by Suz deMello
Could it be?
Could he be?
Lydia left the church in considerable confusion of mind, but had no opportunity to order her thoughts. For as she stepped into the afternoon’s golden light, she was met by a tall man with streaks of white in his tawny hair. He wore a shirt and trousers topped by a black jacket, all very finely made. His Sunday best, she presumed.
He smiled at her with slightly crooked teeth. “Milady, I’m Hamish Gwynn.”
Recognizing the name, she curtseyed. “Milaird.” Her guards offered polite bows.
“My wife and I would invite you for tea,” the Gwynn chieftain said.
She accepted the invitation and his escort to Straithness Castle. Once inside, she was ushered into what appeared to be an immaculate drawing room, perfect in every detail, where waited a tiny porcelain doll of a woman. P’raps in her middle thirties, she was blonde, buxom and quite enceinte.
“Milady.” The women exchanged polite greetings while Owain, who had followed, lingered by the door.
“What a pretty room.” Lydia gazed with appreciation at the damask-covered walls and brocade hangings. Everything was in a delicate shade of sea-green, with darker green accents. “Very soothing.”
Hamish Gwynn seated her on a green velveteen chair opposite his wife. “Aye, milady Jacqueline brought her entire morning room with her from Paris.” He smiled proudly at his wife, who was dressed to match her sea-green room.
Lydia was aware of the close historical connection between Scotland and France, but hadn’t known that it persisted. “It’s a pleasure.” She didn’t quite know what else to say.
Lady Jacqueline poured tea. “Thank you. It creates such ennui, the roughness of these Scottish castles.” Her voice was heavily accented.
Lydia accepted a steaming cup while keeping her face still. She refrained from making any comment that could offend, though she herself was offended at the sly slap at her adopted country. Instead, she said, “I have never experienced France.”
Lady Jacqueline drew in a deep breath. “Ahhh…the beauty of Versailles is incomparable. I had hoped to create a petite Versailles here, but the weather… Quite impossible to grow a proper garden.”
“Yes, I understand that much of the charm of Versailles is in its gardens.” Lydia sipped.
A Gwynn servant tapped at the door and handed Laird Hamish a note. “Forgive me, ladies, but I must attend to a matter.” He left with quick steps, and Lydia’s interest was piqued. She had heard that the Gwynns were religious, and the presence of the priest, the well-kept church and the number of congregants she’d seen all gave credence to that rumor. What, then, would call Hamish Gwynn from his Sunday rest?
She cast a quick glance at Owain, watching quietly at the door. He raised a brow and left, but only for a few moments.
* * * * *
Hamish Gwynn headed directly toward the church and the priest who had sent the message. He hadn’t failed to note the presence of Lydia Kilborn’s large escort. Had the Kilborns not sent a messenger ahead telling of Lady Lydia’s visit and informing him that she would be heavily guarded, he would have taken umbrage at the many warriors who had accompanied the lady. As it was, the size of the escort had caught his interest. He sensed trouble brewing and wondered if violence would engulf his clan.
That would be unfortunate. Matters had not gone well for the Gwynns, who had sent a large detachment to the support of the Catholic bonnie prince. The Lobsterbacks knew of his clan’s participation in the Rising, but the remoteness of the Gwynn holdings had protected them. Or so Hamish hoped. He did not want his corner of the Highlands to attract the attention of the Redcoats through the breakout of clan warfare. And for purely practical reasons, no one could afford strife at this time…except p’raps the Kilborns. Hamish had heard the gossip about Lydia Kilborn’s wealth and connections, and envied Kieran Kilborn his bride.
Nothing Hamish could do about it, though. His French wife had brought wealth also. She had already borne him three sons and a daughter. Though he admired Lady Lydia, he didn’t regret his marriage.
He entered the cool stone church. Sunlight streamed through the modest rose window above the altar. Laird Hamish wetted his fingers in the font and crossed himself before approaching the priest.
Father Paul took him back through a door and down a flight of stairs to the undercroft, where five men and one young woman waited. She was pale, trembling and terrified. Hamish wrinkled his nose. They smelled as though their skins had not touched water in years. Lacking windows, the church’s basement did not disperse the miasma but held it in.
Two visits from MacReivers within three days? Something stank worse than these men. Hamish inclined his head at one he remembered. “Angus MacReiver, is it not?”
“Aye, and we bring desperate news.”
“More so than the head of the, er…vampire you showed me the other day?” That had been startling, and Hamish hadn’t known what to do about it. He had closely examined it, assuring himself that the fangs were real. But it was proof of nothing except unnaturally long, sharp teeth. It wasn’t proof of vampirism.
Angus took a deep breath. “We have been attacked. Ye’re looking at the last of the MacReiver men.”
That caught Hamish’s attention. “Who? How?”
“We were out on patrol last night and when we returned at dawn, everyone was dead.”
“Everyone?”
Angus confirmed with a nod. “Every male above the age of thirteen.”
“The bairns and the women?”
“Untouched but terrified. They spoke of a monster who tore off the heads of their sons and husbands and drank their blood. This one saw the diabhol who butchered our clan.”
He dragged the woman forward. She had dirty blond hair, a dirtier brown dress, and clutched a bairn covered by a shepherd’s plaidie to her bosom.
With gentle hands, Hamish urged her onto the only stool in the room. “What be your name, lassie?”
“Greer, milaird.”
“Well, Mistress Greer, tell me what ye saw.”
“He…it came into my hut after sundown.” She gulped.
Hamish listened while the girl told of a tall, thin being who had entered her home, questioned her and terrified her, showing her long, bloodied fangs. “Old,” she said. “Very old, with more wrinkles than last winter’s apples. White, white skin, like a corpse. Long white hair that stood out from its head like a demon’s halo. And its mouth…” She shuddered.
“Hmm,” he said. “There is a rumor of a very old blood sucker who lives in the ruined tower at Kilborn Castle.”
“’Tisn’t a rumor,” Angus MacReiver said. “’Tis true. Others saw him. He murdered every man in my clan last night.”
Hamish rubbed his chin. “If that’s true, none of us roundabout is safe.”
“And what of the other Kilborns?” Angus asked. “Kieran Kilborn tore off my laird’s head and drank his blood. I was there. I saw it. I saw the body.”
“Ye were there? How did ye survive?”
Angus flushed and turned away. “I ran,” he said in a low voice. “May God forgive me, I saw the diabhol Kilborn behead my laird with his bare hands and I ran.”
Another man touched Angus’ shoulder. “’Tis no shame to live to fight another day.”
Angus straightened his back and faced Hamish. “And so I shall fight another day. With or without ye.”
“Where is your laird?” Hamish asked, aware that Angus had no power.
“The young laird is missing and so is his uncle, who has been leading us until Laird Edgar is of age.”
Hamish nodded slowly, his mind churning. Empty land meant strife. If the Kilborns did not take the MacReiver lands, another clan would move in. War would likely follow. Would it be best to keep out of the inevitable violence?
Father Paul cleared his throat. “The minions of the devil must be cast out. I have spoken with Lydia Kilborn this day and she has confirmed that Kieran Kilborn is a vampire.” He fixed Hamish with a steady gaze.
“She said he was a vampire? She used that word?”
“Nay, but—”
“What, exactly, did she say?”
“Her husband is oft abroad at night. She cannae recall a time when she has seen him in the sunlight. His icy skin is like white paper and his eyes and hair the color of the devil’s heart. We already ken he’s a blood drinker. There is neither priest nor church at the Godless castle the Kilborns call home.” The priest’s voice rose. “He is unnaturally strong. Milaird, thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”
Hamish rubbed his chin. “I need not be reminded of my duty to my clan and my God.”
Chapter Twenty-One
When Owain returned from reconnoitering the area, Lydia glanced at his frown and finished her tea. She thanked her hostess, explaining that she was needed back at Kilborn Castle before sundown. She rode back home with a head full of questions and misgivings, unable to sort them out as her gelding clippety-clopped along the cliffside trail.
Kieran a vampire! It couldn’t be, and yet…
He waited for her at the gate, smiling. She practically fell off her horse in her eagerness to hold him again and reassure herself of his humanity, but stopped when she saw that a boy lingered by his side.
“And who have we here?” She knelt so she was at the child’s eye level. He was grubby, skinny and blond, p’raps ten, she reckoned. Older than her brother’s sons, but with an ancient soul that shone out of his clear blue eyes.
“This is Edgar, Laird MacReiver. He will be fostering with us.” There was pleasure in Kieran’s voice, and something else she couldn’t identify.
She looked at her husband, seeing an unfamiliar expression of…pride? Joy? Good heavens. She’d known he wanted her to increase and took every chance he could to get her pregnant, but she hadn’t realized that he liked children. She’d rarely seen him roughhousing with one of the clan’s younglings. But now he seemed truly pleased by the small hand clutching his, and glanced down frequently as if to reassure the child, who seemed to be unusually interested in the ground beneath his feet. No doubt terrified, the poor little mite.
She smiled at the boy. “Welcome, Edgar. I’m Lydia.”
“Milady.” He executed a bow that was quite elegant, considering he was only ten.
Looking up at her through downy golden lashes, he gave her a quick, shy smile and she was lost, ignoring the flow of warriors leading their mounts around them and into their stables. Her scrutiny was interrupted only when Kier nudged her.
“Milady, we must away.”
“Away where? I just got back.”
Kieran nodded upward. “Come.” Still holding Edgar’s hand, he led them to the highest wall-walk, facing the ocean.
A flattened round sun was setting, glimmering red-orange through the mist-shrouded evening. She glanced at her husband. He seemed unperturbed by its light, such as it was. She resolved to wait. Surely the sun would shine brightly at some point in their lives, and she’d know. In the meantime, she would watch to see if Kier ate the boar sausage their kitchen produced, which was heavily flavored with herbs and wild garlic, or if he turned into a bat, or…
What silliness. How could one know if anything the priest had said was the truth? He’d seemed to believe what he said, but surely he was wrong.
Mayhap part of it was true and the rest fancy. Foolish, the tales of creatures who didn’t cast reflections and who slept in coffins. But the parallels did trouble her. She had cast aside her concern about the killing of the MacReiver. P’raps now that his son was part of their household that old worry had re-emerged.
The scrape of boots on stone warned of someone else’s approach. Dugald. He was panting as though he’d rushed.
“Ye’re just in time.” Kieran looked over the parapet to the cove.
Dugald followed suit and Kier lifted Edgar up to see, keeping a firm hold on the boy by grasping the waistband of his trews. Lydia noticed that the pants were not only grubby—which she would have expected, considering that their owner was a ten-year-old boy—but worn and odorous as well. She decided that a bath and clean clothing were in Edgar’s immediate future, hoping that he wouldn’t resist. At times her nephews had stridently resisted bathing.
She peered over the wall. Far below, on their pebbly beach, stood a gaunt, white-haired figure clad all in black. She sucked in her breath. “Is that…himself?”
“Aye,” Kier said.
Dugald’s features were set and still. Edgar watched wide-eyed and silent while the thin old man put a plaidie-wrapped bundle into a wooden box. He then set it on a flat platform that bobbed in the surf rolling ceaselessly onto the cove’s shore.
Apparently unconcerned about the effect of the seawater on his rather fine buckled boots, he walked the raft-like platform out into the ocean. When he was hip-deep, he took a tinderbox from inside his shirt and struck sparks into the box. She guessed that the plaidie was dry, for a plume of smoke soon emerged.
He continued walking the platform out, then began to swim. She was astonished to see the speed at which he cleaved the water, even while pushing the box in front of him.
Darkness continued to fall. Kieran put his free arm around her waist and she snuggled into his bulk.
“That’s its…um…his head, is it not?” Edgar’s voice was high and a little scared.
“Aye, I believe so,” Kier said.
“Aye.” Dugald sounded hoarse.
Edgar opened his mouth, then closed it. Lydia sensed that the child was full of questions but politely restrained himself. An interesting ten-year-old, one who had learned rigid control and at such a young age. But at what cost?
She looked out over the sea. He was now far from shore, but she could still see them, the old man and his glowing burden. She blinked back tears. Though she feared the tower’s crazed inhabitant, she found this small ceremony to honor Euan deeply touching, even heroic. She wondered how he had retrieved the head and resolved to ask Kieran during a private moment.
When she had regained her equanimity, she saw that the old man and his burden had disappeared, swallowed by the darkness and the fog. She touched Dugald on the shoulder. “’Tis full night, sir. Will you join us for a bit of supper?”
He glanced at her. His eyes were puffy and his skin pale. “Thank ’ee, milady, in a few. I have duties to perform before I may rest.” He glanced at Kieran.
“As do we.” Kier looked from Dugald to Edgar to Lydia.
“Ah,” she said. “I understand.”
“I don’t.” Edgar now sounded plaintive. “When may I learn this trick of speaking with few if any words?”
Lydia joined in the men’s uproarious laughter.
* * * * *
Kier was still laughing later at dinner, when, damper than before, he led an even wetter Edgar into the Great Hall. Though the boy had been towel-dried, his blond hair was still dark with moisture. He was dressed in a clean shirt and fresh trews. Lydia couldn’t see bruising on either her husband or the boy, so p’raps Edgar was more obedient than her nephews. He certainly seemed to have a tight hold on his dignity, seeming older than his stature indicated. That troubled her, but she didn’t know the reason. Seemed unnatural.
Kier led him to the high table, where tonight extra places had been laid. He described what they’d discovered that day and explained the terms of the truce to Lydia.
She tipped her head to one side and regarded the two of them. “So you’re to be my son in marriage as well as my fosterling?”
Edgar bent his head. “Aye. If you’ll have me, milady.”
“Well, as we don’t yet have a daughter, the matter is one of speculation, is it not?” She eyed her husband.
Kieran grinned back. “P’raps we need to be more, um…determined on that score.”
“I don’t know how we could be.” She returned his smile. “Mayhap we should discuss that…later. In any event, Edgar, you are welcome in our home, for as long as you like.”
The boy’s cheeks grew pink
and she hurriedly said, to cover his discomfort, “Please, sit. Have a bite to eat. You must be famished.”
After Edgar had toyed with his stew and even swallowed a few bites, Kier tugged him to his feet. “Now, lad, your first lesson. Ye must always talk to your people as honestly as ye can.”
He was every inch the proud papa as he led Edgar to each group of clansmen during the meal, introducing the boy and explaining the situation. From her seat, she could see the people’s reactions.
The usual tumult that reigned in the Great Hall at dinnertime quieted, then rose again as noisy discussion exploded. After initial reluctance to welcome a MacReiver as anything but a prisoner, the clan was won over by the excellent terms. And why not? Clan MacReiver’s lands were, in effect, added to Clan Kilborn.
And everyone liked their new fosterling. The women wanted to cuddle the skinny, quiet child while the men wanted to toughen him up so he’d become a proper laird, a strong ally and a good husband to their unborn princess.
As Kier and the boy traversed the room, oohs and ahs sounded with necks craned to see the lad. “Welcome!” someone called. Lydia thought it was Niall. More voices joined in. Cheers sounded and cups were raised as the pair returned to the laird’s table.
Edgar turned astonished eyes on Kieran. “I have always been told the Kilborns were our enemies.”
“Friends are better,” Kier said. “Elsbeth, a stool for young Edgar. Dugald, sit and eat with us.”
As the males attacked the venison stew, Lydia folded her hands in her lap and looked at them.
She’d wanted a family of her own, and here it was. Not the family she’d envisioned—her children would come later—but a family nevertheless.
And she hoped that the spate of terrible events and bad luck had come to an end. What more could happen?
Then she remembered Kieran’s warning—I fear that this murder will bring neighboring clans down on us. They ken Euan’s value. They ken that his loss will tear out the heart of us. I’m worried.
But who would attack them now? The MacReivers were destroyed and the Gwynns seemed peaceful. Nice, even. And they were religious. Hadn’t Christ said, “Love your neighbor”?