TemptationinTartan (13 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

“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 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.

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?