by Suz deMello
Would she ever forget the screams? One, higher pitched than the others, rose to an unearthly screech.
Jolted, she wrapped her arms around herself. “Is that a woman?” she asked.
“Mayhap.” The guard’s brow furrowed. “’Tis hard to tell. But how? Did ye see a wench on the boats, milady?”
“Nay, I did not.” She frowned. The only person who would know was the vampire, Sir Gareth. And where would he be? Not trapped inside the keep. He was too clever for that to have happened. She climbed the stone stair to the upper wall-walk, carefully lifting her gown’s skirt to above her ankles. Her mother would be scandalized, but Lydia felt ’twas better to risk a guard glimpsing a bit of her stocking than to fall and bash out her brains on the narrow, steep steps.
Up on the battlements, matters were much the way she’d left them. Archers stood attentive at their posts, shooting an occasional arrow at a Gwynn or a MacLayne who ventured too close. The cliff path and the beach, both blotched with the dark blood of the fallen, were strewn with the silent dead and those who were injured or dying, their lamentations now diminished to whimpers. Louder were those trapped in the old keep.
She slipped behind the line of archers toward it, blinking to keep her eyes clear, for the Dark Tower was ablaze, sending a pillar of smoke into the sky. Its roof must be wood, she thought, and tried to remember what she’d seen when she’d explored the place. She dimly recalled a rotting ceiling that admitted slivers of light. Now it was aflame. The stone would not burn, but everything and everyone inside would be destroyed.
From the wall surrounding the topmost turret, a voice cackled with glee. Looking up, she squinted through the thick haze to see a black scarecrow dancing on the highest parapet. The stamp of Gareth’s boots and the gales of his laughter merged with the screams of the dying from within the Dark Tower. She’d not get any sane comment from Sir Gareth.
Owain touched his hand, clad in a leather glove, to the tower door. “Hot,” he told Lydia. “Best stay away from it. It could blast open at any time.”
Kendrick bellowed something in Gaelic and the archers moved away from the door, giving it at least ten yards’ berth. Lydia could see that the Kilborn forces on the northernmost walkway copied their kinsmen.
The keep’s roof crashed down with a roar and a shower of sparks. “Moi-ra! Moi-ra! Bad Moi-ra’s gone!” Gareth danced and twirled. “Sweet bad baby, Moira’s gone!”
Lydia frowned as she watched. What did that mean? Had Moira been in the keep, or had mad Gareth imagined her presence? Or was he talking about some other event?
His clothes were alight with flame as he skittered around the turret. When he’d reached its westernmost point, he spread his arms and leaped.
Her breath stuck in her throat. There was no breeze to speak of—the pillar of smoke floated almost straight up into the sky—but somehow Gareth seemed to fly, his jacket catching a seaward wind. Rushing to the wall, she leaned over it to see him fall into the ocean.
He never came up.
The Kilborns on the wall-walk were silent. A few took off their caps and covered their hearts with clasped hands, a tribute to the mad old creature who had been a part of their lives for as long as any could remember.
Emptiness filled Lydia’s chest, but she did not know the reason for her feelings. She did not love the old vampire. Despite Sir Gareth’s massacre of the MacReivers and the Kilborns’ subsequent annexation of MacReiver land, she believed that he had caused more harm than good. If Owain was right, Sir Gareth was the reason for the Gwynns’ attack and the deaths of many men.
In the distance, a gleam caught the light. Kieran. Seated on his massive golden charger, he advanced out of the shadows into the sunlight, showing no fear of it whatsoever. The sun gleamed on his pale skin, shone on his dark hair and reflected off his claymore, which he lifted and turned. A signal.
The priest had lied. Kieran was no vampire.
A great weight released her. She hadn’t realized how deeply the priest’s lies had affected her, but now she felt as though she might float away, a wisp of thistledown rejoicing on the wind. She wanted to spin and dance and play.
Instead, she grabbed a dirk from the nearest soldier and held it up, turning it until it flashed in the sun. She then shot toward the staircase leading to the courtyard. “Raise the portcullis and open the gate!”
* * * * *
Duncan had reported that the Gwynn’s attempt to attack by sea had ended in dismal failure and the death of every man who’d tried from that route. Kier silently thanked his crazed old grandda for his brilliant management of the situation. Igniting the Dark Tower had been an inspiration, and Kier hoped that the vampire, insane and fearsome though he was, had survived.
Kier, along with Edgar and their small group, still waited at the forest’s edge. Protected by trees and brush, they watched the battle at the castle. Between forest and castle lay the meadow. In it, the Gwynns’ forces, such as they were, had gone quiet, resting in the afternoon sun.
Energy flushed through Kier’s veins. “Now,” he told Edgar.
The lad, who had been leaning at his ease against a tree, leaped to his feet and mounted Scout. Kier walked his horse forward into the light, unsheathed his claymore and held it high until he saw another answering flash from the upper wall-walk of his castle. He gestured; his guard jumped onto their mounts and made ready.
“Blood for the clan!” Kier roared.
“Blood for the clan! Blood! Blood!” Swords sang as they were unsheathed.
Kieran swept his blade forward and dug his heels into his horse’s side. At the same time, the great gate of Kilborn Castle opened and the drawbridge crashed down. A mounted, armed company thundered over the wooden bridge toward the meadow.
The Gwynns and their allies, caught off guard, clumped together in a frightened huddle. Some grabbed for their weapons while others broke, mounted their horses and made for the hills.
Ten minutes later they were surrounded, with Hamish Gwynn, Angus MacReiver and the cassocked priest in the center of a milling mob of panicking soldiers, trapped by a frowning band of mounted Kilborns.
* * * * *
Hamish didn’t dare move as Laird Kieran approached. The Kilborn’s horse, whose hide was an unusual shade of pale gold, glittered in the sun, and its rider seemed bigger and more frightening in the midday light than he had during the other occasions they’d met, when he’d been veiled by fog.
Far from being afraid of the sun, Kieran Kilborn rode boldly, without hat or veil for protection. Old-fashioned braids framed a grim visage pale as one of the clouds drifting overhead. A pin bearing the image of a stag, the Kilborn clan badge, fastened his plaidie, the Kilborn tartan with its muted blues marked by vivid red and yellow stripes. His claymore, half the length of a man, seemed especially sharp and bright in the afternoon sun.
Bile rose into Hamish’s throat. He gulped it down and called upon God and his angels to protect him. His horse shied, possibly sensing his mood, and he quieted the restive mount.
He cocked his head, and one of his men rode to his side. The Kilborns tensed, hands tightening on swords.
“Bring me the priest,” Hamish said.
The slow thud of hooves preceded the holy man. All else was silent save for the screams and whimpers of the dying, distantly emanating from the old Kilborn keep.
“What say ye now, Father Paul?” Hamish asked, gesturing at Kieran Kilborn, glowering at them from atop his gleaming golden steed, bright in the afternoon sun.
The priest said naught, but Angus MacReiver, who’d followed the holy man, scowled. “Someone killed every man in my clan.” He pointed at the top of the tower, where the monster had danced like one of the demons of hell.
Hamish ignored the superstitious fear skittering down his spine. “Mad, but clearly not a fae being who cannae tolerate sunlight.”
Angus jerked his head at Laird Kilborn. “I saw that creature tear off my laird’s head and drink his blood!”
“Th
e berserkers did the same, the ancient Vikings who came to our shores to kill and pillage. ’Tis said that the Kilborns are their heirs.”
“Angus MacReiver!” A high, clear voice stabbed through their muttered conversation.
Hamish, the priest and Angus turned toward that commanding tone.
Edgar MacReiver rode forth, guiding his pony around Kieran Kilborn’s bigger horse.
“Edgar—” Kieran started, then said quietly, “Carefully, lad.” His protectiveness couldn’t be mistaken.
Despite the shortness of his stature and that of his mount, the boy sat tall, wearing his dignity like a cloak wrapped around his small frame. “Angus MacReiver, are you my man?”
MacReiver almost fell off his horse in his eagerness to show fealty. “Milaird, milaird, we though ye were dead!”
“Did you come and look?” Edgar snapped. “Or did you and the rest of the gutless oafs with you tuck tail between your legs and run? Oh, I see you, Fergus, Trinnian and Murdoch. You are all that is left of our men. Where have you been?”
Silence.
“Where have you been while Kieran Kilborn took me in and fed me at his table? Where have you been, while Kilborns rebuild our castle, farm our land, protect our women and children. Where have you been?”
“Ye wouldnae need the protection of Kieran Kilborn were it not for yon monster!” The priest pointed at the Dark Tower.
“What monster? I saw a strange old man who went mad from the death of his brother and defended his clan.”
“Euan Kilborn was a vampire!” the priest shouted. “An unholy, filthy monster!”
The Kilborns grew restless, hands dropping again to their swords.
“There are no such things as vampires!” Edgar said. “Nor are there kelpies, ghosts or redcaps.”
Kilborn urged his mount to stand beside Edgar’s. “Laird Hamish, I’ve known ye all my life. For the first time, ye’ve let that foolish priest of yours steal your good Scottish sense.”
Kilborn was right. Bitterness overtook Hamish and he glared at the priest who had persuaded him to act against the interests of the clan. They’d been unprepared to take Kilborn Castle.
“Why have the Lobsterbacks spared yer lands?” a voice shouted from the skimpy group that pretended to be Hamish’s attacking army.
Kieran Kilborn shaded his eyes and squinted through the bright sunlight. “MacLayne, is that ye?”
“Aye, I be a MacLayne. And our people have been sore tried by the Sassenachs. Our laird was killed at Culloden. Our homes were burned and our people murdered, exiled or starving to death. We have no weapons.” He brandished a pitchfork. “We cannae wear the tartan. And there ye sit, holding a claymore and wearin’ your plaidie. How be it but for a deal with the devil?”
“Nay, ’tis I.” said a female voice tinctured with a London accent. Attired in red, Lydia, Lady Kilborn, sat on a black horse. Handling the reins expertly, she guided her mount through the protective ring of Kilborns guarding Laird Kieran. The soldiers pulled away to let her pass.
Kilborn swung around, brows beetled. “Owain, get the Lady Lydia back into the bailey.”
“Nay.” Lydia Kilborn reached toward her husband and laid a trembling hand on his sword arm. “’Tis apparent that the, er…gentleman is under a misapprehension. He believes you have made a pact with the devil to spare our clan from the clearances.”
A hush fell.
“Truly, I am not a devil or demon, just one English lady.” She faced the attackers. “I am Lydia Swann–Williston Kilborn.”
The MacLayne drew back, discomfited. Angus MacReiver frowned. Hamish Gwynn grimaced. The tide had more than turned. It was positively rushing over them. The day had been nothing short of a disaster.
“Yes, Swann,” Lydia continued. “My cousin is Colonel Swann, aide to Butch— um…General Cumberland. Part of my dowry to Laird Kilborn is preferential treatment for Clan Kilborn.”
The MacLayne’s mouth gaped. And well he should gape, for Lady Lydia gleamed like a ruby in the autumn sun, which drew out the deep red tones in her dark hair.
“Ye need not make a pact with the devil to save your lands,” Kieran Kilborn said, his voice gently mocking. “Merely a pact with the right Sassenach lady.”
Hamish stayed still, aware of his failure, aware that Kilborn could, if he wished, kill him in an instant. He realized bleakly that p’raps now he’d learn if the tale was true, if Kieran Kilborn could indeed tear the head off a man and drink his blood.
“Laird Hamish, I would have a private word with ye.” Kilborn dismounted.
Hamish, lacking other options, did the same, following the Kilborn as he strode a short distance away from the gathered warriors.
“I’ve no taste for more blood this day, despite the stories ye’ve heard,” Kilborn said.
Hamish breathed easier.
“But a reckoning must be paid.” Kilborn gestured at the smoking tower, the burning cottages. “Great damage has been caused to my castle. Many of my people have lost their homes.”
Hamish bowed his head. “I’ll pay a fair price and more.”
“I’ll send ye the bill, and if it is not paid…” Kilborn shrugged. “I think ye can see of what warcraft we are capable.”
Hamish nodded. He was lucky he remained alive. “Milaird, may I speak frankly?”
Kilborn, looking surprised, nodded.
“Most chieftains would kill me or imprison me, demanding ransom.”
Kilborn shrugged. “’Tis impractical. Aye, I could conquer your lands and kill your people. But what for? We’d be overextended, our forces stretched beyond their limits. ’Twould be foolish. Worse, ’twould draw too much attention to our little corner of the Highlands.”
Hamish nodded. “Aye, I understand.”
“I’m glad ye do. Now get off my land.” Kilborn’s voice hardened, and he gestured at the shreds of the invading army. “And take that offal with ye.”
* * * * *
Sir Gareth allowed himself to float on the northward-flowing current until he became cold and worse, bored. He swam toward the land with sure strokes, wondering who would become his next meal. He hoped it would be a Gwynn. Several Gwynns. P’raps he could go to Straithness. He crawled out onto a stony beach and regarded the Celtic cross set high on the promontory above him, aware it marked the boundary between Kilborn lands and Gwynn.
Then he remembered the promise he’d made to young Kieran. “All right, then,” he grumbled, slouching southward. He’d take what he could hunt and stay away from the Gwynns, despite the temptation.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lydia waited impatiently as Kieran and his men returned from the parley. Then she and her laird rode triumphant into their castle after victory in battle. They were greeted with great acclaim by their people, for little Kilborn blood had spilled that evil afternoon.
Niall, who had bravely taken a shot to warn them all of the peril, was resting in the Garrison Tower to heal with his family by his side. He and his son were the heroes of the day. The only other injuries were to the crofters’ bairns who, unfamiliar with the castle’s steep stairs, had suffered a fair share of knees skinned and heads bumped on the unforgiving stone.
In the bailey, eager hands took Lydia’s borrowed mount and led the horse to the stable. Same with their chieftain’s buckskin.
Then she led her husband upstairs to their bedroom and he followed her with an eager stride. None stopped them, for Lydia strode too swiftly for that. In the late autumn afternoon, the room was light, with shafts of sunshine still stabbing through the arrow slits.
“We’ll have to be quick,” she said. “Dinnertime’s soon and we’ll be expected in the Great Hall.”
“Aye, and we cannae let our pleasures interfere with duty, can we?” Kieran’s black eyes gleamed.
She grinned and grabbed him by the shirt collar. Using both hands, she tore downward. Buttons popped as he hurriedly unlaced his trews. He sought her lips with his and clung. His kisses were short and despe
rate, peppering her mouth, her cheeks, her neck, anything and everything he could reach.
Still clothed, she knelt and tugged his trousers over his thick member. It bobbed free and she captured it with her mouth. He tried to kick his trews away, but they caught on his boots. He groaned and slid his fingers into her hair, pressing her head to him with gentle hands.
She took all of him in her lust and need, fueled by sheer relief. He was human, and he was hers. She hadn’t realized how much the superstitious, wicked whispers of the priest had poisoned her mind against her husband until daylight had burned away suspicion. How stupid she’d been!
The rest of Kier’s flesh was cool, yes, but his cock was hot. Hot with the life-giving seed he’d pump into her…very soon.
She sucked him until her jaw ached, then pulled off his boots.
“Kylyrra, ye’re wearing far too many clothes for my taste.”
She turned, offering him the laces at her back. “You can change that.”
He jerked at the cords with hasty fingers, snarling when one broke in his hand. He tore them apart and tugged her dress down, exposing her stays, which came off as quickly as their combined efforts could remove them.
Her chemise had stuck to her body from the day’s exertions. She smelled of smoke and sweat and roses, all reminders of the many events.
Less than twelve hours before, she’d been sleeping peacefully in the bed that Kier now pushed her toward. They’d arisen with joy, looking forward to a happy and productive day.
Instead they’d endured battle and seen death many times over.
“What a day,” she murmured, allowing Kier to bear her down on the bedclothes.
His slow smile had a grim edge. “Aye. What a day. When I had thought our clan’s troubles were over…”
“Nay. Remember you said that you expected an attack after Euan’s murder?”
“Ye’re right. And I did double our guards and increase our training.” He traced the curve of her cheekbone.
She raised herself on an elbow. “You’re so clever. You predicted it all and prepared for it all. You’re beyond all words.”