Tartan Page 3
Malcom chose that moment to take Miranda’s earlobe gently between his lips. He gave it a little tug, and then a kiss, and then traced his tongue around the edge of her ear. Finally he murmured, “Ye can put my hand where ye most want it, Miranda. Come now, take my hand.”
She obeyed him, seizing his right hand in hers. There was indeed a spot that was weeping for his touch, and without hesitation, she slid his hand up her leg until his fingers were upon it.
“Aye, that’s it, sweet lassie,” Malcom crooned, and his fingers slid over her tender, wet folds. Miranda started violently at the intensity of this first caress. If this were to be a remedy, it was not one yet…for now she only craved his touch all the more.
Malcom’s left hand, meanwhile, had wormed its way under the fabric of her bodice, and his fingers found her nipple, hard as a little nut. And as if those caresses weren’t sufficient, he laid into kissing her under her ear, and teasing her there with soft tickles of his beard.
Miranda had always wondered how it was possible for a woman to find such ease in a man’s presence that her inhibitions were lost. Certainly she had pictured herself with one man or another over her young life, but to imagine such things in fantasy was one thing, whereas real life was another. But she found that with Malcom, his skills at bringing her both the ease of familiarity and the distraction of extreme pleasure made the entire issue moot.
In the short time it took her body to reach its climax, Miranda forgot every thought and care but her own imminent ecstasy. Astonishing hedonism seized her; as far as Malcom’s presence concerned her, the only aspect of import was how good he was making her feel. It didn’t matter to her at all that he was handsome and strong, talented and ingenious, tenderhearted and gentle. But she adored him for having such soft lips, such a rough beard, and such clever fingers.
And it certainly didn’t matter that he would see her shudder, feel her convulse in his arms, and hear her wail of bliss. In that moment she knew nothing but blind pleasure and all-encompassing love.
Eventually awareness returned to Miranda, and she found herself swooning against Malcom’s chest, panting, and covered all over with sweat.
“That’s the remedy, lassie,” he told her gently. “See? I wouldna have ye in pain any more.”
Miranda turned her head behind to look him in the eyes. Breathlessly she said, “But Malcom, are ye not in a bit of pain yourself? What of a remedy for ye then?”
He turned her a bit in his naked arms, smiling. “There be only one remedy for me, Miranda. The day ye finish my tartan and give me your answer.”
* * *
Malcom looked up from the wooden bird, and squinted at her. “It looks as if ye be tying that off, Miranda Dunbrek,” he said.
Miranda had reached the end of the long seam that joined together the two halves of Malcom’s plaid. She took a few stitches to secure the yarn in a firm knot, then took up her little knife and cut it off close. “Aye, Malcom Keyth, with that I have tied it off,” she said. She lifted up the cloth before her. “I thank ye for your patience, and here is your tartan, sir.”
With a look of wonder, Malcom set aside the bird and stood. He came over to Miranda and took the fabric from her hands. “Surely it be the finest tartan ever seen in Alyth,” he said, “and I would get to wear it someday, pray God.” He lifted his eyes to Miranda.
She stood up. The two of them looked at each other over the plaid cloth. Then Miranda spoke. “Malcom, in these weeks ye and I have known each other well, in every way save one. And before I give ye my answer, I would know why ye never did take me to bed. For certain ye must know my will did never withstand your ways, not even that first night at the bonfire when ye were but a stranger to me.”
Malcom looked back at her with earnest eyes. “I did wish to bed ye, lassie—every day and every night. But more I wished ye would grant me our wedding day. And there is a saying in my family, which I did take much to heart: ‘He who would give away cream willna sell his cow.’”
Miranda blinked at him for a long moment. And then she burst out laughing. She let Malcom stare at her, perplexed, for only a second or two before saying, “That saying is in my family too. But never for a moment did I think such a thought was in your mind, Malcom Keyth.” She took a step closer, carefully so as to not tread on the fabric that hung from his hands. Then she reached up over it and put her arms around his neck. “Take cow and cream alike, Malcom,” she said, “for I have loved ye all this while and only want to stand before the priest with the man who wears this tartan.”
Malcom’s face had never shown so brightly. He dropped the plaid on the floor and took Miranda in his arms. “And so I knew ye would say, the night of the bonfire, and was I wrong about it, lass?”
Miranda giggled, “Nay, ye were not wrong, no more than ye ever have been, Malcom.”
The kiss that followed rivaled all that had come before. When he withdrew his lips at last, Malcom told her, “’Tis a shame I need to keep this old plaid till our wedding day, for I’d gladly have ye tear it off me right this moment, Miranda.”
She blinked at him coyly. “I believe I can take it off ye gently, Malcom.”
So they folded his new tartan carefully and laid it on the chair, and the old one they left on the floor with much less dignity. Likewise was short shrift made of their other clothes, and Miranda found the effect of Malcom naked to be much as she expected. The feel of him as he lay her down in her small bed was even sweeter than the sight: if she had ever felt anything softer than his flesh, she couldn’t remember it.
If sight and touch moved Miranda, it worked doubly so with Malcom, who had known no remedy at all in all those weeks. He touched her and kissed her but with a look of frantic distraction that told her every minute of waiting was painful. She could hardly bear that look, especially when her own body yearned likewise for consummation. Finally she seized Malcom and pulled him on top of her, and with wanton recklessness wrapped her legs around his.
Her virginity was broken with a brief pain that fled before Miranda’s wonder at the ravaging beast Malcom had abruptly become. His strength was suddenly quite real, and frightening in a way not at all unpleasant. On the contrary, it was marvelous that being inside her body could have such an effect upon him—this lustful madness. She gloried in the power of his thrusting and the look of anguish upon his face.
It seemed to her an absolute miracle that this marvel of a man was thus joined to her. And when Malcom climaxed with a long moan of ecstasy, Miranda found tears welling in her eyes.
They fell back into the bed, still joined, hot and breathing hard. When at last he could manage it, Malcom stroked his hand down Miranda’s arm. “Forgive me, for I couldna wait, lassie,” he said, looking a little sheepish.
“The fault be mine, Malcom,” she replied, “although ye must share it for being such a figure of a man that no lass could resist.”
He smiled. “The fault be yours indeed, Miranda, with such a face, and skin so soft, and form like an angel.” He gazed at her with quiet pleasure for a moment, and then his face suddenly took on a look of dismay. “Oh!” he exclaimed.
“What is it?”
“Did we leave my fine tartan in a heap upon the floor, then?”
Miranda relaxed and shook her head. “Nay, dunna ye remember? Your fine tartan is folded on the little chair.”
Malcom sighed. “Aye, I do remember now. But at the time I was in a sort of fever.”
“And now the fever is broken?”
“Aye. But I still wish to marry ye, so I’m glad the tartan is folded on the little chair.”
And with that resolved, Malcom and Miranda pulled the covers up, and talked quietly until they fell asleep.
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