Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  He’d been careful not to imbibe too many tumblers of the fine wine Cook had conjured from who-knew-where. He wondered if his father had secreted away a store of costly wines that only Cook was privy to. However, there’d be time enough to investigate that. Now, the priority was to watch his wife and dream of the night to come.

  She was moving gracefully from table to table in the hall, conversing with his clan-folk, sometimes looking serious and thoughtful as she listened intently, sometimes laughing with them. It was gratifying that she already seemed to feel at home, though he’d like to wipe the ogling leers off some faces.

  Kyla was his and no one best forget it.

  Jealously was another new emotion, but he was learning to cope with its raw power. Strangely, it made him feel more alive and was preferable to the doldrums he’d fallen into after his father’s insane behavior.

  “Will ye sing on this important occasion?” Lily asked unexpectedly.

  “Certainly,” he replied, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it. He knew exactly what song he would choose for his new bride.

  A hush fell when he got to his feet and held out his hand to his wife. She lifted her chin and sent him a radiant smile that made him giddy. Perhaps he had imbibed too much. But it wasn’t every day a mon got married.

  Swallowing hard, he took hold of her hand when she reached the dais, and began.

  Cailin mo rùin-sa is leannan mo ghràidh,

  Ainnir mo chridh-sa ’s i cuspair mo dhàin.

  Tha m’inntinn làn sòlais bhi tilleadh gun dàil,

  Gu cailin mo rùin-sa is leannan mo gràidh.

  Oh dearest my own one, oh won’t you be mine,

  So full of devotion, so modest and kind?

  My heart’s full of longing and yearning for you;

  Come close to me, darling—you know I’ll be true.

  Without you I’m lonely; none other will do;

  Those green eyes enthralled me—it had to be you.

  Do you remember that moment of bliss,

  So fondly embracing, the thrilling first kiss?

  Since then you are mine, dear, the choice of my heart;

  My promise I’ll give you, that we’ll never part.

  He looked deep into those green eyes welling with tears, inhaled deeply and repeated the refrain.

  My promise I’ll give you, that we’ll never part.

  *

  As the last sweet sounds of Broderick’s love song drifted to the rafters, all Kyla could hear was the beating of her own heart. The heat in his eyes and the sincerity in his deep voice flooded her body with lustful longings, a yearning to belong to him completely that made her go weak in the knees.

  Private confidences Isabel had shared about sexual congress between men and women suddenly made sense. She already had Broderick’s love. Now, she thirsted to become one with him in the mystical way her stepmother had tried to explain.

  “Mo anam cara,” she whispered.

  He nodded his understanding. “Mate of my soul,” he rasped.

  She expected to be swept off her feet and carried away to his chamber, but the sudden drone of the pipes and the hustle and bustle of folks clearing away tables and benches penetrated the fog of desire.

  Broderick rolled his eyes. “I suppose we’ll have to stay for the dancing,” he said with a sigh, though she detected a hint of anticipation.

  A handful of musicians gathered round the piper as people took to the floor, cheering loudly when the newlyweds joined them.

  It wasn’t the first time Kyla had danced reels and jigs—and yet it was. The beat of the drum, the joyful skirl of the pipes, the happy voice of the fiddle, Broderick’s laughter as he twirled and whirled her in one dance after another—all conspired to render her breathless and heat her body to a fever pitch. Her new husband was light on his feet!

  He shook his head whenever another man attempted to partner with her, until her father approached. Then he smiled, bowed politely and withdrew. Someone thrust a fiddle in his hands as he walked back to the dais, and shouts of Play for us, my laird, filled the air.

  With a shrug, he tucked the instrument under his chin, tapped his foot to the beat of the drum, and drew the bow across the strings.

  In the blink of an eye, dancers flocked to join in. Hands clapped, feet tapped, men whooped, bairns laughed, skirts swished.

  Kyla partnered with her father, but her attention was on the man who was one with the fiddle. The music was dark, then bright, harsh, then mellow, sweet, then sorrowful, slow, then heart-stoppingly fast.

  “Ye’re right,” her father said, jolting her from her fascination.

  “About what?” she panted.

  “I’ve ne’er heard anyone make a fiddle sing like that.”

  Becoming One

  Presbyter Selwyn muttered papist notion under his breath when Abbot Septimus suggested it was imperative the marriage bed be blessed. Nevertheless, he accompanied the monk and the bride and groom to the bridal chamber.

  Broderick lifted Kyla. Teak opened the door so he could carry her over the threshold. The two clerics entered hesitantly and dithered, both looking everywhere except at the bed they’d come to bless.

  Standing next to the bed, Broderick nibbled Kyla’s ear. “Want to make them blush?” he whispered.

  She tightened her grip around his neck and winked. “Aye.”

  “I love that I’ve wed a mischievous woman,” he said as he laid her on the bed and climbed to lie next to her. He took hold of her hand and announced. “We’re ready for yer blessing.”

  He meshed his fingers with hers and squeezed when he sensed a giggle about to erupt.

  Septimus raised his hands in a gesture of exhortation, looked up to the rafters, coughed loudly and began to chant in Latin, ending with a long drawn out Amen.

  “Amen,” Broderick sang solemnly.

  “Amen,” Kyla murmured, making the sign of her savior.

  “Aye, Amen,” Selwyn echoed. “God bless ye.”

  Without further ado, they trooped out past a grinning Teak, who then closed the door.

  Bride and groom burst into a fit of laughter, but sobered quickly when there came a soft tap.

  “Go away,” Broderick yelled.

  “’Tis me,” Lily yelled back. “Ye left without saying good night.”

  “I thought she’d gone to bed hours ago,” he sighed. “Am I ever going to be left in peace to make love to my wife?”

  Kyla smiled a sultry smile that turned his arousal to granite. “I guarantee it,” she murmured. “But ye canna deny Lily a goodnight kiss, and we are still fully dressed.”

  Resigned to the delay, he shouted, “Come in.”

  He might have known his sister, already clad in her nightgown, would be accompanied by Doreen.

  The maid’s mouth fell open when they entered and she held Lily back near the door. “Just blow a kiss,” she commanded. “Yer brother’s already abed.”

  Kyla sat up and opened her arms. “Nonsense. Come and kiss me, Lily. We thought ye’d retired.”

  Doreen bristled as Lily ran to the bed and climbed into Kyla’s arms.

  “I did fall asleep,” Lily confessed, “but Doreen woke me and reminded me I hadna kissed ye.”

  The maid blushed. “Aye, weel. I was sure ye’d need help with yon gown.”

  Broderick hesitated only a moment before giving in to the temptation to be outrageous. “’Twas thoughtful of ye, Doreen, but I intend to remove all my wife’s clothing myself.”

  The maid huffed. “Weel…”

  Lily’s eyes widened. “He’s ’toxicated with her, ye see,” she explained to her maid. “We’d best go.”

  “Aye,” Kyla agreed, chewing her lip as Doreen leaned heavily against the doorframe, looking about ready to swoon.

  Lily clamped her arms around Broderick’s neck and kissed him. “After ye promise to teach me to play the fiddle.”

  He untwined her arms, his patience ebbing. “I promise, now go.”

  *
<
br />   Kyla laughed out loud when Doreen finally slammed the door shut, sending candle flames dancing.

  Broderick turned onto his side and pulled her to face him. “I love to hear ye laugh,” he said, his eyes still full of mischief.

  She put her hand against his cheek. “It took two maids to get me into this frock. Ye might be sorry ye turned down Doreen’s offer.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows, got out of bed and walked to her side. “Ne’er let it be said Laird Broderick Maxwell backed away from a challenge.”

  She accepted his hand and rose from the bed.

  He took a step back, gliding his hands over her shoulders, down her arms and then her breasts, where he lingered, staring.

  “No fastenings there,” she teased, awed by the wanting in his dark gaze.

  He rubbed his chin. “What? Oh, right.”

  With a sly grin, he smoothed his hands over her hips. “Nor here, either.”

  His fingers wandered to her mons. “Are ye sure we canna just lift it o’er yer head?”

  She was tempted to agree so she could feel his touch on her skin, but she also wanted to continue the delicious game that made her feel wanted, desired. “Nay,” she murmured.

  He put his hands on her thighs and said, “Turn.”

  The search continued, his hands meandering down her spine, digressing to cup her breasts from behind for a moment, then lingering on her bottom.

  Excitement and an urge to laugh heightened the yearning blossoming in very private places. She was quite sure he hadn’t detected how to unfasten the garment.

  “Turn back.”

  She obliged, biting her knuckle.

  The glint in his eyes showed he knew she was teasing him. He went down on one knee to grasp the hem. “I’ll just lift yer skirts.”

  She gaped, feigning shock, then slowly raised one arm to reveal the row of tiny buttons artfully concealed in one side.

  He stood up straight, peering at the buttons. “Aha,” he exclaimed, bending his knees to set about his task.

  After a few minutes, he was sweating, his brow furrowed with concentration. “My fingers are too big,” he lamented.

  His voice betrayed the impatience she was feeling. “Take off yer plaid,” she suggested, unpinning his clan brooch. “Ye’re overheated.”

  He laughed as he shrugged off the wool. “Ye can say that again. I’ll burst if I dinna get to my prize soon.” He was instantly contrite. “Forgive me, that wasna very gentlemanly. What I meant was…”

  “I understand,” she replied, nervously placing her hand on the bulge in his trews. Touching him so intimately, feeling the hard reality of a man’s need, sent a shudder through her body. She couldn’t wait to get his clothes off. “Isabel explained a man’s needs to me. Let me help.”

  *

  He’d married a virgin who’d been instructed in the mechanics of sexual congress, and who wasn’t afraid to touch him.

  Alleluia!

  He cupped his hand over hers, his balls in an uproar. And she hadn’t actually touched his flesh. “My need is great, Kyla, my love.”

  “I can see it in yer eyes,” she replied. “Yer trews dinna look very comfortable. Take them off while I get the rest of this undone.”

  He’d fantasized about Kyla peeling his trews over his hips, anticipating the look on her face when she set eyes on his erection; but there’d be other opportunities to enjoy that tantalizing experience.

  His trembling hands managed to unfasten his trews and get them off, thankful the long linen shirt covered his rampant manhood. He wasn’t sure if she was ready to set eyes on the effects her presence had on him.

  Kyla undid the last of the infernally aggravating buttons and raised her arms.

  “I like ye better in trews,” he rasped, lifting the gown off her body. “Easier to get ye out of.”

  He changed his mind when he beheld the silk shift she wore. It covered her nakedness, but clung to her frame, revealing every delicious curve of hip, breast and thigh. “My Kyla,” he rasped, cupping her breasts, relishing the warm weight that filled his hands and brushing his thumbs across nipples pouting at the fabric.

  Her eyes widened, nostrils flaring as she inhaled deeply. “Broderick,” she breathed. “I feel that between my legs.”

  He glanced down at the tented shirt. “As do I.”

  She frowned, but then nodded when she followed his gaze. “Oh. I see. Can I touch ye?”

  He wasn’t sure if sound would emerge from his dry throat, so he simply mimicked her nod and lifted his shirt. She’d seen his manhood before, at the Nith, but he hadn’t been as proudly erect as he was now, and he hoped she wouldn’t be alarmed.

  “Broderick,” she gasped, curling her hand around him. “Ye’re magnificent. Reminds me of a stallion I…”

  Much as he appreciated being compared to a randy horse, he couldn’t wait any longer to take possession of her mouth. His tongue demanded entry, which she allowed readily.

  Her innocent words, the heat of her touch on his rigid flesh, the taste of the wine she’d sipped, the texture of her teeth; all served to send desire running rampant through his body.

  She tightened her grip as he deepened the kiss and their tongues mated.

  He had to pull away to catch his breath when her hand moved on him. He leaned his forehead against hers, letting his hips take over, leading her to the rhythm he liked.

  The dance had begun.

  He bent to swirl his tongue over a silk-covered nipple, then sucked it into his mouth.

  She mewled, deep in her throat and her hips moved with his as she joined the dance. “I’ve longed for ye to do this,” she breathed.

  He grunted his agreement, then moved his ministrations to the other nipple. She shivered when he gathered up the shift to bare her bottom.

  “Ye’re cold,” he said.

  “I’m on fire,” she replied, shaking her head.

  When he lifted her, she put her arms around his neck and settled her legs around his hips, groaning as his tarse nestled in the wet warmth of her cleft.

  He groaned too, but inwardly. His intention had been to go slowly, to make her ready, but his lusty Hebridean bride had quickly sent desire roaring through him like a herd of rutting boar. “I canna stop,” he rasped as his selfish tarse sought her opening.

  “I dinna want ye to,” she murmured, nibbling his ear. “I understand.”

  That gave him pause. She may know the mechanics of sex, but he didn’t want mechanics. Kyla had taught him to relish pleasure. When he entered her for the first time, he wanted unbridled passion—for both of them. Isabel may have intimated at the pleasures a woman could experience in the marriage bed. Drawing out his own excitement to heighten hers was an arousing prospect. There were forbidden things he’d long dreamed of doing to a woman.

  He inhaled deeply, trying to slow his heart and bring his tarse under control. “My legs are about to give way,” he lied, carrying her to the bed, where he pulled the shift over her head.

  She made no effort to cover herself as he laid her down and raked his eyes over her nakedness.

  He rid himself of the shirt and gently eased her legs open. “When I was a student in France,” he began, losing his train of thought when he glimpsed her pink folds.

  “Aye?” she whispered. “When ye were a student…”

  “Er…weel…ye ken how lads are, especially the French.”

  She frowned in puzzlement. She had four brothers, but that wasn’t what he was aiming for. He marshaled his thoughts. “I didna mean lads, exactly. Young men—their conversations tend to revolve around…”

  Wide green eyes drew him into their depths.

  She came to his aid. “Lasses.”

  “Aye. And they talk about what they…” He blew his hair off his face, deciding he may as well come to the point. His wife was made of stern stuff and not easily embarrassed—he hoped. “Bollocks, Kyla, I want to taste yer honey.”

  When she stared at him, he touched trembling fingers
to the golden curls at her mons. “Here, I mean.”

  *

  Kyla recalled being vaguely shocked when Isabel told her that some men liked to taste their women. She hadn’t really believed it—or perhaps hadn’t wanted to conjure an image of Isabel and her father doing…that.

  Now, the notion of Broderick’s mouth on the most intimate part of her body sent a thrill of desire up her thighs and into her womb by way of her nipples. Then she remembered the rest of the story. “And later I’ll taste ye,” she murmured.

  Nostrils flaring, Broderick growled, clamped his arms around her thighs, and dragged her to the edge of the bed. Falling to his knees on the carpeted floor, he draped her legs over his shoulders. He looked her in the eye and licked his lips. “I’ve ne’er done this before,” he admitted.

  “I’m glad,” she replied, a little awed by his uncharacteristic aggressiveness. It was thrilling to be so ardently desired by the man she loved. “Neither have I.”

  The errant thought occurred that if he’d never put his mouth on a woman before…She recalled Doreen’s remark when she’d first arrived at Caerlochnaven. He wasn’t a man who invited women to his bed.

  But suddenly she was floating in a sea of exquisite pleasure, her only lifeline the silky strands of Broderick’s hair as she sifted her fingers through it. He licked and suckled, licked and suckled, his tongue flicking over an unbelievably sensitive spot, then venturing into her opening. She arched her back and ran her hands over her breasts when a finger followed, explored, then left, then in, and out again. Someone was making a mewling sound. She squeezed her nipples in rhythm with the in, out, in, out—was it two fingers now? Licking, suckling, the sensations rising, rising, to a…

  She choked on a scream when she reached a crescendo that went on and on—wonderful, blinding rapture. She soared with eagles, her ecstasy heightened when Broderick climbed onto the bed and thrust his manhood into her happy sheath.

  There was a moment of pain, but she dismissed it, recognizing what it was and relishing the rite of passage. She entwined her legs around his waist, driving him deeper as he thrust. Brushing her thumbs over his male nipples, she matched his rhythm, pounding, pounding, until he threw back his head and shouted out his euphoria. His seed erupted into her body, flooding her with warmth.