by Suz deMello
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.”
“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?
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.”
“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 soft-skinned 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.
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 com
fortable 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.”
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.
“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 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 uprigh
t, 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.
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.