Desire in Tartan: 2 (Highland Vampires) (4 page)

She feared that her boldness would lead him to believe she was experienced. She’d kissed and been kissed before, had liked it, and had pursued that…but not more.

And when Dugald’s hands roamed to her breasts, cupping and fondling over her robe, her fears were realized. But she didn’t stop. His touch affected her too strongly, reaching her through the thickness of her robe, charging her with a pleasant heat she enjoyed. She was protected by her clothing, so why stop?

One hand drifted lower to clasp her bottom, and misgiving flashed through her. But still, what could happen through layers of fabric, through quilted robe and heavy trews?

But when he set his substantial palm firmly onto her buttock and pressed, shoving her against his body, she knew.

She knew exactly what could happen. How could she not, with an enormous thick, hard pole jabbing her through his breeches and her robe?

At least it…he…seemed enormous. A foot long, at least. But surely he…it…couldn’t be. How could such a length fit into his trews? Wouldn’t she have noticed if a gentleman’s…appendage were so substantial?

She was virgin, not blind.

Dugald rubbed against her and her ruminations fled her mind, rinsed away by sheer emotion. His tongue had remained in her mouth, but not still, not any more than hers was. Her tongue seemed to have developed a playful spirit that matched his, which surprised her. She’d supposed that she and Dugald were chalk and cheese, despite her interest.

Their tongues certainly weren’t chalk and cheese. More like two otters, or p’raps two puppies tussling. Sheer joy to play with Dugald’s tongue with hers, to twine her hands in his long, black hair and to feel his hands roaming her body, still safely and comfortably over her clothes.

She tucked herself more firmly into his embrace.

Hands down, then up, then holding her tightly before clasping her face. He drew away, staring deeply into her eyes. His dark gaze compelled her and she reached for him again. She brushed her lips lightly over his, hoping that a return to kissing would be welcomed.

When he pulled away, she realized she was wrong. Shame swept her, battering her heart, and she turned to hide her face.

Insistent hands gripped her shoulders, bringing her back. A gentle finger slipped beneath her chin and raised her head. Again she was compelled to look into Dugald Kilburn’s eyes. Black as the deepest midnight, utterly enticing, even hypnotic. Magical.

Her stomach twirled and tipped while her heartbeat thundered as though her emotions drove its violent beats.

Was this what falling in love felt like?

He rubbed his nose against hers, an unexpectedly tender gesture. Something in her chest clenched then released.

The room was silent except for their soft breaths mingling in the warm, smoke-scented air.

He released her and stepped away. “You’re a virgin, are ye not?”

“Y-yes.”

He smiled. “Aye, a woman like ye would be. I’ll not push ye.” He went to the door and turned, his eyes brilliant. “But know this. I want ye, Alice Derwent. When you’re ready, I’m your man.”

Struck dumb, she managed a nod.

“Say good night.”

“Good night.”

Another smile. “Good night,
mo dòchas.
”

Dugald Kilburn slept through the night for the first time in a year.

Alice Derwent did not.

What had he called her? His
duckish?
What on earth? She hoped it had nothing to do with ducks. She liked ducks but didn’t wish to be compared to one. She’d heard that the French called those they loved “my little cabbage”. P’raps the Scots had equally strange endearments. She hoped not.

She’d have to learn Gaelic. She’d managed in Glasgow without learning the odd, sibilant local language, but she realized that she’d either have to learn or she’d go through the next years of her life without understanding much of what was going on around her.

As she lay in bed, her thoughts chased each other ’round and ’round, each time returning to the same theme—Dugald. How his mouth had felt, smooth and cool, on hers. How delicious he’d tasted and smelled. What he’d said.

Know this. I want ye, Alice Derwent. When you’re ready, I’m your man.

I’m your man.

She had a man, something she’d never thought she’d have. Who would have her, someone who lingered between two worlds? Her mother had been of noble birth, but her father…well, calling him duckish would have been apropos. He’d been an odd duck indeed. And as for Alice herself…the daughter of a professor wasn’t nobility but not a servant either.

Straddling two worlds, unsuited to either. Until now.

Because she’d been so sure she’d never marry, and for several years had been too old to consider the possibility, she hadn’t thought about whether she wanted a man in her life the way Dugald Kilburn apparently intended.

Did she? And did she have a choice?

He’d sounded absolutely certain. She was his bonnie lassie and he was her man whether she wanted him or not. But she was certain that Dugald never would force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

However, he had very good reasons for believing she wanted a man, a particular man. Him. He’d kissed her first, but she’d not only kissed back but had initiated.

At the thought, heat swept through her body. Had she misbehaved, acted like a whore?

Mayhap. He hadn’t said, “We’ll marry.” He’d said, “I’m your man.”

Different. Very different.

She fell into a fitful rest but was awakened deep in the night. After a few minutes she heard a distant call…three of the clock, or so she thought.

Drunken laughter sounded below her window. A man’s laughter, then a woman giggling. Something thumped hard enough against the inn’s wooden wall for Alice to hear it and p’raps imagine the timbers shaking. She left her cozy bed to peer out.

The night wasn’t completely dark, for a half-moon peeked through gray clouds, shedding enough light for her to see a woman stumbling across the street followed by a tall, dark-haired man. He backed her against the wall across the lane. Her skirts were up about her waist and her face wore a dreamy expression.

Alice couldn’t see the face of the man pleasuring the whore. He had his back to Alice.

But she could see black hair tied at the neck.

Dugald?

Her heart stuttered.

The man had his neck crooked so his face was buried in the curve of the woman’s neck where it met her shoulder. His trews were loosened, exposing his lower back. His hips bucked in and out, quickening as the minutes passed, and she could see the upper curves of his white arse as his trousers slipped down.

Alice’s stomach lurched.

Gripping the woman about the waist, the man grunted and flung his head back as his hips shoved forward, then stopped. She whimpered, dragging her head to one side. Alice could see his body heaving with his panting breaths, which slowly calmed and evened.

The man pulled away from the woman, turning to lean his back against the wall, facing out into the street. Murdo, Alice thought, p’raps Murdo, but something disfigured his mouth.

He dragged a wrist across his face, wiping a dark smear away from his lips before fastening his trews. The woman’s large, uncorseted breasts were partially exposed by a loose, ruffled blouse that had been tugged down a bit. Her fawn-colored skirt was rucked up on one side and tucked into a wide belt, showing pale legs so chubby that they had dimples. Garters dug into the soft flesh of her thighs.

Envy prickled. Alice could never hope to emulate that rounded form. She knew that men didn’t like skinny girls but preferred women like the whore down in the street.

He tossed her a coin, which flashed in the moonlight, before he stumbled across the street and into the inn. He slammed the door shut hard enough that Alice jumped. Grumbling male voices emanated from belowstairs. Ah, Dugald. That deep, rumbling tone was definitely Dugald, annoyed by the disturbance.

The woman tucked the coin into her belt, rearranged her skirt and adjusted her bodice. She ambled along the street and lingered in a doorway, apparently waiting. What for? Alice wondered.

The grumbling from below stopped. Silence reigned.

After about three minutes had passed, two more men came out of the inn. Blain and Malcolm approached the woman, who gave them a gap-toothed smile and pulled down her blouse.

She had large breasts like great ripe pears, with enormous, dark nipples. Alice stared, fascinated. She had never imagined or seen the like. She knew that women’s breasts varied, could tell that her own shy handfuls, gently tipped with palest pink, were modest compared to other women’s thrusting bosoms.

She’d also seen that breasts meant a great deal to males, for their gazes always dropped whenever they spoke to a woman. If she were a chesty female, their glances would linger. In Alice’s case, men’s eyes instantly returned to her face, as though a lingering perusal of her body was not worth their time.

She would have preferred larger breasts. But confronted with the outsize bubbies on the whore, Alice cupped her own perfect little globes and felt grateful.

Grateful and ashamed.

Ashamed and titillated, for Blain was accosting the whore with clear avidity, showing no hesitation whatsoever.

Malcolm hung back and Blain urged the younger man closer. Alice strained to hear, but the meaning of the conversation was clear even if the words were not, for both men passed coins to her.

Blain seized her hair and tugged her head to one side. After a moment, Malcolm put his lips to her neck. Alice had never known that the throat was such an important part of this particular interaction between male and female…not that she knew much.

While Malcolm nuzzled the whore’s neck, Blain loosened his trews and lifted her skirts, picking up one of her knees and setting her crudely-shod foot into a crack in the brick wall. He took out a long, fleshy pole from his trousers. After stroking himself for a few seconds, he snugged closer to the woman. Alice couldn’t see what he was doing, but she assumed that he put his…member inside her.

Slurping sounds came from below interspersed with grunts, groans and moans.

Alice watched in a daze of horrified fascination. She knew that this was what men and women did, but couldn’t picture herself with her skirt lifted on the street with one man inside her and another kissing her throat. Still, she found herself wondering how she’d feel, backed up against a wall, leg high, with Dugald Kilburn between her knees thrusting into her while kissing her neck.

An unwelcome throb began to trouble the flesh between her thighs. Her hand involuntarily moved toward it, and she caressed herself through her nightgown. Dampness seeped through the thin, worn cotton to moisten her fingers. She jerked her hand away, appalled by her unexpected lust.

She couldn’t be aroused by the scene below. She couldn’t.

That two men she knew were enjoying a street whore right in front of her should disgust her, Alice told herself.

And it did. She realized that she was stirred by her memories. What stirred her was Dugald Kilburn’s kiss, his touch, the feel of his maleness prodding her through her robe. Not two men tupping a whore in the street.

She resolved to ignore the incident. Mentioning that she’d spied on three of the Kilburns when they’d taken their pleasure of a whore would not be a pleasant conversation.

She crawled back into her bed, grateful for the lingering warmth of her hot water bottle, which echoed another warmth…between her thighs. She squirmed, but wondered why she felt self-conscious, with no one around to witness what she was doing.

With a deep breath, she set her fingers upon her woman’s flesh and felt an answering throb. She caressed and the throb increased. Warm liquid oozed onto her hand, and she rubbed that in the same way she spread lotion onto her cheeks.

The heat increased and she became acutely conscious of the soft, worn linen of her old chemise against her skin. She cupped a breast while she played with herself.

How would she feel if Dugald Kilburn touched her so?

She closed her eyes to better remember his kiss.

His lips…oh, his lips looked firm but had felt so soft and cool compared to the fire raging within her. And so alive, especially his active tongue, which had seemed to want to explore her mouth thoroughly and forever.

She moaned, then clamped a hand over her lips, horrified. What kind of wanton was she?

One who wanted Dugald Kilburn more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life. One who wanted his hands on her in just the way he’d held her while they’d kissed. The memory of that big, broad palm pressing on her bottom, forcing her to feel his erection on her mound… Another moan slipped from between her lips.

She’d wanted to rub herself against him like a cat against a stroking hand, but hadn’t dared. When she thought of how she’d felt, what he could make her feel, she purred and stroked herself harder.

She thought of his chest, of the nipple she’d glimpsed beneath the damp linen of his shirt, and her breath came in tiny pants. She imagined pinching that nipple as she squeezed her own.

She pinched harder and gasped at the little sting, which seemed to increase the heat and tingling that now enveloped her body. Her hips began to undulate of their own accord, but she helped them along by caressing the nubbin of flesh atop her slit harder.

She closed her eyes to better focus on the heat sweeping her body and the memories that fanned the warmth into a riot of flame, a flame that leaped from her woman’s flesh to her breasts and even to her lips, which she licked, then bit.

At the nip, lights glittered behind her closed lids and pleasure shot through her body. She rubbed her mound and her nipple. And the colors brightened until she was enveloped in heat, light and rainbows.

She arched her back and a little scream escaped her as her body writhed. Praying no one had heard her tiny cry of ecstasy, she clamped a hand over her mouth and curled into a tight ball.

As she relaxed, she stretched then lay quivering while she slid into sleep. Even the thought of Dugald’s kiss was unbearably arousing. So how would she feel if…

* * * * *

The lusty trio of Kilburns was unavoidable when the time came for her riding lesson, for Murdo and Blain accompanied her and Dugald. The men wore their usual midnight garb and boots, with Alice in her new riding habit and shod in her old black boots. Her serviceable black boots.

Dugald’s words rang in her ears.
Use yer best efforts… Ye’re the best in Scotland.
She straightened her shoulders and stiffened her back. Dugald Kilburn was a leader of men. He wasn’t wrong.

At the stable, the ostler led Mary forth, with the neat, small chestnut properly tacked out, sidesaddle and all.

Alice took a deep breath and approached the horse from the left side, as she’d been taught. She tightened her tummy muscles, willing herself to hold on to her nerves and her breakfast.

Mary swung her head around and fixed Alice with her unfathomable, dark gaze.

Alice’s knees buckled. A hand touched her elbow, took hold of her with a solid grip.

Dugald, of course.

Would she fail him?

Never.

She petted and stroked Mary’s mane, murmuring a quiet, “Hello.”

Mary snorted.

Alice jumped back and Murdo laughed. She ignored him, set her left hand onto Mary’s withers and lifted her left foot. After she nodded to Dugald, he bent, wrapped his hands around her lifted foot and helped her up into the saddle, with Alice belatedly remembering to jump a bit. She landed with an “oof”.

Dugald grabbed her ’round the waist so she wouldn’t topple over the horse’s right side. “Oof,” he muttered. “Of course.”

His touch burned through her clothes, but how was that possible? She remembered his hands and mouth as cool, not hot. Nevertheless a sizzling heat warmed her through her chemise, her stays, her petticoats. She pressed her lips together and struggled to regain her concentration, even though she was irresistibly reminded of the last time she’d
oofed
—while falling off her horsie made of blankets. At least with this grunt she was getting on, not slipping off.

Embarrassing, but the memory of that event did not draw her blushes as much as what had happened thereafter.