by Suz deMello
Isobel had shocked him to the soul when she’d bitten his tongue and sucked his blood. He had hoped that she hadn’t inherited her wild ancestors’ vampiric tendencies. As far as he knew, Kieran wasn’t a vampire, nor was his Sassenach wife, Lady Lydia. From what Edgar had heard, Kier’s mother had been ordinary except for her Cameron clan connections.
But if the rumors were true, Isobel’s grandfather had been a prisoner of the dark thirst. Her great-grandfather, the fearsome vamp Sir Gareth, had without a doubt been a monster. Edgar had seen that for himself. No fae baobhan-sith, though, but a far more deadly creature.
And as for Dugald, no one knew for certain and Dugald himself wasn’t saying. P’raps Kier knew. But Dugald’s status really wasn’t important, was it? He was of the laird’s generation or even older.
Edgar ceased woolgathering when he saw Lady Lydia waiting for them at the castle gate. She had a letter in her hand and a smile on her face.
* * * * *
“Edinburgh, eh?” Kieran stroked his chin before sipping tea from a china cup.
The afternoon sun slanted through the arrow slits in the solar. The large, open room, opposite Laird and Lady Kilburn’s bedroom, was the family gathering place. ‘Twas full of light, toys and children almost all the time.
At teatime, Isobel’s younger brothers, Ranald and Carrick, sat at a table set along one of the walls, struggling with their lessons, their pens scratching busily in their copybooks. They were watched over by Mistress Alice, Uncle Dugald’s wife and their governess. She held a babe in her arms and a smile on her thin, pretty face.
Isobel guessed that the boys wanted to finish quickly so they could join the others, for everyone else was settling down for their tea, including Isobel’s younger sister Marian and Alice’s older child, six-year-old Euan. Isobel knew her uncle Dugald was out on patrol.
She swished her blue kerseymere skirt around her ankles as she sat, holding her back straight the way she’d been taught, hoping that nothing that she and Edgar had done together showed on her face or in her demeanor. Fortunately her bottom no longer stung from his slaps, but her quim twitched with an unfamiliar liveliness. She told herself not to squirm against her seat.
“Yes, Edinburgh, for the season,” Isobel’s mother said. Lady Lydia poured another cup and offered it to Edgar. “Jeannie Kilbirnie is coming out and the Kilbirnies have been kind enough to invite our Isobel to share her season.”
Marian bounced up and down on the padded settle. “May I come also, Mamma? May I?”
Mamma smiled at Marian while Isobel snorted inwardly. The moon would fall into the sea before a seven-year-old would be allowed to attend a ball in Edinburgh. “In time, child.” Mamma handed Marian a mug of warmed milk.
“Doona fash yerself, little one,” their father said. “Ye’ll have yer season, too.”
“So I’m going?” Isobel glanced at Edgar. “Why?”
“That’s a fair question.” Edgar set down his teacup and stared at Kieran.
Kier laughed. “Doona worry, mon. I’ll not break me word.”
Edgar relaxed as much as the stiff-rumped fellow could. Clad again in a blue jacket, his white linen and black trews immaculate, he was every inch the gracious laird, a far cry from the passionate man who’d kissed her so thoroughly, pinched her breast, swatted her bare bottom and played with her quim. That he’d constantly remained in control annoyed her to no end.
After what had happened between them, had he truly been worried that she’d wed another? Hmm…
“Isobel deserves a little fun and gaiety before settling into married life.” Lydia said. “And she needs a little town polish.”
“Town polish? What’s that?” Marian asked.
“Refinement. Isobel will need the skills she can learn in society.” Lydia smiled at Isobel and handed her a cup of tea. Her mother knew that Isobel liked hers to be poured last. The tea was stronger for having steeped a little longer.
She sniffed the brew to hide her nervousness. “What skills are they?”
“Ye’ll be expected to preside over yer laird’s table.” Kier nodded at Edgar. “To make the castle welcoming and home-like, not just for yer family but for whatever travelers who may visit.”
“You must be a gracious hostess as well as a competent chatelaine,” Lydia said. “Being a laird’s lady requires a multitude of talents. You already know how to ride, hunt and shoot. You can read and speak English, French and Latin, and know your numbers. But you must learn how to go about in society and to behave with the grace and calm befitting your role as Edgar’s wife.”
Edgar leaned toward her. She straightened in her chair, willing herself to avoid breathing in his scent, which would surely evoke the memory of what they’d done that day. But how could she forget the shocking liberties he’d taken with her person and the even more shocking manner with which she’d reacted?
“Grace and calm,” he said. “Do you think you can master grace and calm?”
* * * * *
In need of counsel, Isobel climbed the stairs in search of her most venerable relative. One floor above, she shoved open the door of an unused storeroom. The auld fellow who lived in there had few pleasures, the poor dear, and seemed to enjoy her visits. And she appreciated his advice, which, alas, came only on those days when he was lucid. At other times, he drowsed in his bed or spoke strangely, frightening her.
She hoped that this would be one of her great-grandda’s good days.
She opened a standing wardrobe, part of a huge wooden edifice which stretched the length of the back wall. She shoved old clothes to the right and, tugging her sgian dhu from her boot, slid the blade into and along the crack in the left side. The wood squealed and parted to reveal a small room furnished simply with but a small bed and a dresser on which sat a mirror, a bowl and a ewer. One chair, set before the dresser, with a hat perched jauntily on its spindled back.
However, the room bore signs that its inhabitant was regarded with respect or even affection. The flowered china bowl and ewer were clean and uncracked. If asked, Isobel would have wagered that the water in the pitcher was fresh. The bed linens were clean and the chair’s cushion was new, unfaded.
Her great-grandda sat, as he often did, in the window seat with one of his pugs on his lap. He absent-mindedly fondled the dog’s ears while another curled at his feet, asleep. The napping pug bore a healing gash on its flank.
She looked away, lips pressed together. She’d oft urged the auld gentleman to take human food, p’raps porridge or a nice venison steak, but he refused, stating, “At my advanced age, my dear, only the blood will nourish me.”
He raised his head. White hair, worn long and wavy to his shoulders, still thinly covered his pate. Every little bit of his pale, aged skin wrinkled when he smiled. His teeth were still good, which was a wonder. They’d have to be, she thought acidly.
“Good morrow, young Isobel. And what troubles you this eve?”
“How did ye ken—”
“It requires no strange magic to look into the mind of a maid when she wears a frown.”
She rearranged her face into a smile. “It’s just that…I’m to go to Edinburgh.”
“For the season? Ah.” Her great-grandda closed heavy lids and raised his head as if remembering. “Not London, but great fun, Edinburgh.”
She kicked moodily at one of his bedposts. “I’m to learn social skills. Grace and calm.”
Sir Gareth smiled. “And tomboy Isobel doesn’t wish to submit to the expectations of the world. Are you afraid?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she snapped.
He raised his brows.
“Sorry, sir,” she muttered, scraping the toe of her boot along a crack in the wooden floor.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment of her apology. “I think mayhap you fear that you will fail.”
“P’raps.” She sighed. “It seems daft. I’m to be married to Laird Edgar, so why would I need to go to silly dances and wear uncomfortable clothes?
”
“Because a laird’s lady should wear beautiful gowns and know how to dance and mix in society. ‘Tis fitting.”
She ran her finger along the curled feather adorning his hat. “I should have known you’d take their part.”
“Of course. But what else troubles you? You can’t be quelled by the prospect of attending a few parties. It’s easy. I’ll teach you to dance if you’d like. And when the young bucks flirt with you, all you need do is laugh at their jokes. You’re pretty enough, so you’ll be courted, despite Laird Edgar.”
“I’m pretty?” She wandered over to the mirror.
“Aye. You have the Kilborn looks. Dark and mysterious, and with perfect skin like your mother’s.”
“Umm.” She shoved hair out of her face and looked harder. “I ken that I am as pretty as any other girl.”
“Hasn’t Laird Edgar told you you’re beautiful? He’s the man who should be paying court to you.”
“He doesna court me. He behaves as though he owns me.” She tapped her fingers on the dresser.
“He does.”
She kept her face turned away from him. “But…how far does that…umm…go?”
“Ah. Lass, you need not tell me more. But do remember that a man will not buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.”
“We’re betrothed!”
Sir Gareth remained calm. “As I remember the matter, young Kieran offered your hand in exchange for peace. Peace was had, yes, but there were few MacReivers left to make war. The Kilburns are bound but mayhap Laird Edgar is not.”
She swayed and abruptly sat on the bed. “That didna occur to me.” Her cheeks burned.
Sir Gareth shrugged. “So going to Edinburgh is best, after all.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. P’raps ye’re right.”
“Of course I am,” he said airily. “Lass, you have the blood of vampire warriors in your veins. You’re a fighter. You can kill. A ball is no challenge to a woman such as you.”
She sat up straighter.
“Have you taken the blood yet?” he asked.
She nodded. “It, umm, really surprised Edgar.”
The auld gentleman roared with laughter, the most energetic reaction she’d ever seen from him. “Have a care, lassie. You’re fierce, but you’re a woman. Your tendencies are at battle.”
She gave him a quizzical stare, and he looked at her with…what? Pity?
He said, “On the one hand, you ride, hunt and shoot. You take the blood like a true Kilburn. On the other, your heart seeks the shelter of your man’s arms, his strength to protect you and your bairns. Unless you reconcile your two souls, you will never be happy.”
“‘Tis a puzzle.”
“But you know someone who has solved it.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
“Mamma has no Viking blood. She’s surely no vampire.”
“Nay, but she’s the daughter of warriors. The Swanns long served the Crown as soldiers.”
“True.” Isobel paced.
“You must become a whole person, child. None of us can happily live divided.”
Chapter Two
Kilbirnie House, Edinburgh
One month later
“Milaird, I had not thought to see ye again so soon.” Isobel waved her fan, then lifted it to briefly cover her eyes. When she lowered the fan, she fluttered her lashes at her swain. Jeannie Kilbirnie, an incurable flirt, had taught her this particular game, and Isobel delighted in it.
The object of her attention gave her a rakish grin and bowed. “Milady, I canna stay more than a few minutes from yer side. Like a tree lacking water, I shrivel and die outside yer presence.”
From her seat, she swept her gaze up and down Geordie McHenry’s elegantly clad person. Chestnut-haired Geordie wore green that matched his eyes over gold smallclothes. A tasteful sprinkling of emeralds completed his ensemble. Even better, he owned a fine spread of property across from the Isle of Arran.
Isobel allowed her glance to linger on the gentleman’s torso. Even she didna dare to look lower. “But we are now together. May I assume that your parts are no longer shriveled?”
His eyes twinkled. “Not at all, milady.”
“Full, firm and fine all over, are ye, sir?”
“Och, aye, so much that I court embarrassment.”
“Well, we canna have that.” She stood, sweeping her rose silk skirts behind her. She’d previously disdained the color as missish, but now, with the emphasis on appearance so paramount, she wore it often. She had noticed that the tint drew out whatever pink she might have in her otherwise pale cheeks.
She closed her fan and let it drop. It swung on the cord that bound it to her wrist. “P’raps some refreshment would cool ye.”
He offered his arm and together they went to the drinks table. Then they danced before another young laird, Gerald MacMahon, claimed Isobel’s hand. He was an Irishman, and though Isobel liked his dark hair and blue eyes, she kept her heart remote while she smiled and flirted.
All was for naught. She belonged to another man, and everyone knew it. Without stakes, the game was rather less interesting, though she did attract her share of attention from men who were not truly marriage minded. That was handy. She saw herself as another way by which her cousin Jeannie could choose between her numerous admirers. A man so inconstant as to pay court to the both of them wouldna be a good prospect for Jeannie.
Jamie Kilbirnie sidled to Isobel’s side with a glass of champagne and handed it to her. “What do ye think of that one?” He lifted his chin in the direction of Gerald MacMahon.
“He’s an earl, which is nice, I trow, but…”
“What?”
“He’s kind enough, but Eire is a land sore beset by war and famine.”
“Aye.” Jamie nodded, speaking in a low tone. “I know yer mam is a Sassenach, but they’re ever trying to take what isna theirs. They’ve subdued Scotland and are now trying to take Ireland for good.”
“Or for evil,” Isobel said. “My mother knows this. She’s no fool.”
The musicians and dancers skipped a beat. The crowd in the room seemed to ripple, like a sudden wave spreading over a pond, with the disturbance coming from the ballroom’s main door.
He was here. She knew he’d come by the startling tension in her body, the fluttering of her quim. Every cell sensed her man.
He’d eschewed a wig and had ignored the fashion of a powdered coiffure. Light gleamed on his golden hair as he advanced into the room, the throng parting for him like water flowing around a rock. Clad in gold and white, he radiated power like the sun.
Her heart hammered against her ribs and she sought to control her breathing.
Beside her, Jamie looked down. “So that’s the way of it, aye?”
She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak with any coherence. Her body throbbed insistently, as though remembering what she and Edgar had done. She pressed her thighs together, seeking to quell the annoying beat of her secret flesh, but the heat increased.
“Och.” Jamie sighed. “I knew I never had a chance with ye.”
She cut him a glare. “Ye didna truly want to, so doona pretend.”
He laughed.
Edgar’s head swung around and he stabbed her with a steely glower.
“Yer man doesna look happy,” Jamie said.
“I doona ken why.” Isobel reclaimed her fan, fluttering it nervously.
“‘Tis me.”
Resentment flared. “I’m allowed to speak with other men.”
“Mayhap yer swain doesna think so.”
“Then he can think again.” She caught sight of her father and relaxed. “Och, Da’s here. Ye must meet. Come.”
She took Jamie’s hand and tugged at him, but Lady Lydia reached her husband first. Isobel saw the restrained energy between them, her mother’s yearning, her father’s joy, with Edgar’s poorly concealed temper rounding out the emotional stew.
She didna want to d
eal with his mood. She swayed, feigning a bout of dizziness.
Jamie looked down, concern in his eyes. “Are ye all right?”
“I…I just need some air.” She snapped her fan open, waved it.
“Come.” He led her outside.
Though no one else was on the terrace, a few other couples were enjoying the garden at night. Isobel could hear laughter, the scrape of slippers on the paths, could see bobbing lights which she guessed were candles carried by either guests or footmen.
Jamie led her to the balustrade and she sat, breathing deeply.
“I’ll get ye some refreshment.”
“Lemonade, not champagne, please.”
“Are ye tipsy, lass?” He laughed.
“Nay, just…hot.” She waved her fan.
Bending over her, Jamie pressed the back of his hand to her forehead.
At that moment, Edgar stepped onto the terrace. He sucked in a breath. So did Isobel. Time seemed to stick in its place like a bee caught in honey. The only person oblivious to the situation was Jamie.
Edgar’s shoes crunched on the pavement.
Jamie raised his head.
“Name your seconds.” Edgar’s voice was calm and even.
Jamie’s brows lifted. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“I’m the MacReiver.”
“I ken that. I also ken that my presence here isna needed.” He backed away toward the ballroom doors.
“I meant it,” Edgar said.
Isobel found her voice. “Oh, doona be a fool.”
“He had his hands on you.” Edgar strode forward and punched Jamie on the jaw.
Isobel screamed. Jamie staggered back, one hand to his chin. When he regained his footing, he hesitated for a moment. Edgar laughed at him, and Jamie doubled up his fist and drove it into Edgar’s midsection.
Edgar went down with a grunt. Jamie threw himself onto Edgar’s writhing form, and the two young men proceeded to wrestle.
Isobel jumped to her feet, both hands over her mouth, until the creak of a door opening caught her attention.
Her parents.