The Rebel of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  Lady Alwyn turned and disappeared into the darkness of the castle. As she did so, two female servants, so similar in appearance they had to be sisters, dutifully stepped back waiting for Tara to follow, before they fell in behind.

  Tara was led through a high-ceilinged entrance hall, barely glimpsing anything for the dark shadows. To the right she saw what appeared to be the great hall—a narrow, vaulted room illuminated with light from a fire just out of view. Servant girls and women in aprons peered out, watching. But the lady went another direction, into deeper darkness until they arrived at a large wooden door, crisscrossed by wide metal bands. Here, two guards stood at either side.

  Lady Alwyn produced a ring of keys, and the stones around the door echoed with the grate of metal as she unlocked the door. “My apologies for the locks, and the guards. We aren’t always so severe but with the Kincaids threatening our borders, we cannot be too careful with our safety.” Once they were all inside, she shut the door and lifted the key to lock it again.

  “A moment,” Tara called out, realizing Sister Grizel was no longer with them. “My companion seems to have been left behind.”

  “I’m certain she is tending to your belongings,” the lady answered. “She will rejoin you shortly.”

  Though the lady seemed welcoming enough, Tara could not help but feel ill at ease, leaving Grizel behind. They proceeded up a winding stone staircase, upward into pitch darkness, into a tower. All the while she felt as if she were being swallowed by an immense, dark beast formed of stone and shadows. Dampness hung in the air, along with the scent of the sea. With each step, her mood became more and more burdened by the fear that she would never again leave this dark and gloomy place.

  At the top, they came to another door, which Lady Alwyn opened with another key. When they and the servants had entered, she again secured the door behind them.

  The sound of the lock turning reverberated loudly throughout the room, but even more loudly inside Tara’s head.

  Suddenly, Tara could not help but wonder if it were truly the Kincaids, or something else the lady sought to protect them from.

  They entered a narrow solar, cluttered with too many tables and chairs, and strewn with all manner of luxurious cushions, embroidered footstools and silken cloth. A large tapestry above the hearth depicted Adam and Eve, their arms entwined and jointly holding a bright scarlet apple. Ivy vines concealed their nakedness, and a serpent encircled Eve’s ankle. It was a woman’s domain, with no trace of a man anywhere to be seen.

  They passed along a short corridor, coming to the room at the end. There, Tara found a small but well-appointed bedchamber, with a small hearth and fire, two chairs, a table, and a narrow bed draped in curtains. Two female servants scurried past, with empty buckets, leaving behind a steaming wooden hip tub beside the fire. On the table, she spied a goblet, and a small trencher of chicken, cheese, and bread.

  “This was also your sister’s room,” the lady said, running her hands along the back of a chair. “I hope that does not cause you too much sadness.”

  Tara felt a sudden tightness in her chest. Grief weighed on her heart.

  “It does, a little,” Tara confessed. “But I would have it no other way.”

  Lady Alwyn tilted her head in sympathy. “’Twas not so very long ago that she passed on. You still grieve her loss.” She smiled sadly and nodded. “As do I.”

  Tara hoped, more than anything, she would be left alone so that she could recover from the journey in solitude—and perhaps even indulge in a good cry.

  But with a wave of the lady’s hand, the two attendants came near, the older one reaching to assist Tara with her cloak. To be assisted with one’s bath was an accepted custom, but it had been so long since Tara had been the center of such effort, and then only by the nuns she knew well.

  Tara’s cheeks flushed as her head covering and cloak were taken away, and then her kirtle and underdress. Her linen liene was untied and unlaced and pulled over her head, all while her future motherin-law watched silently.

  She stood naked and shivering, her hair falling down her back, her hands covering her breasts, as the servants knelt on either side of her to roll down her wet stockings. Taking them, along with her muddied shoes, they stepped away and left the room.

  “Hurry, step in,” Lady Alwyn urged, moving with her toward the tub. “Even with the fire, it is too cold to tarry, and we cannot risk your health.”

  Tara stepped into the tub and quickly sat, eagerly immersing herself in steaming water to her shoulders, more for modesty than comfort. And yet still she trembled, as if the coldness of the previous days had settled too deeply into her bones.

  The lady took up a basket from the table, and using a wide wooden scoop, sprinkled dried rose petals and herbs into the water. Tara sat rigid in the tub, uncomfortable with this stranger’s presence, when she really just wanted to be alone.

  Lady Alwyn murmured, “I always wanted more children. Daughters. But there was only ever Hugh.” She drew back, setting the basket aside, before sitting in the nearest chair. “I was devastated when your dear sister died. In the very short time that we spent together, I grew very fond of her, and like to believe she felt fondly toward me as well.”

  Tara’s heart softened a degree. The lady of the castle seemed sincere and welcoming—unlike the son who had met her on the stairs and his cold-eyed father. But no matter how she came to like Lady Alwyn, there would be no marrying Hugh. She did not need to meet him again, to recognize that he was a nightmare come to life, courtesy of her guardian.

  What of the other man? The man who’d dared to kiss her, when he had no right? Oh, she should not think of him! He did not deserve one moment of her time. She must only think of a way to flee this place. But without anything of true value which to barter for passage away, she did not know how she would escape. She only knew she must. She could not remain at this place for the rest of her days. This could not be her end.

  And yet reality closed in on her, as dark as the shadows in the room, threatening to smother her determination. Had Arabel felt this afraid, before she died? This hopeless?

  “How did she die?” Tara asked.

  The lady’s brows gathered. “Did Buchan tell you nothing? I wrote the letter to him myself.”

  Tara swallowed hard. “He could not recall the circumstances of her death.”

  Lady Alwyn’s placid expression fell into a scowl. “That man.” She shook her head, and the luxurious fabric of her veil shimmered in the candlelight. “He has been generous to our family and this clan, but he is nothing if not consumed by his own self-importance and ambitions.”

  Tara exhaled, relieved from the depths of her soul to hear someone else voice words that mirrored her thoughts. “I cannot claim to disagree.”

  The lady sighed. “The difficult truth is, Mistress Iverach, that we barely had time to know your sister before she fell ill of a fever. Within days, she fell into a deep sleep, and one early morning soon after, she died.”

  Tara listened, her eyes filling with tears. So simple a story, one that seemed an unworthy end to one so well loved. She imagined Arabel, small, still, and dying in the bed across the room. She covered her face with her wet hands, the sorrow she carried in her heart, too strong to contain.

  She heard the creak of the chair, and felt the softness of linen being pressed into her palm. “There, child. I am certain she did not suffer, and I was there with her at the end, along with our priest. She was not alone. I hope that is of some comfort to you.”

  “Thank you.” Tara nodded, pressing her face into the cloth. “Aye, it is.”

  However, as much as she wished to deny it, the tears she shed were not just for Arabel but also for herself.

  *

  Magnus drew back his legs, as the two men crashed just in front of him. After they rolled past, still grappling, still shouting challenges at each other, he again lowered his boots to the floor. Adam participated in a different sort of wrestling, just across the table, e
nthusiastically kissing Phyllis MacKinnon, a pretty widow who almost every night cajoled an invitation to dine at the castle from a different warrior. She was always looking to kiss someone.

  A group of men gambled in the corner, laughing over bawdy stories. Others, in mixed company, danced drunkenly to the shrill music of two equally drunk musicians.

  Every night repeated in much this same manner, at least since the lady of the castle had taken to keeping to the tower, several years before. For a time, he, too, had reveled in the freedom her absence inspired, but as he’d grown older, he found himself bored of misbehavior and debauchery, and wishing for something different.

  The Widow MacKinnon giggled, throwing her head back and wrapping her arms around Adam’s shoulders. Together, they rolled off the bench onto the floor. For whatever reason, this made him think of someone else … Tara Iverach. Hugh’s betrothed.

  God, he felt lower than dirt for what he had done.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her. It had been wrong of him to do so. The girl was innocent in this conflict—in everything—and he had never been in the practice of harming innocents.

  But when the opportunity to take something that belonged to Hugh had presented itself, he’d acted impulsively, out of long-festering anger. Anger over what had happened with Kyla earlier in the day. Anger for a lifetime of being forced to suffer Hugh’s insufferable presence, and those of his fawning, unprincipled cohorts.

  Admittedly, he had enjoyed teasing … flirting with her … and her spirited response. He had also very much liked kissing her … a peculiar thing as he did not know what she looked like, and wasn’t that usually part of it?

  How she must have felt when she realized the truth—no doubt betrayed. He was damned sorry for what he’d done, and hoped he’d have the opportunity to apologize.

  But if Mistress Iverach chose to tell the chief or Lady Alwyn, or even Hugh that he’d kissed her, and allowed her to believe he was someone else … well, he supposed he’d deserve that, and suffer the consequences as they arose.

  Just then he saw Hugh hold his goblet aloft and turn it upside down, indicating its emptiness. Laire dutifully approached, pitcher in hand.

  She poured the cup full—only to have one of his men—not Ferchar but Ralph this time, clamp an open hand on her bottom, and seize her close. She struggled against his hold and wrenched away, and in doing so, sloshed ale across her bosom—and onto Ralph’s face. Scowling, he wiped his sleeve across his forehead, as his cheeks filled with angry color.

  Hugh and the others laughed, which only increased his anger to rage.

  “Come here, wench, and beg for my forgiveness,” he shouted, and moved to stand—

  As did Magnus—which earned the attention of half of the hall.

  Aye, he was known as a swift and brutal fighter, but a disciplined one who would not be recklessly drawn into an engagement. He knew full well that men and women alike eagerly watched for any opportunity to see him crush an opponent, and even risked small fortunes on his name. But he would not throw fists here. Not with the Alwyn present. He would intercede and distract in some way. Living at Burnbryde, he had long ago learned that the skills of a diplomat were equally as important as those of the fist, dagger, and sword.

  But the Alwyn barked out an order. Ralph slowly returned to the bench, still glaring at Laire.

  Laire backed away from the table. Lorna waited nearby, urging the girl toward the kitchens. Indeed, she discreetly signaled to all the younger kitchen maids, herding them as she often did late at night, to be secured away and out of sight in the kitchens, leaving only a few sturdy, steely-eyed old warhorses who would not hesitate to smash a pitcher of ale over the head of any warrior who misbehaved.

  Only some nights, Lorna’s interventions weren’t enough. Some nights, Ferchar or Ralph pursued their prey.

  Magnus returned to his seat—only to realize Diarmid approached.

  “The chief commands ye to his table.”

  Looking across the shadowy room, Magnus saw the Alwyn glowering at him.

  Mayhap the Mistress Iverach had indeed complained of the wrong he’d done. He stood and crossed the floor, accompanied by Diarmid, aware that the entire room had quieted, and all eyes watched him go, as they always did when the father called to his bastard son.

  When he arrived, the Alwyn gestured. “Join us.”

  Diarmid returned to his place near the end of the long table, while Magnus seated himself closer to the chief, beside a brown-haired beauty—Ysenda Firth, a merchant’s wife who lived in the village, and whose husband sailed for much of the year. She was known by all to be the Alwyn’s current mistress.

  Just then, Hugh also appeared, and took a seat beside his father. Still drunk and no doubt more than a bit humiliated by the scene that had unfolded on the front steps of the castle, he glowered at Magnus, displeased to find him in his father’s company.

  The Alwyn rested his elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “The old nun who traveled with Mistress Iverach has informed us the men who attacked them tonight clearly identified themselves as Kincaids.” Looking squarely at Magnus, he asked, “Did you know of this?”

  Magnus nodded. “Aye, I was told the same, but I question whether that is the truth.”

  “Why?” retorted Hugh, his eyes glassy, his voice thick. “Would they not take any opportunity to attack us, and take what is ours? Just as we ought to do to them?”

  Magnus shrugged. “Why would they attack in such a small number, when the Kincaid has an army of hundreds at his disposal? Why would they wear masks, only to declare who they were? It doesn’t make sense.”

  The Alwyn stared at him, eyes narrowing. “I suspect it makes some sort of sense, although I know not what.”

  Magnus shrugged. “It could be that they are a wayward band of the Kincaid’s mercenaries, acting without his authority. Hoping to thieve something valuable—”

  “Ah, indeed.” The chief rubbed his chin. “Perhaps that is true.”

  Hugh grunted derisively. “It’s the obvious answer, that’s what it is.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Magnus. “Again, I do not understand the need to announce themselves as Kincaids, which would only invite our response and draw attention to their misdeeds, of which the Kincaid would likely disapprove, if he did not give the order.”

  Across the table, Hugh scowled accusingly, as if Magnus had intentionally led him astray.

  “If you wish,” Magnus said. “I could … go to Inverhaven tomorrow and demand to speak to the Kincaid, making use as I have done in the past, of my friendship with Elspeth MacClaren.”

  “Elspeth Kincaid, you mean,” the laird replied, his gaze sharpening. “Poor girl, to be deceived so cruelly.” And yet his voice revealed no sympathy at all, only derision. “She and her father ought to have accepted my offer, and married Hugh when I presented her with that opportunity. Now the MacClaren wallows in his defeat, and we must seize those lands and that castle by force.”

  Beside him, Ysenda sighed with boredom, and a second later … Magnus felt her hand atop his thigh, moving with determination toward the juncture of his thighs. More than once, Ysenda had made clear she desired him as a lover, and though she was very pretty, he had no desire to share a woman with anyone. Most especially a man that until recently he’d believed to be his father.

  Under the table, he flattened his hand atop hers, firmly halting its advance.

  His gaze did not waver from the Alwyn’s. “I shall inform him of the attack on Mistress Iverach and demand that he keep better watch over his men … just to gauge his response, to see if he denies involvement. The visit will be twofold of course—I can observe, firsthand, his army to see if they have declined in number. To see if there are any signs of them departing for the winter.”

  Sighing again, Ysenda deftly freed her hand from his and planted it square atop his cock. Before he could react, she squeezed, inspiring a reaction that was only natural.

  Magnus gritted his teeth and shift
ed, dislodging her hand. He had not been with a woman in some time, but he had no interest in this one, no matter how enthusiastic and determined she might be.

  “Yes. Yes, do so,” the Alwyn answered, unaware. “Buchan’s delay in arriving has left me in a precarious position. I fully anticipated he would arrive this day, with an army that we might employ, to force the Kincaid off those lands. Land intended for me. For the Alwyns. But in the meantime … your suggestion is sound, and will allow us to inform the earl of the specific details of their defense the moment he arrives.”

  Magnus’s heart pounded in his chest, and he dared ask, “All this with the Kincaids began so long ago, that I find myself in the dark about what exactly started it all. Would you tell me of the battle … of the conflict which led to it? Were others, besides the MacClaren, involved?”

  A change came over the Alwyn’s face—his features grew hard, and his eyes black.

  “I do not employ you to ask me curious questions—” he snapped. “But rather, to do as I say. Do y’ ken?”

  They stared at one another across the table.

  “Aye, laird.” He stood. “I beg your leave, as I intend to get an early start to Inverhaven.”

  Ysenda smiled up at him, coyly clasping her wicked, wandering hands together near her bosom. “Sleep well.”

  “Yes,” the laird snarled. “Go.”

  Magnus strode from the great hall, tension pooled between his shoulders, for he feared he had angered the Alwyn in his impatience for the truth. Several of his fellow warriors from the Pit fell in alongside him, accompanying him down the central corridor, and down the long, dark passageway to their chambers.

  Chissolm lit a fire. The others collapsed onto their pallets. Magnus retreated to his private chamber along the back wall, a privilege of being their leader. He undressed, and lay down, gathering the furs around him. Curse that wanton Ysenda Firth, his cock was still aroused and hard. Awake now and unsatisfied.

  But he didn’t want Ysenda. He did not know who he wanted. He had not been with a woman in months … the wildness of his younger days seemed to have fallen away to be replaced by something else. An annoyingly shrewd sort of desire. Of late he could find no particular woman’s lips that tempted him, no feminine curves that inspired his lust—but he wanted one just the same.