by Suz deMello
At last she was dressed, and the maid accompanied Lydia back to her room to attend to her coiffure. As Elsbeth piled her curls atop her head, Lydia became aware that the worms squirming in her belly had increased a hundredfold since she’d awoken.
* * * * *
The days had crawled by, occupied as they were by the endless wrangling of his solicitors and the Swan’s, but on the morn of his wedding, time seemed to compress. Kieran bathed and shaved carefully, then dressed in his customary black, unrelieved by any color. Despite his vow and the Swan’s commitment, he would not flaunt his tartan in the Sassenachs’ faces unless ’twas crucial.
Suddenly it was noon, the appointed time for the ceremony, but his bride had not arrived. Kieran paced back and forth outside the kirk, wondering at his unusual tension. Surely Lydia wouldn’t cry off! He had not mistaken her passionate response to him in the Menhardie garden. But she was a Sassenach, a breed renowned for their lack of honor and outright sneakiness.
And what if she did cry off? Would it really matter? His clan wouldn’t be as wealthy, but they didn’t fare poorly without her. They ate fish from the sea and hunted game in nearby forests. Greens and herbs were plentiful—even now he knew they were being dried and stored for the winter.
He worried his lower lip, concerned about reprisals from the red-coated Lobsterbacks. He’d sworn never to give up tartan or sword and didn’t want the lovely lassie to make a liar of him.
“Whisht, mon.” Dugald, his second-in-command, tapped Kier’s shoulder. “Ye’re wearing a track in the stone.”
Kieran stopped, laughed and blotted his brow with a handkerchief. “Ye’re right. ’Twouldn’t do for the Sassenachs to see me sweat.” He leaned against a stone buttress, letting its coolness seep through his body and calm his soul.
“Do ye think ye can protect her? From him?”
Though Dugald did not use a name, Kier had no trouble interpreting his cousin’s questions. “Aye,” he said. “Euan is safeguarding the keep. If we’re lucky, the sea will take him if he ventures out through the caves.”
“That hasn’t happened, and it’s been decades. What of yerself?” Dugald asked.
Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s in no danger from me. Yet.”
A coach bearing the Swann arms, two floating white birds with their necks entwined, drew up and came to a rattling stop. A door opened and, before a servant could help, a golden-slippered foot shot out and kicked at the steps. They opened with a clatter and Lydia thrust forth her dark head and trod on the top step.
“An eager bride,” Dugald said.
Kieran chuckled. “Probably eager to escape that dragon of a mother.”
As they walked toward the coach, Henrietta’s regal form, clad in Egyptian brown, descended after Lydia.
“’Twere me, I’d be afeared that the acorn falls not far from the oak,” Dugald remarked.
“Not Lydia. ’Tis sweet she is. The lemon blossom, not the sour fruit. ’Tis my task to ensure she stays that way.”
Even while Kier spoke, his gaze never left her. She was so beautiful that it hurt his eyes to look at her. A golden angel, but with a sensual mouth he’d been dreaming about night after night. And no celestial being had breasts like Lydia’s.
He couldn’t bear to be without her touch a moment longer, and offered her his arm. She took it with a quivering lace-gloved hand and looked up at him with great, dark, nervous eyes. He smiled, hoping he radiated strength and reassurance, for he sensed that Dugald was wrong. She was not an eager bride, but an anxious one. He guessed that because her previous union had not been happy, beneath her finery she was terrified. Not of him, but of marriage and the marriage bed.
Had she needed to see him in the last few days as much as he’d yearned for her?
* * * * *
One look into Kieran’s deep, soulful eyes, warm as a summer night, told Lydia she’d worried for naught. She was certain of her course. But she warned herself that she could be wrong. She’d been certain before and she’d been wrong before. Nevertheless, she took his arm when offered. He placed his big, brawny hand over her small one and she swayed from the force of her emotions.
“Are ye all right, lassie?” He sounded concerned.
She was grateful for this proof that he’d treat her kindly. His hand tightened and she raised her gaze again to search his face. She was struck by his uncanny male beauty, with chiseled features that no sculptor could hope to imitate. His pale skin contrasted with the slash of his brows and his midnight-black eyes, which now glowed with warmth and compassion.
He leaned down a trifle. “Dinnae worry, kylyrra,” he whispered into her ear. “We’ll be comfortable soon, I assure ye.”
How had he known of her feelings? How had she revealed her unease? She oughtn’t to show weakness in public. She straightened her back, lifted her chin and allowed him to lead her to the site of their nuptials.
The tiny chapel had been a good choice on her mother’s part. Without the attendance of family and friends, using any of the larger, more popular churches would have been frightful. Set to the side of the main kirk, the chapel, with only a tapestry depicting Christ’s birth, was in comparison cozy, comfortably holding the few attendees—Lydia’s cousin, her mother, plus Kieran’s cousin Dugald Kilborn. Kier’s cousin shared what she guessed were family traits—a tall form, dark hair and that strange, pale skin. P’raps the Highlands weren’t sunny.
The local cleric stumbled over the words of the standard Church of England ceremony, and Lydia guessed that her mother had insisted upon the ritual that was familiar to her rather than what local custom preferred. Then the fellow spoke a few words in Gaelic and asked her to do the same. She obeyed, stumbling over the unfamiliar sibilants.
She cast a frightened glance at Kieran, hoping he wasn’t angry. She hadn’t meant to mock his people…their people. But he watched her, the slight smile curving his lips the sole betrayal of his mood. His eyes twinkled reassuringly before one lid dropped, an unmistakable wink.
She completely lost the thread of what the priest had said and stopped speaking. Instead she simply stood there and stared at him, blinking in confusion.
His grin stretched wider and he picked up where she’d left off, repeating the Gaelic with calm certainty. He took her hand and placed his wrist next to hers. His skin felt cool and a little damp, as though he were sweating with nerves, but his face showed no hint of anxiety.
The cleric wrapped cloth around their wrists and their hands became even closer. Despite the tightness of the binding, Kieran turned his forearm to grasp her fingers. His hold was firm and determined.
She looked down. His hand and hers were as pale as dawn, indistinguishable in color. Where did she end and Kieran begin?
His fingers tightened and she relished that, noticing his size and strength compared to hers.
Gasps came from the onlookers and again she blinked, confused. Then she noticed that the bright swatch of fabric the cleric had twisted around their wrists was tartan. It bore two shades of blue crisscrossed by bright yellow and red stripes.
Forbidden, but Kieran had dared.
She met his eyes again and he leaned toward her to whisper in her ear. “I couldnae resist your dowry, kylyrra.”
His breath tickled her ear. Then he shifted to kiss first her forehead, then her cheek and mouth, just as he had before, giving her an extra buss on the lips. Affectionate rather than blatantly lustful, and she liked that.
Then he raised their bound hands high and kissed the back of hers. His dark eyes surveyed her with a serious regard and even a little possessive pride. “Ye’re mine, now.”
That evoked a shiver. But why? Surely her second marriage couldn’t be worse than her first.
His touch, cool but firm, both reassured and excited her. Her heart began to ease. During their wedding breakfast, which the small group ate at Henrietta’s townhouse, Lydia couldn’t avert her glance from Kieran’s lips as he ate and drank, talked and laughed, unl
ess it was to scrutinize his hands—those marvelously long-fingered, cool hands that had already given her so much. The mere sight of them brought forth smoldering memories of his caress.
She tried to shift her attention away from her tingling flesh in order to listen. He spoke of his student days in Edinburgh—Auld Reekie, he called it—and she realized that her husband was not an uncivilized Highland warrior. Far from it. He’d read economics, even traveling to Glasgow to study at the university, preparing himself to help his brother lead their clan.
While listening, she picked at her food, nervously anticipating the evening. Kieran didn’t appear to have any similar qualms. He ate with a fine appetite, devouring salmon as well as beef plus numerous removes.
At last the afternoon was over, and the few guests seen out of the door. With palms sweating in her gold-shot lace gloves, she bade her mother good-bye.
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?”
“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.
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 a-plenty, 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.”
“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.”
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��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.”
“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.