Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  But he knew that, unlike his mother, Traci didn’t wish for him to distract her with cheer.

  At a loss for what else to do, he continued to gently rub her arms and whispered, “Go on.” He could tell she hated getting emotional, so he opted not to draw attention to it.

  “That night I suggested we party a little. I just wanted a break, you know? So we bought some good Scotch and holed up in our room at the B&B.”

  “B&B?”

  “Bed and breakfast. It’s like the inn. It’s where we were spending the night. Anyway, we got to drinking, and one thing led to another, and I bet her I could prove…prove…”

  “That we Scots are not ‘hot’ in our plaids?”

  She chuckled. “Yes. I bet her a good chunk of money too. She already had some period clothes because she’d bamboozled me into going to the Highland Games on the Isle of Skye, so we changed, picked a time that fit our outfits, and, well…you know the rest.”

  “That’s when I met you then.”

  “Yes.”

  A thought occurred to him. “Wait. So the myth you were referring to, it wasn’t the Loch Ness monster?”

  As he’d hoped, her cheeks again flared red. Lord help him, but he enjoyed causing that reaction in her, more so because he sensed it was not something she normally did.

  Her mouth set in a mulish line.

  He nudged her with his hips and chuckled. “Admit it, lass. What was the myth?”

  “I think you know,” she grumbled.

  “Truly, I’m at a loss.” He kept his voice innocent.

  She glared at him. “That hot men in kilts existed.” She said each word as if it cost her much to admit each one.

  “And what’s your stance on that myth now?”

  She jutted her chin in the air. “Your clansmen, I hate to tell you, are not hot.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say so. Do you include me in their number then?” He stole a glance at her lips.

  Gah. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice half-exasperated, half-laughing.

  He leaned down the scant inches required to bring his mouth near the soft shell of her ear. “Aye. I am. Tell me, my wife. Do you find me…‘hot’?”

  She trembled slightly in his arms. Her sweet breath puffed near his own ear when she whispered, “Yes,” causing his own lust to flare.

  “Yes, what?” He nibbled on her delicate ear lobe, and triumph surged when she groaned with desire.

  “Yes, I find you hot, damn you.”

  To his complete and utter shock, she grasped his rod and cods in her wee hand. Pain mixed with pleasure.

  And it wasn’t in a prelude to play, the minx. It was out of frustration, anger, and a way to make him shut up. He’d bet their best steer on it.

  He chuckled and drew back, and she threw him a saucy grin. “You’re pushing your luck, buster.”

  “Aye, maybe I am. Or maybe you have me right where ye want me.” He thrust his hips forward, pushing against her so her hand and his now-hard cock were pressed between them.

  Her eyes darkened, and her breath came in quicker gasps. But he waited, his face, his lips inches from hers.

  Her hand shifted, softened into a caress, and he groaned. He plunged his fingers into her hair, digging into the loose braid. He captured her mouth and ground his hips against her hand, against her hips. She pulled her hand away and gripped his head too, as their mouths fought each other, each trying to control the kiss, each frantic to take a little from the other. To have the last say.

  Blood pounded in his ears. Her lips parted, and he plunged his tongue into her warm, sweet mouth. Ah, God, he’d missed her taste. She was driving him half-crazy.

  If she was going to leave—if he only had a moment with her—then damn it if he wouldn’t take what she was willing to give. Need and urgency had him trembling, and their movements were still frantic, their teeth bumping.

  She fired his blood like no other lass. And he refused to think what that would mean for him when she left.

  He kept one hand at the base of her head and angled her for better access, their tongues fighting, tasting, clashing. He dragged his other hand down the lovely, soft column of her neck until he cupped one voluptuous breast.

  She groaned, and he plumped her lush softness, pinching the tip, rolling her stiff nipple in his fingers. His hips grinding against hers. Their faces dipping and tasting each other, over and over, as they fell into a rhythm. A rhythm he wished to God he was performing with his cock. It lay, hard and heavy between them, pressed into her belly.

  A crazed part of him wanted to lift her skirts, shift aside his plaid, and plunge into her warm, tight channel. Again and again. Until she cried his name.

  And then he did hear his name shouted. But it wasn’t from her, since she was still enthusiastically engaged in devouring his mouth.

  “Iain. Finish up with your wife, will ye? We need to get back to MacDonell lands,” Duncan shouted.

  She stiffened against him, and he stilled as well.

  Damn ol’ Nessie’s blowhole to hell.

  Breathing hard, he unclasped his fingers from her breast and stepped back. She was panting as well, her face glazed with want. Want for him.

  God damn it.

  He’d again lost control with this woman. Porridge for brains, he had. They hadn’t even discussed what to do next. And ’twas clear, where she was concerned, he couldn’t think clearly.

  She continued to stare, but she calmly tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and straightened her clothes.

  “Give us a moment, would ye, Duncan? We’re still discussing matters.”

  “Is that what you call it?” His cousin’s voice echoed down the ravine.

  “Leave off,” he barked. “I mean it. Another moment is all I’m asking.”

  Duncan grumbled, but his footsteps retreated.

  Iain stepped toward Traci, and she straightened, wariness tightening her limbs. “I’m not going to touch you again.” He stopped his hand en route to stroking her cheek and balled it into a fist. “But I am going with you, and I’ll take no argument.”

  “What about Duncan?”

  “I’ll tell him our plans. If he wishes to accompany us, he can.”

  Her pretty eyebrows raised slightly. “So you’ll still help me?” The trace of disbelief in her voice slayed him.

  “Aye, I will. I’ll not leave you. I’m in, for better or worse, though I hope it doesn’t come to the latter.”

  She pushed away from the rock. “Okay. Then go do your thing and convince him to come. I think we need everyone we can muster.”

  “Do my thing?”

  “Yeah, you know.” She waved a hand at him. “Your thing.”

  As he could only stare, at a loss as to her meaning, she cocked her head to the side. “You don’t see it, do you?”

  “See what?”

  She stepped forward and put her hands on his arms, squeezing them. “You’re a natural leader.”

  He gave out a bitter laugh. “Far from it.”

  She searched his eyes, and he resisted the urge to squirm in place. It unnerved him, how she seemed to stare right down into his soul.

  “You really don’t see it.” Her voice held a trace of disbelief. “I noticed it when we left yesterday afternoon. You put everyone at ease, and they all looked to you as their leader. And then when we were debating our exit strategy from Invergarry.”

  This time he couldn’t help but shift in place. Restless. “They had no choice. The chieftain put me in charge.”

  She shook her head. “Perhaps that’s why they showed up at the stables, saddled and ready. But when you appeared, I saw them, Iain. Their postures changed. There was an air about you. And they sensed it, even if they didn’t know what it was. But I could see them looking to you, trusting you. Duncan might disagree with you on tactics now, but he respects you.”

  His lips thinned, bitterness twisting further through him. “Until I proved my leadership abiliti
es today beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  This was exactly why he’d avoided any responsibilities in the past. Better to skim along in life, take tiny, happy sips of what it had to offer, and move on.

  She frowned. “The river crossing?”

  “Aye.”

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  He swallowed hard, but for some reason, it wasn’t difficult to bare this to her. “It was, though. I should have secured the packs better, or taken the time to go to the shallower ford—”

  She placed a hand on his cheek. “You’re only human, Iain. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “It proves I have no business leading men.”

  “But—”

  He pulled away. “Nay. I’ll hear no more on it. I’ll help you, have no fear, but a leader I’m not.”

  She stared at him a moment, then brushed past him, shaking her head. “Fine. Believe what you want. Let’s go.”

  He watched her retreating back, the sway of her generous hips. “Aye. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  My tartan plaid, my ae good sheet,

  That keepit me frae wind an’ weet,

  An held me bien baith night an’ day,

  Is over the hills, an’ far away.

  “The Wind Has Blow My Plaid Away,” Jacobite Reliques

  “Iain?” Traci whispered.

  Without expressing anything out loud, they’d arranged their pallets together by the fire that night, and they were both huddled under his plaid. She’d been surprised when he’d wet it in a stream when they made camp, but he’d explained that it expanded the wool and shielded them from the wind. She had to admit, it made an odd but effective windbreaker. Kept midges out too, he’d explained, but thank God she didn’t have to test that out as it wasn’t yet midge season.

  After slaying and dressing a deer earlier that day, they’d pressed on toward Urquhart Castle. Iain had managed to convince Duncan to forge ahead without having to resort to spilling her secret. Now Iain lay stretched out behind her, his strong arm looped around her waist, holding her tight against him. She’d protest his presumptuousness, but she found she liked it. Allowed her to pretend…

  “Hmm?” His voice rumbled along her back.

  Duncan had the first watch and had slipped into the night. Duncan wouldn’t admit it, but she was getting better at reading the close-to-the-vest Highlander, and he was worried about Fiona too.

  She shifted around in the cocoon of their plaids and faced Iain, though she could barely see him in the dark. Telling him about her family this afternoon had given her time to reflect—about herself and about him. And during their long ride today, a new thought had occurred to her: if her parents had wanted her to conform, then why was she the only kid in the family with the non-traditional name? It was as if they didn't expect her to fit in from the start. Had she always subconsciously felt that difference?

  But she’d also had time to study Iain, and now, lying beside him with the blanket of stars arching overhead, a new memory from their first night had surfaced—of her babbling about stars and connections. While she couldn’t remember the conversation word-for-word, a warm sense of closeness flooded her. That memory, and her earlier study of him, had left her with one thing—well, one major thing—which still puzzled her. “Why do you doubt yourself?”

  He stiffened, and though she didn’t feel him ease away, she sensed it.

  “I have no doubts, my wife. What is there for me to doubt?” He circled his big hand around her waist and nudged her forward into his body.

  She shoved against his chest, while also tamping down on the visceral pull she always felt around him. “Yeah. I know you have no doubts on that score, big guy.”

  “I’m glad you’re aware of this fact. I was beginning to doubt you knew.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Why?”

  “I know, silly, right?”

  “I certainly think so, aye.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Humor me.”

  “Do you have a reward?”

  “I can probably think of something.”

  “I can as well, my wife. I can as well.” He gently nudged her with his hips.

  Heat flared through her, but she shoved it down. She’d glimpsed something beneath his always-joking façade, and she was curious to see if it was a fluke. She knew what he was trying to do now—deflect her. Besides, she’d vowed not to indulge while her sister was in danger. Their interlude earlier today had left her feeling justifiably guilty.

  “Duncan followed you, you noticed.”

  “Are ye sure he wasn’t following my bonnie wife?”

  “Yes. I know you don’t see it, but you do have a natural talent for leading. Why do you doubt that?”

  He blew out a breath and rolled onto his back. He placed a forearm over his forehead.

  She levered up and propped her head in her hand. “What happened? I told you my pathetic sob story. Yours couldn’t be any sillier. Spill.”

  “So, it’s like that, is it? You showed me yours, and now I have to show you mine?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her from the corner of his eyes and then returned his gaze to the star-studded sky. “My father used to be chieftain. Since I wasn’t the eldest, he left me to fend for myself. Which suited me fine as a lad. I could hunt and fish and pester the lasses as much as I pleased. Life was grand. But as I grew older, I…I don’t know, I guess I wanted more. To do more. So I pestered my brother and cousins during their training and insisted on learning to be a warrior too.”

  When he stopped talking for a bit, she prompted, “What happened?”

  “Like everything in my life, it came easy to me. So when it came time for me to join them in a raid, I insisted I was ready. Walked around all puffed-up.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Whoa. “And they let you join them? On a raid?”

  “Aye, they did. Mind you, raids are simple affairs. No risk to it. A pastime, it is, shuffling cattle back and forth between the clans. At least it used to be.”

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “What was to be expected, I guess. We’d joined the MacDonalds in raiding a Campbell holding to support the Macleans of Duart and harass Argyll for his attempts to invade the Isle of Mull. We were on our way back when I decided to do some target practice while we rode. Showing off, you know. My father rode up to my side and cuffed me hard enough to throw me off my horse.” He swallowed hard. “ ’Twas jumbled after that, but the end result is vivid enough—my father on the ground, blood pumping out of his thigh. I’d shot him. I shot my own father. And he damned me for a fool with his last breath.”

  She swallowed hard and touched his chest. “Oh, Iain. That’s horrible—”

  “Aye. ’Twas. No denying.” He pulled in a deep breath. “Well. Now you know my sorry tale, we can bring in the keening women.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered and curled her fingers against his chest.

  “What?” He looked at her, humor written all over his face. Except for his eyes. Pain lurked there.

  “Retreat.”

  His jaw flexed. “Who’s retreating? I told you what happened, like you asked. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Is it really?”

  “Of course.” Now he crossed his arms while he lay there on his back and resembled a little boy in a way, who’d just been thwarted and didn’t like it one bit.

  “What was he like?”

  “My father?”

  “No, your childhood horse. Of course your father.”

  He sighed and clasped his hands behind his head. He was quiet long enough that she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then his voice emerged, low and tentative. “He was a stern but fair chieftain and father. A good leader. He’d raised my brother to follow him as chieftain.”

  She frowned. “What happened? Why is your uncle chieftain then?”

  “He died several years after Father’s dea
th. I was too young. Plus by then, ’twas obvious I was not chieftain material. My uncle stepped in and has led the clan since.”

  “How’d your brother die?”

  He pursed his lips. “Fighting the Campbells. By then, the Earl of Argyll had succeeded in taking Mull.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “ ’Tis how it can be, at times. My uncle did send me to Edinburgh to attend university, now that I was the eldest.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “ ’Tis the law. Oldest sons of Highland chiefs must attend school in the Lowlands, and he opted for university. I won’t lie, I enjoyed my years there tremendously. There was an energy there that was palpable. But I…I really didn’t have a reason to stay afterward. The energy was addictive, but I was only a spectator. So I came home. But…”

  “But what?”

  “But I don’t fit in here either,” he said in a low whisper.

  Iain groaned at what he’d nearly admitted. Was bad enough what he did end up saying.

  But the truth almost escaped his tongue: that he wished for more with his clan. Because was this all there was to his life? Eating, drinking, fucking?

  Somehow, he’d been pushed into that role, and he’d be damned if he could figure how to break out of it. The role had become a cage in which he rattled around. Looking out of the bars at others who had companions and families. Children they could love.

  Most of the time, he ignored those bars. Kept his back to them and enjoyed himself. After all, life was short, was it not?

  Every once in a while, though, he looked over his shoulder and caught a tender glance from a husband to his wife, or a chubby child wrapping his wee, pudgy arms around his father’s leg and holding on as if his father were the wee one’s anchor.

  And something inside him…ached.

  He’d whip his head back around then and crack a joke, determined to make the most of his lot. It was more than what his brother had been given.

  Nay. He’d not be confessing this to a soul. They’d think him as cocked up as a Highland cow mooing down a dirty London lane.