Viking in Tartan: A Highland Vampires Romance by Suz deMello

Author:Suz deMello
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: scotland historical, highland romance, viking and virgin, short story, highland vampire romance, tarah scott, medieval romance, hannah howell, marriage of convenience, clan kilbirnie
Published: 2016-03-25T17:40:13.845176+00:00

*****

They dressed, Erland in his customary black—a rough tunic, trews and boots, with a short sword scabbarded in his belt. Rhona’s pleated chansil smock was embroidered around the neck and hem, and her cyrtel tightly woven green wool. He hadn’t doubted her word that she was the local laird’s daughter, but her clothing, despite their dampness and salt-stains, proved her honesty.

He led the way out of the cave and into the thin daylight. The storm had passed, and the sun struggled through low-hanging fog to glitter off the weapons of a half-dozen warriors surrounding the cave’s mouth.

Energy shot through his veins. He shoved Rhona behind him and snapped, “Get back in there and do not come out ’til I say.”

White-faced, she obeyed without protest. He advanced, dropping one hand to his sword’s hilt. “Who threatens me and my lady without cause?”

“Without cause?” One of the warriors broke from the group. He was protected by a bronze chest plate over a tunic and black trews, and wore a plaidie of red, white and green wrapped around his shoulders. Erland recognized the pattern. Stuart of Bute.

So this was the swain his lady had risked death to flee. Bute’s narrow, cruel eyes and seamed face contrasted with full, almost girlish lips. Though he seemed fit, he was indeed older, and certainly Erland could defeat him in a fair fight.

But fights were rarely fair. He shifted his gaze to the rest of the group. Some wore bows slung over their shoulders, less helpful in close quarters. But all wore swords.

Erland tugged on his ear. Six against one. Not great odds, but not impossible. Mayhap he could improve his chances. “I challenge you for the lady’s hand.”

Bute snorted. “I wouldnae have the whore on a golden platter.”

Erland sprang at him, seized his head and with a mighty twist, wrenched it off. Gouts of blood sprang from the torn neck, and a man screamed.

Erland grabbed the corpse. Holding it between himself and the Bute’s warriors as a shield, he allowed the leaping blood to flow into his mouth while watching them.

He needn’t have bothered. They fled.

He drank his fill and considered the situation. He couldn’t allow his little lady to see what he’d done or what he was, so when he was sated, he tossed the carcass far into the sea and washed before calling for Rhona. “Lead us,” he told her. “Where is the best path to the keep?”

She eyed him, saw patches of blood soaking into the sand, then eyed him again. “What happened?”

“Never you mind. Let us merely say... Don’t worry about the Bute.”

“Hmm.” Head tilted to one side, she absorbed that.

He nudged her. “The path to the keep?”

“This way.” She gathered her still-damp skirts and strode along the beach to a steep trail up the cliffs that nevertheless seemed to be oft-used, judging by its width and lack of plant life.

As she struggled up the path in front of him, he steadied her with a hand on her back. “I reckon that early this morn is the best time to enter the keep,” he said.

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