to confront the mad auld vamp. That was the laird’s job, part of his responsibilities as the Kilborns’ chieftain. He dressed silently and picked up his boots. He’d take them out to the hall to put them on. Lydia stirred without waking and he sighed. Och, kylyrra, I’d rather stay with ye this night. He left the words unsaid as he slipped out. After donning his boots, he clattered down the staircase and went out to the bailey. Dugald had evidently given orders before retiring, and the night shift of guards worked diligently to pack the supplies Dugald would need to render the MacReiver Castle habitable. Kier hated to leave Dugald the task until Edgar could take the reins of power as laird, for ’twould be a wrench losing Dugald for so long. But no one else was as capable. And, as Kier had told Lydia, Dugald would be the better for it. Kieran crossed the courtyard and lifted the bar securing the Dark Tower’s massive double doors out of its metal-bound sockets. He nodded without comment at the guard standing near and entered the keep. He surmised that his grandfather would rest after the last tumultuous days. Vamp he might be, but he was still human in his own odd way. Kier reasoned that Euan’s death, the massacre of the MacReivers and the small ritual over Euan’s remains would have drained any creature, supernatural or not. 176
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Kier went to the hidden door tucked beneath the staircase and shoved his sgian dhu into a narrow slit, opening the door. Though the corridor beyond was cold, dank and dark, he walked it with confidence, relying on his excellent night vision. He wasnae so confident about this meeting. He didnae know if he could find Sir Gareth. And if he did, what kind of temper would the auld vampire exhibit? Would he be sane or no? Even in his most lucid moments, Kier’s grandda wasnae predictable. Kier told himself he wasnae fearful. Merely wary. He tapped politely on Sir Gareth’s door, wondering what, if anything, he’d find within. It flew open, and Kier could see the old vamp seated in a deep window embrasure in one of the narrow slits opening onto the sea. A lit candle illuminated the journal in which Sir Gareth was writing. He set down his pen and smiled. “Good evening, young Kier.” “Sir.” Kier bent his head. He was always careful to remember small courtesies with Sir Gareth. Who knew what could set off the mad old vamp? “May I?” Sir Gareth waved his hand. “My home is yours.” “Thank ’ee.” He entered and sat on the only chair in the room, smelling only his grandda’s dry, papery scent tinctured with the cologne he insisted upon using…and a faint but distinct salty aroma. The sea, p’raps, given Sir Gareth’s long swim, but possibly blood. Aye, blood. He couldn’t identify whose. He wondered, and not for the first time, if his son or grandson would one day sit in this place, speaking with Kier himself after he descended slowly into madness. And how long could Sir Gareth continue? Forever? “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” the old gentleman asked. Ah…this appeared to be one of his grandfather’s sane moments. Kier relaxed. “Ye’ve done us a great service that has had, um…results I dinnae ken that you intended.” “Hmm?” Head tilted, Sir Gareth was entirely focused on Kieran. “Ye emptied the MacReiver lands of…MacReivers. Our clan will benefit from your temper.” He stroked his chin. “I was very angry.” “With reason.” Kieran was grim. “And I thank ’ee. Had ye not taken your revenge, I would have had to.” Sir Gareth inclined his head. “Whatever service I may perform for the clan, consider it done.” “Och, well, I would rather ye’d talked with me first.” “I was hasty, I know.” His voice dropped, went dark. “I could not help myself.” “I ken. We were all sad and angry. But now…” “Now what?” A shifty expression entered Sir Gareth’s eyes.
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Kier noted it and wondered what the old vamp had up his lace-trimmed sleeve. But speculation about the mad was itself insane, so he simply went straight to the purpose of his visit. “I’ve taken the young laird as my foster son.” Sir Gareth sat back. “A bold and cunning move. I congratulate you on your foresight.” He smiled. Gareth had always been quick. A good laird, in his day. “Aye, and it happens he’s quite a likable laddie. Young enough to mold.” Kier raised a brow at Sir Gareth. He held up a hand. “Say no more. I understand he’s not to be touched.” “Ever.” Kier was firm. “I’ll marry him to our firstborn daughter, make him one of us in truth.” “And thus the clan increases. Well done. A toast?” “Of what?” Kier wasnae in the mood for bat, rat or cat. Or whatever else the old boy might have in his larder. Sir Gareth laughed. “Nothing more fiendish than good Scots whisky.”
***** Seamas MacReiver awoke in hell. Hell was midnight dark and cold, stinking of dead creatures great and small, with a persistent murmur, p’raps of demons muttering curses or imps sharpening their claws. Shackled, chained and stretched high, his wrists and shoulders burned with pain. His naked body was racked with shivers and his back scraped against the damp stone behind. He licked his lips, though his mouth was dry and tasted of bile flavored by blood. He discovered from the roughness and swelling of his lower lip that he’d bitten it through. What had happened? Screams in the night… He’d left Moira in bed to grab his trews, find his shoes and sword. When he’d rushed out of his room, he’d run straight into the diabhol. Not the resurrected Euan—he was thoroughly dead—but a tall, thin creature reeking and streaked with blood. Blood lined every wrinkle in a face so ancient it seemed a hideous mask. Blood matted its hair, flowed from its mouth, dripped from its fangs. Fangs. A vampire. The creature had flung him against a wall, and that was all Seamas remembered until waking up in this hellhole. Had it been a Kilborn? It lacked the black hair of that wicked family. But it had been very old. P’raps even the hair of the accursed vamp turned white with age. But they were undead…not alive…unchanging, were they not?
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Seamas tried but couldn’t think, not when his belly was cramped from hunger and his mouth leather-dry from thirst. Every limb and joint ached from being strung up like a haunch of venison for curing. He ignored the pain and tried to find something, anything that would help him survive, though he remembered a voice saying, “You, MacReiver, you will surely die in this place.” He found that there was a slight looseness in the bolt that held his right-hand manacle to the wall, though not enough to allow escape. It moved back and forth. He could turn his head to either side, and the slight shift afforded a little extra length to the chains that bound him so that he could twist ’round and touch his lips to the cold rock wall. Rough it was, and foul, but with enough dampness that p’raps the moisture could keep him alive. It tasted briny and he realized that the rushing, murmuring sound he heard was the ocean, not the fiends of hell preparing their tortures. So he was still on earth. He still might escape and live. His eyes gradually adjusted to the lack of light. To his right, the direction his head was turned, he could faintly see a white form, chained high by the wrists as he was, as naked as he was. His wife. Her skin glowed but her head hung forward and her hair concealed her face. Forced by the chains, her body was stretched taut, the breasts high. He hardened but was immediately assaulted by a shame so deep that tears gathered in his eyes. He turned his face away, unable to bear the sight. On his left, against the roughly curving stone wall, another body hung, but this one seemed…wrong. No curves, so he was a man. But no head. Seamas retched, his body writhing. Vomit cascaded down his front, and he puked anew from the reek. Boots clattered and suddenly, shockingly, he was drenched and even colder than before. Someone must have thrown a bucket of water over him. He licked his lips. Salty. Sea water. No relief there. Drink too much of that and he’d die. But he was clean and had stopped breathing in his own stink and bile. A torch was lit, revealing the seamed white face of his nightmares. He shivered violently. “Rach air muin! What the fuck are ye?” “Speak the King’s English, you ignorant dolt.” The voice was cultured, with none of the quavering that Seamas associated with great age. He realized that his life was in this madman’s hands and remembered again, “You, MacReiver, you will surely die in this place.” “Beg pardon, sir. I be Seamas MacReiver. And ye are…” “Gareth Kilborn, lately laird of these lands.”
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Seamas tried to think, to remember, but was not one Kilborn monster very like the next? “Was not the auld laird named Carrick?” he asked before remembering that the question was nonsensical. Carrick and his firstborn spawn, Ranald, had died at Culloden. Hadn’t they? He quivered and his bladder released a hot flood of urine that flowed down his thigh. “Carrick was my son.” Seamas fainted. He came to, coughing and spluttering, to see the vampire, a tall, skinny figure in black, slosh more water over his wife. Moira raised her head, blinking. Her flesh was bluish-white in the dimness. The creature dropped the bucket with a clatter and approached her. One long hand reached between her spread legs and the other clutched a hank of her hair, tugging her head to one side. He sank his fingers into her quim while he sank his teeth into her neck. “Stop!” Seamas shouted. Moira’s body began to undulate in a manner that he recognized. His belly churned as her hips pushed against the vampire’s probing fingers. The creature loosened his grip on her head to open his breeches. He began to thrust and she shoved back. Their bodies moved together with more ease than Seamas had thought his wife could muster. Twin sighs accompanied twin shudders of release. The vampire, grunting with satisfaction, pulled out of her cunt and her neck. He leaned with one hand against the rock wall for a moment before tucking his member away and tying his trews. Muttering to himself, he left the cave. Seamas stared at Moira. “What are ye?” he whispered.
***** “You have to feed them,” said the eyes inside. “I know,” Sir Gareth said gloomily. But how? His prisoners wouldn’t eat raw meat or drink blood. P’raps he could roast a rat, or take a fish or two from the pond. Easier if he could get into the kitchen… He slouched along the maze of corridors twisting throughout the Dark Tower, wondering if ’twere possible. At four in the morning, there was little light except for the moon and few around to see him. Still, he’d have to evade the guard. Most of the clan was accustomed to thinking of him as one of their honored dead, and he did not wish to change that notion. The upper wall-walk was not an option. It was patrolled even in the most peaceful of times, and Kieran was no fool, Gareth thought proudly. Given Euan’s death, young Kier would certainly have increased security.
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But Gareth could double as a shadow if he wanted, and he wanted to do so now. Back in his room, he donned clean attire in shades of black and gray before tucking his telltale white hair into a dark hat. He hid his marble-white hands with gloves. He slipped from the old keep to the Garrison Tower by way of the bailey but kept to the shadows on its rim. About fifteen feet from the closed double doors, the night watch threw dice against the wall. Their game was lit by a tiny fire in a circle of stones, which tossed flickering reddish light against the laughing faces of his clansmen. Gareth’s heart warmed. It did him good to see his people enjoying their innocent pastimes, knowing that his efforts through the years had helped assure their safety. The Garrison Tower’s doors were shut but unlatched and he slipped inside, closing them after he’d entered, shutting away the laughter. Only a few glowing torches shed dim illumination, but he could see the kitchen’s brightness. He guessed that a cook or two were baking for the fortress’s inhabitants. He was right. Fenella, evidently unable to sleep, kneaded dough and sang tunelessly. “Any leavings for an old beggar?” She jumped and spun and shrieked. “Milaird! You gave me such a fright.” A blond head poked over the long counter. Its owner eyed him with suspicion, then looked at Fenella for enlightenment. “Ah. I see that our newest fosterling also sleeps but lightly.” Fenella told the boy, “’Tis only the madman from the tower.” A sharply indrawn breath. “I believe we hosted you recently,” the child said. Sir Gareth started, surprised at the boy’s unusual composure, then chuckled. “The Laird MacReiver has spoken.” Fenella glared. “Dinnae tease the child. He has nightmares from ye.” He bowed, first to Fenella, then to the boy. “’Twas not my intention.” “If it makes any difference, I had naught to do with Uncle Euan’s death.” Gareth cocked his head. “Uncle Euan, is it?” He could see the boy’s blush even in the night-dark kitchen, which was lit but dimly. “‘Most everyone else calls him that.” “Not everyone. I called him brother.” “I’m sorry,” the boy whispered and hung his head. Sir Gareth approached and tousled the shiny blond hair. “Any of yesterday’s bannocks to spare?” he asked Fenella. “Och, aye, here’s a mite.” She busied herself wrapping baked oaten cakes and other provender in a cloth. “Ye havnae been here for anything in quite a while. Ciamar a tha sibh?” “I’m fine,” he said. “Just a bit peckish.” “The bannocks are good,” the child said. 181
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“Aye, they are.” Gareth met the boy’s gaze and was again startled by the ancient soul peering out of the bright eyes, blue and endless like the summer sky at dawn. “Fear not, laddie-buck. You’re one of us now.”
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Chapter Twenty-Three The sun settled onto the horizon. Its last ray shot through the standing stone circle on the promontory, striking the central white granite block precisely in the middle. The clansmen cheered and raised cups of ale. Bagpipes skirled and sang while children beat on drums. Lydia sighed and lay back on the quilt to watch the stars come out, letting body and mind relax. Preparations for the clan’s harvest festival had proceeded side-by-side with the actual harvest. No one, not even the laird and his lady, had been excused from autumn’s demands. She’d been busy from the break of dawn until midnight, it seemed, and she’d dropped into bed exhausted. Among other tasks, she’d helped Fenella organize work teams, then picked herbs to dry and learned to pickle fruits and vegetables. Great pots of ripe berries reducing to jams had released clouds of sweet-smelling steam in the kitchen. Outside, sheep had been shorn and inside, their wool spun. Kier hunted often, and sheds were full of meat being hung and smoked for the winter. Every day, she’d managed to wedge in an hour or so of lessons for young Edgar, primarily reading and writing. Kieran was teaching the growing child how to handle weapons and to hunt. Together they reviewed the accounts of the MacReiver lands several times weekly, at night after Lydia had gone to bed. She should have slept deeply and dreamlessly, but that wretched priest’s words often whirled and tumbled through her darkest midnight fantasies. She’d awaken, clutching Kieran, or at empty space if he were on one of his nocturnal rambles, walks that did nothing to improve the state of her mind. She had found herself analyzing her husband like never before, counting up the vampiric mannerisms and comparing them to Kieran’s humanity…and never coming to a conclusion. In the end, she supposed she’d continue as she had been doing, hoping that she wasn’t taking a step backward, hoping she wasn’t diminishing into Lydia Lambkin. She’d cast her fears and worries aside for this day. It was Harvest Home, Meán Fóghar—a phrase whose pronunciation she couldn’t manage, so she called it “the party”. Her gelding was modestly loaded with two baskets containing quilts, but the mount, trained only for riding, curveted and danced with discontent as he walked along the cliffside trail. She quieted him with a gentle tug on the reins and a stroke to the neck. “Be easy,” she told him. “Others of your brethren aren’t so lucky.”
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She glanced behind her. Pack animals, horses as well as tough little Highland ponies, bore heavy burdens of food and other items. They were led rather than ridden. On the feast day, no one was in a hurry. A relaxed atmosphere enveloped the Kilborns. Riding north on Kier’s left, she had an unobstructed view of the sea. In the afternoon, the sunlight gleamed golden on the waves. She wore her favorite red riding habit and boots. Hats protected both her face and her husband’s. His broad-brimmed black hat, with a long, shiny pheasant feather, reminded her of the mad creature in the tower. Beneath it, her husband’s pale skin seemed to emit an unearthly glow. The sun drew iridescent colors from the pheasant feather—green, pink, gold. She turned away. Was the hat a harmless affectation or was its protection needed to shield his vampire flesh from the autumn afternoon sunshine? She took a deep breath and stared over her horse’s ears at Edgar, who, mounted on his Highland pony, had the honor of leading the procession. She banished her concerns in favor of dwelling on her pride in her foster-son. Though she’d longed for babies, she’d oft wondered if she’d be a good mother or an indifferent one. Jane and George were so wonderful with their boys, and Lydia hadn’t known if she’d be their equal. Now she knew, and the knowledge had prodded her craving for children. She smiled as she gazed at the small, straight back, the gleaming cap of hair. Kier’s saddle creaked as he leaned toward her. “Aye, he’s a fine laddie, our boy, is he no’?” Her eyes grew wet but she didn’t know why. She cleared her throat. “Yes, he is.” She blinked. As if he’d sensed their scrutiny, Edgar turned in his seat and gave them a quizzical stare, with brows drawing together and blue eyes squinting in the sun. She caught Kier’s eye and laughed. High on a cliff overlooking the sea, the standing stones gleamed. Though the local rock was mostly a reddish sandstone, these were granite, pale and gray, almost silvery. Within the circle, scoured by the ocean winds, nothing grew, so their feast would be eaten outside where the land sloped slightly and flattened to form a pleasant meadow, still green with soft grass. After they’d dismounted, and the clansmen were busy with unpacking, Lydia, Kier and Edgar walked among the giant standing stones. Each was far taller than a person, even a man Kier’s height. There were thirteen as well as one low, large, flat rock in the center of the circle. Struck by the strange beauty of the place, she asked Kier how old the silvery stones were and how the circle had been built. “No one knows,” he told her, his dark eyes dancing. “That’s part of why they’re unique.” “How did they come to be here?” Edgar asked.
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“No one knows,” Kier repeated. “’Tis said that the nearest granite rocks like these are far, far away, across the sea in Ireland. No one knows how they came to be here.” “Did your Viking ancestors erect these stones?” Lydia asked. His mouth crinkled in a thoughtful frown. “Nay…if they did we have no record or legend of that. And I think we would have heard, ye ken? Because bringing them here was a massive undertaking. We havenae the time for such folly.” “Folly?” Edgar asked. “Well, aye. There’s nae purpose to the stones. They’re pretty, and a nice place to hold a gathering, but that’s all. We have enough work with keeping ourselves alive.” “I’ve noticed.” Lydia stripped off her gloves and rubbed a callus that had grown on her forefinger. Kier took her hand and kissed the little hard bump, then gave it a tiny nip. “Ye’ll have plenty of leisure this winter, milady, with the storms keepin’ ye inside.” “You’ll keep me warm?” she murmured, looking up into his dark eyes. They twinkled. “Ye can depend upon it.” Edgar had wandered off to plunder one of the food baskets, returning with a bannock spread with jam. “Fenella told me to find something to do.” For the first time, Lydia heard a whine in the child’s voice. She again sought Kier’s eyes. Aha, so he’s not perfect! Mayhap the laddie is starting to relax. “Help me set up the games,” Kier said to Edgar, whose eyes brightened as he scampered after Kieran. Kieran took off his hat. He ran his fingers through his long, dark hair, settling it about his shoulders. Edgar ran his fingers through his light blond hair, settling it anew atop his head. Lydia smiled. Kier’s eyes flashed down to Edgar, then to hers. He grinned and winked at her as he replaced the hat, giving it a rakish tilt.
***** Cabers were tossed, ale was drunk and much food was consumed. Various objects were thrown—sheaves were tossed over a rail, hammers and stones of various sizes were heaved various distances, a pastime that Lydia thought a bit odd. She nevertheless applauded politely when Duncan won the hammer throw. Fenella, Lydia and the other women dressed the last sheaf of barley in a rough gown and set it on the flat stone in the center of the circle. Then they arranged food all around it—the last berries, a few bannocks, some sausages. “No doubt you think this custom a bit mad,” Fenella said. “I’ve seen it before.” Lydia arranged a bunch of lavender at the offering’s feet. “In England she’s called the mare, and some keep her until the next spring.” “Here she’s called the maiden, and we burn her.” 185
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“Burn her?” “Aye. ’Tis said in the olden days, a maiden was sacrificed here to assure a good harvest.” Fenella pointed at the stone beneath. Sure enough, dark stains marred the silvery rock. “Ugh!” Lydia dropped the flowers. Fenella laughed. “Dinnae worry, milady. ’Twas long, long ago, before there were Kilborns here.” Night fell and bonfires were lit. In the meadow, people formed a clearing for the pipers and dancers. Lydia, who had been resting on one of the quilts, roused from her stupor to watch the dancing. Despite the ale he’d drunk, Kier capered and jumped in the spaces created by two crossed swords, their blades exposed. The firelight gleamed off his black hair and reflected off his glittering eyes, as though flames flickered in their depths. The pipes skirled faster and faster. His feet flew faster and faster until they tangled and he collapsed in a heap, laughing. He rose, brushed off dust and came to her, throwing himself down at her side. His chest rose and fell as he caught his breath. She brushed his hair away from his sweaty forehead. “Are you hurt?” “Nay, I struck only the flats of the blades. I’m not so witless as to risk an injury merely to play the fool.” “It looked fun.” “I’ll teach ye our dances this winter.” “I was dreading the winter,” she said. “I thought there would be naught to do.” “Och, there’s plenty to do. Aye, there’s cold and rain, even ice and snow at times, but work continues. ’Tis merely different work.” The moon lifted over the horizon to the east. “Come with me.” Standing, he offered her a hand. She followed, wondering if he wanted to join with her. She didn’t know how she felt about that given the presence of so many of their people. But he led her into the center of the circle, to the stone upon which the barley sheaf maiden stood surrounded by the clan’s offerings. Taking Lydia’s shoulders, Kier turned her toward the burgeoning moon. “Ohhh…” The moon rose directly over the tallest of the standing stones, glimmering silver in the magical light. Kier took a brand from one of the fires and the clan crowded ’round about. He held it high, then touched it to the maiden, who burst into crackling flames. The fire set an answering glow in his eyes. For a moment Lydia’s soul went cold while the clan cheered and danced.
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***** The Kilborn feast was observed from a nearby hill. Late in the afternoon, Hamish Gwynn had received the news of activity by Clan Kilborn at the standing stones. Accompanied by his priest and the few MacReiver men who had survived, he’d rushed to hide behind gorse and rocks. Feeling a little foolish, as well as more than a little jealous, Hamish and his cohorts had watched while the Kilborns gamed and feasted. But he did not overlook other possibilities, and had dispatched a few of his warriors to reconnoiter Kilborn Castle and the MacReiver stronghold. Upon their return, they’d reported that not every Kilborn participated in the ceilidh. The Kilborn fortresses remained guarded, the Kilborn lands patrolled. The moon rose. Even from a distance, Hamish could see red flames dancing in Kieran Kilborn’s unearthly eyes as he burned the ritual sacrifice. Hamish’s ballocks retracted until it seemed that they’d risen into his throat. “Ppagans,” he muttered. “Ungodly,” his priest said. Jesus would stand with him, with all of them in this holy and just battle. And he was the Gwynn, laird of a valiant clan. He firmed his resolve and buried his terror. “They must be cast out.” “Nay. Destroyed. And soon. There is need for haste.” Hamish looked at the priest. “Today, dark and light are balanced, but with each day, darkness increases and with it, the vampire’s power grows. Then Samhain will come and the boundary between goodness and light and the monster’s world of evil spirits will disappear. Kieran Kilborn’s strength will be at its height. We must attack before Samhain, and the sooner the better.”
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Chapter Twenty-Four ’Twas a beautiful autumn morning, all vivid sky and bright sunlight, possibly one of the last clear days that the Highlands would see before the onset of winter. At dawn, Hamish Gwynn judged that ’twould be a perfect day to attack Kilborn Castle. They’d be aided by the flat, calm sea, and that midnight-loving fiend, Kieran Kilborn, wouldn’t dare to show his face. He believed that God would stand with them, but a good bit of planning wouldnae hurt the Lord’s cause. The Gwynns were not a seafaring clan, but maintained a small fleet of fishing boats as did the Kilborns. His spies’ observations had told him that there was a small cove at the base of Kilborn Castle, possibly the only place that the near-impregnable castle could be penetrated. There, the ancient, broken-down keep could be breached, giving access to the interior and then the castle courtyard. He had already prepared for the attack by beaching the boats and ensuring their seaworthiness by patching sails and repairing leaky hulls. Then he’d assigned each boat two sailors to pilot it, a soldier armed with a pistol and as many others as could be held on board without the craft sinking. The fleet set forth when the tide permitted, with orders to attack when the sun hit its zenith. More firearms couldnae be acquired due to the fierce oppression of the Highlanders by the Lobsterbacks. All weapons had been proscribed, but many had been retained despite the law, and more forged as required. Swords and claymores had been taken out of hiding, sharpened, polished and distributed to his small army. He had sent secret messages as widely as he could in order to hire mercenaries without gathering unwanted notice. Or so he hoped. He was aware of Lady Lydia’s Sassenach ancestry and good connections with the Redcoats. He hadn’t been able to garner the assistance of the famed Gallowglass warriors, he thought with regret as he reviewed his troops the morning of the attack. The MacLeods, influential among that outland mercenary group, were related by marriage to Clan Kilborn. Hamish had quartered the troops in a meadow to the east, away from Straithness, after tavern brawls between the MacLaynes and everyone else, for they were enemies of just about every other clan roundabout. The constant fighting had strained his temper and that of the local watch. The soldiers had lived in makeshift tents for a week or two, and providing provender for them had become troublesome. All the more reason to attack immediately. Preceded by messengers to warn the soldiers of battle, he rode east to meet them. He’d lead his host into Kilborn lands not by the easily observed lane along the sea cliffs, 188
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but by a less used trail through the inland hills that divided the clans. In this way he hoped to reach Kilborn Castle unobserved at noon, and attack when the clan was at ease during the middle of the day. When the forces arrived by boat and entered the castle, they’d open its gates. The two Gwynn contingents would join together, overwhelming the Kilborns.
***** The bright morning sun of a perfect autumn day shone brightly through the arrow slits, jolting Kieran awake. He flung away the bedclothes, letting the cool air race across his skin. He stretched, his cock alive to greet the morning as usual. He turned and allowed it to nudge his wife’s luscious arse. Lydia twitched, grumbled and muttered. One soft hand waved in the air, swatting at naught. He grinned, grabbed the hand and sucked on her longest finger. It still retained the flavor of last night’s loving, the rose-scented lotion she’d used to caress him to completion. He felt he owed her something. He slid down the bed and rolled her from her side onto her back, nudging her lush thighs open. He examined her quim. Her brillean was reddened and pouting from its home within moist pink folds. Using his thumbs, he spread her apart. Her slit was a humid portal leading to heaven on earth, exuding the sweet aroma of summer fruit. Was it his imagination, or had his wife’s body become more ripe and welcoming in the months of their marriage? Looking up her body, he saw her breasts, bounteous cloudlike orbs, rise and fall with her breaths. Had they grown bigger? He bent his head to swipe his tongue from her hole to her bump. She gasped and her breaths quickened. He licked her again, enjoying her honey. She opened her legs wider, shivered and blinked. “Madainn mhath, kylyrra.” She laughed. “Yes, it is already a very good morning!” “And about to become even better.” Stretching, she grabbed the headboard behind her, arching her back and digging her heels into the bedclothes. Those lovely clouds ascended, quivering, then dropped as Lydia let her body relax. She sighed—with pleasure, he hoped—and wiggled her hips in apparent invitation. He took that invitation, first kissing her pearl with closed lips, then sucking in the tasty little nubbin. He licked it whilst it was in his mouth and was rewarded with a most happy sigh.
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He rose onto his knees and leaned over his wife. She smiled up at him as he took his rod in hand and pressed it to her opening. Heat, tightness, paradise. He allowed his cockhead to rest in her beloved entrance for a moment while he watched her eyes droop, the crescent of dark lashes fluttering closed. Her hips lifted, demanding that he give her more, and he complied with one long, deep thrust, holding her pelvis for support. Pleasure stacked upon pleasure drew him closer to her. He leaned over her, slipping his arms beneath her shoulders, clasping her tight. Her pillowy breasts pressed against his chest and her legs wrapped around him. She rested her heels upon the small of his back, pushing them down while she lifted, taking him in even more fully. She squeezed him every way possible, the minx, tightening her legs around his waist, her arms around his torso and her cunny around his cock. She thrust an insistent tongue into his mouth and sucked. His groan mingled with hers. “Och, kylyrra…” No matter how often or how long they swived, it was always good, even the simplest of acts, face-to-face, him on top. How could it be any other way? Watching his Lydia tremble, hearing her moans, feeling her copious juices bathe his staff while her luscious quim clenched around him… How had he become so lucky? The urgency of his need, and hers, flushed all remaining thoughts from his head. He surged and receded, feeling at one with the high tide’s waves crashing against the shoreline outside. Her tunnel tightened and eased in time with his thrusts, his Lydia matching him pump for pump, grasping him when he went deep, relaxing to allow him to withdraw in preparation for the next plunge into her welcoming heat. She opened her lids and gazed at him with merry, dark eyes while her hand curled around his balls, bouncing them in her palm. She gave them a gentle squeeze and a renewed wave of arousal snapped through him. He slammed into her one last time and came with a shout, gripping her hips tight, pushing into her depths and staying there as best he could, swinging his body from side to side so he pressed on her clit. Her moan of completion answered his release. After washing and dressing, they headed into the Great Hall, his hand on the small of her back, her arm twined around his waist. ’Twas a clear, sunny autumn day, and Kieran judged that the bright morn was perfect for a ride out to MacReiver Castle to see how Dugald was getting on. At breakfast, he said, “Ho, young Edgar, would you like a break from lessons?” Edgar looked back and forth, first at Kier, who fancied he saw a gleam enter the lad’s eyes. But Edgar hesitated, turning his glance toward Lydia, whose knife had stopped midway through slicing sausage. “Milaird.”
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“Yes, my wife?” He tried to affect a stern tone, but couldn’t help smiling at her. “Don’t you think you should ask me first? Mayhap I have something special planned for Edgar’s lessons this morn.” She winked at the boy, who blushed. Odd how the lad had begun to redden in the presence of females. Kier, still smiling, addressed his wife. “Well, do ye?” “Er, no, not really. But every day is special, is it not?” “Aye, it is. ’Tis a good day for a ride to Edgar’s lands. ’Tis important for him to inspect his property.” “True.” She toyed with a slice of sausage. “Would ye wish to come with us, kylyrra? ’Tis a fine day for a ride.” “Um.” She pressed her lovely lips together. “You tempt me, milaird, but I have duties. Fenella has asked me to visit young Rose.” “Och, aye. She is near her time, is she no’?” “Yes, and needs extra help. Bring Dirk back if you can.” “Aye.” He cocked his head at Edgar. “So it’s you and me, milaird, off to visit your people.” Grinning, Edgar left at a sprint. He grabbed another sausage while stuffing the rest of his bannock into his mouth.
***** Seamas MacReiver had been drained more than once almost to the point of death, but this was one of those days that he almost felt…well, good would have been an exaggeration. P’raps better than most days. The hell-spawned fiend had given him a little food last eve and had fed not on Seamas but on Moira. It showed a clear preference for her, which was all to the good. He did not know what to think about his wife. He preferred not to think about her, or even to look at her. She had actually enjoyed the monster’s touch, which made her something of a monster herself, as far as Seamas was concerned. He’d been working on loosening the bolt that secured the manacle on his right wrist to the rough stone wall. He’d noticed early in his imprisonment that it was loose, and had been jerking it from side to side, as well as forward and back, in a desperate effort to tug it out of the wall. If he could get just one hand free…
***** Kier, Edgar and their escort found the journey swift, with their horses making good time over what was now an oft-traveled, well-trodden lane. Even small Scout ably maneuvered the forest track and vales between the lands of Clan MacReiver and that of the Kilborns.
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As they approached newly tilled fields, Kier surveyed them with satisfaction. “Excellent.” “What is, milaird?” Edgar asked. Kieran pointed upward, where the sun was p’raps an hour or two off its height. “We can inspect your castle, speak with a few of your people, have a bit of lunch and be off in time to do a spot of hunting on the way back. We’ll be home before nightfall and can sup in the Great Hall with milady.” Edgar grinned. He had already seen that as far as Laird Kieran was concerned, the sun rose and set on Lady Lydia, but he didn’t say anything about that. “Much better than lessons.” “And here I thought ye enjoyed your lessons. Milady speaks highly of ye.” He tried not to blush, but it was more than possible that he himself felt the same way about Lydia as did milaird. She was easy to love. “The lessons are fine. But this is fine also.” He enjoyed the time he spent with Kieran, who had put dirk and sgian dhu into his hand and taught him how to use them. Together, they’d worked at night on the MacReiver accounts, with Kieran teaching Edgar how to budget and plan. They’d totted up what the Kilborns spent and what they received back in the way of payment. Little enough at this time, but Kier said that it would not always be so. And today Edgar would be able to see the progress of his clan. He sat straighter in the saddle as they wound between new fencing that enclosed the livestock, making their way toward the castle gate. “’Tis the little laird!” a feminine cry rose from near the well. Edgar reined in Scout and slid down the pony’s side to the ground. “Jean, ciamar a tha sibh?” He noticed that the well had been repaired and its stone rim raised. She grasped his hand and bowed her head. She wore a plain gray dress, nothing fancy, but not rags, and her feet were clean and shod. Behind him, the half a dozen men who’d accompanied them led the pack animals, loaded with additional supplies, to the castle for unloading. Kieran was still astride his big buckskin. “Hoy!” he shouted. Heads turned. He pointed upward. “When the sun is at its height, be at the castle gate, ready to go on our way.” He swung down off his horse’s back and walked with Edgar to the castle. A billowing cloud of excitement swelled inside Edgar’s chest. “Look!” The castle’s upper battlements were under repair, with several brawny men maneuvering blocks of stone into position. He could see a bareheaded figure in black, with hair the same midnight color, waving his hands and shouting, though they were too far away to hear. “Dugald,” Kier said. “Uncommonly excited, he is.”
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He stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted an ear-splitting whistle. Dugald turned and, apparently seeing them, waved before disappearing from sight. “Bloody hell,” Edgar breathed. “Will you teach me how to do that?” “Language, my lad. Stop listening to milady. And she’ll skewer me with my own dirk if I teach ye that trick.” “I won’t do it when she’s around!” “Um… We’ll see.” Dugald greeted them at the gate, slapping Kier on the arm and ruffling Edgar’s hair. “Ho, young lordling, how goes it?” “Very well, sir.” Edgar gave him a little formal bow and the men whooped with laughter. “Let me show ye your property, so ye can tell me I’ve done well by ye.” The formerly smelly, dirty castle had been cleaned from top to bottom. Every room was inhabited and, from the topmost tower, Edgar could see that Kier’s orders had been followed. None of the small huts and crofts that had surrounded the fortress remained, for the remaining population was housed snugly within the castle. He also saw the extent to which farming had begun. Given the lack of manpower, much arable ground had been plowed. Tender green shoots had poked their heads above stony ground. He nudged Dugald’s side and pointed. “What are you trying to grow at this time of year?” “Winter barley, kale, a few other crops that we think may survive.” “Hmm.” Edgar caught Kier’s eye. ’Tis a risky venture. Kier shrugged in response. “And fishponds?” Edgar looked. Sure enough, several silver patches glittered below. “Likewise risky,” Dugald said. “But we willnae ken unless we try. We’re preparing for the winter as best we can.” He led them into the solar, where Edgar’s grandmam sat in front of a spinning wheel, humming a tune. She shrieked when she saw Edgar, who braced himself for the onslaught. Hugs were exchanged, with Edgar holding his breath. They went to the Lower Hall for lunch, while Grandmam pinched his cheeks and exclaimed over his added weight and height. Lunch was bannocks, stew and wild greens. Most of his clan sat at the long tables— all women and children—as well the Kilborn men. They didn’t separate into clan groups but sat in clusters, most often each woman with a man, frequently accompanied by children. After finishing his ale, Kier leaned back into his chair with a satisfied grunt. “Any weddings or handfastings?” he asked Dugald. “Aye, and I predict that there will be more than a few new bairns come this spring.” “And thus Laird Edgar’s clan increases.”
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“They’ll all be Kilborns. Not that I mind,” Edgar added hastily. “The children that ye see bear the name of MacReiver,” Dugald said. “Trust me when I say that Dame Ellen is making sure they understand their loyalty belongs to ye.” Kier fixed Dugald with his dark eyes. “We have to take Dirk home.” “He’s a loss, to be sure, even with his head in the clouds mooning about his Rose. She’s close to droppin’ their bairn?” “Aye.” “Well, it cannae be helped. Who are ye leavin’ in his place? We need every hand to fit this drafty auld pile of rocks for winter.” He caught Edgar’s glance and winked. “Archie,” Kier said. Dugald rolled his eyes. “He’s nae so bad,” milaird said firmly. “Duncan.” “Are ye mad? He’ll cause havoc amongst the wenches when they catch a look at him.” “Ye’re right,” Dugald said with evident reluctance. “Archie it is.”
***** The sun glittered on a calm blue sea. Niall relied on the northward-flowing current to carry his craft to a spot he judged would yield a goodly catch on this, one of the last good fishing days of the year. He reefed the sail, set his fishing lines and sighed. “What ails ye, Da?” Ian asked. “We’ll no’ be seein’ the sea much after this day.” “Nay, not much through the winter.” They sat in silence for some hours, reeling in their catch, mostly herring and whitefish. As the sun lifted higher into the clear sky, Ian unwrapped a few slices of meat and offered one to his da, along with a chunk of bread. Niall chewed thoughtfully, eyes on the lines. The boat rose and fell softly with the gentle swell until it bounced. Ian was standing, hand to his forehead, staring at the northward horizon. “Da! Da!” He pointed. Niall balanced himself with one hand on the mast and, continuing to chew, rose to his feet to see p’raps a half-dozen sails, maybe more. The boats tacked hither and yon over the sea, for the day was relatively windless, providing only slight breezes for sailing. “’Tis odd,” he mused. One of the boats caught a puff of wind and scudded closer. Niall squinted. “Ian,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “do ye see swords at the side of the men in that boat?”
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“I…mayhap…that’s no’ a fishin’ boat, Da. There are too many men in it! We have to get back now.” Ian set the sail while Niall grabbed the tiller and turned the boat. Unanchored in the deep waters, they’d drifted farther north. Ian hastily dragged in the lines as Niall waggled the tiller, trying to catch the breeze in the limp sails. He saw a flash of light before a loud bang sounded. Pain tore through his shoulder and he fell. Ian grabbed his father a moment before he toppled over the boat’s side, dragging him to the nearest bench seat. “Get us home…” Niall mumbled. “Clan under attack.” “It cannae be!” “It must be. Why…why else would…” He weakly indicated his shoulder, from which blood oozed. Ian grabbed it and squeezed to stop the red flow. Niall screamed. Ian let go and looked up. The attacking fleet was closer still, not more a hundred yards away, but moving slowly…could it be that the overloaded craft couldnae sail any faster? He yanked off his shirt and stuffed it into his da’s hand, then shoved that hand against the wound. “Good…good boy,” Niall mumbled, wincing. “Now get us home.”
***** Owain tended to be more alert on those days when milaird was absent. True, most days Laird Kieran would go out on patrol or to hunt, but when he went further afield— like today, when milaird had traveled to the lands of conquered Clan MacReiver— Owain was doubly on guard. He took his noontime meal atop the wall-walk, munching bread and cheese rather than eating in the comfort of the Great Hall. He knew that he’d not enjoy his food if worried. He perched within a crenellation, his shoulder against a great block of stone near the Dark Tower, watching the soothing lap of the waves as they eternally washed the shore and slapped against the sea stacks that guarded their little cove. A red-sailed fishing boat shot between the sea stacks and into the cove. Niall’s boat. But what the diabhol? Owain couldnae see Niall, but there was Ian at the tiller, heading the craft directly toward the stony beach without slowing it a whit. The lad was screaming, but Owain couldnae hear the words. Sensing trouble, he dropped his food and stood. Then Ian bent toward a pile of rags inside the craft, and lifted what was finally recognizable as Niall. A splotch of blood marred the fisherman’s shoulder. “Rach air muin,” Owain swore. “What now?” He looked at the barred door of the Dark Tower. The old keep was surely the swiftest way down to the cove, but after the punishment meted out to milady and the
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wench Moira, Owain had no wish to test Laird Kieran’s tolerance. And the tower, with its twisty corridors floored with rotting wood, was dangerous. Instead, he leaned over the opposite wall and shouted to get the attention of the men in the courtyard. “To the cove, quick! And find auld Mhairi. We need a healer.” He dashed down to the beach by the quickest way possible, which was down a staircase that went from the upper walk to the bailey, then through into the courtyard and out of the great gates, which stood open. He hurried down the cliff path to find that he’d been preceded by a half-dozen men who were tending to Niall. “Sir!” Ian grasped Owain’s arm. “What is it, lad?” “We saw boats, many boats, heading this way. They werenae fishing boats. There were many men aboard, and one shot me da.” Kendrick pressed a pad of cloth to Niall’s shoulder and bound it there before three others lifted the wounded fisherman, preparing to carry him up to safety. “Rach air muin,” Owain said again. “We’re being attacked.” “That’s what me da said. But who? Why?” “Doesnae matter, lad. Raise the alarm. Get yourself and your mam and your sisters into the castle. Tell everyone ye see to get inside the bailey.” Ian stared, stunned. “Go!” Owain gave him a little push and the boy scurried toward the cliff path, reaching it before the party carrying Niall. Owain followed at a trot, eying the sea caves at the base of the Dark Tower with longing. That route could be faster, but who knew how the old gentleman would react to any invasion of his home? And who understood the warren of tunnels and passages? A man could easily become lost. No, the cliff path was best. Anyone who braved the ancient keep was a fool.
***** Roused by the ruckus, Sir Gareth grumbled and muttered as he hauled his creaky old body out of bed. He thrust his arms into a long-sleeved, lace-trimmed linen shirt and found his trews. Boots and a jacket followed. ’Twas a sunny day, so he eschewed his cloak. Up or down? Was he hungry for a visit to his prisoners or did he wish to see what the kerfuffle was? He thought fondly of his larder, of the flavorsome wench, Moira. And taking blood from Seamas, his brother’s killer, was equally sweet. Oh, the delightful taste of revenge! But best that he observe the situation before having a bite to eat.
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He trotted up the several flights of stairs between his bedroom and the topmost turret of his keep. Shoving open a secret trapdoor, he emerged into the sunny afternoon. He squinted, disliking the sunlight after the pleasant dimness of his lair. Below, men were carrying a wounded man up the cliff path from the cove. One of young Kieran’s men was shouting orders. And sails dotted the sea, some trying to use the faint breeze to tack quite near. His interest piqued by the unusual events, he bounced a little on the balls of his feet. Quite worth getting out of bed to see this, he thought, then wondered what this was. The boats were not of his clan, he realized, watching them try and fail to shoot the narrow strait between the sea stacks into the cove. Every Kilborn fisherman worthy of the job could make landfall on their beach. And these boats carried peculiar cargo. No fishing gear or bottles of wine for his enjoyment, but men. Men and weapons. His clan was under attack. Gareth rushed downstairs to grab supplies from his bedroom—an ancient pistol, a dirk, flint and steel—and sprinted to his larder to fortify himself for the fray. It had been at least a century since he’d had the opportunity for a good battle and he certainly didn’t plan to miss this one. He strode toward Seamas MacReiver. The dim light flashed on something that whipped and clattered like a metal snake a moment before a chain wrapped around Gareth’s neck. He choked and grappled at it with frantic fingers, his mind racing. MacReiver must have loosened his chain and thrown it to strangle him, Gareth realized as he choked, his breath cut off. If MacReiver tugged hard enough, the chain would tighten, and Gareth would lose his head entirely with precious little chance of regaining it. He’d die the final death. Seamas grunted and pulled the chain tighter. Dots swirled before Gareth’s vision. The eyes inside saw clearly though, and he stopped his futile effort to loosen the chain and instead reached for Seamas’ wrist. He squeezed it until Seamas screamed and bones crunched. The gruesome sounds echoed around the cave, bouncing off the rough, damp walls. Gareth ripped Seamas’ arm out at the shoulder and used it as a handle, unwrapping the chain and manacle from around his neck. Finally he sucked in enough air to laugh. “He almost had me there,” he choked out between fits of the giggles. “Did you see that, lass? He almost had me there.” Moira watched with wide green eyes while Gareth sucked appreciatively at the torn end of Seamas’ arm, then at the shoulder. As the vampire drained Seamas, she whispered, “Not today. I willnae die today.”
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Chapter Twenty-Five “Go, now. Find milaird and bring him back.” Owain slapped the big bay’s rump and the messenger headed out of the gate at a trot, his horse’s hooves clattering on the drawbridge. “Get everyone in here, now!” Owain shouted. “We’re closing the gate and lowering the portcullis in five minutes!” Rose staggered through the gate and leaned against the wall, panting. Lydia dashed toward her, feeling the drag of the chatelaine’s keys and hearing their jingle as they clattered at her waist. She grabbed the pregnant woman’s arm as another contraction seized her. Rose bent, wrapping her arms around her belly and trying to stifle her scream, which came out as a choking gurgle. Lydia waved to Grizel and the thin blonde hurried to them as quickly as her skirts would allow. She took Rose’s other arm. “Take Rose to the nook off the kitchen,” Lydia told Grizel. “Make sure that there’s boiling water and enough clean cloths for her. Attend her until Mhairi finishes with Niall.” The bailey was crammed with clanspeople and their children running amuck, angry and terrified. Though the hold was enormous, it was crowded and disorganized, and became more so with every minute as some tried to bring in their goats and chickens. Lydia struggled through the throng to Owain’s side. “The larger animals cannot stay here, sir,” she said. “They should be driven up into the hills.” “Aye, the shepherds have done so. There’s an area of the stable—” He turned away from her to shout, “Get the goats and pigs out of here. Into the stables, not in the courtyard! Archers to the upper wall-walk, now!” “Is there anything I can do?” she asked him. “Milady, your very presence buoys the people. Try to get the women and bairns inside the Great Hall.” A shout came from above. “Riders! Riders from the northeast, with a company of soldiers on foot following.” “How many?” Lydia called. “P’raps a score of riders and a hundred men.” She glanced at Owain, who said, “These are good odds.” “My husband told me that we have a permanent garrison of p’raps three score men.” “Aye, but all the men know how to fight. Everyone can use a bow or a sword. And ’tis hard to mount a siege, milady. They—whoever they are—believed that they would take us unawares. With the great gate open, as it is every day in times of peace, they
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could have walked in. And they seem to think that they can attack us by sea.” He snorted derisively. “What of the sea caves? Do they not give access to the castle through the old keep?” “Would ye go through there?” Owain’s brown eyes regarded her, and she guessed he was thinking of her foray into the Dark Tower and her subsequent punishment. She shuddered. “No, I have no wish to encounter himself again.” “Exactly. What he has, he will keep.” Kendrick approached. “Everyone’s inside.” “Bring up the drawbridge and close the gate!” Owain bellowed louder than the milling mob. “Portcullis down!” As the great gate creaked to a close, Lydia urged the women and children to follow her as she hastened inside the Garrison Tower and to the busy Great Hall. When she’d settled the frantic mass of clanspeople, she went into the kitchen where Fenella bustled among enormous pots of porridge and stew. “La!” Red-faced and sweaty, Fenella staggered to a chair and collapsed. “I havenae seen so many of us here for an age.” “Everyone’s inside, though,” Lydia said with satisfaction. “And somewhat organized. The women and children are in the Great Hall and the men are readying for battle.” Her belly churned. Where was Kieran? “Where is Mhairi?” Fenella asked. “Tending to Rose. Niall has been put in one of the guards’ barracks abovestairs. His family is with him.” “Good. I’ll send up some food.” “What else can be done?” Fenella shook her head. “Nothing, now that the women and bairns are inside and the men are readying for battle.” “Nothing to do but wait.” Lydia drew in a trembling breath. But where was Kieran? Would he be ambushed, trapped and killed? Who had attacked? And why?
***** On the way back from his clan lands, Edgar caught sight of a swift brown shadow flashing through the woods and gave chase. But the deer easily outpaced poor Scout. “I need a better mount,” he grumbled after he’d returned to milaird’s side. Leaning over, Kier ruffled his hair. “The next foal is yours, laddie. Ye’ve earned it.” The thump of cantering hooves caught Edgar’s attention, and milaird dropped his sword hand to his weapon. “Milaird! Milaird!”
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“’Tis Davy,” Kier said with surprise. “This isnae good.” “That’s milady’s horse. Why? Is she nae all right?” Edgar grabbed Kier’s sleeve. “I dinnae ken.” Davy reined in the bay gelding, which slavered at the mouth from exertion. “Milaird, the castle is under attack.” “And milady?” “Fine. I took her horse, for it’s the fastest one left in the stable.” Edgar relaxed and saw that the set of milaird’s shoulders eased. “Let’s be off. Quickly!” Standing in his stirrups, Kier gestured to the escort, and they set off at a swift trot. “They came by land and by sea,” Davy said, guiding his horse by his laird’s side. “We were lucky to get warning. Owain is getting everyone into the castle and closing the gate.” “How many?” Davy shook his head. “I dinnae ken. P’raps a hundred, all told.” “And they seek to besiege Kilborn Castle?” Kier laughed. “I wonder who?” Edgar asked. “It doesnae matter. Whoever they are, they will be dead by nightfall.”
***** “Come, milady,” Owain beckoned Lydia. “’Tis right that ye should see this.” With Owain holding her arm, Lydia crossed the now peaceful, organized courtyard to the staircase and climbed to the highest wall-walk. Facing south, it ran between the Laird’s Tower and the old keep. The battlement was crowded with archers readying their weapons under Kendrick’s command. These were men she knew, had seen every day as they went about smiling, eating, dicing and wenching—Gilchrist and Randal, Rhain and Conn, now grim-faced but efficient. Some wielded longbows while others had the more complex but powerful crossbow. Both, she knew, were lethal in skilled hands. And she’d seen Kier train his men and hunt with them day after day. Far off, across the fields and scaling the hills, were the flocks of Kilborn sheep being driven by the shepherds and their dogs over the slopes and into the forests. Nearer was a company of ill-armed men led by a man on a brown charger. He and p’raps a score of mounted guards rode swiftly toward the castle. The men on foot struggled to keep up. She drew in an angry breath. “That’s…that’s Hamish Gwynn. Laird Hamish. I lately drank tea with him and his wife. What can he mean by this?” Owain stared in the same direction as she. “Ye’re right, milady. And I ken the reason.”
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“What?” He pointed at a cassocked man mounted on a smaller gray. “Yon rides their priest.” “The Gwynn’s priest? What has he to do with this?” Owain sighed. “When I went with ye to Straithness, I drank in the tavern and listened to the talk. The Gwynns be very religious, milady. They think that we Kilborns are some kind of fae creatures. What did ye and the priest discuss?” “The priest did talk about that. He spoke of fae creatures he called vampires.” “Did ye say that we are vampires?” Lydia glanced at Owain’s midnight-black hair and dark eyes. “Of course not. I don’t believe in such foolishness.” She kept her voice smooth and calm, wondering for the umpteenth time, What if? “Well, the Gwynns do.” “Mayhap…” Lydia gestured upward to the top of the Dark Tower, where a figure capered and danced on the highest turret, swinging what looked like…what looked like an arm. An arm that lacked the rest of the body. Drops of blood were flung this way and that, and some landed on her. She wiped the foul moisture from her forehead and, with shaking fingers, took out a handkerchief and cleaned herself. “Mayhap,” she whispered, “mayhap they have reason to be afraid of something unnatural in this castle.” She looked down to the cove, grabbed Owain’s arm and pointed. Several boats she didn’t recognize, crowded with men she didn’t know, had beached and were unloading their cargo. Not fish, but weapons. The creature on the turret screeched with fury and threw the arm down, striking one of the attackers. The capering monster then disappeared. Lydia gulped against the bile that had risen into her throat. She had previously understood that he was mad but had never before quite appreciated the extent of his insanity. ’Twas one thing to be told that he had utterly destroyed the MacReivers and another to see the proof of it before her eyes. A man’s arm…that meant that somewhere there was a man who had lost an arm. And who had probably lost his life. A few yards away, Kendrick snapped out a command in Gaelic. As one, the archers turned toward the cove and raised their bows. Another command and arrows rained down upon their attackers. Most dropped where they stood, bloody flowers blossoming on unarmored, unprotected white shirt-fronts. Pathetic, the rag-tag rabble that had dared to attack her clan so unprepared. Lydia hardened her heart as she watched the carnage. She felt sorry for the men—she knew that each had a mother or p’raps children—but they’d attacked her clan without reason. She firmed her lips and resolved not to waver. Hamish Gwynn was a fool who deserved to die. Anyone who had followed him was equally foolish and deserved the same fate. 201
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Owain produced flint and steel from inside his shirt. He handed his firebox to the nearest archer and said, “Burn the boats. Aim for the sails.” “Have you rags?” Lydia asked the man. When he shook his head, she handed him her handkerchief. Taking the scarf from around her neck, she tore it into several strips. “That should be enough.” Owain raised a brow. “Well spotted, milady.” Flaming arrows arched through the blue noonday sky, their brightness rivaling that of the sun. When they dropped into the boats, some smoldered and others smoked. Sails caught fire, at first burning slowly, then with larger flames. One boat exploded in a violent report, flinging fiery debris. She jumped and gasped. “Gunpowder,” Owain said. She controlled herself and forced her breathing back to normalcy. “That could have caused great damage.” Burning spars struck men who shrieked and fell, rolling in an effort to smother the flames that ate at their clothing. She bit her lip and thought of her father, her grandfather, her great-grandfather—all had been soldiers. All had watched, fought, endured. “If they could do it, so can I,” she murmured. “Milady?” “Nothing.” She sent Owain a faint smile which she hoped showed leadership, firmness, the courage to act as the laird’s lady. At the same time she prayed she’d be worthy of her birth and her position. She was also glad she’d skipped her noon meal. The small cove was crowded with the dead and the dying, and even from this height she could hear their groans and screams. At the shoreline, boats burned and smoldered, sending up a smoky stench that twisted her gut into an uneasy coil. The waves lapping the shore were red with blood, flecked with gray and black ash. Kendrick shouted another order and half the archers turned their arrows on the cliff walk, where p’raps half a dozen men struggled. He then eased his way through the line of archers toward her. “Some have gained the Dark Tower,” he told Owain and Lydia. “How many?” she asked. “I dinnae ken. Half a score, mayhap.” “Other than the sea caves, there are but three exits from the auld keep,” Owain said. He nodded to his right, indicating the door through which she’d started her Dark Tower misadventure. “One there, and one on the other side of the tower, leading to the northward wall-walk. And the double doors into the courtyard. We’ll set guards at each exit and kill anyone who comes out.” “He went down into the keep,” she said. “Even better,” Kendrick said. 202
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She looked down. Across the moat, thatched roofs smoldered and smoked. Hamish Gwynn had shouted a retreat and his forces obeyed, but not before wreaking what damage they could. They now headed away, forced toward the nearest meadow by the Kilborn archers, who shot a steady stream of arrows toward them. She guessed the Gwynn forces would regroup to consider their next move. “Good day,” said a deep voice from above her. Her body spasmed. She controlled herself, then looked to the topmost turret of the old keep, and there he was. She swallowed hard. “And t-to whom do I have the honor of speaking?” “Gareth, lately laird of this clan.” He gave her a courtly bow. “Gareth. Sir Gareth?” “Yes. I was knighted by his majesty King Charles the Second.” Her knees weakened and she clutched the nearest stone block for support. Bear up, she told herself sternly. You are the daughter of a general and the wife of a laird. But she was shocked beyond belief. This was an unexpected revelation. Or was it? She stared into Gareth’s black eyes and recalled the conversation over dinner at Kilbirnie Castle. “Just how old was Sir Gareth when he died?” the earl had asked. “No one’s quite certain.” Staring at his plate, her husband had sounded evasive. “Who was Sir Gareth?” she’d wanted to know. “My grandfather,” Kier said. “The tenth laird, and an intimate of His Majesty’s.” “Which king?” “The Merrie Monarch.” Kieran had avoided answering questions about Gareth, specifically about the length of Gareth’s life. Mayhap Kier had been unable to answer that question because that life had never ended. The Gwynn priest had said that vampires were long-lived, even immortal. Kier wasn’t Clan Kilborn’s vampire. Gareth was. He looked surprisingly good for someone who was well over a century old. Though the midnight-black hair that distinguished most Kilborns was white, and his cloud-pale skin as wrinkled as a crumpled sheet of parchment, he moved with speed and ease, more quietly than a much younger man. His black eyes and clothes contrasted with his hair and skin. He wore funereal but elegant garb, perfectly attired from the top of his behatted head right down to his feet, shod in the same heeled boots she’d seen weeks earlier. They looked as though he’d taken some time to dry them out properly and even to shine the old-fashioned buckles. She gathered her wits. “Yes, I’ve heard of your exploits on behalf of Charles before the restoration.” The old man preened. “’Twas an honor to play some small part in history.” 203
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More Kilborn arrows whizzed by, now aiming for climbers on the cliff path as well as down into the beach. “Some of our enemies have found their way into my home,” Sir Gareth said calmly. “Forgive my haste, milady, but I must tend to my uninvited guests.” He doffed his long-feathered, curly-brimmed hat and disappeared. At her elbow, Owain said, “He’s the reason we needn’t worry about the Dark Tower. As I say, what the auld laird has, he will keep.” Astonished, she turned. “You knew?” “Aye, of course. Milaird didnae tell ye, I reckon, because he thought you wouldnae believe him.” After a pause, she said, “You’re right. I wouldn’t have, not without the evidence of my own eyes and ears.” She surveyed the battle again. “Is it possible, do you think, to do something about that?” She gestured at the cottages clustered near the castle. Owain thought before his lips firmed. “Milady, we dinnae ken how long they will attempt to besiege us. Thus we must not waste water. The homes can be rebuilt when the siege is lifted.” “Pray that will be soon. How much water do we have?” He grinned. “Ye have noticed, I would imagine, that the weather hereabouts is a mite…dampish, even in the summer.” “Dampish. Yes. You could say that. So all the cisterns are full?” “Aye, we’ve ample stores, refreshed and renewed. We can withstand a lengthy siege. But they cannot.” He nodded his head at the Gwynn forces. “They are not numerous enough to leave us unguarded to hunt or steal from our flocks. Remember, milaird left with enough men to mount an attack from the south.” “Only half a dozen or so, I ke—I believe.” She caught herself before tossing out the Scottish phrase. She thought it would be well to learn Gaelic, but “I ken” would be too much. “That’s ample for milaird.” She coughed and blinked. Smoke billowed nearby—too near. She turned and gasped. Smoke seeped from beneath the old keep’s door and from atop its turret. The Dark Tower was afire.
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Chapter Twenty-Six Though the autumn sun shone brightly in the noonday sky, shadows swarmed below Kilborn Castle—or so it seemed to young Edgar MacReiver. The warm day had lured the rival clans like an exposed rock tempted an adder to sunbathe. Near the base of the castle, the crofts and huts smoldered. His belly clenched as he saw the thatched roof of old Mhairi’s cottage alight with orange flames. Blinking back tears, he remembered spending many happy hours at her knee, drinking fragrant tea and listening to stories of the clan. But he didn’t see any fleeing figures, heard no cries of woman, bairn or animal. Davy was right. The clan had been warned and had taken shelter in the castle. Edgar hoped everyone was safe. He lingered with Kieran in the shadows at the edge of the forest, with the rest of their escort quietly behind them, concealed. Edgar scrutinized the attackers as they formed ranks just beyond the moat of Kilborn Castle. “Who are they, milaird?” he asked Kieran. He squinted. “Mostly Gwynns, I trow.” He pointed, his voice grim. “I recognize Laird Hamish. He’s the blond man on the brown, see there?” “I think I see some of my people,” Edgar said. “MacReivers, I mean.” “Och, aye?” “Aye. Angus MacReiver, who was one of my father’s trusted men, and p’raps three or four others.” Strange that he felt no allegiance to them at all. “They must have been away on patrol when, um…he attacked.” “Aye, seems likely.” “But who are the rest?” “Whoever the Gwynn could gather, I believe. I imagine more than a few MacLaynes. They fight anyone, anytime. I doubt there are any Camerons or MacLeods—they’re related to us by marriage, and too canny to attack us. P’raps a Fraser or two.” Some were armed with claymores and swords. Others fingered long-bladed dirks while other, poorer men, who’d been divested of their weaponry by the Redcoats, held shovels and pitchforks. “Why are they attacking? What are you going to do?” Edgar asked. “Watch and wait, for the now. Seems to me that Owain is doing a good job. As for why…” He sighed. “I dinnae ken. ’Tis madness. Kilborn Castle has never been taken and it willnae be today. I swear it on auld Euan’s soul.”
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Indeed, arrows rained down from the battlements of Kilborn Castle onto the attackers, who were not faring well. Most had prudently retreated to beyond the range of the crossbows wielded by the defense and now milled about in disorganized chaos. To their left, the Dark Tower smoldered. “What’s going on at the auld keep?” Edgar asked. “I dinnae ken. That’s his realm, ye ken? If he fired it, he had good reason. P’raps we were also attacked by sea.” He turned and gestured at their escort. One of the guards detached from the group and approached, bending his head. “Aye, milaird?” “Duncan, slip awa’ toward the cove and come back quick with a report. In no more than a quarter-hour.” “Aye, milaird.” “He’s a big man,” Edgar said, for Duncan was solidly built rather than slender. “But he’s stealthy. There’s no one better to reconnoiter.” Kier dismounted and handed his buckskin’s reins to Edgar. Tugging his claymore out of its sheath, he dropped to his knees and slipped to the edge of the shadows and into the sun. He lifted his polished blade, turning it this way and that so that it caught the light. A sharp dazzle briefly blinded Edgar. He blinked, opening his eyes in time to see an answering silvery flash from the upper wall-walk of the castle. After he returned, Kieran grunted with satisfaction as he swung back onto his horse. “Good.” “They now know we are back,” Edgar said. “Aye.” Edgar could see a subtle shift in the manner the Kilborns in the castle fought. Before they’d ably defended themselves, but now they seemed to straighten up, smarten up, knowing that their laird watched. Of course that could be his imagination.
***** Would she ever forget the screams? Those trapped within the Dark Tower did not suffer easy deaths. When smoke began to seep from beneath the barred door on the wall-walk, Lydia went downstairs to check on her people. She found everyone and everything much the same as before. However, lunch had been cleared away, and now people sat in the Great Hall in tense groups. Some of the older children amused the bairns by playing games while the mothers told stories. Rose, tucked into the nook off the kitchen, sweated, shouted and pushed when told to do so. Lydia wasn’t completely ignorant of the process, but she was no expert, either. “How many hours since her waters broke?”
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“It hasnae been long.” Mhairi stroked Rose’s forehead with a damp cloth. “She’ll be fine.” Rose shouted something in Gaelic that Lydia thought she’d heard from Kieran at some point, but she couldn’t remember when. “Rachar muin? What does that mean?” Mhairi and Grizel exchanged glances. Did a slight smile curve Grizel’s lips? She said, “It means that I am never going to touch a man or bear a bairn.” Fenella and Mhairi howled with laughter, and even Rose managed a weak chuckle while Lydia scratched her head and wondered. She took a quick break to go to the Laird’s Tower, use the garderobe and freshen up with Elsbeth’s help. She then went outside to the bailey and across to the massive barred door that sealed the lower entrance to the Dark Tower. A group of p’raps six guards surrounded it, twitching with unease. She pushed her way through, with the men respectfully parting for her. As she neared, she could smell smoke, see it sneak through cracks in the door, hear coughs, shouts and the pounding of fists on the thick wood from the inside. “They’re mostly smotherin’ to death, milady,” a guard said, his voice and stance stolid. “From the smoke, ye ken.” “Yes.” She pressed her lips together, reminding herself that each man had selected his fate. As she stood there, she heard a mighty crash, followed by screams from inside the keep. Would she ever forget the screams? One, higher pitched than the others, rose to an unearthly screech. Jolted, she wrapped her arms around herself. “Is that a woman?” she asked. “Mayhap.” The guard’s brow furrowed. “’Tis hard to tell. But how? Did ye see a wench on the boats, milady?” “Nay, I did not.” She frowned. The only person who would know was the vampire, Sir Gareth. And where would he be? Not trapped inside the keep. He was too clever for that to have happened. She climbed the stone stair to the upper wall-walk, carefully lifting her gown’s skirt to above her ankles. Her mother would be scandalized, but Lydia felt ’twas better to risk a guard glimpsing a bit of her stocking than to fall and bash out her brains on the narrow, steep steps. Up on the battlements, matters were much the way she’d left them. Archers stood attentive at their posts, shooting an occasional arrow at a Gwynn or a MacLayne who ventured too close. The cliff path and the beach, both blotched with the dark blood of the fallen, were strewn with the silent dead and those who were injured or dying, their lamentations now diminished to whimpers. Louder were those trapped in the old keep. She slipped behind the line of archers toward it, blinking to keep her eyes clear, for the Dark Tower was ablaze, sending a pillar of smoke into the sky. Its roof must be wood, she thought, and tried to remember what she’d seen when she’d explored the place. She dimly recalled a rotting ceiling that admitted slivers of light. Now it was
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aflame. The stone would not burn, but everything and everyone inside would be destroyed. From the wall surrounding the topmost turret, a voice cackled with glee. Looking up, she squinted through the thick haze to see a black scarecrow dancing on the highest parapet. The stamp of Gareth’s boots and the gales of his laughter merged with the screams of the dying from within the Dark Tower. She’d not get any sane comment from Sir Gareth. Owain touched his hand, clad in a leather glove, to the tower door. “Hot,” he told Lydia. “Best stay away from it. It could blast open at any time.” Kendrick bellowed something in Gaelic and the archers moved away from the door, giving it at least ten yards’ berth. Lydia could see that the Kilborn forces on the northernmost walkway copied their kinsmen. The keep’s roof crashed down with a roar and a shower of sparks. “Moi-ra! Moi-ra! Bad Moi-ra’s gone!” Gareth danced and twirled. “Sweet bad baby, Moira’s gone!” Lydia frowned as she watched. What did that mean? Had Moira been in the keep, or had mad Gareth imagined her presence? Or was he talking about some other event? His clothes were alight with flame as he skittered around the turret. When he’d reached its westernmost point, he spread his arms and leaped. Her breath stuck in her throat. There was no breeze to speak of—the pillar of smoke floated almost straight up into the sky—but somehow Gareth seemed to fly, his jacket catching a seaward wind. Rushing to the wall, she leaned over it to see him fall into the ocean. He never came up. The Kilborns on the wall-walk were silent. A few took off their caps and covered their hearts with clasped hands, a tribute to the mad old creature who had been a part of their lives for as long as any could remember. Emptiness filled Lydia’s chest, but she did not know the reason for her feelings. She did not love the old vampire. Despite Sir Gareth’s massacre of the MacReivers and the Kilborns’ subsequent annexation of MacReiver land, she believed that he had caused more harm than good. If Owain was right, Sir Gareth was the reason for the Gwynns’ attack and the deaths of many men. In the distance, a gleam caught the light. Kieran. Seated on his massive golden charger, he advanced out of the shadows into the sunlight, showing no fear of it whatsoever. The sun gleamed on his pale skin, shone on his dark hair and reflected off his claymore, which he lifted and turned. A signal. The priest had lied. Kieran was no vampire. A great weight released her. She hadn’t realized how deeply the priest’s lies had affected her, but now she felt as though she might float away, a wisp of thistledown rejoicing on the wind. She wanted to spin and dance and play.
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Instead, she grabbed a dirk from the nearest soldier and held it up, turning it until it flashed in the sun. She then shot toward the staircase leading to the courtyard. “Raise the portcullis and open the gate!”
***** Duncan had reported that the Gwynn’s attempt to attack by sea had ended in dismal failure and the death of every man who’d tried from that route. Kier silently thanked his crazed old grandda for his brilliant management of the situation. Igniting the Dark Tower had been an inspiration, and Kier hoped that the vampire, insane and fearsome though he was, had survived. Kier, along with Edgar and their small group, still waited at the forest’s edge. Protected by trees and brush, they watched the battle at the castle. Between forest and castle lay the meadow. In it, the Gwynns’ forces, such as they were, had gone quiet, resting in the afternoon sun. Energy flushed through Kier’s veins. “Now,” he told Edgar. The lad, who had been leaning at his ease against a tree, leaped to his feet and mounted Scout. Kier walked his horse forward into the light, unsheathed his claymore and held it high until he saw another answering flash from the upper wall-walk of his castle. He gestured; his guard jumped onto their mounts and made ready. “Blood for the clan!” Kier roared. “Blood for the clan! Blood! Blood!” Swords sang as they were unsheathed. Kieran swept his blade forward and dug his heels into his horse’s side. At the same time, the great gate of Kilborn Castle opened and the drawbridge crashed down. A mounted, armed company thundered over the wooden bridge toward the meadow. The Gwynns and their allies, caught off guard, clumped together in a frightened huddle. Some grabbed for their weapons while others broke, mounted their horses and made for the hills. Ten minutes later they were surrounded, with Hamish Gwynn, Angus MacReiver and the cassocked priest in the center of a milling mob of panicking soldiers, trapped by a frowning band of mounted Kilborns.
***** Hamish didn’t dare move as Laird Kieran approached. The Kilborn’s horse, whose hide was an unusual shade of pale gold, glittered in the sun, and its rider seemed bigger and more frightening in the midday light than he had during the other occasions they’d met, when he’d been veiled by fog. Far from being afraid of the sun, Kieran Kilborn rode boldly, without hat or veil for protection. Old-fashioned braids framed a grim visage pale as one of the clouds drifting overhead. A pin bearing the image of a stag, the Kilborn clan badge, fastened his plaidie, the Kilborn tartan with its muted blues marked by vivid red and yellow stripes. 209
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His claymore, half the length of a man, seemed especially sharp and bright in the afternoon sun. Bile rose into Hamish’s throat. He gulped it down and called upon God and his angels to protect him. His horse shied, possibly sensing his mood, and he quieted the restive mount. He cocked his head, and one of his men rode to his side. The Kilborns tensed, hands tightening on swords. “Bring me the priest,” Hamish said. The slow thud of hooves preceded the holy man. All else was silent save for the screams and whimpers of the dying, distantly emanating from the old Kilborn keep. “What say ye now, Father Paul?” Hamish asked, gesturing at Kieran Kilborn, glowering at them from atop his gleaming golden steed, bright in the afternoon sun. The priest said naught, but Angus MacReiver, who’d followed the holy man, scowled. “Someone killed every man in my clan.” He pointed at the top of the tower, where the monster had danced like one of the demons of hell. Hamish ignored the superstitious fear skittering down his spine. “Mad, but clearly not a fae being who cannae tolerate sunlight.” Angus jerked his head at Laird Kilborn. “I saw that creature tear off my laird’s head and drink his blood!” “The berserkers did the same, the ancient Vikings who came to our shores to kill and pillage. ’Tis said that the Kilborns are their heirs.” “Angus MacReiver!” A high, clear voice stabbed through their muttered conversation. Hamish, the priest and Angus turned toward that commanding tone. Edgar MacReiver rode forth, guiding his pony around Kieran Kilborn’s bigger horse. “Edgar—” Kieran started, then said quietly, “Carefully, lad.” His protectiveness couldn’t be mistaken. Despite the shortness of his stature and that of his mount, the boy sat tall, wearing his dignity like a cloak wrapped around his small frame. “Angus MacReiver, are you my man?” MacReiver almost fell off his horse in his eagerness to show fealty. “Milaird, milaird, we though ye were dead!” “Did you come and look?” Edgar snapped. “Or did you and the rest of the gutless oafs with you tuck tail between your legs and run? Oh, I see you, Fergus, Trinnian and Murdoch. You are all that is left of our men. Where have you been?” Silence.
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“Where have you been while Kieran Kilborn took me in and fed me at his table? Where have you been, while Kilborns rebuild our castle, farm our land, protect our women and children. Where have you been?” “Ye wouldnae need the protection of Kieran Kilborn were it not for yon monster!” The priest pointed at the Dark Tower. “What monster? I saw a strange old man who went mad from the death of his brother and defended his clan.” “Euan Kilborn was a vampire!” the priest shouted. “An unholy, filthy monster!” The Kilborns grew restless, hands dropping again to their swords. “There are no such things as vampires!” Edgar said. “Nor are there kelpies, ghosts or redcaps.” Kilborn urged his mount to stand beside Edgar’s. “Laird Hamish, I’ve known ye all my life. For the first time, ye’ve let that foolish priest of yours steal your good Scottish sense.” Kilborn was right. Bitterness overtook Hamish and he glared at the priest who had persuaded him to act against the interests of the clan. They’d been unprepared to take Kilborn Castle. “Why have the Lobsterbacks spared yer lands?” a voice shouted from the skimpy group that pretended to be Hamish’s attacking army. Kieran Kilborn shaded his eyes and squinted through the bright sunlight. “MacLayne, is that ye?” “Aye, I be a MacLayne. And our people have been sore tried by the Sassenachs. Our laird was killed at Culloden. Our homes were burned and our people murdered, exiled or starving to death. We have no weapons.” He brandished a pitchfork. “We cannae wear the tartan. And there ye sit, holding a claymore and wearin’ your plaidie. How be it but for a deal with the devil?” “Nay, ’tis I.” said a female voice tinctured with a London accent. Attired in red, Lydia, Lady Kilborn, sat on a black horse. Handling the reins expertly, she guided her mount through the protective ring of Kilborns guarding Laird Kieran. The soldiers pulled away to let her pass. Kilborn swung around, brows beetled. “Owain, get the Lady Lydia back into the bailey.” “Nay.” Lydia Kilborn reached toward her husband and laid a trembling hand on his sword arm. “’Tis apparent that the, er…gentleman is under a misapprehension. He believes you have made a pact with the devil to spare our clan from the clearances.” A hush fell. “Truly, I am not a devil or demon, just one English lady.” She faced the attackers. “I am Lydia Swann–Williston Kilborn.”
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The MacLayne drew back, discomfited. Angus MacReiver frowned. Hamish Gwynn grimaced. The tide had more than turned. It was positively rushing over them. The day had been nothing short of a disaster. “Yes, Swann,” Lydia continued. “My cousin is Colonel Swann, aide to Butch— um…General Cumberland. Part of my dowry to Laird Kilborn is preferential treatment for Clan Kilborn.” The MacLayne’s mouth gaped. And well he should gape, for Lady Lydia gleamed like a ruby in the autumn sun, which drew out the deep red tones in her dark hair. “Ye need not make a pact with the devil to save your lands,” Kieran Kilborn said, his voice gently mocking. “Merely a pact with the right Sassenach lady.” Hamish stayed still, aware of his failure, aware that Kilborn could, if he wished, kill him in an instant. He realized bleakly that p’raps now he’d learn if the tale was true, if Kieran Kilborn could indeed tear the head off a man and drink his blood. “Laird Hamish, I would have a private word with ye.” Kilborn dismounted. Hamish, lacking other options, did the same, following the Kilborn as he strode a short distance away from the gathered warriors. “I’ve no taste for more blood this day, despite the stories ye’ve heard,” Kilborn said. Hamish breathed easier. “But a reckoning must be paid.” Kilborn gestured at the smoking tower, the burning cottages. “Great damage has been caused to my castle. Many of my people have lost their homes.” Hamish bowed his head. “I’ll pay a fair price and more.” “I’ll send ye the bill, and if it is not paid…” Kilborn shrugged. “I think ye can see of what warcraft we are capable.” Hamish nodded. He was lucky he remained alive. “Milaird, may I speak frankly?” Kilborn, looking surprised, nodded. “Most chieftains would kill me or imprison me, demanding ransom.” Kilborn shrugged. “’Tis impractical. Aye, I could conquer your lands and kill your people. But what for? We’d be overextended, our forces stretched beyond their limits. ’Twould be foolish. Worse, ’twould draw too much attention to our little corner of the Highlands.” Hamish nodded. “Aye, I understand.” “I’m glad ye do. Now get off my land.” Kilborn’s voice hardened, and he gestured at the shreds of the invading army. “And take that offal with ye.”
***** Sir Gareth allowed himself to float on the northward-flowing current until he became cold and worse, bored. He swam toward the land with sure strokes, wondering who would become his next meal. He hoped it would be a Gwynn. Several Gwynns. 212
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P’raps he could go to Straithness. He crawled out onto a stony beach and regarded the Celtic cross set high on the promontory above him, aware it marked the boundary between Kilborn lands and Gwynn. Then he remembered the promise he’d made to young Kieran. “All right, then,” he grumbled, slouching southward. He’d take what he could hunt and stay away from the Gwynns, despite the temptation.
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Chapter Twenty-Seven Lydia waited impatiently as Kieran and his men returned from the parley. Then she and her laird rode triumphant into their castle after victory in battle. They were greeted with great acclaim by their people, for little Kilborn blood had spilled that evil afternoon. Niall, who had bravely taken a shot to warn them all of the peril, was resting in the Garrison Tower to heal with his family by his side. He and his son were the heroes of the day. The only other injuries were to the crofters’ bairns who, unfamiliar with the castle’s steep stairs, had suffered a fair share of knees skinned and heads bumped on the unforgiving stone. In the bailey, eager hands took Lydia’s borrowed mount and led the horse to the stable. Same with their chieftain’s buckskin. Then she led her husband upstairs to their bedroom and he followed her with an eager stride. None stopped them, for Lydia strode too swiftly for that. In the late autumn afternoon, the room was light, with shafts of sunshine still stabbing through the arrow slits. “We’ll have to be quick,” she said. “Dinnertime’s soon and we’ll be expected in the Great Hall.” “Aye, and we cannae let our pleasures interfere with duty, can we?” Kieran’s black eyes gleamed. She grinned and grabbed him by the shirt collar. Using both hands, she tore downward. Buttons popped as he hurriedly unlaced his trews. He sought her lips with his and clung. His kisses were short and desperate, peppering her mouth, her cheeks, her neck, anything and everything he could reach. Still clothed, she knelt and tugged his trousers over his thick member. It bobbed free and she captured it with her mouth. He tried to kick his trews away, but they caught on his boots. He groaned and slid his fingers into her hair, pressing her head to him with gentle hands. She took all of him in her lust and need, fueled by sheer relief. He was human, and he was hers. She hadn’t realized how much the superstitious, wicked whispers of the priest had poisoned her mind against her husband until daylight had burned away suspicion. How stupid she’d been! The rest of Kier’s flesh was cool, yes, but his cock was hot. Hot with the life-giving seed he’d pump into her…very soon. She sucked him until her jaw ached, then pulled off his boots. “Kylyrra, ye’re wearing far too many clothes for my taste.” 214
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She turned, offering him the laces at her back. “You can change that.” He jerked at the cords with hasty fingers, snarling when one broke in his hand. He tore them apart and tugged her dress down, exposing her stays, which came off as quickly as their combined efforts could remove them. Her chemise had stuck to her body from the day’s exertions. She smelled of smoke and sweat and roses, all reminders of the many events. Less than twelve hours before, she’d been sleeping peacefully in the bed that Kier now pushed her toward. They’d arisen with joy, looking forward to a happy and productive day. Instead they’d endured battle and seen death many times over. “What a day,” she murmured, allowing Kier to bear her down on the bedclothes. His slow smile had a grim edge. “Aye. What a day. When I had thought our clan’s troubles were over…” “Nay. Remember you said that you expected an attack after Euan’s murder?” “Ye’re right. And I did double our guards and increase our training.” He traced the curve of her cheekbone. She raised herself on an elbow. “You’re so clever. You predicted it all and prepared for it all. You’re beyond all words.” “As are ye, kylyrra.” He kissed her lingeringly, taking his time where she was impatient. He eased her down and tugged her chemise open to expose her breasts. Pressing them together, he kneaded the globes until she moaned. He flicked the nipples tight, then licked from the valley between them down and beneath each, lapping as though her moisture were the tastiest honey. Down her body he nibbled, kissed and sucked, neglecting no tender spot or needful bit of flesh. His tongue traced every curve, slid along her belly to her sides, then back in, following the crease that joined leg to pelvis, the line that led to the center of her desire for him. She spread her legs and urged his head down. He chuckled and obeyed, stretching out full-length on their bed. He licked and kissed before raising his head to look at her. She had become accustomed to his intense scrutiny, which no longer gave her shame or discomfort. Instead, she knew she was the center of his world, just as he was the center of hers. With a fingertip, he stroked up and down her folds, a different caress than his tongue but delightful nevertheless. He thrust two fingers inside her and curved them upward. An unexpected, sharp rush of feeling drew her cry and a spasm, a quick release that snapped through her body but left her wanting more. He pulled out of her and replaced his fingers with his lips, and she maneuvered herself so she could plunge her mouth over his hard cock at the same time he sucked her pearl. With her body undulating against his, she could feel as well as hear his rumbling groans of pleasure as she ran her tongue up and down his length.
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She loosened her neck muscles to take him in fully and swallowed, feeling him fill the back of her throat. It was a difficult maneuver but one that he enjoyed immensely, so she didn’t begrudge him the extra effort. He gripped her buttocks convulsively and tore his mouth away from her quim as he gave a strangled groan of completion. She pulled her mouth away so she had just the round tip of his rod between her lips, and gripped the base of his cock in her fist, pumping until he released thick jets of seed. He rolled away from her, panting, his pale skin slick with sweat. While they relaxed, he idly fondled her pearl, stroking until she moaned anew.
***** “I’m right pleased with ye, lad,” Kieran told Edgar as they sat at the laird’s table before dinner. Lydia watched the boy’s chest expand with pride before smiling at his struggle to control himself. “Yes, it went well, didn’t it?” he said, but couldn’t quite conceal a trace of complacency. Kieran chuckled and gently cuffed his arm. “Get ye gone to enjoy the attention of the lassies.” Indeed, a cluster of girls lingered by the Great Hall’s hearth, staring up at Edgar, who’d cocked a jaunty hip and leaned onto the table while talking with Lydia and Kier. But he eyed the girls and frowned. “What ails ye, lad?” “They want to touch me all over. Some of them almost slobber.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s…creepy.” Kier turned away and bit down on his lower lip, visibly trying not to laugh. Lydia grinned. “Try to talk with them. They only want to be friends.” “Well, all right,” Edgar grumbled. “Before you go, come here for a moment,” she said. “If you would.” He complied. She turned on her stool so she could face him, setting her hands on each of his shoulders to look him in the eyes. “Edgar, I heard what you said to your men…do you resent what has happened? Do you resent us?” Blond brows drew together. “Resent?” “Are you angry inside? At us?” After a pause, he answered, “No…though I wish matters had turned out differently.” He looked away from her and blinked away moisture before returning his gaze. “I care about you, but…I wish I hadn’t caused my mother’s death.” She sucked in a shocked breath. “Edgar—” “Everyone blamed me. Please don’t deny it.”
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She clapped her hands to her mouth and let Kier handle the situation. He knelt by the boy’s side. “Lad, women die in childbirth all too often. My own mam died bearing me. Ye shouldnae feel bad about that. Isnae your fault! It happens.” Edgar bit his lip. Lydia remembered what Moira had said, long weeks ago on the parapet. “I know what happened to his mother,” Lydia had said. “She died in childbirth.” “Did she now?” Moira had answered, her laugh high, shrill…witchlike. Lydia wondered if she should pursue the question and quickly decided against it. Moira had been pure deceit and evil. She would have mouthed any lie to tempt Lydia into the tower or to drive a wedge between Lydia and Kier. She came back to herself to see Kier ruffle Edgar’s hair. “Your guilt is profitless,” Kieran said. “Matters are…as they are.” “Aye, and I cannot complain.” Kier grinned down at the girls by the hearth and gave the boy a little shove. “Now go and enjoy yourself.” Lydia tugged on Kier’s sleeve, turning him. “He behaves as though flirting with the girls is his duty.” “He’s young yet.” Kier continued to smile. Most of the clan had gathered for the evening meal, though guards still watched from the highest wall-walk and patrolled the perimeter. Owain and Kendrick weren’t present. Along with a company of two score Kilborn soldiers, they escorted the remains of the Gwynn forces off Kilborn lands. Fenella, Grizel and the rest of the castle servants had worked hard to find places for the displaced clanspeople. Niall and his family remained abovestairs, and old Mhairi said that the fisherman would heal in time. Between Niall and Rose, the elderly Mhairi had been run ragged. But now Rose sat with Dirk, cuddling their baby, named Victor in honor of the day.
***** Later, after they’d had their bath, Kier sprawled naked on their bed and patted a spot beside him. She hung back. He smiled at her. “Ye were fair magnificent today.” “I?” She remembered her husband, gleaming in the sun, seated on his golden charger, the moment she’d realized he was wholly human. An extraordinary man, yes. But a man, not a monster. “You faced down a mob backed by only six men and a boy. And you kept your temper admirably.” Sitting up, he raised a dark brow. “Were ye afeared that I’d take Laird Hamish’s head and drink his blood?” She hesitated. “Frankly, yes.” “It never crossed my mind.”
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“It didn’t really cross your mind, um…before. With the MacReiver.” “Aye. Then I just…did it. I dinnae ken the difference, but today I had the chance to wait, and watch, and think. I could see that the attack was ill-planned and poorly executed.” He sniffed, his upper lip curling. “Hamish Gwynn should stick to prayer. He’s no warrior.” “We are lucky he is so incompetent.” She sat near him. “Aye, matters would have turned out differently had I torn off Hamish Gwynn’s head.” He grinned. “I felt ’twas best to control my baser impulses.” “I’m not sure we should jest about it.” She bent her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “Some things are so terrible that only a jest will rob them of their power.” “P’raps. But truly I am happy you controlled yourself.” “I had a chance to consider matters calmly. ’Tis a better way, I think. Now we still have an ally, but one who owes us tribute.” “How much?” “I dinnae ken, yet. We will need timber, I believe, quite a lot of it to rebuild the huts. I dinnae want to cut our forests. The Gwynn can provide that, and the labor also.” He stretched out a hand toward her. “But enough about clan business. Kylyrra, ye were so brave and so beautiful. So beautiful it hurt my heart to look at ye. I still cannae believe ye’re mine.” His voice had dropped to a husky, seductive whisper. She managed to curve her lips in a smile but said, “Husband, we must talk.” He raised a brow and couldn’t stop an expression of exasperation from crossing his face. “Milady, cannae we just enjoy a tup? For we emerged from battle victorious today.” “A battle that should not have been necessary.” “Aye. Hamish Gwynn should have kenned better.” His voice was impish but his manner uneasy. She sat next to him but didn’t touch his thigh, strong and muscular, so tempting and near. “In many rumors, there is a kernel of truth. Husband, I must know. What are vampires?” He sighed while closing his eyes, as though gathering his thoughts…p’raps deciding how to censor his words? “Everything,” she said. “The truth. All of it. Don’t force me to go back to that priest and his numb-witted half-truths.” He opened his lids and glared at her. “Ye spoke of us to the priest?” Bloody hell. She shouldn’t have told him that. “I asked about the strange manner of Euan’s death, since neither you nor Dugald cared to tell me the truth!” “Ye may have been a part of the attack on us, do ye ken? What did the priest tell ye?”
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“A load of what you would call superstitious twaddle. About bats and rats. An inability to tolerate sunlight and, er…garlic.” He huffed. “He also said vampires drink blood, are unnaturally strong and prefer the night. Rather like you. That they are neither alive nor dead, but in a state he called undead, that their flesh is strangely cool to the touch because of that. Like yours. That they have midnight-black hair and eyes, like yours.” “But not like Sir Gareth’s.” “True. The priest said also that vampires can be killed by stabbing through the heart, beheading or burning, and to be safe, all three should be employed.” She wondered why she was telling her husband all this, certain she was earning herself another whipping. “Aye. ’Twas chance that the Butcher Cumberland made certain that every wounded Scot was stabbed through the body and then the corpses were burned.” “So there’s no chance he knew? That he planned to make sure your father and brother were dead?” “I dinnae believe so.” He sighed. “So. Is the priest’s talk why ye’ve been watching me like a mother bear with her cub these last few weeks?” She nodded. “’Twasn’t ’til today I was sure, because there’s rarely any sunlight around here.” He laughed. “And I was reasonably certain you’re human. You enjoy Fenella’s garlicky sausage far too much to make a good vampire.” “And a bat’s wings would look stupid on me. We’re an unusual clan, I’ll grant ye that. The first Kilborn, the Viking we spoke of at Kilbirnie, we believe he was the one who brought the odd strain into our blood.” “Ah.” “He came from the far north, and ’twas said that his flesh was as cold as those icy climes. He needed hot blood to stay alive, and he was a terrifying warrior.” She nodded. “I should have known, should have guessed that there was a kernel of truth in the priest’s maunderings. Keep talking.” “What more is there for you to ken?” “I ken that if ye had been plain-spoken from the beginning, many events wouldnae have happened. Many men wouldnae have died.” She stopped. When had she started to adopt a Highland accent? Bloody hell. She would not lose herself. She pressed on. “The truth. All of it.” His jaw tightened. “All right. We’ll deal with the other later.” He sent her a glance charged with steel.
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“Fine,” she snapped. Punishment she could bear, even enjoy. But she needed the truth. “Talk, milaird.” He sighed. “Our clan started many centuries ago, and some fools believe that we are still a tribe of baobhan sith.” “Bava…what?” “Baobhan sith. Fae creatures, beautiful women who drink blood and wear green. Or white. It depends upon who is telling the tale.” “What?” She couldn’t stop her stare of disbelief. “Lydia, do ye not ken?” His voice rose with frustration. “’Tis madness to try to find even a kernel of truth in these tales.” “I know that Sir Gareth was—is—was unnaturally long-lived. And he drank blood. Same with Euan. And what about you?” “Kylyrra, I assure you, I have but thirty years and plan to p’raps live only thirty more.” “What if you’re wrong?” she whispered. “You drink blood and your skin is cool. What if you turn into the mad old creature in the tower?” Her voice broke. He gathered her into his arms. “Nay, nay, love, it won’t happen. I promise.” “How can you promise such a thing?” “My mam was a Cameron. I believe that my brother had more of the tendency than I, because his ma was a Kilborn. Not a long-lived blood drinker—she died of natural causes in her fiftieth year—but a Kilborn.” “Ah. So the strain was…is diluted in your blood.” “Aye. And remember, there are no such creatures as baobhan sith or vampires, at least not as the priest would have it.” His voice was firm. “Ye heard Edgar, did ye not?” “A ten-year-old is not an authority. There was—is—was something beyond odd about Sir Gareth.” He nodded. “Aye. I can admit to that. He is driven to drink blood, more so than am I. He needs it to survive. He is—was—unnaturally auld and quite mad because of it, and I daily pray that I will be spared his fate. But Euan was auld, also, but not mad. At all.” “That’s true.” “I did tell ye that we were an unusually long-lived family.” “I thought you meant that p’raps there were an unusual number of folk who were, mayhap, sixty or seventy years old, not…not over one hundred!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Call us vampires if ye will, but I am tellin’ ye that we dinnae turn into bats or rats. And, by the by, none of us is afeared of the sunlight.” “Yes, I saw that today. But what Sir Gareth did—” “Edgar was right. For such a small lad, he has much wisdom.”
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She shook her head. “Euan’s death didn’t drive Sir Gareth into insanity. He was mad long before Euan died.” “Aye, that is so. He lived too long, do ye ken? I think that brought the madness. But Euan was important to my grandda.” Kier sighed. “In some ways, Euan was Gareth’s last tether to civilization. I’m sorry my grandda’s gone, and yet…not.” “He brought a lot of trouble,” she said darkly. “Aye, he did. The attack this day was his fault, I ken. And due to other…factors.” He stroked her bottom. Though his touch felt good, her thoughts continued to spin and twirl. “What if one of our children is a vampire?” “Still with that word.” He squeezed her rear, then let go. “All right, then. With luck, our bairns will be normal children. The vampire strain—if ye insist upon calling it that—is weak. We have few bairns, and in each generation, p’raps only one so longlived. And now ye’re marrying in, which will make it less likely that any of our children will be affected.” “Did you think about it before we married?” “Of course. I didnae tell ye, but it was a good reason to marry ye.” “You don’t want—” “Nay, never. I’m satisfied to be a mortal man. Your mortal man. Centuries of life without ye by my side? ’Twould drive me mad e’en without the Kilborn curse.” “When will we know about the children?” “We may never know. One could turn after we die. Worse, one could lose control and kill us before we ken she or he’s turned.” Lydia shuddered. “We can’t allow this to happen again.” “This—what? What do ye mean?” “Think about all the trouble that Sir Gareth caused. Everything was linked, don’t you see? I was forbidden to enter the tower because of him. I was tempted, and she who tempted me was punished. She went to the MacReivers, who killed Euan. In retribution, Gareth destroyed their clan. Because of what he did, and because we’d lost Euan and were seen as weakened, we were attacked. How many men died today?” “Most were mercenaries who chose their fate.” “I realize that, but our clan was lucky today. If Ian hadn’t been able to get Niall back quickly he would have died. Many would have died, because the crofters would have been outside the castle walls when the Gwynns came. Owain and Kendrick did well defending us today, but the Gwynns could have burned the huts with the women and children inside them.” “Aye, that is so.” His dark gaze was somber. “We can’t allow this to happen again. Milaird, we must ask the clanspeople to take a vow to stamp out the unnatural strain.”
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“A vow?” “Yes. No one in the clan can intermarry. We have to bring in new blood from outside.” He stroked his chin. “Aye, that can be done. Announcing the betrothal of our firstborn daughter to Edgar is a good start. We lead the way, do ye ken?” He reached for her and nuzzled her hair. “I also want—” “What more do ye want?” His voice rose with exasperation. “Have ye not done enough?” She jerked upright and shot him a hard, level stare. “Are you still blaming me for the attack, after all we’ve talked about?” “Lydia, have ye no idea of my feelings when ye rode out of the castle into that mob this afternoon? Were ye thinking at all?” “I was thinking of the clan!” “One stray arrow, one feckless, foolish MacLayne with a blade, and ye would have been dead. What do ye think would have happened then?” She was silent, trying to think. “Did ye not ken that if matters had gone wrong, there would have been a bloodbath?” He jumped off the bed and began to pace. “You mean you would have ripped off someone’s head and drank his blood?” “Every Kilborn there would have done that to avenge ye!” Outraged, she stood to face him. “I did what I thought was right, and I was right. Can’t you admit it?” “We were lucky. Lucky. But ye cannae do that again, do ye ken, Lydia?” He reached for his belt. “Don’t,” she snapped, steel in her voice. “Just don’t.” “Ye ken I’m within my rights as your laird?” “I know. But that isn’t the point. You never forbade me—” “Ye should have kenned! What are ye, a bluidy fool? Only an idiot of a woman rides into a battle.” “What did you just call me?” She clenched her teeth and controlled her temper, striving to keep a reasonable tone. “I saw that we had the situation under control. And what I told them worked! Hamish Gwynn and his forces surrendered completely.” “Hamish Gwynn surrendered because he had no choice.” “He was probably worried that you’d rip his head off.” A grim smile crossed Kier’s face. “Aye, that he was.” Lydia went to her side of their bed and got underneath the covers. “I’m going to sleep. My baby and I need rest.” She rolled over and presented her back to him.
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“Oh,” he said, sounding a little lost. She hardened her heart. She’d done right that day and deserved more credit. After he snuffed the candles, they lay together in the darkness, not touching. Once Kier reached a hesitant hand toward her, then dropped it. He spooned himself against her back. Draping an arm over her, he kissed the nape of her neck. She didn’t move.
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Chapter Twenty-Eight Two days later, a drenching rain extinguished the last smoking embers in the cottages and the old keep. When the clouds lifted, they left an appalling stench. Nevertheless, the clanspeople dressed in their oldest clothes and picked through the wreckage of the crofters’ huts, looking for salvageable bricks, other building material and p’raps a trinket or two that had survived the fires. Kier and a few guards climbed with caution through the fallen timbers of the Dark Tower, with Lydia looking on. “I still think I can do this also,” she grumbled. He returned to where she stood on the beach, standing close to her. “’Tis too dangerous for you and the babe. I forbid it. Do ye think to tempt me once again?” A nip on her ear drew moist heat between her legs, which she ignored. She was still furious with Kieran. I should have known, I should have known, I should have known, sang through her head like a child’s roundelay. But so much had happened in so short a time. Six months before she had never heard the name Kilborn or the word vampire. “Temptation indeed,” she said coolly. “Have a care, sir.” “Sir?” He raised a brow. “I suppose I should be grateful that you’re talking to me at least.” “Yes, you should,” she said without looking at him. His lips tightened. “Well, if ye wish to see what is in the auld keep, ye may. Just be careful, and put a hanky over your nose.” Holding her hand, he led her into the sea caves and up a rough corridor. She noticed a crude staircase carved into the cliff, but Kier took her along an easier though longer route, passing twisted, burned remains of metal gates hanging off holes in the cliff. Oubliettes. She shivered. In the largest one, two burned bodies remained, surrounded by fallen timbers which themselves had been eaten away by fire. One corpse hung from manacles from the stone wall, body twisted in agony. Lydia thought she smelled burned hair and flesh, though the white skin seemed untouched. Detaching her hand from Kier’s, she went closer and hesitantly peered at the ravaged face. “Moira?” she breathed. “Aye, I believe so. He had them imprisoned here.” “Them?” Kier pointed. A second body hung from a nearby wall by only one arm. “Make the acquaintance of the late Seamas MacReiver.”
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She shook her head dumbly. Now she understood Gareth’s last and most eerie singsong. “Moira’s dead, bad Moira’s dead.” “He knew,” she whispered. “He knew they were responsible for Euan’s death. He didn’t kill them quickly, but brought them here to torture them.” “Aye, and when he fired the tower, they died. From breathing the smoke, I reckon.” “Not him.” Belly clenching, she approached the remains of Seamas MacReiver and pointed. “He lacks an arm.” “Och, aye, it looks like the auld vamp became a mite…enthusiastic.” She swung around to face him. He shrugged his shoulders. “It is what it is, do ye ken? And he is what he is. Or was. We just have to hope that the vow will change the clan.” “We must do more.” “What would ye have me do, kylyrra?” “P’raps a new motto. Blood for the clan…” She shook her head. “It won’t do. Even a new name. Vampires are killed by burning, are they not?” “Aye. P’raps we should be the Kilburns, and our motto be something about fire.” “Fire our friend and blood our bond. Something like that.” He raised his brows, looking surprised. “You have an unexpected talent as a wordsmith, kylyrra.” She tried not to preen, without success. “How do you think the clan will react?” “I am the laird,” he said, arrogance infusing his voice. “They will adopt the changes, especially if we explain their importance. They have lost their homes, ye ken? If I explain the connection to Sir Gareth, they will accept it.” He led her back out to the cove and she breathed easier. There was a fresh breeze off the sea and she filled her lungs, grateful that she could do so. She was reminded of Moira and the way the treacherous creature had died by suffocation. But try as she might, Lydia didn’t have enough grace in her soul to think, Poor Moira. Poor Fenella. “Fenella didn’t deserve the kind of grief her daughter gave her,” Lydia said. “Will there be a funeral for Moira?” Kier’s lips pursed. After a pause, he said, “Aye, I think we must. For her mother, though, and not for the bitch herself.” “Kieran!” “What would ye have me say about her? Dear, sweet Moira came to a bad end?” He huffed. “She’s always been a trial to us.” “So I’ve been told.” “A quiet, small ceremony will suffice. And soon, so the clan can put these unpleasant episodes behind us.” “Will we rebuild the keep?”
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“I dinnae ken. ’Tis a new age, Lydia.” He gazed up at the ruins of the old keep. “’Tis likely that we just withstood the last siege of Kilborn Castle and won the last battle our clan will fight.” As they stood on the beach, guards stacked the reclaimable wood in one of the largest sea caves, above the tide line. “Those beams seem to be quite damaged,” she said, pointing. “Aye. We cannae use any as supports. But as siding or decoration, p’raps. If we sand them down, get the charred bits off, these could be quite attractive.” He kicked a nearby timber. Nearby, workers had lashed some of the burned wood into a makeshift raft. While Lydia watched, bodies were carried out of the wreckage and laid upon it. She guessed that the corpses would be sent to sea aflame, as was Kilborn—er, Kilburn—custom. “Milaird!” A cry came from deep within the maze of burned boards and planks. Kendrick picked his way toward them, waving what looked like a book. “Ah, his journal.” Kieran took the leather-bound volume. The battered diary looked much the worse for wear. Salt-stained and partially singed, but readable, Lydia discovered as Kier opened it and turned the pages. “Here, milady, ye’ll be interested in this.” He handed it to her. “This is Sir Gareth’s writing?” “Aye, I believe I recognize his hand. Come, let’s sit and have a good look at it.” He was trying to make amends, she realized, in his clumsy male way. Given that she could understand his viewpoint, she accepted the gesture. She went to sit with him on the lowest of the cliffside steps, which seemed drier than anything else on the beach. The first entries dated from a century before, when Gareth had impersonated his monarch. They told of his adventures. “Good heavens,” she murmured. “This is fascinating. We must preserve it forever.” He read over her shoulder as she turned the pages, some darkened by age, others by the burning. “It will be a treasure of our clan. Ah, look at this.” He pointed to an entry dated November, 1740. Our clan is surrounded by mystery and myth. Some believe we fly or change into beasts, as though we could sprout wings and soar with eagles. Foolishness. But our strength is found in blood. Human blood alone can provide our long lives, our strength, our powers p’raps. We do not sleep but are ever-vigilant, like sharks in the sea. We breed rarely and our women do not give birth to our kind with ease. Many die, whether Kilborn or from another clan… A chill passed through her but she said, “I thought I saw Gareth fly during the battle. He was atop the keep, which was burning, and he seemed to fly across the cove and into the ocean.” 226
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Kier shrugged. “I dinnae ken. Mayhap his clothes caught a chance bit of breeze. And ’tisn’t far from the tower to the sea.” “Yes, the beach is narrow, but…hmm. He doesn’t clearly say that vampires are faster or stronger than humans, but I’ve seen you do things that other men cannot.” “Like tear off the head of my enemy?” His voice was wry. “I reckon that strength and speed are the legacy of my oversized Viking ancestors rather than an unnatural ability.” “P’raps.” She turned the pages, lost in thought. That the Kilborns didn’t breed easily worried her. Rubbing her belly, she prayed that Kier took after his Cameron mother.
***** Sunset came and bonfires were lit on the beach. Lydia and Kieran flanked Fenella as Moira’s body, wrapped in a shepherd’s plaidie, was set upon a bier. Kier had offered a swatch of Kilborn tartan to cover her, believing that despite her treachery she was still a Kilborn, but Fenella had refused. “She was a traitor to our clan and caused us grievous harm,” she’d said. Now Fenella stepped forward and picked up a flaming branch. She touched it to her daughter’s funeral pyre. Kieran helped her to push the burning raft out to sea and held her elbow as they returned to the shore. As they watched it smolder, he kept an arm around her shaking shoulders. Nearby, somber clanspeople lit the other, larger biers bearing their fallen enemies and sent them into the western sea. “With more honor than they showed when they lived,” murmured Lydia to herself. While the night fell, the Kilburns silently watched the pyres dotting the darkening ocean before returning to their stronghold.
***** Lydia was awoken by a draft of air flowing through the bed’s curtains. Kier was gone. She rose, donned her robe and went to find him. High on the battlements, facing the ocean, a fingernail moon dropped toward the western horizon. Kier was silhouetted by a pinkish dawn in the east, glowing softly from the other side of the castle. Something clutched at her heart. After a moment of indecision, she knew it for what it was. Had she ever told him? He’d told her many times, without hesitation. She admired that courage, but had never taken that final step. Was this hesitation the legacy of her first marriage? And did Kieran deserve that? Taking a deep breath, she finally cast away William’s dead specter.
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Kieran turned. “Why, kylyrra. Ye’ve come to join me. Ye’re yet full of surprises.” His voice was merry but his eyes held sadness in their midnight depths. He set his lips to her forehead, her cheek, then kissed her mouth before he sighed. “I’m rough and brutal. I’ve taken ye to live at the end of the world in a drafty castle without heat, decent lighting or modern plumbing. Ye’ve seen battle and blood, been threatened by the family monster… ’Twas wrong of me to bring ye here. Say the word and I’ll take ye to your home in Surrey.” She stared at him, finally allowing her heart to open wide and embrace him. “You give me everything. You give to everyone, every day. How could you think that I’d want to leave? How do you put up with me? I’m such a fool.” Tears filled her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. He touched them with a gentle finger, drawing them from her. “Och, p’raps so, but my fool. And I’m yours.” “I love you, Kier. Always.” He smiled. “At last,” he said. “You’d been waiting? You never said—” “The words had to come from ye as freely as I gave them.” “I understand,” she whispered.
***** When Dugald visited the castle to get the latest news and some more supplies, he heard of the vow that his laird and lady had demanded of the clan. He said naught, but raised his brows and chuckled before going to the kitchen to fetch ale for his uncle. Sir Gareth now lived concealed in the Laird’s Tower, tucked snugly into Dugald’s old room.
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Epilogue 1759 “Pay up,” Dugald Kilburn told his laird. Kieran scowled and fumbled in his sporran, reluctantly withdrawing a silver piece. “I was sure there’d be another boy,” he grumbled. “After two? Nay, ’twas time for a little girl, a baby sister for Isobel.” Both peeked into the solar, where Lady Lydia sat in a window embrasure, nursing the newborn Marian. “Are ye disappointed?” Dugald asked. Kier grinned and cuffed Dugald’s shoulder. “About losing to you? Aye. About another baby daughter? Never.” His smile broadened as he walked into the room. Marian’s sleepy mouth fell away from Lydia’s breast. After her fourth lying-in, his wife was as radiant as ever. But while he scrutinized her, she stood, moving slowly. He jumped forward. “Let me take the bairn.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you.” He took Marian, careful to cradle her small, soft head in his big palm, supporting her tiny body with his other hand. “So wee and delicate,” he breathed, careful not to awaken the slumbering bairn. He carried her across the hall to their bedroom and set her in her cradle. Lydia cuddled close to his side, a warm, beloved weight as they regarded their sleeping child. His life, his wife and his children were everything he’d ever wanted.
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About the Author An award-winning, best-selling traditional romance novelist, Suz deMello uses a pseudonym to protect her privacy. But if you’re a romance fan, you’ve probably read her books or have heard of her. She’s known for layered, compelling novels charged with humor as well as emotion. Of her journey to the steamier side of writing, Suz says, “I love writing traditional romances, but after several years in the same mode, I felt that I really needed to cut loose as a creative artist and write hot, sexy books that reflect the wilder side of being human.” Suz’s books are fast-paced with seductive situations, complicated characters and a whole lot of kink! Suz welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Suz deMello First and Last Phoenix and Dragon Seducing the Hermit The Wilder Brother
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Temptation in Tartan ISBN 9781419937958 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Temptation in Tartan Copyright © 2012 Suz deMello Edited by Rebecca Hill Cover art by Caitlyn Fry Photos: Donskaya Olga, Carlos Caetano and NemesisINC/shutterstock.com Electronic book publication June 2012 The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book. The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for, author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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