The Rebel of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  One …

  It made no sense to him, for as a warrior he was sworn to a solitary life, unencumbered by anyone’s needs or feelings but his own. But he wasn’t a simple warrior anymore. He was a son of the Kincaid, with the promise of a future. What sort of future, he did not know because he must not look, with any sort of expectation, beyond his present challenge.

  For perhaps he would die on the same day as the Alwyn.

  He realized then, he did not want to die. Not because he feared death but because he hoped to enjoy some time on this earth, living life as the man that God and his parents had intended him to be. He wanted to live, at least for a while, as a Kincaid. To be his true self, whoever that might be. The one that had been buried beneath lies and secrecy for all these years.

  For whatever reason, as he stared up into the low rafters, he thought again of Mistress Iverach, who had wielded his own sword against him with such valor.

  Hugh’s betrothed. None of his concern.

  He didn’t even know what she looked like. Hell, he hadn’t so much as glimpsed her face, because she’d been all but entombed against the cold, in her heavy veil. The only image he could call to mind when thinking of her, was that of her sister, but certainly they were not exactly the same. He had only ever seen the sister, Arabel, once or twice, and then, from a distance. She’d been a pale, dark-haired creature, pretty enough, but meek … and “meek” in no way described the young woman he’d encountered in the darkness of the forest, her lips speaking challenges and rebukes.

  The same lips he had dared to kiss—and the memory of which lingered, an alluring, unsolved mystery in his mind.

  *

  At last, Lady Alwyn and her attendants left Tara dressed for bed, sitting beside the fire so her hair could dry. Her trunks had been delivered a short time ago, but without Sister Grizel, whom she had meekly been told by the younger maid, had been given another place to sleep elsewhere in the castle. Tara could only interpret that to mean Lady Alwyn had not allowed her to enter the tower. The locked and silent tower, to which she had no key, and which despite the kindness shown to her by the lady of the castle, made her a prisoner. Even her chamber door had been locked, as the Lady Alwyn bid her good night. This troubled her sorely, for it seemed that in recent days she’d grown so much wiser and become more cautious, and yet at every turn, higher, thicker walls came up all around her.

  One of her trunks was missing, taken by the brigands. The trunk had contained her garments—which was why she wore Arabel’s night rail—but more concerning, the missive from Buchan to the Alwyn. She knew he would be displeased to know his letter had fallen into the wrong hands.

  Let him be displeased. She curled her legs beneath her, and stared into the fire. She hoped to displease him even more by not being here when he arrived. Let Hugh retch on his shoes, and see how he liked it. She only had to get out of this tower, and see what was about … and devise a plan to get away.

  Her mind still danced around something else. Someone she wanted to ignore, but couldn’t. The man in the forest. The warrior who had fought so ferociously to save her, only to deceive her.

  The wrong eldest son.

  What had his words meant? She could only guess, perhaps wrongly, that he was the laird’s son by another woman, not his wife, and so out of respect—and caution—she had not mentioned him to Lady Alwyn. Besides, it would have appeared unchaste to show even a glimmer of interest in any man who was not her betrothed, when in truth he did not interest her at all. Indeed, she hoped never to see him again.

  Well … perhaps just once more.

  Only so that she could satisfy her curiosity about his appearance, and confirm him just as lacking in appearance, as he was in honor.

  She touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers, and his skin—warm and firm—beneath her hand. His powerful arms around her.

  Her heartbeat tripped and she let out a sigh. If only his kiss had not been so memorable. But what did she know about kisses? Nothing at all and no doubt, one day, she would learn his kisses had not been special at all. At least she hoped she would.

  When her hair was reasonably dry, she wove it into one long braid. She was tired. Bone tired. She had not rested well one single night of the journey that brought her here, and now, she just wanted to sleep and forget for a time, all that had occurred and the challenges she faced on the morrow.

  She lay in the shadows of what had been Arabel’s bed, her ears filled with the silence of the tower. She tried to summon her sister’s face in her mind, but could only conjure the image of a young girl, as Arabel had been when they were children, when they’d both been so happy and protected at Menteith with their parents. It had been a paradise she’d believed would go on forever.

  As she drifted into sleep, his voice—the Warrior Betrayer—sounded inside her head, gently teasing. She tried to be angry with him but his kiss again touched her lips, silencing any accusation. Only she imagined someone else there, watching them from the shadows, and who emanated waves of malice. A man without a face.

  She jerked awake from what had become a nightmare—

  Only to find it wasn’t a dream.

  Chapter 5

  Tara gasped, and sat up on the bed, seizing her blanket like a shield.

  “Hello,” a voice muttered thickly, from the shadow in the chair.

  It was Hugh.

  “You should not be here,” she exclaimed, her head pounding out a warning. Her mind ticked off each of the locks that had been secured behind her as she’d entered the tower. How had he gotten in? Should she scream for help?

  “Oh, be quiet,” he snarled, and she wondered then if he would try to hurt her.

  “Please leave,” she demanded.

  “I’m your betrothed,” he replied, in a cold voice, sounding as if she were the most tiresome woman he’d ever encountered. “And this is my castle. I will do whatever I wish. The sooner you understand that, the easier your life will be.”

  “What do you want?” She prayed that he would inform her that he found her so displeasing that he intended to end their betrothal and send her back to the abbey. Please, yes, please. Let him tell her that.

  “I’m glad you ask … what I want. Your sister certainly never did.” His voice still carried the hazy slur of drunkenness. “She barely spoke two words whilst she was here. Yes, and no.” He let out a derisive sound. “Almost always no. Poor thing, not a bright girl.”

  Anger sparked in her chest. Tara took grievous offense at Hugh’s words.

  “Arabel … not very bright?” she responded. Arabel had not been a poor, dim girl! Growing up, they’d both studied under tutors, and excelled at their lessons. Everyone had always remarked on Arabel’s intelligence and her dry, quiet wit. “How dare you say such things about her.”

  In an instant, he was there, his hands forcefully bracketing either side of her head. “And how dare you challenge me for it,” he hissed into her face, bathing her skin in spittle and squalid breath.

  Just as quickly, he released her, stepping away. Her face burned hot where he had touched her.

  “What do I want?” he growled. “I will tell you, dear girl, and let me also explain that these are not mere requests, but requirements.”

  Tara listened, her head so filled with pounding anger that she could barely hear his words.

  “You belong to me,” he coldly announced. “Do you understand that? It was something your predecessor, in her limited capacity, could not comprehend. As such, you will take special care with your appearance. You’re not pretty, but you will do your utmost to appear refined, as my position in this clan commands. You will hold silent in my presence, unless I grant you leave to speak.”

  She could interrupt … argue, but she knew full well this was not a man who would listen to anything she might have to say.

  He continued with his litany of demands. “You will not speak to other men, unless it is to extend the warmest of greetings to my father.
Are you listening, girl? You will defer to me. You will make every effort to please me. To serve me. To show all those who watch, that your devotion is sworn to me. And when I command you to come to my bed, you will not deny me.”

  The ugly words reverberated in the silence, twisting and tangling inside her head.

  “I say, do you understand?” he barked.

  “I do,” she exclaimed, with the fire of rebellion already raging in her heart.

  She understood indeed. Her mind thundered with understanding.

  She understood that she despised him even more than she despised Buchan.

  “Just as you must understand that I decline to marry you. It is clear to me that you and I are a terrible match. We would never be happy together. I am far too headstrong. I would ask that you speak with your father tomorrow, and arrange to send me back to the priory.”

  “That will never happen,” he answered darkly, stepping toward her. “Neither my father, nor I, would ever allow it.”

  Her muscles tensed, as she prepared to fight and flee. Tara flinched, as he lifted a hand and touched her face. Her blood simmered, for she could only imagine what misery her sister had been submitted to. It was all she could do not to shove him away.

  He stepped back, looking at her in the darkness, as she trembled with outrage.

  “Don’t make me weary of you, before our marriage even begins.”

  Turning, he passed through the open door and pulled it closed. From the darkness she heard the turn of the lock. She waited there, frozen, until she heard his footsteps no more.

  Don’t make him weary of her? As he had grown weary of Arabel? A dark suspicion struck her through. One that questioned whether her sister had truly died of a fever. Or had something else occurred? And did Hugh’s mother know that he had a key, and that he would come to her like this, unannounced and in the night?

  She looked at the door. If she could just … unlock and open it, she would feel better, and not so confined.

  Springing from the bed, she went to one of her trunks and searched until she found the set of feasting knives, a remnant of Menteith that she’d never put to use. Returning with one, she tried to insert the blade into the lock, but it was too wide to fit. She went again to her trunks and searched for anything she might use. A hair pin. Yes. But despite all her efforts, the tool did not gain her freedom, it only scrabbled uselessly inside the narrow hole.

  Turning, she threw it across the room, panic rising to beat painfully in her chest.

  “I cannot stay here,” she whispered to herself.

  There were no windows. Only narrow openings, covered by shutters, that in times of war might be used by archers through which to shoot arrows at their enemies. She felt smothered. Half mad with needing to be free. She willed herself to be calm. To think.

  Often there were hidden passageways. She and Arabel had enjoyed many an adventure at Menteith, finding and exploring them all, and there had been more than one hidden door at the abbey. She prayed there might be one here.

  Behind the third tapestry, she found what she was looking for. A small door, with a sliding bar lock. She almost cried with relief when it opened at the first pull. With shaking hands, she lit a lantern, and then delved into the darkness. Rough, crumbling steps led down. If she found a way out, she would return for a few necessary things and escape straightaway, without looking back. If nothing else, she would return to the priory from which she’d just traveled. She did not care if she had to walk there on bare and bleeding feet. She would do so and throw herself on the sisters’ mercy, beg for their protection, and plead with them never to send her away again. Ah, but it was so cold, even here in this old passageway. Her breath puffed out with each breath as she took each circular turn, her hands touching the stones for support.

  Perhaps she would wait until tomorrow, and make a plan with Sister Grizel. They could convince someone, a farmer or merchant, to secretly convey them away in the night. The set of knives she possessed were not worth as much as the necklace, not by far, but at least they might purchase passage for them, to get some distance away from here. She could be patient until morning, as long as she had a hope of being free.

  At last she came to the end … and saw a faint light. Moonlight, from outside?

  Setting the lantern down, she peered out through the door … no, an old window, with iron bars, half grown over with ivy. Curling her fingers around two of the bars, she said a prayer, and pushed. Nothing budged. She pushed again … then pulled, harder this time, to no avail. She touched the frame … searching for a latch, anything, but there was nothing. She cried out, agonized, her hopes of freedom crumbled like dust.

  In the crush of her disappointment, she remembered Hugh’s cruel demands, but most clearly that he would eventually command her to come to his bed. With a dread certainty, she knew if she did not escape Burnbryde, he would do just that. And even if he didn’t, they’d marry her to him soon enough, and then there would be no one to save her.

  A silvery glimmer caught her attention, on the ground near her feet. Taking up the lantern, she knelt and found a dagger, inscribed with an A. It was Arabel’s. The one Buchan had taken from her had been the same, only engraved with a T. Her heart flooded with emotion. Sadness and grief. The blade was bent, and terribly scratched as if it had been used to strike against something repeatedly. Then she saw it.

  A furrowing between the stones beside the window frame, and bits and pieces of mortar, scattered all about. In that moment, her heart shattered, imagining Arabel here, in the dark, alone and afraid, desperately trying to escape and failing.

  A dark wave enveloped her then, as black as the night sea—washing away her hopes and filling her nostrils and mouth and ears with fear. Fear that she would fail as her sister had, and die here too.

  *

  A sound awakened Magnus, rendering him instantly alert.

  A woman’s voice, or … no. He listened intently. It had only been the wind. He relaxed, easing back into the warmth of his bed.

  He heard it again, this time clearer. Most certainly a woman’s voice, sobbing. Heartrending, choking sobs, such as he had never before heard. His heart clenched, and he pushed up from the bed, listening … quickly determining they came from somewhere outside his window, a small, square opening which, when opened, looked out upon a narrow, overgrown space between the castle wall and the north tower.

  The north tower. The very tower that now held Tara Iverach.

  He slid the bar, and pulled open the shutter, and listened a moment more.

  “Who’s there?” he called into the darkness, although in his heart, he already knew.

  The sobs stopped.

  His heart pounded faster, he was suddenly desperate for a response. Had something happened. Was she hurt?

  He went to his door, and closed it against the outer chamber, where a host of snores met his ears. For whatever reason, he wanted privacy for this moment, with the young woman he had so wrongly kissed. Returning to the window, he again peered outside, seeing nothing. No light from a lantern. No hint of where she might be.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Silence.

  “I’m here,” he said. “Please answer.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she answered sullenly, her voice distant.

  “That hurts my feelings,” he answered, a small smile turning his lips.

  It was in his nature to keep things light. Perhaps that wasn’t always the correct response, but humor had kept him from being eaten up by the darkness that surrounded him every day, for as long as he’d remembered.

  “I know who you are,” she replied with more fire, but she sounded as if she couldn’t breathe through her nose, because she’d been crying.

  He rested his forehead against the bars, listening. “Who am I, then?”

  “You’re the awful man who kissed me tonight. In the forest. I recognize your voice.”

  The awful man. Yes … he must claim that title. He had been awful to her,
indeed, which he now regretted.

  “I recognized your voice too,” he answered quietly.

  “I hope you’re in the dungeon.”

  “I’m not. At least not yet. I’m standing beside my bed, talking to you.”

  “Well, that’s a pity.”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Confined in this stupid tower. Held behind bars.” Her voice quavered with emotion—and anger. “Locked away like a prisoner, as if I have committed a crime.”

  His brows gathered. Was she speaking literally or figuratively?

  “What do you mean, locked away?” he asked.

  He had never ventured into what had become Lady Alwyn’s tower, and knew not what lay on the other side of that large wooden door. For as long as he could remember, she had ignored his existence, and he had followed suit, believing as a child that his existence offended her. They’d coexisted well in that way.

  While it was true in recent years that the Lady Alwyn rarely left the tower’s protective circular walls, she certainly wasn’t a prisoner there. She’d withdrawn there by her own choice, establishing her own domain. She even had her own steward, Gilroy, to do her bidding.

  But he’d never known the tower to be locked, or for anyone’s movements to be restricted.

  Mistress Iverach replied hotly. “The door to my chamber is locked from the outside and I do not possess the key. My traveling companion was prevented from joining me. Is this how guests are normally treated at Burnbryde?”

  A strange thing indeed. He could only surmise why such a thing would be done.

  He peered outward into the dark, his mind attempting to construct a face around her voice, but unsuccessfully. She sounded young, but strong, though he knew she must be afraid. They were strangers, and yet he wanted to soothe her fears, as much as he could. It was the least he could do after the wrong he’d done, in kissing her. No doubt his own actions were part of a very unpleasant day in her memory.