Temptation in Tartan, Page 2

  She glowered, fists on hips. “Why didn’t you introduce yourself properly?”

  He shrugged and sent her an impish smile. “I learned more this way.”

  “What did you learn? That your wife is a wanton who will…who will…” She turned away, consumed by shame. She had actually contemplated giving herself to the mysterious stranger.

  He rose, taking her into his arms, and she met his insistent gaze.

  “I learned that the woman who is to be my wife has standards and knows how to enforce them. And yes, I learned that she’s a wanton who will please me and herself when I take her.”

  I’m a wanton? Good heavens. “You learned all that?”

  “Lady Lydia, ye cannae hide yourself from me. I saw these swell and press against your bodice when ye sat on my lap.”

  He ran a hand over Lydia’s bosom and her nipples responded, again rasping against her shift.

  “I smelled your need.”

  Horrified, she took a step back. “I…smell?”

  He smiled. “Not so anyone else can sense it. I have a good sense of smell. I could sense your womanhood moistening, becoming ready for me.”

  Her hands, small, startled birds, flew up to clasp her face. “You can smell my, er…womanhood?”

  He nodded, again with that knowing expression. “There are other words for that wonderful place, but I’m sure that a lady like yerself doesnae ken them. Unless your husband spoke them to ye in bed.” He looked at her with inquiry in his dark eyes.

  She shook her head, embarrassed. “We didn’t talk about…that.”

  “I dinnae ken why not. Ye’re fair irresistible. Let’s sit again.”

  This time she nestled on his lap with more comfort, knowing that she wasn’t committing an act of betrayal even before she’d wed. Kieran moved one of her legs so the toe of her heeled mule rested on the stone walkway, and the result was to press her womanhood more closely against his thigh, her knees open. He supported her with one hand on her waist, and she felt his strength even through the layers of her gown.

  “May I?” He touched a finger to her lips.

  “I, er…yes.”

  Again, his mouth was cool and smooth against hers. This time, he flicked his tongue against her lips instead of ramming it in. Relief flooded her and she shyly began to respond to his kiss. Then that fire—the fire she’d felt before—leaped from him to her, crackling through her body like a live thing, settling between her thighs, flaring into a blaze.

  She shoved her hands into his hair, pulling him closer, and opened her mouth. His tongue slid inside. His body lost some tension and she guessed that kissing was very important to Kieran. She wondered why. William hadn’t been much for kissing.

  His tongue danced with hers, flirted the same way she used her fan. She became entirely absorbed in this new game, playing with his hair, running one hand down the side of his face. Cool, smooth skin, punctuated by a very slight stubble.

  Fingers dropped to her décolletage, tracing her cleavage’s lines above her stiff stomacher before dipping into the cleft between her breasts. She groaned and pressed her womanhood harder against his thigh. His hand clenched around her waist.

  “Aye, love. Rock against me.” His soft voice seductive, irresistible. “Take your pleasure.”

  Heat swept her, a heat she’d never felt before with any man. She’d felt it in her bath, alone, when she washed, or in bed at night touching herself. But never had a man’s kiss, his hard thigh beneath her, inflamed her to such a degree. Her body swayed, no longer her own, and she gripped his shoulders for support.

  Kieran shifted again and she felt it. The male part that William had used on her, in her. It pressed against her thigh, just inches from her womanhood.

  “What is it, love?” His voice was soft, concerned.

  “What is what?”

  “Your body tightened when I moved my cock against ye.”

  She sucked in a startled breath. “Is that what it’s called? A…cock?”

  “Aye, it is, and he wants to nest inside your cunny as soon as possible.”

  “Is…is that what you call my womanhood? My cunny?”

  “Aye, there are many words for that sweet place.” He reached down, lifted up her skirts, and slid a hand beneath layers of fabric and along her leg, heading for that mysterious spot.

  Did she want this? Was this right? She wasn’t sure, but they were affianced, so surely there was no harm.

  And his fingers limned hot pleasure along her thigh through her stockings. He reached her garter and, when he finally caressed her naked skin, her sigh echoed his. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted him to touch her bare flesh.

  He fondled her curls. “Your parsley bed. Your bush.” He tugged gently.

  That little tug sent a jolt of desire through her body. “Good heavens.” She buried her face in his neck from sheer embarrassment.

  He moved his hand and cupped her, one fingertip sliding around her opening. She drew in a gasp of want, fingers gripping his shoulders.

  “Your cunt, darlin’. Your sweet quim.” The words were carnal, sinful, but coming from his lips they resounded like harmonious chords, as though this were the way men and women who wanted each other were meant to speak.

  “Quim,” she said, trying it out. “I like that word.”

  “Verra well, then. Quim it is.” Then his wicked, knowing finger traveled to the most tender spot, the place she’d furtively touched when she could no longer endure the tension in her body. “This lovely little bump is the pearl of your desire.”

  She moaned…yes…

  “Your slit.” Probing, pushing until a stab of pain jolted her. “What’s this?”

  “What?”

  “Ye’ve been married. Ye should be open.” He eased his finger inside her again, then stopped as though he’d encountered a barrier.

  “Is there…something wrong with me?” She sat up straight. The movement shifted his finger, eliciting another gasp that she tried vainly to repress.

  “Ye’re a virgin.”

  “I most certainly am not.”

  “Did your husband put his cock up your quim? I wager he didnae.” His finger wiggled, torturing her with a rapture almost beyond endurance.

  Squirming from need and flaming with shame, she whispered, “No, he…went into the other place.”

  “Other place?”

  “My…bum.” She covered her face with her hands.

  “He buggered ye?” Kieran sounded shocked.

  “Oh, God, was it wrong?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all.” Kindness had returned to his voice. “But lass, it’s only one of many ways we can pleasure each other.”

  “Pleasure was never a part of it.”

  He pulled her hands away from her face. “Pleasure is the beginning and the ending and the all of it. Let me show you.”

  He eased his finger out of her. Her quim was wet and he moved easily to her folds and found that other spot, the pearl of her desire. Rubbing her gently, he said, “Kiss me. I love the way you kiss me.”

  She traced the line of his jaw before pressing her lips against his, using them to open his mouth, seek his tongue. He responded immediately and the joy of his tongue tangling with hers combined with his finger teasing her, teaching her pleasure, elicited shudders that whirled through her like wind-whipped waves.

  His arm was secure around her shoulders and she knew he wouldn’t let her fall. Nevertheless, she grabbed the front of his jacket, anchoring herself against a fierce, rising passion that threatened to engulf her.

  “Let go, lass. ’Twill be all right.” He caressed her pearl, then fingered her opening while pressing his palm to her needy, hot nubbin, now the focus of her entire being. He held all of her womanhood in his big, broad, capable hand.

  She breathed deeply and obeyed, grinding herself into his palm, allowing ecstasy to trap her in unbreakable bonds. Unable to keep control, she flung her head back and panted. Her body wrenched and she clung to him, em
itting a sharp cry that he quickly captured with his mouth.

  “Och, love, I cannae resist…” A tiny but sharp pain, like a pin pricking her lip, mingled with the pleasure. Kieran sucked, groaning. “Ah, ye’re so sweet, so tasty.”

  Limp in his arms, she glowed with satisfaction.

  “Ye’re a fast learner, lassie.” His voice was soft, hypnotic. “And we can please each other in so many ways.” He touched a finger to her lower lip, massaging the spot he’d savaged. It tingled with a strange alloy of pleasure and pain. “Your mouth kissing me…all of me.” He moved so he could place her hand on his cock.

  She was startled out of her bliss. “Th-there?”

  “Aye. And I’ll do the same for ye.” He again squeezed her quim in his palm, and another ripple of heated rapture flowed through her. “It’s verra nice. Many lassies say it’s their favorite.”

  She was dumbstruck. She put two tentative fingers around the member in question and it jumped in her hand. Kieran groaned.

  She jerked away. “Did I hurt you?”

  He put her hand back. “Och, no, it just felt so good. We can please each other with our hands, like I did for ye a little while ago. And ye for me. All over.” He dipped a hand inside her bodice, searching for a nipple.

  He plucked it, watching her, his dark eyes hooded but glowing with intensity. “Ye have bountiful breasts and nice, big nipples, just what I like. Are they dusky, Lydia, or rosy pink?”

  “Kieran…” She covered her face with her hands. She knew it wasn’t proper to use his Christian name but calling him Kilborn or milord—milaird—didn’t seem right, not when they had rapidly become so intimate.

  “All right, then.” He stood, helping her up, then retied his hair. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, then her mouth, very gently. “I dinnae want to push ye too fast.”

  Especially now that I know ye’re still a virgin, Kieran thought as he took Lydia’s arm and led her back to the musicale. He didn’t know if he should bless or damn Lydia’s deceased husband. Kieran guessed that the man had been secretly more interested in others of his gender and had used his wife as he’d use a catamite.

  The fool had maltreated his lady but not destroyed her passion. Though the sweet lassie was still a virgin, she nevertheless responded ardently to lovemaking. Kier had enjoyed her untutored kisses and would enjoy even more initiating her into the delights of the bedroom. He’d treasure her as she deserved, teach her to fulfill his whims and, in so doing, fulfill herself.

  He wondered if she’d developed a taste for buggery. If so, taking her luscious bum would be another delightful act.

  A few yards away, he could see the Swan lingering at the manse’s garden door, no doubt playing chaperone to his cousin and doing a very poor job of it.

  Kieran stopped and asked Lydia, “So, it’s a match between us, is it?”

  She stopped, too, turned and faced him. “Er, well, I have a question. Did you fight at Culloden Moor?”

  Sorrow clawed his heart, and he sighed. “Nay, lassie, had I been at Culloden I would not be here with ye today.”

  Her brows arched in inquiry.

  “The butcher Cumberland ordered every Scot lying wounded on the moor to be killed.”

  She gasped.

  “Aye. Every Highlander who fought for the bonnie prince was spitted like a snared coney, then burned. Ye didnae ken? P’raps they kept the information secret, or your cousin Colonel Swann didnae want to sully your ears. But if I’d been at Culloden I’d likely be ashes in a mass grave like my father, the old laird, and my brother, his heir. That’s why I’m chieftain. I was left at home to mind the fort until their return. They never came back.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “Aye, lass. So am I. But not entirely, not this eve. For it has brought ye to me.” With Swann watching, Kieran resisted touching her hair, her face, or kissing that lush mouth.

  “Then, yes, we’re a match.” She smiled, and his heart turned over.

  Taking her arm again, he increased the length of his stride. When they reached the doors, he said to the Swann, “Post the banns.”

  “’Tis already done.”

  Kieran turned, brows raised.

  “You had both agreed.”

  “What if the lady had disliked me?”

  “There’s nothing to dislike,” Lydia intervened. Evidently the lass did not want an argument.

  Kieran laughed. “Och, lass, in a year or two or ten I warrant ye’ll find plenty to dislike, but for now, I’ll take your fondness and run with it, and ye, all the way to the Highlands.”

  “When’s the wedding?” Lydia asked, still holding his arm.

  “I’ll manage that.” A tall woman in gray spoke with the certainty of God bringing forth light. Lydia’s mam, Kieran guessed.

  He gave her a courtly bow. “I thank ye, ma’am.”

  He stood with what he hoped was a calm smile and allowed her to peruse him. At last a smile flitted over her features. Lydia’s grip eased. She was attached to her mam, he realized, and hoped his wife wouldn’t be heartsick for her family. The distance between his castle and England was such that visits would be quite rare.

  He said, “I hope ye’ll allow me to consult with the preacher?”

  “Certainly.” The lady favored him with a regal smile. “The ceremony will take place at Castle Kirk at Sunday noon. Daughter?”

  As Lydia left with her family, she turned and gave him a flirtatious wink. Yes, the lassie was indeed a quick study.

  Chapter Three

  Lydia awoke on the morning of her wedding with an unaccustomed anxiety churning in her belly. She didn’t understand why. This was, after all, her second marriage. Because both she and her groom were so far from their respective homes, the event was to be a simple noontime ceremony in a nearby chapel, rather than the grand public display she’d endured when marrying William.

  Nay, ’twasn’t the wedding that troubled her, but what would happen afterward. Since their first meeting at the Menhardie musicale, she and her intended had exchanged p’raps two words, and neither of them in private. Instead, her cousin, her fiancé and their representatives had pursued tiresome discussions about dowries and bride-prices, contract terms and property transfers. Though she was supposedly the focus of the matter, the effect was to reduce her to a commodity…again.

  With some astonishment, she realized she needed to see Kieran. How was that possible? She’d spent only a few minutes in his presence.

  She told herself that her desire to further acquaint herself with her affianced husband was natural. But she knew she was lying to herself. The memory of his sweet kisses, wicked hands and lustful words haunted her. His image had ghosted through her dreams as though he visited her in bed at midnight, seducing her with his touch, his body hard against hers, with his sleek, strong fingers drawing forth her arousal with a skill she’d never before experienced. And she’d reacted to those dreams with entirely wanton behavior, her eyes closed to better imagine that it was Kieran who rubbed her womanhood with a slippery finger instead of her own smaller, softer digit.

  How could she long for him so desperately? She didn’t know him.

  She couldn’t truly yearn for her fiancé, she admonished herself. She’d met him only once!

  She prayed the reality that would overtake her this night would match her fevered dreams. She’d seen the happiness her brother and his wife shared and wanted it too.

  But would Kieran change once she was his? As her husband, he need not show her consideration. Her marriage to William had been one disappointment after another. While she’d enjoyed the management of her own home and the freedom that his frequent absences had entailed, she’d neither enjoyed marital relations nor conceived a child.

  Due to her encounter with Kieran, she now understood the reason. So why should she fear him?

  Because people were often not what they seemed. William had been well-born, handsome, courtly…a true English gentleman. And so striking i
n his red and buff uniform! She’d thought he’d give her everything she craved, but she’d been wrong…so wrong. Her family had supported her choice, and they’d been wrong too.

  So she couldn’t trust her judgment, or theirs. What if she was making another mistake? She longed for Kieran—not only for his kisses and his touch, but so she could discover whatever truth his presence would reveal. She was petrified, but the ceremony couldn’t come soon enough for her.

  While Lydia lay in bed and worried, the sun slanted through the curtains and Elsbeth, her maid, bustled in.

  Lydia’s maid was a small, pear-shaped Londoner in plain gray attire with a white mob cap over brown curls. “Forgive me, my lady, but Lady Henrietta desires your presence in her dressing room in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes! I’m still abed. ’Tisn’t possible.”

  “’Tis gone eleven, my lady.” Elsbeth went to the window and pulled the drapes aside, exposing the tiny back garden of the townhouse that Henrietta had bespoken for the few weeks they’d stayed in Edinburgh. “Your dress has lately arrived.”

  Lydia jerked upright, nerves pushing up her anxiety another degree. Her mother had insisted upon the creation of a new wedding gown for the occasion, and Lydia had agreed, pleased to wear a new ensemble to begin her new life. However, she’d forgotten Henrietta’s fastidious, demanding nature. Her mother had found fault with everything the Edinburgh modiste had produced, from the fine imported silks and brocades to the tiny, even stitches, which looked perfect to Lydia’s eye.

  She hurried to the dressing room to see the magnificent creation of gold-shot cream brocade with a matching satin underdress and modest panniers, which suited her small frame more than the exaggerated styles many preferred. Though the stomacher pressed her breasts high, ruffled edging provided modesty.

  She submitted to being laced in. Ruby earbobs were donned. Cream satin shoes with golden embroidery and buckles were set on her feet over delicate stockings, which were themselves held up by embroidered garters that matched her stomacher.

  All the while she became more and more tense. Trying to ignore Henrietta’s complaints and Elsbeth’s fussing was more draining then the ceremony would be, Lydia hoped.