Desire in Tartan: 2 (Highland Vampires)

by Suz deMello

  “An attack for no reason.”

  “Aye.”

  Sir Gareth gazed down into the bailey. The courtyard had quieted, with just a few small groups drinking and talking, for ’twas long past midnight. “I see but one of them. The others must be indoors.” He shifted restlessly.

  “I believe that I will have a wee chat with Laird Hamish and his men,” Dugald said. Leaving the auld gentleman to his brooding, Dugald went downstairs to the Great Hall, where he found Hamish Gwynn seated near the fire, sipping whisky and gazing into the embers glowing on the hearth. “Laird Hamish, good even to ye.”

  Gwynn looked up. “Dugald Kilburn.” He nodded.

  “Aye. Welcome to Kilburn Castle. Do ye see how easy it was to get in here? Twelve years ago, all ye had to do was ask.” Dugald sat.

  A flush stained Gwynn’s pale skin. “I believe I’ve apologized enough for that…unfortunate incident.”

  “Unfortunate incident?” Dugald raised a brow. “Many men suffered terrible deaths. I’m sure we all hope that nothing like will happen again.”

  “Of course not,” Gwynn said stiffly. “I learned my lesson the first time. I’m not a complete fool.”

  Ha, thought Dugald.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kieran Kilburn considered himself a responsible laird. Almost every day of the year, regardless of the weather, he rose early, ate, then spent the day patrolling the borders of his land, hunting or training with his warriors. After returning to his castle, he supped with his family, tucked in his children, made love to his wife, then snatched a few hours of sleep before rising to look over the clan’s ledgers or walk the battlements and talk with the guard.

  That strict schedule lifted only a few times annually, during cèilidhs, including and most especially the period of time between Yule and Hogmanay, plus a few extra days to sleep off the effects of the strong drink he would invariably imbibe. He counted on the deep snows of the vicious Highland winters to keep his clan safe.

  This year was no different. For over a week, Kier lay abed late, allowing Lydia to hand off the bairns so he could play with his wife.

  On Hogmanay morn, Alice stood in the hall and received a bundle of blankets cocooning the slumbering Marian, destined to sleep in her light wooden cradle placed in the nursery. Then Lydia closed the bedroom door and firmly locked it. She turned to him with a smile, shedding her dressing gown as she scurried on bare feet back to bed.

  He reached for her bouncing breasts and latched on to the nearest one, suckling deeply. She wrapped her hands around his head and buried her fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp with gentle fingertips.

  “Ummm.” Still sucking her nipple, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her down onto their bed, where he happily buried his head between her breasts. She was still nursing Marian, and they were large, firm globes, absolutely perfect. She tasted sweeter than usual, too.

  He raised his head. Lydia lay back on the pillows, smiling. She lifted her arms and grasped the headboard. Stretching, she arched her back and lifted her breasts even higher.

  He took the unspoken hint and rose, strolling to her dresser. Taking a strip of the worn linen that the clan used as towels, he turned and put on a stern expression.

  She gave a slight gasp.

  “Aye,” he said. Returning, he laced the cloth through the headboard’s slats and around her wrists, pinning them securely above her head. “You’re mine, now. All mine. Mine to use as I will.” He tweaked her nipple, then gave it a pinch.

  This time her gasp was real.

  “Whose are ye?”

  “I’m yours, milaird. Only yours.”

  He stretched, deliberately displaying himself. His wife’s eyes widened. He smiled, satisfied. “Aye, ye have the right of it.”

  He climbed back onto the bed and slid down her body, kissing his way to her muff. After he parted her legs, he placed each thumb alongside her clit and drew the lower lips apart, exposing her. In the years they’d been together, her little pearl had grown and now stood fleshy and swollen, poking out of her labia and bush.

  He bent his head and sucked it even longer. She swirled her hips and thrust herself more fully between his lips, emitting a happy sigh. Soon her moans became more urgent and her hips more active, jerking and bucking, pressing her clit into his mouth.

  He slid a finger into her humid channel. After Marian’s birth, he hadna touched his wife for some weeks, waiting for her to heal and tighten. Since she had, they’d returned happily to their bedroom games. Now he curved his finger and sought that special spot that could be found just inside, and when her pants and cries increased he knew he’d found the right place.

  He didnae stop his tonguing, but waited until she rode out her first orgasm. Her wails of ecstasy aroused him more than anything in the world, except p’raps for the clenching of her cunt when he was inside her.

  That thought drove his cock to swell even larger, so he crawled up her body and slid inside her.

  Inside Lydia he felt such profound bliss and joy that he left his mind entirely behind. His world became a pulsing red place where he was frantic to climax, but he slowed his quick thrusts, holding himself back, waiting for her to join him.

  He ran his hands from her bound wrists down her arms, then to her breasts, tweaking the nipples. She moaned. He pinched harder and she cried out, bucking her hips faster. He grabbed her wrists with one hand and the headboard with the other, increasing his pace, fucking her harder, moved by the instinctive knowledge that she could take it, take all he had to give.

  Her climax was signaled by the increasing tightness of her channel as it gripped and grabbed. He let her hands go and pulled out of her.

  She whimpered. “What…?”

  “Doonae worry, wife. I’ll take care of ye.”

  He turned her over, the linen strip at her wrist twisting, and urged her onto her knees so he could take her more deeply.

  Her pale arse was too pale. He spanked one cheek, then the other. She yipped.

  “What did ye say, wife?”

  “N-nothing, milaird.”

  “Och, I did hear something.” He spanked her again, harder.

  “Milaird!”

  “Aye?” He gave a slap to the other side. Kieran believed in equality.

  “Milaird, please!”

  “Aye, I’m happy to oblige ye.” He gave her six quick, sharp swats.

  Lydia howled and writhed most pleasingly. Though his rod felt nigh to bursting, he opened her legs and looked at her cunt. Rich, ripe, red and steaming, it—she—gave off an aroma of sweet womanliness that drew him inexorably. He thrust in a finger. Her channel was soaking and the muscles active, so she’d enjoyed the slaps and spanks. She generally did but he liked to check.

  He surged into her to the cods and gave himself over to loving her, first fucking her deep and slow the way she preferred. He reached beneath her and cupped her breasts, tweaking the hard nipples until she picked up the pace.

  That was his signal to take her fast and hard, which he liked best. His climax exploded through his body and he shouted as he came, her cries echoing his.

  As night fell, three MacReivers huddled in a cave created by a snow-laden fir’s boughs in the forest near Kilburn Castle. Unable to stomach Laird Edgar’s alliance with Clan Kilburn, Fergus, Trinnian and Murdoch MacReiver had lived with Clan Gwynn ever since—or perhaps they were too ashamed of their role in the attack on Kilburn to return to MacReiver lands. Their laird had made his contempt clear.

  Fergus peeked out to see that complete darkness had enveloped the land, with the distant castle’s fires the only illumination. “Bestir yourselves,” he told his companions.

  They struck out across the meadow, their path hampered by a thick layer of snow covering it, though no storm impeded their way. Fergus was hot and sweaty by the time they reached penned animals at the castle’s base, kept there for safety from the winter storms, he supposed. Within the ring of pens, the crofter’s huts clustered close toge
ther but seemed deserted. Fergus picked the nearest, ramming open the door with his shoulder, knife at the ready.

  The others crowded in behind him, dashing to the embers on the hearth. Trinnian built up the fire while Fergus searched a chest, finding several lengths of Kilburn tartan. “Put these on,” he told his men.

  They recoiled, protesting. “I’ll never wear the devil’s garb,” Murdoch said.

  “Doonae be a fool,” Fergus snapped. “With these wrapped around us, the guards at the gate willnae be any the wiser.”

  The others grumbled but obeyed. While they arrayed the cloths over their heads and shoulders, discarding their black and white shepherd’s plaidies, Fergus sighed with irritation. He’d been unable to persuade anyone other than his fellow exiled MacReivers to join the war party. The Gwynns would not risk another ignominious and costly defeat. And because Hamish Gwynn had lost so many men in that attack, few were available to respond to Fergus’ plea.

  “Remember,” Fergus told them before they left the hut, “doonae attack too soon. Wait. Wait ‘til ye see the whites of that diabhol Keiran Kilburn’s eyes. Kill him and the rest will fall.”

  “Nay.” Trinnian grunted. “We’d best hope we doonae encounter Dugald Kilburn or that auld vampire that destroyed the clan.”

  “He’s dead,” Fergus said with confidence. “I saw him fall into the sea. He was atop the auld tower when it burned, and he jumped. He’s dead.”

  “Humph.” Nevertheless, Trinnian followed Fergus out of the hut and along the narrow, winding lanes to the castle which, as before, was completely open, drawbridge down over the frozen moat.

  Inside the bailey, pandemonium still reigned. Fergus wondered if any Kilburn was sober between Yule and Hogmanay. Hunkered down against walls warmed by bonfires, guards slumbered, sleeping off the effects of strong drink. Pipers wailed off-key tunes while dancers stumbled, laughing. From inside the open door of the Garrison Tower, more laughter emanated, with Laird Kieran’s belly laugh dominating all.

  They slipped short swords from their scabbards but kept them hidden under their stolen plaidies. At a gesture from Fergus, they walked into the Garrison Tower, then to the Great Hall.

  “What was that?” Alice released Dugald’s cock, then licked the tip. Tasty, but she was distracted by screams coming from below, penetrating through the solid walls and sturdy wood floor. She’d often heard milaird’s and milady’s noisy lovemaking, but these panicked shrieks weren’t the same.

  “I hear them also.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “Those shouts are too loud. And they seem…wrong. I’d best check.” He rose and dressed.

  She watched, her belly roiling as he shoved his sgian dhu into his boot. She became even more nervous when he slipped the scabbard holding a long, vicious-looking knife onto his belt.

  He went to her and cupped her breast. “Be not afeared, wife. Most likely ‘tis only some fool fallen down the stairs. But bar the door just the same.” He kissed her and left.

  She waited for a moment, then got out of bed and searched for her dressing gown. She didn’t plan to barricade herself in her room without checking on her little charges.

  A moment later Dugald re-entered. “Alice?”

  “I have to check on the children. I may lock myself in with them. If ‘tis naught, please come and get me.”

  “Verra well,” he said, sounding reluctant, then left.

  She kneeled by the bedside and groped beneath to find her slippers. When she was warmly arrayed, she opened her door to confront a wild-faced man bursting from the stairway with an upraised knife, shouting, “Diabhol! Diabhol!”

  He dashed toward her. Before she had a chance to get back into her room or even to scream, someone grabbed his head from behind and, with a mighty wrench, tore it off. Blood fountained from the neck and hideous laughter bounced off the turret’s stone walls.

  She was rooted to the floor, staring. The laughter stopped when a white-haired man caught the gouting blood in his mouth and drank. Long-fingered, pale hands, dripping with blood, gripped the corpse’s shoulders, holding it upright.

  After a few moments, he lifted his head and belched. He had to be quite old, with a face seamed with a thousand wrinkles, all lined with blood. Blood streamed from his long, thinning hair and spattered his clothes, puddling on the floor. A sickening stench arose from killer and victim.

  Alice clapped a hand to her mouth, also covering her nose. “Wha-wha…” She couldn’t force even a single small word out of her tight throat. Shock kept her planted in place.

  “Go to the children,” it—he—said.

  Stunned, she blinked. How did he know her duty?

  “Go,” he said. “I will not hurt you.”

  Barely staying upright on trembling feet, she edged around the turret’s wall toward the nursery, gaze pinned to the dreadful sight, hoping against fear that the monster would not change its—his—mind. When she got to the children’s room, she rushed in, slammed the door behind her and locking it. She leaned against it, sighing.

  Desperate to order her tumbled, fearful thoughts, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, seeking the clarity of logic rather than the unnatural calm of shock.

  What—who—was he?

  He knew her, or seemed to. How? Where had he come from?

  His accent wasn’t Highlands or even Lowlands. He hadn’t said “ye” or “willnae”. He sounded like a mixture between Scottish and English.

  He was quite elderly but not a whit infirm. He’d torn a man’s head off his shoulders.

  Alice shuddered, tears flooding her eyes. What on earth was going on? Who was the dead man, the one with the knife?

  Was her husband all right?

  Taking a deep breath, she took out her hanky and dabbed at her eyes, then looked toward the beds. Carrick and Ranald slumbered peacefully, unaware of the tumult in their elders’ world. Baby Marian snored in her light wooden cradle.

  Isobel. Where was she? She now slept in a room next to her parents’, which was also near to Alice and Dugald.

  Alice gritted her teeth and, with shaky fingers, unlocked the door and sneaked into the hall. The headless corpse was slumped in the middle of the floor. Its—his—head had rolled, landing next to the stone wall.

  Her belly twisted. She crept across to Isobel’s room and slipped inside.

  No one was there.

  Dugald pushed through the folk in the bailey, finding one man leaning against the wall holding his face. Blood oozed through his fingers, which were pressed to what looked like a knife wound in his cheek. “What now?” Dugald asked the nearest guard. “A fight?”

  “Nay,” he replied. “We were attacked. Three men forced their way into the Great Hall. The auld gentleman—”

  “Och, aye, if he’s on it, ‘tis all right.” Dugald was relieved. His uncle wouldnae allow harm to come to the clan while he lived, drew breath and drank blood. But ‘twouldn’t hurt for Dugald himself to check on matters. “Come with me,” he told Owain, one of their finest warriors.

  After entering the Garrison Tower, he stood at the Great Hall’s doorway. The heated battle inside cramped his insides with fear. Not for himself but…where were milaird and milady?

  He struggled to see who was doing what to whom. But the room was dark, lit only by the dying fire’s glow, and he couldnae see his enemy.

  Everyone was shouting and screaming, especially the wounded. But one man was silent, slouched in a chair. His head was thrown back, exposing his throat, a gaping red smile. Others gripped red-trimmed slashes in their shirts, stanching blood.

  Above, on the laird’s table, a giant figure was holding his own against two attackers, but dark red blotches on his white shirt showed that he’d been wounded.

  Dugald bellowed. Followed by Owain, he leaped through the throng, shoving aside the milling mob. He jumped onto the dais, grabbed Kier’s attacker and flung him across the room. A satisfying thump told him that the nàmhaid had landed hard. Owain stabbed the other, who went down. />
  Kier stumbled and fell onto the table where he sprawled, limp or dead. One arm draped over the table’s side, the fingers dripping dark, thick blood. Heart hammering, Dugald rolled Kier over. His jaw was slack and his lips gaped. No brightness glimmered from the half-shuttered eyes.

  But blood still seeped from several wounds, giving Dugald hope that his laird still lived. A dead heart pumped no blood.

  He drew his knife, slashed one wrist then held it to Kier’s mouth.

  Sir Gareth strode into the room. The panicked clansmen immediately calmed despite the auld gentleman’s appearance, streaked and spattered with blood. “Did we get them all, Owain, lad?” he asked.

  Owain turned. “Aye, sir. There were only three, but they caused much pain, for they caught us unawares. The last one is there.” He pointed to the fellow Dugald had thrown against the wall.

  “Excellent! Provender.” Gareth easily hefted the fellow over his shoulder and left the Great Hall, whistling a jaunty tune. At the doorway, he turned. “Gather the injured here and lay them out on the tables. Get Mairen and the other ladies to tend them. After we’re sorted out, we’ll prepare a war party.”

  Dugald watched his blood drip into his laird’s mouth and thought about Kieran. They’d grown up as brothers, the three of them—he, Kier and Kier’s older brother, who’d been killed at Culloden. Keir was a part of Dugald as much as his hand or throat.

  His mind grew fuzzy. He slumped against the table then slid to the floor.

  Mother of mercy. Where could Isobel be? Alice didn’t know, but she imagined that help was nearby. Crossing the hall, she tapped on Lady Lydia’s door. “Milady?”

  No response, and Alice, her fear rising, knocked harder and raised her voice. “Milady? Ma’am?”

  Again, nothing.

  Panic unfurled, an evil flower crowding her chest. Now she pounded and fumbled at the latch, fingers quivering with fear.

  The door flew open. “What the bloody hell is it?” Isobel demanded. Dressed in a long white nightgown, she rubbed sleepy eyes. “You woke us up.”