Temptation in Tartan

by Suz deMello

  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.

  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?

  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?”

  “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.

  “Ay
e. 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.

  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.

  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 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.”
<
br />   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.

  “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.