Desire in Tartan: 2 (Highland Vampires)

by Suz deMello

  “Me son was all I had. And he died for a Sassenach.”

  “Yes.” This wasn’t a good start. Beside Alice, Dugald shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “The Highlands have suffered much because of your people,” Ruth said. “Will that ever end?”

  Another long pause during which Alice struggled to find something to say. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know, but when the battle at Culloden Moor took place I was but ten years old.”

  Ruth huffed. “I’ll see ye soon, I’m sure.” She closed the door in their faces.

  Alice turned to Dugald. “That went well.”

  He blew out a breath. “She just learned the news today. I have noticed that folk say the oddest things when they are deeply grieved.”

  “We’ll have to give her time and hope she’s more friendly in the future.” She looked up at her husband. “What did she mean about seeing me soon?”

  “I imagine she meant at sundown.”

  “Malcolm’s funeral.”

  “Aye. We must give him a proper send-off, and that will take place at sundown. Come.”

  Taking her hand, he led her toward the ocean, stopping at the cliff’s edge. Beneath them, in a small rocky cove, a tidy row of smallish vessels—fishing boats, she guessed—were pulled up to shore while a small group of men had gathered around a battered dinghy with a short mast and a triangular sail. She saw Blain, Murdo, Archie and the rest of their travel party among them.

  She pointed. “What are they doing?”

  “Preparing for Malcolm’s funeral. Without kirk or graveyard, we doonae bury our dead.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “’Tisn’t our way. Here, in the far north, our heritage is as much Viking as it is Scot. Our ancestors departed this world in fire, and we do also.”

  “Oh.” She watched while the men tossed dry wood onto the floor of the boat, then spread a Kilburn plaidie atop it. Blain opened a cloth bag, taking out several bones. She shuddered.

  Dugald’s arm came around her and drew her close, and she hid her face against his chest. Breathing deeply, she inhaled his aroma, a distinctive spice of pine and brisk wind. When she was ready, she looked into the cove again, seeing that a round bundle of Kilburn plaidie had been placed next to the bones. Malcolm’s head.

  A whimpering gasp came from beside her. Ruth had come and stood with her fist to her mouth, trying vainly to stifle her sobs. Acting on impulse, Alice took Ruth’s free hand, though not without fear.

  Tears ran down Ruth’s face and she clutched Alice’s hand, fingernails digging deep. Alice winced but didn’t withdraw. The woman had lost her son and a little pain was of no moment.

  Footsteps crunched on the rocky earth behind them and a big hand grasped Ruth’s shoulder. “Shall we go doon to the cove?” milaird asked.

  Ruth nodded and released Alice. Milaird took Ruth’s arm and helped her down a rough trail to the crescent-shaped, stony beach. Dugald urged Alice to follow, ensuring she didn’t fall on the steep path.

  As the sun slowly sank, fog gathered as did a crowd of silent Kilburns. Bonfires were lit, and Dugald led her close to one for warmth. He whispered in her ear, “Everyone in the clan will gather here and later in the Great Hall to feast, drink and talk of Malcolm. ‘Tisn’t an auspicious occasion but ye’ll meet them all. And they’ll be expecting ye to tell your story.”

  “My story?”

  “Aye. Ye saw Malcolm die. His mam and others will want to hear all.” He took her cloak from her and draped it around her shoulders.

  “I don’t like to think of it, and certainly not to talk of it.”

  “’Tis important. They deserve it. And a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved, ye ken?”

  Everyone had gathered, even milady with the four children, the three older ones clean, dressed neatly and with somber expressions. Even Marian was quiet in milady’s arms as though the baby understood the solemnity of the moment.

  One of the men handed Ruth a shining black longbow fully as long as she was tall along with a black arrow. The arrow bore a swatch of cloth tied around it. She nocked the arrow and pulled it back experimentally, then said, “I’m ready.” Her voice did not waver.

  Murdo dragged and Archie pushed the dinghy bearing Malcolm’s remains into the sea, both staying with the boat until its sail rounded with the evening breeze flowing off the land. It shot away toward the sunset.

  Ruth approached the bonfire to dip the arrow into the flames. Its sash caught and she quickly aimed it high. It dropped with remarkable accuracy into the boat bearing her son.

  First nothing happened. Then a tiny flare glowed across the waves. It grew until flames consumed the boat, its sail and Malcolm. A bagpipe wailed a mournful tune.

  Tears gathered in Alice’s eyes.

  Later, everyone ate in the Great Hall as Dugald had predicted. Alice was glad he’d warned her that the clan would want to hear of Malcolm’s death, for otherwise she would have been unable to speak of it. And she managed, though she was not sure how she got through the experience. She met every person in her new clan but was certain she’d never remember their names.

  By the end of the evening, she felt ready to fall into her own grave from fatigue. She struggled up the stairs, Dugald following. “I’ve ordered another bath,” he told her. “It should already be in our room, ready for us.”

  “Good. It has been a long and tiring day.”

  “Ye’ve done well, me wife, and I’m proud of ye.”

  “Thank you, but why?”

  Now in their room, he took her by the shoulders. “I’ve brought ye to the remotest part of Scotland. Ye’ve endured death and flight. Ye handfasted with a wild Highlander, not knowing what would happen, and met an entire clan. And not a hair of your lovely head is out of place. In truth, I doonae ken how ye do it.”

  She managed a laugh. “I don’t know either.”

  Dugald was right—their bath had arrived and sat in the middle of their room, similar to the huge half-barrel at the MacReiver Castle. The bath’s steamy water was strewn with aromatic flowers with a roundish lump of soap bobbing on top. Linen towels had been hung on a movable rack nearby.

  He reached for her cameo and removed it with careful fingers. “Was this your mam’s?” He placed it on her dresser.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  His smile flashed. “A good guess. Forgive me, but I noticed ye have few trinkets. In such a situation, finery comes from family. Yer father was a perfessor, so your mam must have been the one to pass the pretties along to you. Was she of noble birth?” He unbuttoned her blouse and ran his fingers across the swells of her breasts above her stays.

  “Yes, but her parents disowned her when she married my father.”

  “How did they meet?” He unlaced the stays with a frown, then untied the tapes holding her skirt and petticoats.

  “He was her tutor.” She reached for his trews.

  “Och, aye, I can see how that would come about. Wife, I was a mite startled when ye refused a lady’s maid, but I can see the advantages.”

  “More privacy.”

  His trews fell to his feet. “But ye have more eagerness than experience. Lass, me boots need to come off first.”

  She laughed and knelt to remove the boots, giving his now-naked cock a quick kiss along the way. He took her hairpins out and when her hair was unbound, played with the strands and rubbed the top of her head. She leaned against his legs, sighing.

  He picked her up and carried her to the bath. Bits of clothing—her stockings and garters—fell off along the way, loosened by the long day and his busy fingers. When she was naked, he eased her tired body into the bath. With her legs bent—it wasn’t large enough for her to stretch them—she rested her back against its wooden side while he stood behind her, continuing to massage her head and neck.

  Moaning, she couldn’t decide whether making love with Dugald was as good as this. She realized she liked how she felt whenever he touched her, wherever he chose
to put his hands, his mouth and—how did she dare to think it?—his cock.

  Dugald clasped her head in both hands and slowly wiggled it back and forth on the stem of her neck, then gave it a gentle tug up. Her bones gave a series of tiny pops as tension released and fell away. She moaned some more.

  “Lassie, ye keep it up and I’ll never have to make love to you again.”

  Alice opened one eye. “As far as I am concerned, you never have to do anything else again except what you are doing. This is heaven.”

  “Och, no. Heaven is that hot, wet place between your legs.”

  She laughed softly, wondering at the changes in herself and her life. She never would have imagined a man—any man, certainly not one like Dugald Kilburn—would describe any part of her as “heaven”.

  “Lean forward.”

  She did, and he took off the rest of his clothes and slipped in behind her. It was a squeeze and some of the water slopped over the edge. He wrapped his arms around her, cupping her breasts, and eased her back until she was sitting on his lap in the tub, facing away from him, legs bent and draped over his. His cock, firm but not hard, fitted neatly in the crack between her bottom-cheeks.

  He opened his knees, forcing her thighs apart. His hand dropped from her breast to her mound, exploring the folds, which drifted apart readily in the warm, scented water. “Be easy, love. Relax,” he murmured into her ear. “This is for ye.”

  She obeyed, allowing herself to go limp against him. She closed her eyes while he fondled and played with her breasts, her quim.

  Heat gathered in her body, its focus her nipples and her cunny. Dugald’s hand shifted and his finger entered her, with his palm massaging her sensitive bump. She pushed her hips forward, rubbing her flesh harder against him.

  She’d thought she was exhausted but her husband’s lovemaking energized her. Waves of pleasure flowed through her and glittering light shimmered behind her closed lids. She moaned and panted, letting her body undulate against Dugald’s.

  His cock hardened and pushed against her bottom, which made her a little nervous. She’d sensed that he wanted to put his cock inside her bum and she wasn’t ready for that.

  But he’d said that this lovemaking was just for her, and she trusted him. He pulled his finger out and rubbed her bump.

  Her world exploded into fountains of glimmering colors. A sharp pain lanced into her neck, so slight that she barely sensed it. And like those times he had spanked her rear, the sensation seemed to heighten her pleasure, lengthening her climax.

  He pinched her nipple and she whimpered, writhing in his arms. His cock, now fully hard, nudged her bottom-hole. She rubbed herself harder against it, then harder against her hand, seeking to prolong the ecstasy.

  When she was done, she sagged against his solid chest. He nuzzled and licked her neck. “Turn your head, love, so I can kiss ye.”

  She did, but the kiss was a short one. The twist in her neck wasn’t comfortable. He lifted and turned her, setting her directly onto his cock. It slid inside her as though the pole had been greased. She gasped at the abrupt intrusion and used her bent knees, now resting on the tub’s bottom, to lift herself into a more comfortable position.

  With his cock resting just inside her channel, she kissed him and started to swirl her hips around his tool, gripping his shoulders for support. He fondled her rear as she took him, moving her the way he wanted, but that she found she loved.

  Sheer rapture, with both she and Dugald fused into one being, its sole goal to bring pleasure to each other. Still kissing him, she rocked in his arms, on his cock, discovering that this new way of joining with him had definite advantages. With her feet on the tub’s bottom, she had control and her most sensitive flesh, her bump, was snugged tightly against his body. Every slight movement sent a shard of dazzling sensation snapping through her flesh.

  He lifted his head away from hers and reached out one hand.

  “What?” she asked.

  He showed her the soap, which had flower petals embedded in it. “Baths are for washing, ye ken?”

  She laughed. “Not for us.”

  He chuckled and rubbed the lump over her shoulders, then brought it around to her breasts. Gradually he reached all of her with the soap, which foamed mildly and exuded a slight scent of violets. She breathed deeply and leaned her body back, stretching and flexing her shoulders. He dropped the soap into the water with a little splash, then ran a damp, slippery hand down her back to her bottom cheeks. Still embedded, he drew a line with one fingertip along her bottom crack, ending at her hole.

  He pressed his finger inside. Coated with soap, it slid in easily. She gasped and twisted, rubbing her bump against him.

  “All right, lass?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “You doonae sound sure.” But he didn’t stop anything he was doing, not the wicked, clever little prods of his finger inside her back hole nor the powerful surges of his cock in her quim.

  “It’s…it’s…strange.”

  He stopped. “Strange? Still?”

  “It feels good, but…um, strange.”

  He looked quizzical.

  “Not what I am used to. Even now.”

  “Lassie, neither of us are used to any of this.”

  She huffed while rocking on his penis. “You’ve far more experience than I.”

  “But not recent experience. All of that is with ye.” He snaked his other hand between them and caressed her bump.

  She moaned anew as she sought the peak of pleasure. Screwing her eyes tight shut again, she leaned forward, trapping his hand against her while his other hand played with her bottom, one finger sawing busily in and out of her back hole.

  Pain and joy… She rubbed her bump harder against his hand and, inside her mind, found that magical place with the shimmering colors. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and the sensation of being completely filled by her man took her apart, then reformed her into a being whose sole purpose was ecstasy.

  She arched her back and came.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Are you ready for your snack?”

  “Yes, I’m hungry, Auntie.”

  Carrick’s mittened hand clutched Alice’s as they circled slowly around the frozen moat, skates tied to their boots. They slid, teetered and stumbled to the side amid shrieks and hand-flapping, then climbed the bank. His nose was red and running, so she took out her hanky. Cupping it around his nose, she waited until he’d delivered an obedient snort into the cloth. She tucked it away, making a mental note to have it laundered.

  After untying their skates, she led him to the kitchen, noticing along the way Grizel entering Mairen’s hut. P’raps they’re friends, Alice thought, recalling that Grizel had once trained as a healer.

  Alice had settled into life at Kilburn Castle with surprising ease, enjoying the predictable pattern of her days. Often she and Dugald awakened before dawn and made love, then rested a mite before rising. After they’d washed and dressed, they ate breakfast in the Great Hall with the family and the guard. Then Dugald and Laird Kieran would go on patrol or hunt, rarely returning until nightfall.

  While the children were fresh, Alice would teach the two eldest for a couple of hours, focusing on more difficult subjects like French, Latin and mathematics. When they became restless, they’d get a snack. Isobel would often disappear at that point in the day—riding mostly—but Alice didn’t care. She’d learned that the entire clan kept an eye out for the wayward girl.

  And although teaching Isobel was important, Ranald needed the bulk of Alice’s attention. So after their break, she and Ranald would do less demanding tasks, focusing on reading, writing and history. Isobel already read and wrote well, so Alice merely directed her toward a couple of histories she’d found in the solar, which boasted a modest library. She also told Ranald and Isobel to read Shakespeare and made a point of discussing the sonnets and plays with them.

  After lunch, the two older children read and did lessons Alice set for them. When
Carrick awakened from his nap he became the focus of her afternoon. At age four, she didn’t want to press him, but started with his numbers and letters, finding ways to make the lessons fun by combining them with drawing or activities like skating. Isobel often reappeared around teatime, after which the three children would read or draw together before tidying up for dinner.

  Dinner was the busiest meal. The guardsmen and patrol on duty at night ate early, their places later filled by the daytime shift. A few crofters would stop by with choice bits of gossip or just for company. Alice was happy to see that Ruth came often.

  Though Alice had been told that the Highlands were poor, she noticed no lack of anything she needed or wanted. The castle’s inhabitants ate well. Bannocks, porridge, eggs and sausage were available at breakfast. Lunch was often just oatcakes and meat, while dinners were hot, hearty stews and soups.

  The days had grown even shorter and the nights colder until the clan became occupied with preparations for the Yuletide feast. The castle was decorated with lavish swags of evergreen and holly, the red berries harmonizing nicely with the swatches of Kilburn tartan swathing mantles and covering arrow-slits. Because of the cold, much whisky was consumed. With mistletoe hung in every doorway, ‘twas nigh impossible to enter or leave a room without a friendly buss on the cheek from a tipsy lad or lass.

  In the kitchen, where she and Carrick now headed, the hustle and bustle had reached a peak. The aromas of baking hung in the air—cinnamon, nutmeg, anise. Giant pots bubbled. She peeked at one to see it full of mysterious cloth-wrapped bundles.

  “Carrick, what’s in here?” She lifted him so he could see.

  “I doonae ken.”

  Nearby, Rose laughed. “That’s cloutie dumpling, mistress.” Already pregnant when Alice had arrived at the castle, Rose looked as though she’d drop her infant at any moment. Alice repressed her envy.

  “It is?” Carrick looked as puzzled as Alice felt. The grayish water and dingy old linen didn’t look edible.