by Suz deMello
“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?
She closed her eyes and slid a finger inside her clenching, gripping channel, groaning as the walls oozed honey. Heat began to gather. She imagined Seamas. His hard, muscular body was nude, his cock red and rampant. Ready, with a shining droplet clinging to the tip.
She’d kneel and take it into her mouth…or would she? If she were playing the innocent, she couldn’t. Not until she invented a plausible story to explain how she knew about sucking a man’s cock.
“Oh, milaird,” she’d simper. “Look at that…thing! What shall I do?”
“Come here, lass,” he’d say, voice commanding. “On your knees.”
She’d obey. His sizable cock would bob in front of her lips, then push against them, demanding entrance.
She’d look up at Seamas through her lashes with a coy, questioning look.
“Open your mouth, lassie. I’ll do the same for ye. I promise.”
She’d do as he demanded and he’d slide between her lips. A gasp and a choke would herald her “inexperience.” But after a few minutes she’d be able to stop faking and take Seamas MacReiver into bliss, allowing him deep, swallowing around his fine cock, licking it up and down… She liked to follow the big vein that pulsed along a man’s member, then flick her tongue around the underside of its head.
She licked her lips and rubbed her bump, pleasure vibrating in tremors through her body. When her knees began to sag, she grabbed a bedpost for support but continued frigging herself, chasing the relief she knew would help her maintain her masquerade.
He’d be the one to gasp and groan, shooting his spend into her mouth. She’d gasp, slapping her hand over her mouth in mock horror, then swallow before protesting in faked shock at his boldness.
After he recovered—and being a fine young man, he’d recover quickly—he’d draw her upright and lift her, one hand digging between her buttocks. A finger would accidentally stroke her back hole and she’d gasp, exclaiming, “Milaird!”
He’d laugh. “Aye, there also, my sweetling. Your mouth, your cunny and your arse. I’ll take you everywhere I please.”
Moira groaned at the prospect.
Her fantasy continued. “But for now, just put your legs around my waist, so.” And he’d continue raising her unresisting body high until he set her atop his big cock, impaling her.
“Aaah.” She’d scream and writhe as he possessed her…
But how wide and open was her cunt? She again slipped her finger inside and clenched experimentally. Hmm. She’d claimed that Kieran Kilborn had raped her, so she could blame any looseness on that abuse.
Sh
e pumped her finger, bending her knuckle so she could brush her special spot, dreaming of how Seamas MacReiver would fill her. He’d be big, she hoped, stretching her just a little bit, giving her that sweet sting that would propel her to completion. She’d revel in the strength of his arms as he squeezed her arse, pushing in a finger to penetrate her doubly while he fucked her with long, hard strokes that reached all the way to her womb.
He’d back her against a wall, digging in deeper as she flung her legs wide to accommodate his massive length and girth. They’d come together, his seed flooding her, giving her the son that would cement her position with Clan MacReiver.
* * * * *
Seamas didn’t have much in his wardrobe worthy of the occasion, and bellowed for Dame Ellen for help. He didn’t much like the dame, but she was the nearest thing the MacReivers had to a castle chatelaine. As he’d expected, she didn’t take the news of his handfasting with good cheer.
“Isn’t this a little sudden?” She peered at him through hoary eyes.
“’Tis long overdue. Ye deserve a peaceful life, not to have to try to manage this auld castle.” Though she’d been an utter failure in that role, he wouldn’t tell her so. ’Twould be unkind.
“’Tis no problem,” she simpered.
“I’m being handfasted to Moira Cameron this eve, Dame Ellen. Fetch me proper clothing from the stores.”
“They would be in your room, milaird.”
He nodded tightly. He should have known better than to ask the old dame for help. Along with her fancy Lowland accent, she had oozed disdain from the first day she’d stepped over the threshold. Nothing was good enough for her precious daughter, certainly not anything that Clan MacReiver possessed.
Before Ellen turned to go, she said, “Be ye wary of that gel.”
“Moira Cameron?”
“I do not trust her.”
Despite his misgivings about Dame Ellen, he had to ask. “Why?”
“She says she’s from Lochaber, I hear. I don’t believe she has a Lochaber accent.”
“There’s a Lochaber accent?”
“I believe so. And besides, she’s a redhead. Redheads are not to be trusted.”
He snorted with disgust. “Superstitious twaddle!”
“You did not think there were vampires, either, did you?”
His laugh died on his lips, but he quickly recovered. “That’s different.”
“Mark my words.” And with that, the old crone retreated.
Seamas returned to his room and tapped on the door. “Moira?”
“Ah, ah…aye, milaird?” She sounded as though she was panting.
“Are ye all right?” He pushed the door open and gasped.
She was naked, standing by his bed, clutching one of the posts. Her red curls hung down her back, damp and disheveled. Her body shone, still moist from her wash, and her humid, feminine scent tickled his nostrils.
Now, he thought. He advanced into the room and reached for her. She didn’t resist, instead pinning him with her wide, green, unforgettable eyes. She had the mien of a lady, but she couldn’t conceal her inner wildness, which shone out of those eyes.
He took her lips with his. Mindful of her basic innocence and her recent hurtful experiences, he nibbled tenderly at her lips before sliding his tongue back and forth, politely asking for entry. She tacitly agreed, opening a little. He caressed the soft inner lining of her lips before venturing farther, waiting for her response. After a few seconds, she hesitantly touched her tongue to his and retreated.
He would have none of it, pursuing, still keeping his desire leashed but stating his intentions…
Will you?
A firm push against his tongue with hers. Yes. Yes, I will.
He pressed her back against the tumbled bed, pushing his body against hers, letting her feel his need pulsing hard against the soft curls at the apex of her thighs.
She gasped and squirmed and he let her go immediately. Twisting, she slapped at her backside. He enjoyed the way her arse jiggled.
“Dinnae smile,” she snapped. “Ye have bed bugs. I’ll not sleep here, Seamas MacReiver, even if we are handfasted this night.”
His head spun. He hadn’t anticipated this demand, but knew he should have. “I’ll have the sheets changed and the mattress aired.”
Moira looked calmer.
“I can see you ken there is much to be done here.” He sat on the bed. “I’ve a hope that ye’ll take us in hand.”
“’Tis true, this castle should be cleaner and better managed. I didnae want to mention it, but…”
“But since the death of my brother’s wife, the place has slid downhill,” he finished for her.
“Yes.”
“Ye’ll fix that, will ye?”
She nodded firmly. “And now for a dress, and for ye, a wash and some clean clothes.” She hastily picked a green gown and held it up to her body for him to see.
“Aye,” he said. “It matches the color of your eyes.”
He washed in the untouched ewer of water, which was still warmish, and watched while she found underclothing. Donning a chemise, she picked up a set of front-lacing stays and slipped them on before tossing the moss-colored wool over her head.
When she became tangled in the skirts, he dropped the damp cloth he was using to wash his chest and approached her, helping her with the dress. When her head emerged, he smiled at her. “Ye’ll have to bear with me until we find ye a proper lady’s maid.” His voice was husky.
She smiled. “I’d rather have ye than any other help.”
He’d come so very close to making love with her, and didn’t know how he’d wait ’til that eve. But after the handfasting… He cleared his throat and went to the door. When a servant arrived, he gave orders for the dirty bed linen to be replaced and the mattress to be aired.
* * * * *
Moira paced slowly by Seamas’ side, mindful of the solemnity of the occasion. She knew few of her new clanspeople and understood the importance of the next minutes. Though the handfasting would be significant, she had to have the people on her side, or life as a MacReiver would be difficult.
She wondered if Lydia Kilborn had felt as unsteady and insecure when she’d arrived at Kilborn Castle, and pushed the notion away. Sympathy for her enemy had no place in her thoughts.
They descended the stairs with Moira clinging to Seamas’ arm. Then to the Great Hall, flickering with torchlight and jammed with sweaty, smelly bodies. Though it cost her dear, Moira held her head high and did not wrinkle her nose at the stench. When she became the laird’s lady, she’d personally bathe each and every MacReiver if she must.
She knew she looked her best, with the flames bringing out the red and gold in her long hair. She’d piled some of it atop her head but left most of it hanging to her waist.
She hoped that the tale of her exploits had spread throughout the clan while she and Seamas had dallied. Cheers arose, echoing off the stone walls. She smiled and relaxed. Word had indeed flown from one MacReiver to another. As they walked, a lane opened among the bodies, leading them to a small boy who stood beside a large, throne-like chair set at the far end of the room.
This, then, was Edgar, the ten-year-old laird. She had not seen him before. Dame Ellen kept the laddie close and safe. Sheltered, he’d no doubt be a poor excuse for a chieftain if he weren’t educated in lairdship—in riding, hunting and killing. Skinny and blond, he did not look as though he’d last that long. She concealed her mirth. The child was no match for her. Had she not plotted the death of auld Euan?
She schooled her features into solemnity and bowed her head. “Milaird.”
“We bid you welcome and give you our thanks.” Edgar held out his hand, which was weighted with a heavy ring.
He had a ring? The laird’s ring? Was she supposed to kneel and kiss it? When pigs flew.
She cast up a confused glance to Seamas, who lifted his nephew’s hand and kissed it heartily. “Come, milady, do the pretty.”
Hi
ding her grimace, she briefly touched her lips to the same spot that Seamas had kissed. He turned her to face the throng and spoke.
“We stand before this company on this day, the twenty-ninth of August, the feast of Saint John the Baptist.”
A chill ran through her. The saint had been beheaded at the request of wicked Salome. She forced the foolishness away. She was no Salome, and auld Euan had surely been no saint.
While she’d ruminated, the brief ceremony had continued. She gave her false name and Seamas gave his before the little laird bound their hands together with a strip of cloth.
And it was over. Or p’raps it was only beginning. She was chatelaine of MacReiver Castle and Lady MacReiver—despite the presence of little Laird Edgar.
Seamas kissed her, but she felt nothing as he led her to a table next to the throne-like chair. “We keep the laird’s chair vacant, though Edgar has the right to sit in it.”
“Nay,” the boy said. “Not until I have earned it.”
Moira eyed him through the veil of her lashes as Seamas ushered her to a seat between himself and the Little Laird, as she had started to think of Edgar.
Exuding a presence that belied his young age and frail body, Edgar MacReiver epitomized the saying “still waters run deep”, and she cautioned herself against feeling anything for the bairn. He was an impediment to her plans, nothing more, and anything that stood between her and her goals would not stand.
Chapter Sixteen
The atmosphere in Kilborn’s Great Hall that night had relaxed. People had become accustomed to Moira’s absence, stolidly accepting that she was gone, probably dead. Kieran sensed a slight unease, no doubt due to the lack of a body—an unease he shared.
When Fenella entered, he noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. He rose from his place at the high table. Lydia lifted her gaze in a silent inquiry, and he jerked his chin toward the housekeeper. His wife nodded in response before returning her attention to her stew.
Kier approached Fenella and took her elbow. “It’s been five days.”