by Suz deMello
“I ken.” Shiny tears streaked her face, and her head drooped.
He pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her. She blotted her cheeks and eyes as he talked.
“I am sorry if anything I did caused your loss.”
She looked up, visibly surprised. “Milaird, ye have acted properly in all ways.”
“Ye have heard?”
“Aye, there are few secrets here.” She smiled wanly. “Milady Lydia could have been gravely injured in the Dark Tower, not only by he who dwells there but by the very nature of the auld keep itself. ’Tis an evil place.”
He remained silent. He was not a superstitious man, but wouldn’t pass judgment on her beliefs.
“Moira wasnae a good girl, but she was mine…” She blinked and sniffled.
“She was ours,” Kier said firmly. “She was one of us, and we all grieve with ye.”
He sat her down, ensuring her comfort as best he could in view of her loss, bringing her a beaker of ale and some choice morsels. While he was returning to his place, he was intercepted by Dugald.
“Why are ye here?” Kier asked his second. “Are ye no’ supposed to be out on patrol?”
“Aye, I would be, had my da returned.”
Fear seized the pit of Kier’s belly in an icy grip. Euan was as reliable as the rising sun or the setting moon. “When was he last seen?”
“I’ll find out.” Dugald’s voice was calm, but Kier knew his cousin well. Dugald was worried. He wouldn’t have bothered bringing Euan’s absence up if he weren’t concerned.
“Search in force,” Kier said. “No parties of fewer than ten men.” Despite his age, Euan was tough and strong, but tended to go off alone. Had he come to grief in the forest, that would mean two of Kier’s people had been lost within a few days.
He sat down next to Lydia and leaned an elbow on the table, sighing.
“What now?” she asked.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Euan’s missing.”
She sat up straight, her glance running over the busy Great Hall. “So he is.”
Had he failed his clan yet again?
* * * * *
“Be quick,” Moira told Seamas.
He hitched himself up onto one elbow and lifted a questioning brow. “Lasses mostly prefer slow to fast when it comes to bedding. Are ye not comfortable? The linens are all fresh, no bed bugs. And not a ceàrnan in sight to trouble ye.”
“Milaird, I just—”
“My name is Seamas.”
“Seamas, it…this…isnae pleasant for me.”
“You mean that it wasnae pleasant with Kieran Kilborn for ye.”
She buried her face in the pillow, feigning shame. “Aye,” she murmured.
“Dinnae be afeared, lassie. I’ll take good care o’ ye. Look at me.”
When she obeyed, he tried to kiss her lips, but she turned her face. She didn’t need to feign disgust. Although he’d washed, apparently no one had taught Seamas about cleansing his teeth with an old cloth and a stripped rosemary stick, or chewing mint to freshen his mouth.
He transferred his attentions to her neck and she breathed easier, willing herself to relax. His lips traveled down her throat to her collarbone while he untied the frayed ribbon at her borrowed chemise’s collar. His length was warm against her body on what, she had to admit, were adequately clean, soft sheets that bore the faint scents of stale linen and old lavender.
Parting the soft cloth, he gained access to her breasts and she sighed in tune with his soft breaths. She was justly proud of her pair. High and white, perfect even though they’d received more than the usual amount of attention when she’d been punished. Every female in the clan above the age of fourteen knew the Kilborn men liked to draw and drink blood from women’s nipples.
Her nipples, still pale pink despite the rough treatment she’d received, hardened at the merest hint of arousal. And she was becoming aroused as Seamas cupped her breasts, massaging them before bending his head to kiss one nipple, drawing it firmly into his mouth and nibbling on the tip.
He didn’t bite and suckle, as did the Kilborns, she realized with relief. She liked it rough, but she’d had enough harshness to last her a lifetime. And if Seamas treated her callously, it would be a sign that he didn’t value her. She couldn’t stand that. ’Twould make a mockery of the handfasting.
But he seemed inclined toward gentleness, and she reveled in that while she could. Men in full rut lost control, and she wanted him to lose control and enjoy her as he’d never enjoyed another woman.
While he sucked one nipple, he’d been massaging the other. He raised his head and said, “Ah, wife, your titties are lovelier than the clouds in spring, and even whiter and more elegant.”
She repressed a giggle. Had he read this in a book somewhere? Not likely. She’d bet everything she had—not that she had much—that Seamas MacReiver couldn’t read. “Thank ye, milaird,” she whispered, hoping she sounded shy and demure.
“Are ye becoming more…desirous?” His length poked her thigh.
“I, er…am.” She rubbed her body against his.
His chest hair scraped her breasts, a pleasant sensation. She caught her breath. He reached down and slid stubby fingers through the fur at her notch, seeking her most tender parts, and she tensed, tightening her parts. She had to make a show of being almost-virgin.
“Easy, lass,” he said, his voice a purr. He scooted down her body, tongue out, running it down her skin, which prickled in response. He circled her ilmeag but didn’t dip in, instead laying a line of kisses along her belly before he buried his face in her thatch and sniffed. He parted her legs with a gentle hand, setting his bulky body between her thighs, his shoulders spreading her.
She emitted a “frightened” squeak.
He laughed. “Och, lassie, ye have no reason to be afeared.”
“‘Tis….’tis wanton!”
“We’re married. Or at least handfasted. So it isnae wanton, ’tis right and good that I touch ye any way I please.” He pulled her lower lips wide and, at the first touch of his tongue onto her bump, a slight tingle skimmed over her flesh. As Seamas feasted, she gradually relaxed and allowed a moan to escape her lips, relieved to realize that she could find pleasure with this man. He wasn’t the best lover she’d taken, but was far from the worst.
He explored her channel and she clenched, feeling every scrape and bump on his calloused finger. “Och, ye’re tight,” he said, pleasure in his voice.
“’Twas only the once,” she simpered. “And it hurt.”
“Does it hurt now?”
“Nay,” she whispered. She’d fooled him. She couldn’t be more pleased, but couldn’t let down her guard yet.
He withdrew his finger and rose above her, his features weirdly lit by the flickering rushlight. For a moment she was afraid, afraid at the enormity of the ruse she’d plotted, for it would mean her life if she failed.
“Dinnae fear it, lass. “’Twill be good, I promise.” And Seamas reached down and took his cock in hand.
She strained her neck to see it, wondering if she’d be forced to accept a battering ram or a twig, but the dim light did not help. Instead she squinched her eyes shut and waited.
A tentative push, and the head breached her, pushing past her tightening muscles. He gripped her hips and took her slowly, murmuring “Mo chroí, mo chroí.”
Her heart soared. She’d done it.
She slowly bent her knees and drew them up his sides, hoping that this did not betray her experience, then began to meet him thrust for thrust. If he asked, she’d tell him that Kier had told her what to do, because at the moment, she wanted to fuck him back, find her release, take her pleasure.
Seamas wasn’t huge, but big enough, she reckoned. Closing her eyes, she relaxed back against the pillows and enjoyed a good, solid tupping.
* * * * *
The next morning, Lydia told Elsbeth, “The fawn-colored riding habit, please.”
Kieran, standing at the m
irror shaving, set down his razor and turned. “You usually spend the morn with Fenella.”
“That’s true, but I would like to join you today, husband.”
His face went still. “It could be dangerous.”
She compressed her lips. “I’m not afraid. I wish to be by your side today.” She couldn’t explain her reasons and didn’t understand them herself. She merely wanted to be near Kieran.
“Very well.” He picked up the razor, but after a moment faced her again. “Truth to tell, kylyrra, I’ll be glad of your company.”
Ignoring Elsbeth who waited patiently, gown in hand, Lydia went to him. “’Tis sad you are, and troubled.”
He drew in a heavy breath. “Aye. Ye know my moods, do ye not?” He forced a smile.
She rubbed his arm. “Aye, that I do,” she said in her best Highland accent.
This time, his smile was real.
She smiled back, but also said, “Talk to me.”
Returning his gaze to the mirror, he met her eyes in the glass before continuing to shave. She heard a rustle and noted that Elsbeth had set the habit on the bed and, with the tact a good servant should display, left the room. Lydia made a mental note to give Elsbeth a gift or bonus. Not many maids would have followed their employer to the wild Highlands and performed her duties in such an exemplary manner.
“Two of my people missing inside a sennight worries me. ’Tis uncanny.” Kieran scraped at his chin with slow strokes.
“Uncanny?” She’d learned that Highlanders used this word to describe a variety of things, from oddly breaking waves to the presence of the fae folk.
“Aye. Uncanny like this strangely misty summer. Uncanny like the Giant’s Causeway and the echoes in Fingal’s Cave. Uncanny like the cry of the banshee or the creature that lives in Loch Ness.” There was an intensity bordering on violence in his voice, a timbre she’d not heard before.
Nevertheless, she maintained her calm. “I’ve never thought of you as a superstitious man.”
“I’m not.” His tone was low and dark. “Not usually. But for Euan to vanish… There is evil abroad in the land. I mislike these disappearances.”
“I wonder if…”
“What?”
She hesitated.
“Be not afraid, my wife, to tell me your concerns.”
She tightened her mouth but decided to forge ahead, come what may. “Your…our mad old relative. In the Dark Tower.”
The razor slipped and a bright red streak appeared on Kier’s jaw. He picked up a strip of linen and dabbed it, muttering in Gaelic.
“What? Is he a, er…a possibility?”
“I dinnae believe so,” he said slowly. “Especially not with Moira or Euan. But he’s mad, ye ken? There are times he knows not who he is, where he is, who is kin and who isnae. Who is a woman and who isnae. I may have mentioned that he has never killed a woman.”
“That we know of. And what about Euan?”
“Nay, nay. He is…closely related to Euan. Also, I believe that these disappearances are linked in some way.”
“How?”
“I dinnae ken…yet. But ’twould be passing strange if two people went missing in less than a week’s time without a connection between them.”
“That’s true. ’Tis a mystery.”
“And an unwelcome one. As I say, ’tis uncanny.”
“Come now, husband.” She squeezed his arm. “We will get to the truth of this. And the answer won’t be the creature in Loch Ness, a kraken or a kelpie.”
* * * * *
After breaking their fast, they set out, a company of fifteen, including Dugald. As was his usual custom, he was mounted on Sentry, his big gray. Lydia rode her bay. After the MacReiver had killed Kier’s mount, he had acquired a dun-colored horse in an unusual shade he called buckskin. The gelding was magnificent, over fifteen hands and well able to carry him.
They rode south through the low-hanging fog, along the coast toward the MacReiver lands, then east along the disputed border. The track, wide at first, wound through stone-strewn meadows where the sea winds scoured away everything but grasses and a few stunted shrubs. Then a few twisted trees, those able to withstand the winter storms, began to appear. The land rose, rocky and hard, and after they crested the hill, the mist disappeared and forests took over the leeward slopes. The trail narrowed, with Dugald leading the way and the rest riding two-by-two.
Lydia rode beside Kieran, a few paces behind Sentry to avoid the dirt the horse’s hooves kicked up. She felt as though her life had developed layers, like an onion, or p’raps like swaddling quilts and blankets on a smothering bed. Mystery upon mystery, secrets cloaked by enigmas enveloped her family, her castle and her clan. Those mysteries, secrets and enigmas seemed to increase in number and complexity as time rolled on. Would it always be so?
She hoped not, but if and when she bore children, surely they would muddle up matters even further. She was not certain that she wished to increase, not when odd disappearances haunted the clan. But resisting Kieran’s lust was impossible. Not because he forced himself upon her…far from it. Most nights she was the one who reached for him in bed.
Her boldness, her neediness, continued to startle her, while her husband’s unending desire to please continued to delight her. She prayed that their lust and love would sustain them through life’s travails.
For travails there were.
The trail widened into a clearing and Dugald raised a hand, signaling a stop. He dismounted and dropped Sentry’s reins. The well-trained mount stood still, twitching ears and tail but unmoving otherwise. Lydia imitated Dugald, as did Kier, who held her gloved hand with his.
Dugald’s slow, cautious movements caught her attention. When he stopped and lifted his face, audibly sniffing the air, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck shifted…good heavens, were they standing on end?
Kieran was right. The goings-on were indeed uncanny. Her husband now squeezed her hand before releasing it and went to join Dugald. The two men exchanged glances laden with meaning. Behind her, strung out on the trail, the rest of the men dismounted and secured their horses. Some drew weapons.
She advanced to within a few paces of her husband and his second. “What?” she asked.
“This place stinks, but not only of the MacReivers.” Dugald’s glance shifted to a trampled area in the tall grass, now golden in early autumn.
She looked also.
A body lay there, its dried blood darkening the weeds. She sucked in a breath and her heart slammed against her breastbone.
Kier approached the corpse. “’Tisnae one of ours,” he said with relief.
She gulped and followed. It…he was clad in plain dark trews and a shirt. His black and white shepherd’s plaid, stained with brownish dried blood, was thrown over his head. A massive wound, which looked as though it had been made by a large knife, had torn through shirt and gut. She pressed her lips together. Belly wounds were notorious, the worst way to die, she’d heard from her father. They were inevitably fatal, but the victim could take a long time to expire from blood loss, shock or fever.
Not Euan, and her shoulders relaxed a little. This man was too short and stocky. And Euan always wore a Kilborn plaidie. Guilt flooded her but couldn’t completely replace the relief she felt. While this man had been someone’s son, brother or mayhap a husband, he wasn’t Euan. He wasn’t one of her people.
Kier turned. “All of you, tread carefully,” he said to the men. “Surround the clearing. Make sure we are not in danger. Owain, Kendrick, stay with us.”
Heads nodded and warriors obeyed. Owain and Kendrick, weapons at the ready, followed them as Dugald and Kieran, with Lydia at his side, explored the clearing.
Clearly the men perceived with more clarity something that Lydia’s less refined senses could not detect.
Dugald went left and Kieran right, circling the edges of the clearing, scrutinizing the ground and trees. Her husband, always intense, now showed a focus she hadn’t seen before. Owain,
who stayed with them, didn’t search but instead kept his head swiveling, watching for enemies. She appreciated the excellent training that the Kilborn guards exhibited.
Kier stopped so abruptly that she bumped into him. He stood staring at a tree branch at about the level of his chin. Reaching out, he detached several…what?
Long strands of red-gold hair.
“Moira,” she breathed.
“Aye.” His voice was grim. “Ye’re right, wife. This isnae the work of kelpies or krakens.”
“’Tis worse.”
He nodded. “There’s no revenge that a woman willnae take if she believes she’s been wronged. And Moira’s spirit is a petty, spiteful one.”
“I am quite worried about this, husband.”
“And I also.”
“Kier.” Dugald’s choked cry sounded from across the clearing.
She turned to behold him dropping to his knees. Kieran sprinted toward his cousin, stopping short a few feet away. She followed at a safer pace, stepping over fallen dried logs and…good heavens, was that another body?
Yes, it was.
But the two men had ignored it in favor of examining something, or p’raps, someone…something else toward the clearing’s other edge.
She approached, skirting a spill of some dark, evil-smelling substance she couldn’t identify. Sticks poked out of the stony soil, partially obscured by the tall golden grass, but when she drew closer, she could see that they were crude crosses fashioned of tree branches tied together with swatches of the dried weeds.
P’raps two dozen crosses surrounded a rim of stones shaped like an oval, mayhap six or seven feet long. A peculiar odor seemed to smother her like a foul blanket, an odor of scorched meat combined with another stench she couldn’t identify.
The rocks circled a darkly charred…what?
A darkly charred body. Only the body. Not the head.
Her stomach heaved, but she forced herself to maintain her composure. She was General Swann’s daughter and Laird Kilborn’s wife. Whoever had died here would not be desecrated further by her vomit.
She pushed herself to think, to look, to analyze and to know.