Tartan

by Diana Laurence

  A free ebook from

  living beyond realityTM press

  www.livingbeyondreality.com

  written for Sherry

  TARTAN

  by Diana Laurence

  TARTAN

  Published by

  LIVING BEYOND REALITY PRESS

  5257 Somerset Lane South

  Greenfield, WI 53221 USA

  www.livingbeyondreality.com

  eBook Publication: March 2006 by Living Beyond Reality Press

  Copyright © 2006 by Diana Laurence

  All rights reserved

  www.dianalaurence.com

  Cover art by Diana Laurence

  All characters in this story have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone, living or dead, bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual, known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention from the author’s imagination. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Tartan

  Notes from the author:

  This story was the prize in a contest I ran in November 2005. The winner, Sherry, got to pick the locale and time period and requested medieval Scotland. A fine choice!

  In researching Sherry’s story I learned some interesting facts. First of all, the kilt was actually not invented until the late 17th century, so in writing Sherry a tale of medieval Scotland, I could not employ that famous garment even if I set the tale as late as the 1400’s. Fortunately, Scotsmen did wear tartan plaid back then, although the specific patterns were not yet associated with any particular clan—that would take another 400 years! The common garment of the day was a woven wool cloak fashioned of a long, wide swatch of cloth, called a plaid or a tartan.

  Secondly, I used Sherry’s choice of the lovely name ‘Miranda’ for her heroine in spite of the unlikelihood of a 15th century Scotswoman bearing that name. ‘Miranda’ was invented by William Shakespeare a hundred years later for his play “The Tempest.” Nevertheless, the people of Scotland had the habit of making up new names and new spellings of names all the time, so it is not beyond the realm of possibility that Miranda Dunbrek’s parents might have created it for her. At any rate, she seems like a Miranda to me.

  “Patience, Malcom Keyth,” said Miranda, looking up from the plaid wool fabric in her lap with mock sternness. “If ye have waited all these weeks, why hurry me now when I be nearly finished?”

  Seated on the stool by the hearth of Miranda’s cottage, Malcom sighed and went back resolutely to carving the small wooden bird he held in his hands.

  Miranda had to smile. Malcom’s boyish impatience was charming to see in a man of such rugged and powerful appearance. The young carpenter was easily five inches taller than she—although Miranda was probably the tallest woman in the village—and he was broad in the shoulder with solid muscle from there on down. If not for the short beard Malcom wore, he would look at that moment like a very large boy, his posture broody and petulant. She half expected him to shake his dark brown curls at her in sulkiness.

  “Ye know it be not the tartan, Miranda Dunbrek,” said Malcom, looking up at her again, “for that will be mine within the hour, I ken.”

  “Aye, I know it be not the tartan,” she nodded, taking another stitch.

  “Not many men could wait so long for a lassie to make up her mind.”

  Miranda chuckled. She could hardly believe there could be any suspense about the matter at this point; apparently the man was not so cock-sure as he acted most of the time. “Ah, Malcom,” she said, taking another stitch, “I’ve half a mind to sew slower, just to watch ye twitch so a bit longer.”

  Malcom recognized that she was teasing. He stifled a smile. “Suit yourself then, lass—after all, if I be waiting, then so be ye.”

  Ah, now that was the Malcom she knew and loved. He was well aware of the allure he held as far as she was concerned. He had proof enough of it, God knew. But the fact that Miranda loved him was something Malcom was not yet privy to.

  Indeed, she had come to love him well over the weeks she had been making him this tartan. How things had changed between them since that first night when it all began, and yet, her feelings even at the start had been passionate….

  * * *

  Although the Lowlands of Scotland had many a larger village than Alyth, there was probably not a one that could hold a better feast. The occasion this time was the birth of a fine, healthy pair of identical twin boys to one of the village families. The priest had only to say a double-baptism was cause for a celebration, and everyone got busy preparing food and drink and readying for a night of feasting and music.

  A fine party it was, and Miranda attended with her sister Jonet’s family, Robert and the three children. Most of the time she helped keep the little ones from getting into mischief, just as she often did during the day when she and her sister spun and wove together. Finally though, Jonet told her to have some fun herself, so she returned the bairns to their mother’s care and went to join in the dancing.

  Miranda was happy to get to scamper about to the lively tunes of the pipers. The bonfire was a beauty, so bright that the world beyond the celebration seemed to withdraw into the darkness and disappear. As she danced, Miranda looked at all the friendly, fire lit faces of her neighbors. And in doing so, she noticed one Malcom Keyth staring at her very unabashedly.

  Malcom was a carpenter, and she knew him a little—there was no one in that tiny hamlet she didn’t know. They were close in age, so she had even played with him sometimes as a child. But they had not spoken at any length in some years, and she found it curious that he was so intent upon her. She checked her dress to make sure it needed no adjusting, and put her hands to her rosy blond hair to check that it had not come undone from its ribbons. Nothing seemed awry. Yet every time she glanced at the carpenter, his eyes were still upon her.

  So as she danced she considered the matter at some length, and in pondering recalled an occasion or two when she and Malcom had passed in the street and he’d given her a peculiar look. And there had been one time the previous summer when she’d fetched him for a neighbor whose cart had lost a wheel; all the while they walked together back to the broken cart, Malcom was silent and preoccupied.

  Could it really be he fancies me? thought Miranda. In her present mood, after a bit of drink and the stimulation of the bonfire and the music, she liked the idea. Very much. Malcom Keyth was a handsome fellow, and reputed to be quite a skilled carpenter for one so young. And it was not as if the other village men of age to court her had anything better to recommend them. But, thought Miranda, most likely Malcom was the type to stare and not do much else, and nothing would come of it.

  She could not have been more wrong.

  Not too many minutes later, the dancers formed an immense circle, hand in hand around the fire. The drummers stepped up the beat till the circle could not possibly spin any faster, and when the music stopped, everyone let go their hands and went flying every which way in a frenzy of laughter. Miranda was a bit concerned someone would end up in the fire, and she was half worrying about that, and half dissolving into giggles, when she found herself suddenly colliding with Malcom Keyth.

  He grunted and stepped back, then froze. He was but two feet away from her, and his face regarded her with that same intensity. Then suddenly without warning, he stepped closer, and his proximity became not only unusual but obviously significant.

  Was he going to touch her?

  All at once Miranda realized how much she hoped he would. The longing in his eyes was just too intriguing. Then she felt his body’s warmth and he se
emed to have crossed a borderline of nearness that alerted all her senses.

  What happened next was amazing. Malcom moved even closer, till she could feel his breath, and lifted his hand and touched her right temple. Then he traced his fingers over her cheek. Finally, he leaned down to her and held stock still, his mouth perhaps an inch from hers.

  This gesture changed everything. Miranda’s universe collapsed to their two close faces, and the engrossing temptation of Malcom’s lips.

  Apparently he was too much of a gentleman to force the kiss, and Miranda hesitated, naturally reluctant to engage in such intimacy with a man she barely knew. But she could feel Malcom’s yearning in the lingering sensation on her cheek. The offering of his mouth, the anticipation of its softness and warmth, was quickly overwhelming her. She tried to breathe and the breath caught, shuddering audibly. And Malcom Keyth heard this, knew its meaning at once, and smiled at the knowledge of Miranda’s reciprocal desire.

  She knew then that it was only a matter of moments. Furious craving to feel Malcom’s flesh darted over the skin of her cheeks. This sudden passion was new to her, and that novelty only made it mount all the more swiftly. All at once Miranda perceived Malcom’s body as a huge, strong, warm presence that must be seized, surrendered to, devoured. Her desire overpowered her will: her brain went blind with it, her heart rushed, she trembled.

  She laid her hands upon his chest and kissed him. He responded with wild hunger, his mouth as eager as it was soft. Miranda’s trembling increased, then seemed to break like a wave. Malcom’s kiss carried her like a torrent, and she lost herself in it. It was surcease of yearning, so sweet, so lovely. And in that moment she felt like she must already be falling in love with him, stranger or no.

  As sublime as her arousal was, it was also alarming, and in another moment Miranda pulled herself back. What was she doing, kissing Malcom Keyth like this? Panting, she stared up at him. The amber light from the bonfire revealed an astonished look on his face, wide blue eyes and parted lips. The lips formed a smile. “Ah, Miranda Dunbrek,” he said, “could I be dreaming that ye just kissed me?”

  Miranda was torn between not wanting to appear a hussy, and wishing she might express her newborn affection for the man. The look of grateful joy on his face only made her like him more. “I dunna why I did that, Malcom,” was all she could manage.

  He moved toward her. “Might it be that ye wanted to?” he asked, reaching for her.

  She took a step back. “Well…” she said weakly.

  Malcom halted but his face remained eager. “If ye say no, it’s a lie,” he told her firmly. “That was a kiss of wanting if ever there be one.”

  Miranda put her hands behind her skirts. “I woudna say no—but I canna kiss ye again, Malcom.”

  He cocked his head. “Why not? Was it not to your liking, Miranda?”

  “Because I hardly know ye! I dunna what I was thinking.”

  Malcom’s spirits seemed to fall a bit at this. He said nothing, but the joy ebbed from his face.

  Miranda couldn’t bear him feeling rejected, since after all the kiss was her fault. She took a step toward him and lifted her hands. “But wait, Malcom, it was a lovely kiss, truly!” she said.

  He brightened. “I’d give ye more. But perhaps in a place not so crowded.”

  Miranda glanced around. Although none of the other revelers seemed to be taking any notice of their conversation, surely more than a few had seen the kiss. She felt her cheeks go crimson. She looked again at Malcom. “Aw, I wouldna see ye sad, Malcom, but again I say, I hardly know ye. I’m not the sort to kiss strangers. Except this once.”

  Malcom looked at her hard, cocking his head to one side. “All right then, I’ll become not a stranger, and there’s the remedy.”

  He continued to look at her, but seemed lost in thought. Miranda wasn’t sure what to say, and was about to open her mouth to attempt some inane comment, when Malcom suddenly waved her off. “Be off with ye then, and dance if ye will. I’ve already begun to think on it. Before long I’ll know what to do, and then ye will hear from me, Miranda Dunbrek.”

  “All right,” agreed Miranda, rather disoriented. She wasn’t sure if there were now hard feelings between them or not. Malcom’s furrowed brow could indicate anger, frustration, or simply determination, and she didn’t know him well enough to decide which.

  She fell into her little bed that night weary from the feast, but too uneasy to fall asleep at once. She hoped her actions toward Malcom had not put the young man off, but really, what else could she have done?

  Perhaps ye ought not to have kissed that handsome devil in the first place, she chided herself, finally dozing off.

  Miranda was barely up and about the next morning when there came a knock on her door. She pulled it open it to find a bright spring morning and the imposing figure of Malcom Keyth.

  It was strange to see by the light of day the man she had kissed by firelight. He was no less handsome, not at all…but he certainly seemed more real. The morning sun sparkled in his eyes and gleamed in his dark brown curls. His skin was tan, his mouth and cheeks rosy. He was so very tall and broad, it made Miranda feel petite for the first time in her adult life. Malcom’s linen shirt and old plaid did not conceal the girth of his arms, and his bare calves were likewise sturdy and muscular. The man’s expression, meanwhile, was inscrutable, and all at once Miranda felt him to be a fellow one wouldn’t want to cross.

  By way of greeting Malcom said, “I would like ye to make me a tartan, Miranda.”

  She shook her head, a little stunned. “A tartan, Malcom?”

  “Aye. I’ve need for a new one. For certain I canna be wed in this old rag.”

  Wed? Miranda had heard nothing of Malcom’s being betrothed—this made the kiss even more scandalous! And heartbreaking. She tried to hide her disappointment by being businesslike. She looked up and down Malcom’s present cloak, a dull old plaid of blue and black that looked like it could have been his grandfather’s once. “Ye could use a new tartan indeed, Malcom, but my sister and I make very fine ones. They fetch good coin, and we even sell them to England. How would ye pay?”

  “That is another matter,” said Malcom brusquely, as if she had completely missed his point. “Did ye not wonder that I plan to be wed?”

  Miranda kept her face blank. “I did wonder, aye.”

  “T’will be to ye, Miranda, for in the time it takes ye to make my tartan, I’ll woo ye.”

  Relief washed over her, followed soon after by mirth. “Will ye, then?” she laughed.

  “Ye kissed me as a stranger, ye must like me well enough already,” said Malcom with a grin.

  Miranda blushed. “’Twas but one kiss.”

  “A hundred kisses in one, that was,” disagreed Malcom, folding his arms over his chest. “So here’s my proposition: ye make me the tartan, and all the while I’ll keep ye company, and so when it’s finished, ye wouldna bear to part with me, and will give your consent to be my wife.”

  Miranda forced herself to laugh at this because that seemed to be the thing to do. Nevertheless she found his self-confidence very attractive, and the prospect of so many hours in his presence nearly irresistible. “But how will ye pay, Malcom Keyth?” she asked, hoping desperately that he had a plan.

  The carpenter unfolded his arms and clasped his hands behind him. “I may be a stranger to ye, but I have loved ye quite awhile, Miranda. And I know ye work all day at Robert Buchan’s house, with your sister, spinning and weaving and sewing. And watching over those lively bairns. Well, Jonat Buchan has a fine spinning wheel and a loom, but I’m able to make far better—there’s nothing made of wood that I canna make. Those I’ll give ye in trade for the tartan, and your company.”

  Miranda nearly gasped aloud. It was all she could do to control her face. For she had wanted for a very long time to have her own spinning wheel and loom, but she hadn’t been able to buy them. The wool she and Jonat used came from the Buchans’ sheep, raised and tended and sheared by R
obert. All Miranda contributed was her efforts, so she didn’t ask for more money than it took her to live and keep up her childhood home, which had fallen to her when her parents passed. Such a trade was quite lopsided on Malcom’s part—she couldn’t possibly accept.

  What Malcom said next convinced her he had somehow read her mind. “It’s a generous offer, and I wouldna be buying a wife. That has to be given freely. But I’ve already made ye the loom and the wheel, and I’ve no use for them if ye wouldna take them, so it’s quite fair to me. What I need is a new tartan.”

  “Ye have already made them?” asked Miranda, and the full import of his words “I have loved ye quite awhile” struck her. It was frightening, it was touching, it seemed impossible to believe.

  The man nodded firmly, without a word.

  Not too many men in the village could have tempted her with such extreme sentiments, but it seemed Malcom Keyth could. “Well,” said Miranda, leaning on her door with feigned nonchalance, “it’s true they’re no use to ye, so perhaps it is more fair a trade than first I thought.”

  Malcom lifted his dark brows.

  There was such hope in his eyes that she could hesitate no longer. “All right then,” she said, “I’m agreed.”

  It seemed for a moment that the man would burst into laughter, but he quickly adopted a more dignified expression and gave her a little bow. Then he said, “I’ll fetch the wheel and the loom at once.”

  But Miranda reached to set her hand on his arm. “Not so fast, Malcom—do ye fear I’ll change my mind? Come in and I’ll show ye some of the yarns I have. Ye must pick the colors before I can start, ye ken.”

  * * *

  The nearly finished tartan in Miranda’s lap was woven of black and red, with pinstripes of yellow. It would set off Malcom’s dark hair well, she thought. As she stitched the last section of the two long strips of fabric together, for the umpteenth time she pictured Malcom as a groom, and herself standing at his side in her mother’s wedding gown and sash. If he knew how often she had dreamt of marrying him, he would not be so nervously poking with his knife at the wooden bird he was carving. She smiled to herself.