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TARTAN
by Diana Laurence
(written for Sherry)
Notes from the author:
This story was the prize in a contest I ran in November 2005. The winner, Sherry, got to pick the locale and time period and requested medieval Scotland. A fine choice!
In researching Sherry's story I learned some interesting facts. First of all, the kilt was actually not invented until the late 17th century, so in writing Sherry a tale of medieval Scotland, I could not employ that famous garment even if I set the tale as late as the 1400's. Fortunately, Scotsmen did wear tartan plaid back then, although the specific patterns were not yet associated with any particular clan--that would take another 400 years! The common garment of the day was a woven wool cloak fashioned of a long, wide swatch of cloth, called a plaid or a tartan.
Secondly, I used Sherry's choice of the lovely name 'Miranda' for her heroine in spite of the unlikelihood of a 15th century Scotswoman bearing that name. 'Miranda' was invented by William Shakespeare a hundred years later for his play "The Tempest." Nevertheless, the people of Scotland had the habit of making up new names and new spellings of names all the time, so it is not beyond the realm of possibility that Miranda Dunbrek's parents might have created it for her. At any rate, she seems like a Miranda to me.
"Patience, Malcom Keyth," said Miranda, looking up from the plaid wool fabric in her lap with mock sternness. "If ye have waited all these weeks, why hurry me now when I be nearly finished?"
Seated on the stool by the hearth of Miranda's cottage, Malcom sighed and went back resolutely to carving the small wooden bird he held in his hands.
Miranda had to smile. Malcom's boyish impatience was charming to see in a man of such rugged and powerful appearance. The young carpenter was easily five inches taller than she--although Miranda was probably the tallest woman in the village--and he was broad in the shoulder with solid muscle from there on down. If not for the short beard Malcom wore, he would look at that moment like a very large boy, his posture broody and petulant. She half expected him to shake his dark brown curls at her in sulkiness.
"Ye know it be not the tartan, Miranda Dunbrek," said Malcom, looking up at her again, "for that will be mine within the hour, I ken."
"Aye, I know it be not the tartan," she nodded, taking another stitch.
"Not many men could wait so long for a lassie to make up her mind."
Miranda chuckled. She could hardly believe there could be any suspense about the matter at this point; apparently the man was not so cock-sure as he acted most of the time. "Ah, Malcom," she said, taking another stitch, "I've half a mind to sew slower, just to watch ye twitch so a bit longer."
Malcom recognized that she was teasing. He stifled a smile. "Suit yourself then, lass--after all, if I be waiting, then so be ye."
Ah, now that was the Malcom she knew and loved. He was well aware of the allure he held as far as she was concerned. He had proof enough of it, God knew. But the fact that Miranda loved him was something Malcom was not yet privy to.
Indeed, she had come to love him well over the weeks she had been making him this tartan. How things had changed between them since that first night when it all began, and yet, her feelings even at the start had been passionate....
* * *
Although the Lowlands of Scotland had many a larger village than Alyth, there was probably not a one that could hold a better feast. The occasion this time was the birth of a fine, healthy pair of identical twin boys to one of the village families. The priest had only to say a double-baptism was cause for a celebration, and everyone got busy preparing food and drink and readying for a night of feasting and music.
A fine party it was, and Miranda attended with her sister Jonet's family, Robert and the three children. Most of the time she helped keep the little ones from getting into mischief, just as she often did during the day when she and her sister spun and wove together. Finally though, Jonet told her to have some fun herself, so she returned the bairns to their mother's care and went to join in the dancing.
Miranda was happy to get to scamper about to the lively tunes of the pipers. The bonfire was a beauty, so bright that the world beyond the celebration seemed to withdraw into the darkness and disappear. As she danced, Miranda looked at all the friendly, fire lit faces of her neighbors. And in doing so, she noticed one Malcom Keyth staring at her very unabashedly.
Malcom was a carpenter, and she knew him a little--there was no one in that tiny hamlet she didn't know. They were close in age, so she had even played with him sometimes as a child. But they had not spoken at any length in some years, and she found it curious that he was so intent upon her. She checked her dress to make sure it needed no adjusting, and put her hands to her rosy blond hair to check that it had not come undone from its ribbons. Nothing seemed awry. Yet every time she glanced at the carpenter, his eyes were still upon her.
So as she danced she considered the matter at some length, and in pondering recalled an occasion or two when she and Malcom had passed in the street and he'd given her a peculiar look. And there had been one time the previous summer when she'd fetched him for a neighbor whose cart had lost a wheel; all the while they walked together back to the broken cart, Malcom was silent and preoccupied.
Could it really be he fancies me? thought Miranda. In her present mood, after a bit of drink and the stimulation of the bonfire and the music, she liked the idea. Very much. Malcom Keyth was a handsome fellow, and reputed to be quite a skilled carpenter for one so young. And it was not as if the other village men of age to court her had anything better to recommend them. But, thought Miranda, most likely Malcom was the type to stare and not do much else, and nothing would come of it.
She could not have been more wrong.
Not too many minutes later, the dancers formed an immense circle, hand in hand around the fire. The drummers stepped up the beat till the circle could not possibly spin any faster, and when the music stopped, everyone let go their hands and went flying every which way in a frenzy of laughter. Miranda was a bit concerned someone would end up in the fire, and she was half worrying about that, and half dissolving into giggles, when she found herself suddenly colliding with Malcom Keyth.
He grunted and stepped back, then froze. He was but two feet away from her, and his face regarded her with that same intensity. Then suddenly without warning, he stepped closer, and his proximity became not only unusual but obviously significant.
Was he going to touch her?
All at once Miranda realized how much she hoped he would. The longing in his eyes was just too intriguing. Then she felt his body's warmth and he seemed to have crossed a borderline of nearness that alerted all her senses.
What happened next was amazing. Malcom moved even closer, till she could feel his breath, and lifted his hand and touched her right temple. Then he traced his fingers over her cheek. Finally, he leaned down to her and held stock still, his mouth perhaps an inch from hers.
This gesture changed everything. Miranda's universe collapsed to their two close faces, and the engrossing temptation of Malcom's lips.
Apparently he was too much of a gentleman to force the kiss, and Miranda hesitated, naturally reluctant to engage in such intimacy with a man she barely knew. But she could feel Malcom's yearning in the lingering sensation on her cheek. The offering of his mouth, the anticipation of its softness and warmth, was quickly overwhelming her. She tried to breathe and the breath caught, shuddering audibly. And Malcom Keyth heard this, knew its meaning at once, and smiled at the knowledge of Miranda's reciprocal desire.
She knew then that it was only a matter of moments. Furious craving to feel Malcom's flesh darted over the skin of her cheeks. This sudden passion was new to her, and that novelty only made it mount all the more swiftly. All at once Miranda perceived Malcom's body as a huge, strong, warm presence that must be seized, surrendered to, devoured. Her desire overpowered her will: her brain went blind with it, her heart rushed, she trembled.
She laid her hands upon his chest and kissed him. He responded with wild hunger, his mouth as eager as it was soft. Miranda's trembling increased, then seemed to break like a wave. Malcom's kiss carried her like a torrent, and she lost herself in it. It was surcease of yearning, so sweet, so lovely. And in that moment she felt like she must already be falling in love with him, stranger or no.
As sublime as her arousal was, it was also alarming, and in another moment Miranda pulled herself back. What was she doing, kissing Malcom Keyth like this? Panting, she stared up at him. The amber light from the bonfire revealed an astonished look on his face, wide blue eyes and parted lips. The lips formed a smile. "Ah, Miranda Dunbrek," he said, "could I be dreaming that ye just kissed me?"
Miranda was torn between not wanting to appear a hussy, and wishing she might express her newborn affection for the man. The look of grateful joy on his face only made her like him more. "I dunna why I did that, Malcom," was all she could manage.
He moved toward her. "Might it be that ye wanted to?" he asked, reaching for her.
She took a step back. "Well..." she said weakly.
Malcom halted but his face remained eager. "If ye say no, it's a lie," he told her firmly. "That was a kiss of wanting if ever there be one."
Miranda put her hands behind her skirts. "I woudna say no--but I canna kiss ye again, Malcom."
He cocked his head. "Why not? Was it not to your liking, Miranda?"
"Because I hardly know ye! I dunna what I was thinking."
Malcom's spirits seemed to fall a bit at this. He said nothing, but the joy ebbed from his face.
Miranda couldn't bear him feeling rejected, since after all the kiss was her fault. She took a step toward him and lifted her hands. "But wait, Malcom, it was a lovely kiss, truly!" she said.
He brightened. "I'd give ye more. But perhaps in a place not so crowded."
Miranda glanced around. Although none of the other revelers seemed to be taking any notice of their conversation, surely more than a few had seen the kiss. She felt her cheeks go crimson. She looked again at Malcom. "Aw, I wouldna see ye sad, Malcom, but again I say, I hardly know ye. I'm not the sort to kiss strangers. Except this once."
Malcom looked at her hard, cocking his head to one side. "All right then, I'll become not a stranger, and there's the remedy."
He continued to look at her, but seemed lost in thought. Miranda wasn't sure what to say, and was about to open her mouth to attempt some inane comment, when Malcom suddenly waved her off. "Be off with ye then, and dance if ye will. I've already begun to think on it. Before long I'll know what to do, and then ye will hear from me, Miranda Dunbrek."
"All right," agreed Miranda, rather disoriented. She wasn't sure if there were now hard feelings between them or not. Malcom's furrowed brow could indicate anger, frustration, or simply determination, and she didn't know him well enough to decide which.
She fell into her little bed that night weary from the feast, but too uneasy to fall asleep at once. She hoped her actions toward Malcom had not put the young man off, but really, what else could she have done?
Perhaps ye ought not to have kissed that handsome devil in the first place, she chided herself, finally dozing off.
Miranda was barely up and about the next morning when there came a knock on her door. She pulled it open it to find a bright spring morning and the imposing figure of Malcom Keyth.
It was strange to see by the light of day the man she had kissed by firelight. He was no less handsome, not at all...but he certainly seemed more real. The morning sun sparkled in his eyes and gleamed in his dark brown curls. His skin was tan, his mouth and cheeks rosy. He was so very tall and broad, it made Miranda feel petite for the first time in her adult life. Malcom's linen shirt and old plaid did not conceal the girth of his arms, and his bare calves were likewise sturdy and muscular. The man's expression, meanwhile, was inscrutable, and all at once Miranda felt him to be a fellow one wouldn't want to cross.
By way of greeting Malcom said, "I would like ye to make me a tartan, Miranda."
She shook her head, a little stunned. "A tartan, Malcom?"
"Aye. I've need for a new one. For certain I canna be wed in this old rag."
Wed? Miranda had heard nothing of Malcom's being betrothed--this made the kiss even more scandalous! And heartbreaking. She tried to hide her disappointment by being businesslike. She looked up and down Malcom's present cloak, a dull old plaid of blue and black that looked like it could have been his grandfather's once. "Ye could use a new tartan indeed, Malcom, but my sister and I make very fine ones. They fetch good coin, and we even sell them to England. How would ye pay?"
"That is another matter," said Malcom brusquely, as if she had completely missed his point. "Did ye not wonder that I plan to be wed?"
Miranda kept her face blank. "I did wonder, aye."
"T'will be to ye, Miranda, for in the time it takes ye to make my tartan, I'll woo ye."
Relief washed over her, followed soon after by mirth. "Will ye, then?" she laughed.
"Ye kissed me as a stranger, ye must like me well enough already," said Malcom with a grin.
Miranda blushed. "'Twas but one kiss."
"A hundred kisses in one, that was," disagreed Malcom, folding his arms over his chest. "So here's my proposition: ye make me the tartan, and all the while I'll keep ye company, and so when it's finished, ye wouldna bear to part with me, and will give your consent to be my wife."
Miranda forced herself to laugh at this because that seemed to be the thing to do. Nevertheless she found his self-confidence very attractive, and the prospect of so many hours in his presence nearly irresistible. "But how will ye pay, Malcom Keyth?" she asked, hoping desperately that he had a plan.
The carpenter unfolded his arms and clasped his hands behind him. "I may be a stranger to ye, but I have loved ye quite awhile, Miranda. And I know ye work all day at Robert Buchan's house, with your sister, spinning and weaving and sewing. And watching over those lively bairns. Well, Jonat Buchan has a fine spinning wheel and a loom, but I'm able to make far better--there's nothing made of wood that I canna make. Those I'll give ye in trade for the tartan, and your company."
Miranda nearly gasped aloud. It was all she could do to control her face. For she had wanted for a very long time to have her own spinning wheel and loom, but she hadn't been able to buy them. The wool she and Jonat used came from the Buchans' sheep, raised and tended and sheared by Robert. All Miranda contributed was her efforts, so she didn't ask for more money than it took her to live and keep up her childhood home, which had fallen to her when her parents passed. Such a trade was quite lopsided on Malcom's part--she couldn't possibly accept.
What Malcom said next convinced her he had somehow read her mind. "It's a generous offer, and I wouldna be buying a wife. That has to be given freely. But I've already made ye the loom and the wheel, and I've no use for them if ye wouldna take them, so it's quite fair to me. What I need is a new tartan."
"Ye have already made them?" asked Miranda, and the full import of his words "I have loved ye quite awhile" struck her. It was frightening, it was touching, it seemed impossible to believe.
The man nodded firmly, without a word.
Not too many men in the village could have tempted her with such extreme sentiments, but it seemed Malcom Keyth could. "Well," said Miranda, leaning on her door with feigned nonchalance, "it's true they're no use to ye, so perhaps it is more fair a trade than first I thought."
Malcom lifted his dark brows.
There was such hope in his eyes that she could hesitate no longer. "All right then," she said, "I'm agreed."
It seemed for a moment that the man would burst into laughter, but he quickly adopted a more dignified expression and gave her a little bow. Then he said, "I'll fetch the wheel and the loom at once."
But Miranda reached to set her hand on his arm. "Not so fast, Malcom--do ye fear I'll change my mind? Come in and I'll show ye some of the yarns I have. Ye must pick the colors before I can start, ye ken."
* * *
The nearly finished tartan in Miranda's lap was woven of black and red, with pinstripes of yellow. It would set off Malcom's dark hair well, she thought. As she stitched the last section of the two long strips of fabric together, for the umpteenth time she pictured Malcom as a groom, and herself standing at his side in her mother's wedding gown and sash. If he knew how often she had dreamt of marrying him, he would not be so nervously poking with his knife at the wooden bird he was carving. She smiled to herself.
Malcom saw the smile. "And what might be the source of your mirth tonight, Miranda?" he asked.
"I was thinking if ye intended that bird for my wee niece, 'twould be best not to carve it down to nothing."
"I'm making the feathers," said Malcom, unperturbed. "A tricky business."
"Well, if any man can manage it, I trust ye can, being the best woodcarver in all the Lowlands."
"Not the best woodcarver," he corrected, "only the best wheelwright."
"Aye--forgive my confusion, ye have so many talents."
Still concentrating on the bird, he added, "And the finest kisser." He cast his eyes up at her. It was the sort of look that always made her quiver.
It was most certainly true that Malcom had a knack for lovemaking. Miranda still marveled to think how he had managed to get so far with her so soon; why, they had known each other but a week or so....
* * *
He had brought her a basketful of apples, and while Miranda worked the spinning wheel, Malcom pulled over a chair and settled in to enjoy snacking on one. For a minute or two, the room was quiet save for the sound of the wheel punctuated by crunches of crisp apple. Finally Miranda said, "Well, if I'm to know ye better, best we talk a bit."
"Aye, it's true," agreed Malcom around his bite of apple.
"So tell me how ye got to be so good with wood, Malcom Keyth."
"Practice. Ye like the spinning wheel then, do ye?" He grinned.
"It's indeed a better one than my sister has. The turn of the wheel is so smooth and steady."
"I do best with wheels. Do ye recall the day I fixed the cart for your neighbor?"
Miranda halted the wheel and looked at him with a twinkle. "Aye, and I recall ye didna speak to me one word when I fetched ye."
"Well, could be I'm a shy man," replied Malcom.
Miranda burst out laughing. "Ye werena shy at the bonfire, that's sure! Never I met a laddie more forward."
"Some things be easier for me than talking," said the man, stifling a smile. "Besides, there was that invitation all over your face."
Miranda resumed spinning the black wool. "What invitation?"
Malcom stood up and tossed his apple core into the cold hearth, and wiped his hand on his old plaid. "The one ye'd put on now if I were to get close enough," he said, turning and approaching her.
"Ye be a cocky lad," scoffed Miranda, continuing to work. Nevertheless, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at his approach.
"Not a bit. But in truth I'm not shy, either, Miranda. It was only that ye took me by surprise, showing up in my doorway, your cheeks so rosy and your hair blowing about your face. The sight of ye just knocked all the speech out of me."
At this flattery, Miranda let the wheel fall still and looked at him. Malcom moved another couple of steps closer, his head bowed and his hands behind his back. It was a humble look that was belied by the brightness in his eyes. If I do nothing to put him off, thought Miranda, surely he will kiss me in a minute.
She really had no desire to put him off. In fact, ever since that first kiss, she had troubled herself mightily about how soon she might permit him another. Her sister Jonet thought it quite a scandal that the carpenter was wooing Miranda in such an aggressive and unusual way...that is, until she'd seen the spinning wheel and loom and recognized their quality. At that point she'd allowed that the match might well be a good one, but still warned Miranda that she not give away cream to a man who'd not yet bought the cow.
Sound enough advice if a woman wasn't looking up into the dark blue eyes of Malcom Keyth. He was close enough to touch her now, and reached over to cup her cheek in his hand. Miranda blinked at the warm, soft sensation. The carpenter simply gazed down at her, and said, half to himself, "Here be the prettiest face in Scotland."
Miranda opened her mouth to contradict or thank him. But she didn't have time to choose which, for Malcom dropped to one knee next to the spinning wheel, still holding her face. His own visage was a bit lower than hers now, and if there were to be a kiss, she would need to lean a little to make it happen. Malcom folded over his fingers and petted her cheek with them, his eyes searching hers. Then he slid his fingers around behind her neck.
The slight pull of his hand was all the impetus required to make Miranda lean to him. When her lips touched his, she was stunned at the effect. The rush swept through her like a fierce wind, setting her heart to pounding wildly. Malcom's mouth tasted of apple, and was so rich that kissing him felt like feasting. Then he made a soft sound of pleasure and that made Miranda feel all the more giddy.
She felt his hand slide forward, down the side of her neck, till it rested on the bare flesh above the neckline of her dress. It was very warm, and rough in a pleasing way. Her attention darted between the delicious pressure of that hand, and the ever-deepening kiss. Miranda's hand floated up and cupped Malcom's jaw line, so that her palm might feel the lovely coarseness of his beard. At this his hand slipped a little lower.
But alas, not as low as she found herself wishing. The heel of the carpenter's hand came to rest lightly upon her nipple, so that she could feel the pressure and warmth through the linen of her dress. This sensation totally undid her, and she thought she would lose her mind if he did not take hold of her breast completely. This is no time to be a gentleman, Malcom, she thought wildly.
Yet all he did was keep kissing her, in that exasperatingly marvelous way. Miranda made the mistake of slipping her fingers into his hair and discovering how silky were his curls. And when he parted her lips with his tongue she welcomed him, thankful for anything that brought him closer and deeper. All the while she fought desperately against the feverish urge to put his hand over her breast.
She was about to give in to that urge when Malcom broke off kissing her. She opened her eyes to find him regarding her with an alluring, sleepy look, and breathing hard. "Ah Miranda, I'm not shy, but if I were I'd kiss ye anyway. Ye have such a welcoming way. I feel as if ye might yield all, if only ye knew me better...." At this he leaned back. "Forgive me for saying so--I may be cocky indeed, as ye say."
Miranda's defenses were utterly demolished by the onslaught of kisses. Therefore she answered him guilelessly, "Be cocky as ye wish, Malcom, for your kisses make a woman surrender as the English before Wallace's army."
Malcom smiled, a little astonished, then burst out laughing. Miranda joined in, and the laughter saved her from her own passion. When they had caught their breath, Malcom went back to his chair and Miranda to her spinning, and the rest of that afternoon they talked like two old friends.
* * *
Hold back the cream, Miranda took to telling herself whenever Malcom was going to pay a call.
Robert and Jonet spared Miranda a few extra hours a week, knowing she was being rewarded well for her time working on the carpenter's tartan. And although Malcom and Miranda were both busy with their respective trades, more often than not they spent some time together in the evenings or an occasional afternoon. Malcom would bring along a whittling project, or otherwise busy himself assisting Miranda by performing a few chores for her.
And they talked for hours, on every subject under the fifteenth century Scotland sun. The conversation was delightful, and sometimes captured Miranda's thoughts well enough to make her forget how much her body yearned for Malcom's touch. Nevertheless, never an evening went by that didn't end with a passionate kiss or two.
It was a few weeks into their acquaintance when things went a bit further and despite all her resolve, Miranda "spilled a little cream."
She was working at the loom, and making quite good progress that evening. Malcom, meanwhile, had decided he ought to inspect the house. Cold weather was a ways off, but having built quite a few houses himself, he wanted to be sure this one was constructed in a manner that would minimize drafts and leaks.
When he was done, he built a little fire in the hearth and settled himself down upon the stool. "Well, I'd say there's the touch of Stuart the Longarm about this place," he pronounced.
"He was a friend of my grandfather's," said Miranda, nodding. "I know he had a hand in it, of that my grandfather was proud."
"Aye, and didna I see it? The stone is sound, the beams well placed. All joints tight and cracks well sealed. If ye love this house, I dunna blame ye."
"I do love it, Malcom, for my father grew up in it and so did I. If not for Jonet and Robert, I would have had to give it up, and that would break my heart."
Malcolm shook his head. "If not for your fine skill, Miranda. By your own work do ye make the coin to keep this house. And ye should, for it be among the finest in Alyth, to my mind."
Miranda beamed at him. "Ye please me so to hear it, Malcom."
She was nearly out of red wool then, so she rose to cross the room to a very tall cabinet where she stored some stock. The red was on the top shelf, and in spite of her height, Miranda couldn't reach it without the help of a small wooden box she kept handy for the purpose. She slid the box over and stepped up upon it, just as Malcom crossed the room to assist. "Now then, I could reach that for ye, Miranda," he said.
But she already had her arm in the air, while steadying herself by holding the edge of the cabinet. What happened then she couldn't quite explain, but her weight shifted a little and the box slipped, and Malcom had to take her by the waist to keep her from falling off of it.
At any rate, however it came about, suddenly his face was nearly at her breast. They both looked at each other, and then Malcom's eyes fell to the soft mound of linen-clad flesh just inches from his lips. When his gaze once again met hers, Miranda made her eyes go pleading. The young man might not have known for certain what that look meant, but was happy to make an assumption.
He pressed his mouth to her breast, kissing it, then nuzzled into it with his nose and lips. The sweetness of his dark head beneath her chin made Miranda's heart swell with love and tenderness. Without another thought her fingers reached for the tie that held the gathers of her bodice, and pulled. Then she worked the fabric down so that her breasts were both bared to him.
No doubt Malcom had not expected such a turn of events. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate even long enough to glance up at Miranda, so eager was he to avail himself of this wondrous opportunity. His arms encircled her and he covered her right breast with kisses. If his beard chafed her in that eagerness, his lips were quick to soothe. In fact, both sensations moved her, and she found some parts of his beard were soft and could brush her nipple in the most blissful way. Heat bloomed under her skirts, heat and moisture, and her knees went weak. Nevertheless she was afraid to get down from the box or make any motion that might cause Malcom to stop.
Then suddenly his hungry mouth took in her nipple, and suckled and licked it in a manner that enflamed Miranda past the point of reason. "Malcom," she cried, "dunna stop or I will perish!"
She felt him chuckle, and clearly he had no intention of stopping. All Malcom did was switch to her other breast, freeing the first one so that he might take it in his hand and caress it with his smooth, hard palm. Miranda heard herself emit a quiet wail at this, and she convulsed so that her face buried itself in Malcom's curls. As swirling sensations of ecstasy racked her, she moved her mouth back and forth against his soft hair.
Drink all my cream, she thought crazily, for I care not to withhold it from ye. And indeed, had it been Malcom's determination to bed her that very night, he would not have failed.
But instead of that, he only persisted in standing before Miranda, perched on her box, making love to her breasts with his mouth and hands. The sensations he gave her very nearly brought her to climax, and by the time he stopped her legs were quivering so hard beneath her skirts that he could feel it.
So he gathered her in his arms and took her down from the box. He kissed her face gently, then turned it up to his. "Miranda?" he asked.
She couldn't speak, but managed to nod at him.
"I think I could have ye tonight, could I not?"
Miranda nodded again.
"But I want ye for my wife, and for that I must win your heart. I have your body now, sure enough, like in the palm of my hand. But let your body tell ye how much your heart should want me, and in the end I'll have both."
It wasn't until that moment that Miranda realized how extraordinary a man was Malcom Keyth.
* * *
A fortnight later, there was a wild and terrible thunderstorm.
The temperature dropped just after suppertime, and the wind picked up to a howl. Dark clouds rolled in, alive with bolts of lightning that grew ever neared to the village Alyth. Miranda, who expected Malcom at any time, stood awhile outside her front door watching, until the raindrops began to fall, driven wildly in the wind.
She abandoned her watch, taking in with her some extra logs for the fire. She had just built it up to a good warm blaze when she heard a knock and the door flew open. Malcom stepped in swiftly, drenched and dripping, and pushed the door shut against the wind.
Miranda rose to greet him in her usual fashion, with a warm embrace...but seeing how wet he was, thought better of it. "Well," she said, "'tis a shame your new plaid be not ready, for ye could use a set of dry clothes, Malcom!"
The sodden man wiped back his dripping curls from his eyes. "Any blanket would do, Miranda," he replied. "I be soaked to the skin and not fit to sit anywhere."
Miranda went to fetch the blanket from her bed, saying, "I canna believe ye went out in such weather."
"'Twas not such weather when I went out," came his reply.
When Miranda returned with the gray wool blanket, she found Malcom had removed his tartan and shoes, and stood there in his long shirt. And that he was busy unfastening. "Oh!" she exclaimed, and turned away.
"Well," he said, "the wet must come off before the dry goes on, or dry will be wet too."
Still facing away, Miranda said, "Aye, that's true." She held the blanket toward him.
"Are ye afraid to look on me, Miranda?"
"Ye be quite enough to look on when dressed, Malcom," she replied.
He laughed. "However cocky and proud I came to ye, much worse I become from hearing such as that. I be merely a man, lassie."
Miranda did not hold Malcom was "merely a man," nor did she think any other woman in town would put him in that category. "Just tell me when ye be wrapped up in that blanket, Malcom," she told him.
After another minute he said, "There now, there's not a thing to see but my head and a lot of wool."
Miranda turned to face him cautiously, and found he was telling the truth. He stood grinning, encased in the blanket, with his wet clothes around him on the floor. Miranda shook her head at him in mock exasperation, and then busied herself gathering the clothing, wringing it out into a basin, and hanging it near the fire. All the while the storm raged outside, flashing and rumbling and pounding her roof with a steady hiss of rain.
For a little while then the evening progressed normally. Miranda worked at the loom, Malcom sat on the hearth in the blanket, his curls drying. The fire crackled, the room smelled cozily of wet wool. They talked of great rainstorms and snowstorms of years gone by, and so the time passed pleasantly.
At last there was a lull in the conversation, and then, with a slight twinkle in his eye, Malcom spoke up. "But tell me, Miranda--do ye really fear to look on me naked?"
"I do not fear it," she replied, casting her eyes up from the loom. "I only fear the effect."
"But do ye not like wanting me, then?"
The question made her laugh. "Wanting is a funny thing. I do like it...but it pains me too."
"I dunna like paining ye, Miranda," said Malcom earnestly. "There be a remedy for that, ye ken."
Miranda felt her body quicken at these words. What could he mean? She was not sure how to reply, so she only stared wordlessly at him.
Malcom stood up and beckoned her with one hand. "Come here, then. And dunna worry, ye willna see me naked."
Against her better judgment, Miranda rose from the loom and went to him. With one hand still holding the blanket secure, Malcom used the other to place her near the fire, facing away from him. "Stay there now," he instructed. Then she could hear him behind her, removing the blanket, folding it, and placing it on the hearth rug. "Just sit down here, I'll be right behind."
He meant this quite literally, as she discovered when she sat down on the folded blanket. The very next moment she felt Malcom sit down behind her, and his bare, bent knees appeared on either side of her. So he was positioned right behind her, naked as a babe, and she could easily guess what that spot of pressure at the small of her back might be! "Malcom Keyth," she gasped, "what be your intention?"
"Just the remedy...and must I kiss ye till ye want it?" replied he, then buried his rough face in her neck and kissed her.
Miranda could only moan softly in reply.
Malcom's hand reached around and cupped her right breast. Even through the cloth it felt wonderful. Her head fell to one side and she relinquished her strength to him. Malcom picked up on this and whispered in her ear, "Remember when ye let my fingers under your dress here, Miranda?"
"Aye, Malcom," she said weakly, lost in the feeling of the caress.
"And would ye let them under your skirts, then, lass?" he whispered.
Miranda couldn't imagine a better idea. "Aye," she said.
His hand left her breast, and she was alarmed for the loss. But a moment later she felt both his hands tugging at her skirt, and that made it quite worthwhile. She lent her own hands to the task, until together they had achieved hitching up the fabric to the point that Miranda's privates were nearly exposed. Then Malcom slid the fingers of his right hand up her leg, lightly and slowly. Any modesty she still possessed was waning fast; she parted her knees. The hand repeated the silky gesture, and Miranda quivered. She felt Malcom laugh softly behind her. His left hand caressed inside her left leg in like fashion. Then he stroked her, up and down, inside both thighs, so that she parted them little by little.
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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