Dugald Kilburn was sure that he’d never find love. And why
should he? ‘Tis rare for vampires and their mates to reproduce
successfully and Dugald kens that. He’s certain his lust caused his first
wife’s death in childbed.
Innocent Alice Derwent presents Dugald with a dilemma. She’s
different than any woman he’s known, different and altogether alluring. And
while the lady is innocent, her feelings are anything but. Will he bed and wed the lady, risking her life? Or remain
celibate, sparing her?
But when threatened with death, Alice decides she doesn’t
want to die without knowing Dugald’s love. Can he resist her charms?
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Excerpt: Desire in Tartan
(Book Two of the Highland Vampires series from Ellora’s Cave)
Glasgow, Autumn 1759
Dugald left most of his company of men back at the inn with strict
instructions to stay out of trouble, but he had no illusions. The men would
drink as much as they could hold before finding the loosest bits of muslin
available. If they were still able to perform, perform they would, as long and
as hard as possible. He hoped that he’d be able to rescue the less experienced
of the lot out of whatever scrapes they fell into. The youngest, Malcolm, came
with Dugald as his companion. He wouldna leave Malcolm in the care of the rest.
The mop fair was a mad scene. ’Twas combined with a street fair and a
farmer’s market, so the entire population of Glasgow had seemingly crowded
itself into the square with a market cross in the center. Food stalls, redolent
with the spicy aromas of roasting fowls and sausages were fronted by cooks and
’prentices bawling out the prices of their wares. Nearby, penned livestock emitted
a less appealing miasma of straw and shite, with the autumn wind swirling the
scents along with dry leaves.
Turning to Malcolm, Dugald raised his brows. Without speaking, the two
Kilburns started to walk along the disordered rows of booths. Once they’d passed
the food stalls, the fair became even more riotous, with knots of maids and men
looking for hire, screeching their qualifications. Each brandished a tool of
his or her trade, cooks with rolling pins or wooden spoons, coachmen with their
whips. Country girls in their Sunday dresses crowded in a knot, peering
anxiously at well-dressed passers-by whom Dugald guessed were the stewards of
the grand houses. Every once in a while one would stop and question a
rosy-cheeked lass, occasionally leaving the fair with a new maid or tweeny in
tow.
He stopped, arrested by a sweet fragrance that rose from the reek of
unwashed bodies like clean mist drifting on the surface of a loch. He hadn’t
detected it before. Mayhap it had been cloaked by the pungent roasting sausages
and the other scents at the food stalls—herbs and the like.
He lifted his face into the air and sniffed. Yes, ‘twas there, elusive
but definite.
Malcolm did the same. “I smell it too.”
“That’s our lassie,” Dugald said.
The stripling looked mystified. “A sweet smell means a governess?”
“Milady gave me questions to ask.” Dugald patted his sporran. “If she
passes, she’s the one. But this is how we’ll be finding her.”
At the end of the row of coachmen, stable hands, maids and cooks
fluttered a gaggle of…what? Somberly robed figures resembling a flock of giant
crows or, mayhap, vultures. Exuding the stinks of mothballs and body odor, they
all appeared to be flapping about one small, drab figure, a female who couldna
contrast more with her oafish companions.
Dugald’s first impression of the woman was of narrowness, so at odds with
her tempting scent that all he could do was stand and gape at her like a looby.
Dressed in unrelieved black, she had slender shoulders and a tiny waist. Slight
hips. When she turned, he could see she possessed but a small bosom. He raised
his gaze and didn’t bother to stifle a gasp at the sight of her pure and
perfect profile. Intelligence sparkled in her hazel eyes, completely belying
the rest of her dull demeanor.
Her face… He could stare at that face forever without a single moment of
boredom. Pale, though not as white as a
Kilburn’s, for a smattering of freckles spattered the bridge of her straight
little nose and sprinkled her high cheekbones. She had well-cut lips with a
definite Cupid’s bow, the one distinct curve on her serious face. A
semi-circular half-moon dip.
He wanted to slide his tongue into that dip before kissing her with every
mite of passion he possessed.
*****
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