Temptation in Tartan

by Suz deMello

  A thick partly burned stick stuck out vertically from what was left of the corpse where the heart would have been. The body had been gutted, a long wound carving it from breastbone to pelvis. Looking inside the cavity, she could see partially cooked organs, thick ropy masses she thought must be the gut, other mounds that she couldn’t identify.

  And smallish pear-shaped bulbs, gone golden-brown and aromatic from the roasting. Her nose twitched.

  Garlic.

  Garlic?

  A headless body had been burned along with a quantity of garlic. Good heavens. Had some of the remains been eaten? Were they dealing with cannibals?

  Uncanny indeed.

  Kier drew his sword as Dugald watched. Both men’s faces were even paler than usual, set and bleak. She peered more closely as Kieran used his blade to carefully lift and move parts of the remains.

  She could see bits of burned fabric. Some was identifiable. Dark, heavy cloth she thought might have been trews. Not Moira’s corpse, then.

  Kier poked in the ashes, uncovering a round object that showed a glint of dull metal. “Pewter or silver,” he said. He stooped to pick it up and rubbed it on his plaidie, before holding it out for both Lydia and Dugald to see.

  A stag’s head surrounded by Celtic knotwork.

  Their clan badge.

  “Euan,” she whispered. She covered her mouth with a palm.

  “Aye.” Dugald’s voice was low and rough. He fell to his knees and rested his forehead on the ground.

  She knelt beside him and put an arm over his shoulders. Not entirely proper, she knew. Her mother would be scandalized. But the action seemed right. On Dugald’s other side, Kier did the same.

  No one moved for a very long time.

  * * * * *

  Under Kieran’s direction, a sledlike frame was built of sturdy branches and covered with a swatch of Kilborn plaid. With great care, Euan’s body was shifted onto it and covered with another plaid. Four men carried the makeshift bier. Two were Kier and Dugald.

  They began a slow journey back to Kilborn Castle. Lydia’s mind had gone numb from shock and, looking about, she gathered that everyone else felt the same way. The procession was absolutely silent but for the measured thud of the horses’ hooves and the slight jingling of their tack, an occasional whinny or snort. She couldn’t see her husband’s face or Dugald’s—they walked ahead of her, leading the group as they carried Euan—but she could see the slope of Kieran’s shoulders and the tension in his back.

  As the day wore on toward night and they approached their home, her mind began to work again.

  She had never seen or heard of anything remotely like the brutal treatment the MacReivers had meted out to Euan. It was impossible to tell what exactly had happened, but she guessed that he’d fought several attackers, bringing down two before he’d been killed. She hoped his death had been quick, that he’d been beheaded swiftly and hadn’t expired from the wicked slash down the front of his body or, worse, been burned alive. She believed that he hadn’t suffered. The body and the ashes in which it lay had been cold, with no smoldering embers. Euan had been killed and burned the day before they’d found him, she reasoned.

  But what about the horrid desecration of Euan’s remains? What reason could the MacReivers have had to plant a big stick through his dead chest, to stuff his body cavity with garlic, to surround it with crosses and to burn it?

  Bad enough that they’d taken away his head, no doubt as a trophy to show off. Her skin crawled at the thought. She knew that the heads of criminals were still displayed in the less savory quarters of London, for ritualized killings of alleged miscreants and felons still took place. But she’d never seen a head displayed. Disgusting.

  And what of Moira? Kier had said that her spirit was petty and spiteful. It wasn’t difficult for Lydia to put the bits and scraps of information together. Kier had detected the past presence of MacReivers at the death site. He’d found strands of Moira’s hair. Euan had been killed and desecrated there… As Lydia had previously surmised, Moira had indeed left Kilborn Castle. She’d turned traitor and thrown in her lot with the MacReivers. She knew where Euan and the others customarily patrolled—along the borders, of course. Where else?

  Lydia eyed Kier’s back and wondered when she should raise these issues. Best to wait, of course, but how long could she restrain herself? She was bursting with questions.

  They reached the castle at dusk, with Lydia weary to the bone. Not from the exertions of the day, but from the events and the emotions. She couldn’t fathom how Kier and Dugald were still standing.

  * * * * *

  Dinner was a somber affair, with Euan’s body lying in state in the center of the Great Hall. Kier noticed that no one ate much, and many tears salted the soup.

  Watching his people from his seat at the laird’s high table, he drank more than he normally did. Beside him, Lydia sat quietly, like a small, dark shadow, stirring her soup with a spoon.

  “Come now, wife,” he said with forced heartiness. “Ye must keep your strength up. For I may have need of ye tonight.”

  She looked at him squarely, and the honesty in her eyes burned away any pretense.

  He leaned toward her and murmured, his voice husky, “Remember, our confidence is their strength. And lass…I’ll need your comfort more than ever.”

  Turning, she set her hands on his shoulders. “Whate’er you need, I will give. Whate’er they need, they will have.” She stood and went to join the mourners around the bier, touching shoulders, wiping away tears, holding hands.

  When she reached Fenella, Lydia placed both palms on the housekeeper’s wet cheeks before hugging her close in a fierce embrace.

  Kier followed, his heart brimming with a welter of unaccustomed feelings. Pride, pain, worry… He was proud of Lydia, proud of the way she waded into the maelstrom of emotional Scots surrounding the bier, for he knew that she’d been raised to be a very private, restrained person. But she carried out her role as comforter to perfection.

  Overwhelming all was his pain. Pain for the loss of his grand-uncle, for Euan had been the foundation of their lives for three generations. Pain found a home in his chest, a live, foul monster, trapping his soul with evil tentacles, crushing it into wee pieces. He rubbed his chest, then pounded, understanding for the first time the reason that the deeply grieved did so. They strove to drive out or kill that wicked pain.

  Dugald sat quietly nearby, sipping from a tankard. Kier didn’t say anything, just went over and set his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. He blinked back hot tears, for ’twouldn’t do for the clan to see him break down. But his heart was sore rent for the man. The bond between Dugald and his father had been beyond understanding.

  Kier squeezed Dugald’s shoulder, then joined Lydia, who was vainly trying to comfort Fenella, who had burst into renewed tears. “Och, milady, milaird, how can ye forgive me?”

  “There’s naught to forgive.” Kier spoke firmly.

  “How could she?” Fenella asked. “How could that bairn of mine turn traitor?”

  “Fenella. Listen to me.” Lydia gave Fenella a gentle shake and the frantic weeping stopped. “She wasn’t a bairn. She made bad choices. That doesn’t mean you were a bad mother. We all know you better than that.”

  “Isnae your fault,” Kieran said. “I refuse to allow ye to blame yourself. In fact, I order ye to cease blaming yourself this minute.”

  Fenella visibly pulled herself together. “Aye, milaird.” She inhaled deeply, pulled her shoulders back and straightened her spine.

  “Well done.” He handed her a handkerchief.

  “Thank ’ee, milaird.” She retreated to a corner, where she wiped her cheeks and blew her nose.

  Fenella wasn’t the only one suffering. Everyone hurt. Huddled on a stool near the big fireplace, old Mhairi wept and wailed. She was now the oldest of their clan, except for Kier’s mad old grandsire hidden in the Dark Tower.

  Worry…here dwelt one of many. How was he going to tell Sir Ga
reth that his brother Euan had been killed? And murdered in a way that revealed that the MacReivers knew all about the Kilborn vampires?

  If they hadn’t known before, they did now, Kier realized grimly. On top of that, who could know what that conniving wench Moira had said? What did this killing portend for the future of their clan?

  Telling Sir Gareth assumed that Kier could find the old vamp. Euan had been the only one who could navigate the warren of the ancient keep with any certainty.

  Kier sighed, pushed the worries out of his mind and knelt beside old Mhairi’s stool.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Later that night, after they’d dried as many tears as they could, Lydia and Kieran retired to their bedroom. Elsbeth bustled about, lighting candles and drawing down the bedclothes. Ewers full of hot water waited, with fragrant, flower-scented steam curling into the air.

  “We won’t be needin’ ye any more this eve, Elsbeth,” Kier said. “Go and seek your rest. And thank ye.”

  She nodded and withdrew.

  Lydia immediately reached for her husband, tugging off his shirt and rubbing his knotted muscles. “Take off your clothes and lie down.”

  “I’ll have a wash first,” he said, his voice heavy. “I feel as though I carry the weight of the world.”

  She dug her fingertips into his shoulders and he winced.

  “Aye,” she said. “I ken that.”

  She winked at him and he smiled. They undressed and washed quietly, speaking only when necessary, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence but a thoughtful one, she felt.

  When he’d obeyed her, she rolled him over and started to rub scented lotion into his neck and back. His sighs of relief and loosening muscles told her that what she was doing was right. She took her time, letting her mind grow still so she could focus on her task, focus on the smoothness of Kier’s flesh as the knots gave up their tension under her determined fingertips.

  As he eased, she wondered if the time was right to bring up the mysteries that haunted her. When she urged him to lie on his back, she could tell by the set expression on his face that the answer to her unspoken question was, “No, not yet.” Mayhap never, but she hoped not. For she couldn’t live without knowing.

  Instead, she straddled him and bent over, offering him the comfort of her breasts. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

  “Why?” he asked, his voice muffled by her hair.

  She raised her head, startled. Would getting answers be so easy? “I have been wondering the same myself. ’Twas horrific. I have never seen or heard of the like. The way his body was treated… What was the meaning of that, husband?”

  He huffed out a breath. “Highlanders…some are verra ignorant, ye ken? I told ye that ye’d hear tales of bloodthirsty wild warriors and war-mad berserkers. Some fools believe that certain…rituals will protect them from us. ’Tis superstitious and silly. Nonsense, ye’d call it.”

  She didn’t know if she could accept that explanation, but for now, she might not be able to get much more from Kieran. “Dangerous nonsense if it led to…to…”

  “Aye.” He rubbed his face and she thought she could see the shine of tears on his pale cheeks. “But Moira knew better. Didnae she love us? This was her home! We’re her clan! How could she?”

  She settled herself beside him, ready to understand, not probe. “You said yourself, husband, that hers was a spiteful spirit.”

  “Aye, and she has always been so. Spiteful and selfish. When she was wee, I remember that she would scream for hours if she didnae get her way.”

  “So why did you—”

  “She was attractive. Physically, at least. And, she, well…”

  Lydia waited, then asked, “Well, what?”

  “She was more than willing. Eager. Pushy, even. A young man finds it hard to resist, do ye ken? And I was young.”

  I think that mayhap your lust has got us into a great deal of trouble. Was that fair? Probably not, so she didn’t voice the thought. “How old were you?”

  “We were together, on and off, until the old laird and my brother left to fight for the bonnie prince.” His voice was laden with contempt when he referred to Charles Edward Stuart. “For then I had to shoulder their duties as well as my own, so I had no time for a woman, especially for one as demanding as Moira. She had her moods, ye ken? And then when news of their deaths came—”

  “So you broke it off over two years ago.”

  “Aye. She wasnae happy about it, but it couldnae be helped. I thought she understood. She’s been with other men, but…I didnae ken how angry she was. How spiteful she could be. What she’s done is evil. Traitorous. She’s struck a blow to our core.”

  “I know. Euan was… When I met him, I thought he was like one of the foundation stones of the castle.”

  “Aye, that he was.” Huffing out another breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “How could I have been such a fool?”

  “What?”

  “I should have seen that this was possible. I should have known—”

  “Nonsense!”

  He raised his head. His midnight eyes were shiny, liquid. “Lass, my decisions have brought great grief to this clan.”

  “Possibly, but you can’t blame yourself any more than Fenella can blame herself.”

  “I fear that this murder will bring neighboring clans down on us. They ken Euan’s value. They ken that his loss will tear out the heart of us. I’m worried.”

  “About war?” She did not know how her voice remained steady. Inside, a part of her she hadn’t known existed went deadly still, as though it were poised and waiting, even while her heart kicked and plunged against her ribs. She’d never experienced an emotion like this. Was this how her father had felt before leaving them to battle for England?

  “Aye, and about…other matters.”

  “What are they?”

  “I’ve led my clan into grave danger. I’ve let them down.” His voice was low, rough, tense.

  “How? What would you have done differently?” Other than not tup that selfish witch.

  “I dinnae ken, and that is the trouble. Every decision I’ve made was right, at the time. But—”

  “They seem to have spawned unexpected results and a dubious future. You can’t help it, Kier.”

  “’Tis my fault.”

  “You couldn’t predict how Euan would punish her. And Euan couldn’t control what happened to her in the tower. You still don’t know what went on.”

  “According to Euan, ’twasn’t fatal. And not entirely unpleasant to a woman of Moira’s…inclinations.”

  Lydia swallowed against the knot in her throat and shoved aside the persistent but unwelcome images of Moira and her husband naked together. That was the past. The even more unwelcome image of Moira coupling with the mad creature in the Dark Tower came to mind. She considered it and asked, “Has anyone else been locked in the old keep as punishment before?”

  “Occasionally, for transgressions that were great but didnae warrant banishment or death.”

  “So Moira knew it was a possibility.”

  “Aye.”

  “So the punishment fit the crime.”

  “Possibly. But—”

  She slid an arm over his shoulder. “Dinnae fash yerself, Highlander. Ye’re mighty but cannae predict and shape the future.”

  He smiled at her accent, which she guessed was more amusing than authentic. She continued, choosing her words carefully, using what she hoped was a quiet, calming tone of voice. “No one could have predicted that she would have left at all, and no one could have guessed she’d go to the MacReivers rather than the Gwynns or the Sutherlands or any other clan hereabouts.”

  “’Tis true.”

  “And no one could have imagined the awful revenge she took on Euan.”

  “Och, Euan…” Kier again rubbed his face, and buried his head between her breasts.

  “Tell me about him. I didn’t know him for very long. What was your first memory of Euan
?” She stroked his back.

  “He’s always been with us… I cannae truly remember. My first memory of anything is eating in the Great Hall. That could be my imagination, ye ken? For every day of my life I have eaten and supped in the same room, but for my travels to the Lowlands. But I remember sitting in Euan’s lap, with him feeding me porridge.”

  “Where were your father and brother?”

  “We were all at the high table, with my da watching Ranald and Dugald, and Euan feeding me.”

  “Who was Dugald’s mother?”

  “She was a MacLeod of Lewis, a sweet woman, name of Catriona. She died when Dugald was small.”

  “I remember the night I got here you told me that Fenella came here with Catriona.”

  “Aye. Ye’ve a good memory.”

  “So you were very close to Euan?”

  “Aye. I loved my da and my brother, of course, and they loved me, but truth to tell, they were closer friends to each other than to me. They were well matched in temperament and…inclinations. So Euan and I were close, because my mam died when I was so wee.”

  “I remember that you once said that you and Ranald had planned that he’d be the brawn and you the brains. So the old laird and Ranald were, um…more physical than you? I can’t imagine it.”

  He smiled. “My da could read, but disliked it. He had no head for figures, either. Euan has kept the clan’s records for as long as I can remember.”

  “But you studied at university, didn’t you?”

  “Aye. I will take over that task now that Euan’s…gone.” His voice broke, and he again buried his face in her hair.

  She tightened her arm around his heaving shoulders and held him close, letting his tears seep into her soul, owning them, owning him.

  Weak? Some might say so. But she was honored and humbled by the trust this strong, powerful man gave her, and she’d never loved him more.

  She began to make love to him, slowly but without any hesitation. He was her man and she knew what he needed.

  With Kier on his back, she leaned over him, resting her forearms on the pillow on either side of his head, caging him. She pressed her breasts over his face, rotating the soft rounds slowly over his cheeks. At this late hour, the beard that had begun to shadow his jaw gently abraded her nipples. They stiffened to sharp, needy points.