Desire in Tartan: 2 (Highland Vampires) (3 page)

She’d never seen a man’s naked chest, so every iota she could discern, even through Dugald Kilburn’s wet linen shirt, fascinated her. Marble statues and oil paintings didn’t match his raw manliness.

She dabbed a little more at that fascinating chest, and he caught her hands in his. “Mistress, ye need not do more.” His voice was as raw and manly as his chest.

She managed to raise her gaze to his face. If his chest has fascinated her, his face stole her breath and wreaked havoc on the remains of her composure.

His eyes…oh, his eyes. They’d drawn her attention earlier that day, at the mop fair, but now they compelled her like nothing she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen all that much—she was more familiar with the insides of musty libraries than with the eyes of attractive males. Most of the men she’d met had been familiars of her father, older college tutors with eyes beady from squinting against chemical clouds, men who bore awful burns on their faces and hands from poorly performed experiments.

Dugald Kilburn’s eyes were large and dark, so dark that they rivaled the midnight sky. So dark that she couldn’t discern the pupil from the iris. But far from seeming impenetrably black, they gleamed with intelligence and…was that interest?

He was still holding her hands, so…so yes, that gleam in his dark eyes could very well be interest, the kind of interest that a man takes in a woman.

Despite the whisky, Alice’s mouth went dry from sheer nervousness. She wrenched her gaze away from those enthralling eyes to focus on…oh, mother of mercy, Dugald’s lips.

They curved in a gentle smile that was somewhat at odds with the rest of his rough visage. Though his skin was as white as a highborn lady’s, his strong nose and firm jaw could never belong to a woman.

Dark brows, their curve a frame for his magical eyes. Long black hair, now brushed shiny and tied neatly at his nape. She remembered that as they’d walked through the cold, windy streets, Dugald Kilburn’s hair had whipped around his face as though it possessed independent life, as wild as he surely was.

She’d given herself to the protection of a wild Highlander. The equivalent of a Viking eorl.

Had she taken leave of her senses?

Apparently not, since her senses had never seemed more alive.

Dugald’s grip on her hands tightened, and he raised them to his lips.

Dizzy, she drew in a breath, smelling whisky and wind, as though a midnight breeze had blown through the room. She remained lightheaded.

He touched his mouth to the back of her left hand, then he kissed the right. His lips were strangely cool on her skin. She tingled all over, the center of that wondrous feeling not in her hands but between her legs.

“Mistress, I’ll leave ye noo.” His voice was gentle. Had he any idea of his effect on her?

She dared to look into his eyes again. They smiled.

He squeezed her hands and let them go before stepping toward her door. He opened it. Turning, he said, “Best get some rest. Tomorrow’s your first riding lesson. Bar the door, lassie—the men be drinkin’ a fair bit.”

He closed the door behind him, and Alice collapsed.

Dugald ran one big hand over the chestnut mare’s flank, and its muscle quivered in response. Alice could guess how the horse felt at his touch—the same way Alice felt whenever he was near. No doubt all females reacted alike to him. Nevertheless, she kept her distance from the terrifying creature.

“Murdo here is our best judge of horseflesh,” Dugald told Alice.

Murdo, a Kilburn she hadn’t previously met, examined the mount, checking the horse’s stance, teeth, legs…even looking into the mare’s eyes. “Och, aye, she’ll do.”

“She’ll do?” Dugald gave Murdo a hard stare.

“She’s bonnie and healthy.” Murdo was a grubby fellow of cadaverous mien, dressed in rougher garb than the other Kilburns she had met. She wondered where he’d been during their group supper and breakfast. Out wenching, if the others’ gossip was to be believed. But who would bed such a man? He was skinny and smelled.

She told herself to cease being so particular. If Murdo was the best judge of horseflesh then he spent time around horses. That was the reason he smelled. ’Twasn’t his fault.

“She seems to have a good temper and will be a fine mount for any woman.” Murdo released the mare’s bridle, and she shoved between the men toward the manger at the front of her stall.

“Where did she come from?” Dugald asked the ostler.

“I doonae ken. She’s been here for a month, sir, unclaimed.” The middle-aged ostler smelled even more strongly than Murdo did. “Sometimes travelers encounter…difficulties on the road or in the back alleys. If ye ken my meaning.” His gaze shifted to Alice, who sensed that he was withholding information he thought too strong for a female’s ears.

“Aye, I ken.” Dugald turned to Alice. “What do ye think, mistress?”

She left the corner in which she’d been huddled and cautiously advanced toward the mare, avoiding the back hooves, which appeared well-shod and sharp. Meanwhile, the chestnut stood placidly munching hay. The horse wasn’t tall, so Alice could reach the stiff black mane to stroke it, look at the mare eye to eye. “She seems small.”

“Aye, a lady’s mount,” the ostler said.

Murdo scrutinized the horse anew. “She’s probably got a bit of Highland pony in her.”

“That’s…good.” Alice was heartened by the mare’s lack of intimidating height. She caressed its withers. The mare swung her giant head around and Alice jumped back with a squeak.

She eyed the mare. The mare eyed Alice. The horse had big, liquid orbs like huge marbles. What horsy thoughts was she thinking? Was she plotting to dump Alice into the dirt, providing an ignominious and painful end to her employment with the Kilburns?

The mare returned her attention to her manger, searching its corners for any overlooked bit of hay or trace of oats.

“Here.” Dugald reached into his sporran and withdrew a lumpy, crumbling bannock. He handed it to Alice. “This one’s heart is found through her belly, ye ken. Feed her.”

Recalling childhood lessons, Alice approached the horse’s head with her palm spread flat, bannock set in the middle, fingers squeezed tightly together. Her mother had told her, “Food, not fingers. Fingers together, so your horse eats the food, not your fingers. Remember, food, not fingers!”

The mare sniffed, snuffled, swung her head around and lipped the treat with a mouth that was surprisingly soft, though trimmed with stiff bristles. Her jaw worked while she regarded Alice with…approval?

It could have been her imagination.

“All right, then?” Dugald asked Alice.

“Ye’d be doing me a favor,” the ostler said. “I’ve been feedin’ her off me own siller. Eats her head off, she does.”

Alice wondered what the cost of supporting a horse could be in a humble stable like this one, free of fancy tack. A double row of stalls housed common-looking mounts and hacks. Her mother might have known, though after she’d died none of her remaining funds had gone to maintaining her horse.

“The mare.” Dugald touched Alice’s shoulder gently.

She shunted her thoughts away from the past and nodded, even though her belly was clenching. “All right.” She had to do it. Had to ride a horse. This horse, if doing so meant keeping this position.

She eyed the mare. Again. The mare eyed her. Again. Then returned to investigating her manger. Again.

Alice could grant that the animal was consistent. She hoped that the horse wouldn’t be one of those irritating mounts that constantly tried to snatch bites of grass while one was riding. Her first pony, a placid barrel-shaped dun, had been such a creature.

“What’s her name?” Dugald asked the ostler.

He shrugged. “I’ve been calling her lassie.”

Dugald frowned. “’Twon’t do. We’ll have to think of something else.”

“Mary,” Alice said. “Her name is Mary.”

Questions filled Dugald’s black eyes, but he didn’t say anything to Alice. Instead he glanced at the ostler. “How much?”

While the men negotiated, Alice continued to stroke Mary’s mane. After silver had exchanged hands, Dugald turned to Alice. “Shall ye ride her to our lodging?”

She almost fainted. “No…uh, I am not wearing the proper boots or a riding habit.”

“Have ye a habit, mistress?”

She dropped her gaze, ashamed. “No,” she whispered.

“’Tis of no matter. We’ll get ye kitted oot, and when your new clothes arrive, we’ll get on the road.”

* * * * *

Three days later, Alice came in from a walk to find her bed covered with clothing. New clothing. Her clothing.

Her new clothes. Unlike everything she owned, these were new. Hers. Only hers. Not castoffs. Not hand-me-downs from her mother, like her worn but beloved red cloak. Hers.

She’d stopped short at the door but now entered, touching each garment with a shy finger while blinking away tears. A day dress in a deep soft-blue that reminded her of the sunlit sea. Another in dove-gray, both appropriate to her station. Blouses and skirts, gloves and hats. Thick quilted petticoats, for the Highlands would be chilly, as Dugald had emphasized. Pink silk underclothing that drew heat into her cheeks. Had Dugald picked it?

She sensed his presence at the doorway and turned. “Th-thank you,” she whispered. “I’ve never had new clothes. Not like these.”

She drew his slow smile. “Mistress, ‘tis my pleasure to dress ye.” He stepped into the room and picked up a green jacket. He held it against her torso and gave an approving nod. “Your new riding habit. ’Twill fit.”

Her heart dropped to her toes.

“Do ye have boots?” he asked.

She moistened her lips. Should she lie? To Dugald?

Nay, she’d not even shade the truth. “Aye.” She went to her trunk and took them out.

“Still serviceable,” he said.

“Like me.”

He ground out a laugh, which sounded rough, as if he hadn’t laughed for a long time. “A fine view of yerself, ye have. Ye arenae merely serviceable, mistress. Think on this, if ye doubt yerself. Would I take a merely serviceable governess to educate milaird and milady’s bairns?” His black eyes twinkled shrewdly at her.

“I suppose not.”

“Ah, ye suppose not.” His tone darkened. “I wouldnae. I’m pledged to milaird for all my life, and to milady also, even if she’s a Sassenach and not born of the clan. And ye will be also. And that means to use yer best efforts, always. ‘Tis yer duty. Ye arenae merely serviceable. Ye’re the best that can be had here in Glasgow, which means ye’re the best that can be found in all of Scotland.”

“Oh.” ‘Twas a new thought. She was the best that could be had in Scotland. “Much is expected of me,” she said faintly.

“Aye, but ye’ll look the part. Try everything on, for tomorrow we ride.” He winked and left.

She sucked in a shuddering breath. Tomorrow she’d mount Mary.

She had to do something. She had to do something. She’d be forced to mount Mary the very next day, and unless she did something, she’d surely fall off and make a fool of herself. She’d lose her job. Dugald Kilburn would be rightly furious after lodging her for days. Why had she told him she could ride?

She’d been pushed into it, so ‘twasn’t her fault, not really. But ‘twas her responsibility.

She had to do something.

After they’d supped, she went upstairs and changed into her nightwear before taking the small, flat pillow off her bed. Then she rolled up the bedclothes. Not everything—not the rope bedcords beneath the flat reed bed mat, or the bock and feather mattress. Just the sheets and blankets. Using a belt, she strapped them to the stool, trying to imitate the barrel-like shape of a horse.

She stood back and surveyed her handiwork, which didn’t look much like Mary. ‘Twasn’t the same size as Mary and ‘twas too low to the floor. Nevertheless, Alice hitched up her nightgown and her robe before easing her right hip onto the bedroll. She bent her knees and tucked her legs up, pretending she was riding sidesaddle.

“Giddy-up, horsie,” she muttered. “Good Mary, good girl.”

She closed her eyes and tried to remember riding. Instead of a scratchy wool blanket rubbing her thigh, she recalled the creak of a leather saddle, its distinctive aroma melding with the scent of fresh hay and clean horse. She bounced up and down a bit, imagining herself clopping calmly along a peaceful lane. Spring was in the air. The breeze was mild, carrying the perfume of wildflowers and the faint twitter of birdsong.

When a knock sounded at the door, she fell off with an “oof”. Onto her bad ankle, of course.

The door opened to reveal Dugald Kilburn. Of course.

“Wha…” He strode forward and pulled her up off the floor, gripping her firmly around the upper arms. “What under heaven are ye doin’, lassie?”

On unsteady feet, she sought to balance herself while avoiding her sore ankle, but without leaning on Dugald. She opened and closed her mouth several times, gaping like a fish as she sought words. The right words. What could they be? Finally she settled on the truth, pathetic as it was, since she couldn’t think of anything else. “Practicing.”

Dugald’s gaze wandered over the tumbled bed, the roll of linens and Alice. “Practicing…what?”

Her flush heated her from neck to toes. “Riding,” she whispered.

He raised a hand to his mouth, but his eyes crinkled at the corners and she knew he was smiling.

“Go ahead,” she said sheepishly. “Laugh. I know I look silly.”

Instead he let her go, sat on the bed and regarded her quizzically. “Ah. I had thought ye were distressed about something. Mistress, I ken ye’re afeared of riding, but—”

“You know that?”

He looked affronted. “’Twas obvious at the mop fair that ye doonae ride. I’m neither blind nor stupid.”

“I didn’t lie to you. I have ridden a horse before. But not recently.”

“Why not? What happened?”

“I fell off a horse when I was eight.” She lifted her robe so he could see her ankle. “My ankle becomes sore in cold weather, and I never ride.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Well, ye will on the morrow.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “I know.”

“Was the horse named Mary, perchance?”

She stared at him while heat rose into her cheeks. “Yes.”

“Och, well…I see.” He scratched his head. “But ’tisnae possible that you’re afeared of a gentle creature like our little Mary.”

“She’s bigger than I am,” Alice said defensively.

He quirked a brow. “Not by much.”

She gave him a really nasty look, the meanest she could muster, and he laughed. Again, the sound was a little creaky.

Her mood altered and she softened her glare. “Why are you sitting on my bed?”

He jumped up. “Oh, ah…I felt ‘twas the place for a talk. Aboot the riding.”

“Bed is the best place for a talk about riding?”

He leaned against the bedpost. “Bed is the best place to talk about anything, ye ken?” His voice had softened, grown a little husky.

She found that her attention was fixed on his mouth, was inexorably drawn to his lips as he shaped the words he spoke.
Bed is the best place to talk about anything, ye ken?

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Does this apply to everyone?”

“Nay,” he said deliberately. “Just to bonnie lassies.”

He looked her full in the face, but not into her eyes. He was staring at her mouth.

Her mouth.

Was it possible that Dugald Kilburn was as interested in her mouth as she was in his?

P’raps so. Had he not called her a
bonnie lassie
? Mother of mercy. She was a bonnie lassie. A pretty girl. Who would have known? Not she.

Dugald leaned forward and pressed his lips to her cheek. Then after a frozen moment, he shifted, kissing her full on the mouth.

Shock tingled through her. His cool lips tasted faintly of the ale he’d drunk, and though she’d been kissed before, no one had tasted like Dugald or felt remotely like him. She kissed back, placing both palms on his face and pressing her lips firmly to his, so firmly that she parted his lips with hers.