Viking in Tartan: A Highland Vampires Romance
Suz deMello
Viking in Tartan
A Highland Vampires Romance
Suz deMello
Viking in Tartan
Setting: Scotland, 1260
A Viking raider with mysterious powers brings change to little Clan Kilbirnie,
especially to the chieftain’s daughter Rhona.
*****
Praise for the first edition
(published in the Naughty List short story anthology).
Outstanding... Woo-hoo!
--Harliesbooks.com, November 25, 2014
Out of the ordinary...
--L.S. Tucker, Amazon, February 21, 2015
*****
Praise for the Highland Vampire series by Suz deMello
Love this series!
--Kimberly Jaksina (Amazon.com)
a wonderful series...
--Harliesbooks.com, November 25, 2014
Author’s Note
This is the first story in the Highland Vampires series.
For a complete listing of the series, go to https://www.suzdemello.com/highlandvampireseries.html
I have taken numerous liberties with Scottish and Norse history in this story,
as well as with traditional vampire myths. I hope that I have offended none but brought a few moments of diversion to all.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Epilogue
About the Author
Books and Stories by Suz deMello
The Legal Stuff
Chapter One
Scotland, Yule Eve, 1260
Erland Blodson narrowed his eyes and stared across the strait at his target—the castle perched on a crag above the thundering waves. The December storms would make the landing a trial, but none inside the keep celebrating Yule would expect an assault during the worst weather of the winter.
Even so, he doubted King Haakon’s wisdom in ordering an attack at this time. That the Scots had dared to mount an expedition to Haakon’s keep on the Isle of Skye must be answered, yea, but on the wildest night of the year? A blast of chill wind ruffled his cloak, and Erland wished peace talks had succeeded. He’d be in his cozy longhouse with his feet warmly tucked beneath his favorite dog’s belly. Instead, here he was.
He looked around. If anything, his men were even more miserable, lacking his legendary tolerance of the cold. ’Twas the blood, of course, but he dared not reveal his secret.
Waves battered the longship and he gripped the rudder, hoping to steady the craft. Though the great square sail had long been lowered, the wind’s screams through the rigging mingled with the oarsmen’s grumbles. Seawater slashed his face as he brought the boat about to face the waves.
A bump on the side of the ship alerted him to possible trouble. Nay, a disaster, for if they’d struck a rock—
“Kaptein!” a cry came from the bow. “There’s a...there’s a girl in the sea!”
He smacked a hand to the side of his head to clear water from his ears and strode forward, evading the rowers and the sea chests on which they sat. “Are you mad, Sigurson?”
Holding a lantern aloft so Erland could see, his first mate pointed over the ship’s side. Erland looked down, gripping a rope. He believed Sigurson wanted the title of “Kaptein” rather than “first mate.”
But this time, Sigurson wasn’t lying. Below, trapped between the vicious storm-surge and the longship’s side, a small sailing curach bobbed. Its one sailor clutched the splintered mast. Whips of wet, dark hair clung to a pale, terrified face.
A pale, terrified, beautiful face.
Ensuring it was tied to the longship, Erland tossed the rope he held over the side to the girl. “Grab it!” he roared.
She didn’t react. Had she not heard him? Mayhap she had not understood. She should, for they spoke a common language.
He thumped the ship’s side to get her attention. “Ho! Girl!” He smashed his fist again on the wet wood.
She looked up. Hope brightened her eyes as she reached for the rope. Thick leather gloves, he noted with approval. Though the girl was no doubt insane or desperate to have challenged the waves on a night like this, she was still in possession of her senses enough to have dressed intelligently.
She started to climb the rope, but was sorely hampered by her gown. Woolen, no doubt, and probably heavy with moisture.
“Hold tight!” he shouted. “I’ll pull you up!”
Had she heard?
She gazed upward again and he thought he saw acknowledgment on her desperate face. She wrapped a length of the rope around her body, and he again found himself approving of her brains. He began to haul her aboard.
Scant seconds later, she was halfway up the ship’s side and released the rope to scrabble for a hold. “No!” he yelled. “You’ll fall!”
The rope slipped and into the storm-tossed water she went.
He followed her without hesitation. The icy waves squeezed his lungs and for a surprised moment he wondered if he’d pass out, die here in a strange Scottish fjord. But his natural affinity to the cold reasserted itself, and he kicked upward until his head broke the water’s surface.
Where was she?
Scant moonlight gleamed on a dark, wet head and he swam with powerful strokes toward it, hoping he wasn’t in pursuit of a seal. He grabbed an armful of wet, shivering woman and hauled her close. He knew that his body would supply no heat, but he could keep her head above the water, keep her alive until he got her aboard ship.
He slung an arm beneath her chin and used his other hand to push her body upwards. Though weighted by her heavy dress, she floated enough that he could get her back to the ship.
The ship. Where was it?
He looked around with a frantic gaze until he espied the rope, the same rope he’d thrown to the girl. He snatched it before the waves took it away, but only one tug revealed that it was no longer tied to his ship...which was gone.
At last, Sigurson had his wish.
*****
After struggling for an age against the thrashing waves, he’d dragged the girl to the shore. She’d tried to help, but her flailing had done nothing but slow him down, and he’d blessed the gods when she’d finally given up and gone limp in his grasp. He hauled her onto the narrow, stony beach lining the fjord, her only sign of life her shaking limbs.
He knelt over her and set a hand on her chest, being careful to keep his palm above her breasts. They were lovely breasts—or so he guessed, for they pushed the fabric out in a pleasing way—but he wouldn’t take advantage of her helplessness. Her cyrtel covered her to the neck, but even through layers of fabric he divined slight up-and-down movement of her chest. Alive still. By Odin’s one eye, she was a fighter! He vowed to keep the lady alive and return her to her home.
Impossibly high above, faintly glimmering lights showed the location of the keep. But getting to it in this storm with the girl’s dead weight holding him back—he shook his head. He was strong but doubted he could do it. He slung the cold, unconscious woman over one shoulder and eyed the cliffs, hoping to find a bit of shelter.
Ah. A darker shadow portended a crevice at least, and a sea cave if the gods smiled upon them. He trudged across the beach, his burden growing heavier with each step.
The gods did indeed smile, for the cave was deep enough to shelter them from not only the storm, but its high tide surge—or so he hoped. Mayhap they’d evade a watery end this dark night.
At the far end of the cave, its sandy floor seemed fairly dry. He used one soaked boot to scrape pebbles and bits of driftwood aside, creating a flattish area, then lowered the girl onto it.
Though pa
le as death, she was beautiful, with long dark hair tangled around a finely boned face. Wide, full lips he could easily envision around his cock, which now stirred. He quelled the urge. Viking though he was, he did not want to take advantage. Swiving an unconscious woman was not his idea of a rollicking good time. He liked his women awake and responsive, preferably screaming his name loudly enough so the entire village knew of his prowess. But her heavy woolen clothing was sodden, and she could die from the chill, so...
He stripped her quickly and, to escape temptation, rolled her on her belly before rubbing her chilled limbs. She had a fine, round rump. He flung her damp smock over it.
Made of a fine chansil, the pleated smock was embroidered ’round the neck and hem. Standing, he considered the mysterious young woman while he gathered enough dry driftwood for a fire, using two flints to strike a spark into a few slivers. A thin tendril of smoke emerged and curled tentatively toward the cave’s ceiling. He fed the tiny flame patiently, for it could be the difference between life and death for his well-born companion.
Once the fire blazed, he took off his clothing and boots, setting them nearby to dry, and did the same with the girl’s. He approached her, finding that her shift had dried a bit and was large enough to cover them both.
He curled around her and slept, wondering what the new day would bring.
*****
Rhona awakened, imprisoned by a massive arm lying across her waist and an even larger leg between hers as she lay on one side. A muscular thigh pressed against her quim, heating her blood. She sleepily rubbed against it, enjoying the wave of warmth that flooded her, a bridge from a cold, lonely death into a new life.
In front of her, a small fire smoldered, providing soft light and warmth. Behind her was what felt like a chilly wall moving with the steady breaths of a rather big man, the owner of the brawny limbs that cradled and pleasured her.
Naked brawny limbs. He was completely bare and so was she.
She jerked upright with a gasp. Where was she?
The dying fire’s glow flickered off rough walls, and she sat on sand, shells and pebbles. A sea cave, then, p’raps the one at the bottom of the cliff. Rain pattered on the beach outside punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder. So the storm that had swamped her boat still raged.
And who was he? Turning her head, she beheld a face slack with sleep but still pale and handsome in a craggy, rugged way. Not like...
Memories assailed her and she shuddered, recalling grasping hands and sloppy, foul kisses. Running. Stealing the boat. Heading out onto the firth during the nastiest storm of the year.
She must have been mad, mad with fear.
He blinked and twitched. A new dread struck, for he was awakening.
Whatever was she to do? What could she do, given her situation?
Her heartbeat sped. She struggled to stand, but his arm tightened around her. “Greetings,” he said.
She deliberately calmed herself. Despite her nakedness, despite her vulnerability, she realized that if he’d meant to hurt her, he already would have. She asked, “Who are ye?”
“I am called Erland. And you?”
She liked the deep, almost musical voice she heard. “Rhona Kilbirnie.”
“Ah, you hail from the keep on the cliff above. What brought you out on such a blustery night, Mistress Rhona?”
She shivered and tried to pull away.
“Too late for shyness, mistress.”
She eased back, trying to become used to their nudity. “’Tis true,” she said thoughtfully. “Aye, then, ye have rescued me.”
He laughed, his chest against her back rumbling with mirth. “I did. You were well on your way to feeding the fishes when I jumped into the sea.”
This time she did sit up and turned her head to look at him with wonder. “Ye did! I remember that. I remember that.” She fell silent for a moment, then said, “Thank ye.”
“I ask again. What brought you out in such a storm? You surely would have died.”
Another shiver, which he must have felt, for he sat up and drew her closely into his arms, her back against his chest, his hands linked with hers. Her thoughts elsewhere, she didna resist. He didna touch her breasts, which relaxed her.
“Tell me.” A demanding note had entered his voice.
“They—my father particularly—planned to marry me tomorrow to the Bute.”
“Stuart of Bute?”
“Aye. He’s the horrible auld man who rules the lands neighboring us to the north.”
“Ah,” he said. “You be the local headman’s daughter.”
“I have that misfortune.”
He shrugged. “Would you prefer to be the child of a pig farmer or p’raps a washerwoman?”
“Anyone but me father’s daughter.” She couldna keep bitterness from her tone.
“Then I have indeed rescued you.” His embrace tightened.
She should push him away but decided she wouldna. She was grateful and he...he felt good. Not like the hot, wet lips of the Bute when he’d tried to kiss her. “Aye. When the Bute discovers we spent the night together, he will reject me as spoiled goods.”
“As will all other men...but me.” He stroked her side.
Her flesh shivered. “Your fingers are so cold. Do ye wish to get closer to the fire?”
“Aye, but only to build it up again.” Releasing her, he stood and went to a tidy pile of driftwood he’d evidently collected while she’d slept.
While he added shavings to the fire, followed by larger chunks, she bent her legs up to conceal her nakedness and draped her shift over herself as well, then took the opportunity to examine her rescuer. She reckoned him to have p’raps five-and-twenty years. His face was chiseled and strong, with a fine firm mouth and deep brown eyes, almost black. No, she decided, not almost black. Quite black, like the sky on a moonless night. His longish hair was similarly dark, but his skin milk-white, and his nude form beautiful.
She tried to avoid staring between his legs and failed. The thick pole she beheld... She looked away and squirmed a wee bit, for her thoughts were not those of a chaste virgin. “Well, at least ye’re bonny,” she told him.
His grin lit his face. “At least?”
“As you say, I am now yers. So ’tis fine that ye are good to look upon.”
“And you are also comely, mistress. But I must warn you, you have found your way into the arms of a lost Viking.”
She jumped to her feet with a cry. “A Viking?” She dashed toward the cavern’s mouth.
He chuckled. “And where will you go, on this stormy winter night?”
“Oh.” She stopped and sank onto the cave’s floor.
“Quite so. Be not afeared, little mistress, nothing will happen to you that you do not desire.”
His voice had taken on a silken, mesmerizing quality, and she struggled to think clearly. “But what...what will become of me?”
“Be not afeared. I can take care of you. All your needs.”
He sat in front of her, taking her hands in his. She stared down at them. He had large, capable hands, scarred here and there... She tried not to think of how he’d probably gotten those scars, but couldna.
“Are ye a...warrior?”
“A sea captain and a fighter, yea. I fight for King Haakon.”
She couldna stop her mouth from twisting.
“Look at me.” He gently squeezed her hands, which felt good.
She raised her gaze to his. His eyes were deep as the ocean and as compelling as the wild wind that had called her to freedom—or death—that night.
“Nothing will happen to you that you do not desire.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I know what you need, dear one.”
Dear one. Her mother had called Rhona that when she’d been wee, before Mam had died in childbed. Rhona’s heart twisted in pain, then wrenched wide open and let him in.
Leaning forward, Erland stroked her cheek, gazed into her eyes and set his lips on hers.
Cool they w
ere, but with an underlying fire. She recalled the feel of his leg between hers, rubbing her, and the memory enflamed her anew. Letting her eyes drift shut, she pushed her mouth against his, sure he held the key, knew the secret, could give her everything she’d ever wanted.
From where had that crazed thought sprung?
Her lids popped open, her eyes meeting his.
“Aye,” he murmured. “Everything.”
How did he ken her very thoughts?
Did that matter?
No, she decided. The how of it wasn’t important. That he understood was enough...more than enough.
She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. He kissed her with more determination and opened her lips with his, then gently slid his tongue inside.
She jerked away. “Och!”
He chuckled. “Bear with me, mistress.”
Another kiss, and now she tentatively let him in. She sought his tongue, eager to learn this new game, and he responded by allowing her to play as she wished.
She became entirely absorbed. She’d seen folk in shadowed corners of the castle kissing, but had never understood the reason people liked it so much. Now she did. She wanted to kiss Erland for the rest of the night. That she might have to kiss him for the rest of their lives... Well, that wouldna be so bad, would it?
He seemed to have other ideas—more ideas—for he started to explore her body. His fingers caressing her breasts along with his kiss was intoxicating, mesmerizing.
Would he feel the same if she did the same? Still with closed eyes and questing mouth, she blindly reached out and touched his chest. Cool and firm, with soft smooth skin overlaying hard muscle, his chest was almost as interesting as his lips and... She opened her eyes. His face. Och, aye. She loved his face.
She blinked. “Oh,” she breathed.
He smiled, teeth perfect and pearly, then took her long, dark hair in one hand. He used it to tug her head to one side... Why?
He kissed her neck, feathering his tongue over the sensitive skin, and all conscious thought fled. She gripped his shoulders, then stroked them, admiring his strength, a contrast to his sweet, sweet kisses.
