The Rebel of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  “Most certainly on Alwyn lands!” Anna exclaimed, as they passed through two large gates, and emerged onto the cliffs that overlooked the sea. “No one of sound mind would venture onto that of the Kincaids.”

  For a moment, Tara could only stare in silence at the impressive sight of the enormous waves rising and falling in the distance. Her heart sank, seeing the jagged shoreline, that spread like an endless expanse of rotten teeth. No ships would seek harbor here, for the shore was nonexistent, and any vessel daring to venture close would certainly be dashed to bits.

  That only left land as a possibility for flight.

  She broke her gaze away and looked again to Anna, for she had a reason for asking about Rackamoor and the Kincaids. “Why do you say it like that? Are the Kincaids so fearsome?”

  They meandered along in the shadow of the salt blackened castle, looking out over the ocean. Both wrapping their arms around themselves against the chill.

  “I only know what I have heard,” Anna answered, her brows gathering. “I’ve never actually seen a Kincaid myself. For the longest time … all my life, really … I heard they were savages living in the hills, having surrendered their lands, by order of David the Second, to the Alwyn and another laird who was once our ally, the MacClaren. It’s something no one at Burnbryde seems to want to talk about. Once, they all lived in peace, but now, all are sworn enemies.”

  “Lady Alwyn told me of an imposter. A man claiming to be the Kincaid’s son.”

  “Aye, there were three sons, but all of them slain. You’ll hear ghost stories and sad songs about it, from time to time. But yes, a man claiming to be the eldest son of the old Kincaid laird seized back the castle, which until just a fortnight ago had been in the possession of the MacClaren. Whether his claim is true, many doubt, but he is in residence there now, with an army of mercenaries.” She leaned close, and murmured, “I hear he even forced marriage upon the MacClaren’s daughter, the poor girl. Can you imagine? I pray we have nothing to fear.”

  Tara’s heart beat a pace faster, and what had seemed at first a simple plan in theory now became, in reality, more complicated. If she were to escape to Kincaid lands, and ask for shelter there, would she be safe, or place herself in even greater danger?

  “Well, then, I shall be certain never to wander onto their lands,” Tara declared, although … if left with no choice, she would and soon. “Just where are … their lands, in case I am ever placed in the position of having to avoid them?”

  “Straight north, out of the front gate.” Anna pointed. “Just beyond Rackamoor, the last village on the Alwyn side of the border.”

  If she truly intended to escape, she must not be afraid. If she needed protection from Hugh, there would be no better place to take it than behind the castle walls of the Alwyn’s greatest enemy.

  She wondered, if she fled there, if Magnus would follow—or worse, if he would be sent by the Alwyn to bring her back.

  They reached the distant end of the castle, and stood on a high berm, overlooking the stables and fields.

  A sound arose—the voices of men, roaring.

  “Look,” said Anna. “There, there are the men. The laird, and Hugh.”

  She spied Magnus instantly. She took a step forward … drawn by the sight of him, at the center of a large circle of cheering warriors.

  Magnus stood with his back to her, naked to the waist and wearing only a short plaid, clenching a sword. Here, in the light of day, there were no shadows to hide his masculine beauty. Muscles corded his arms, and defined his back and torso. His legs were long, and powerfully formed. Her knees went weak, just remembering his impassioned kisses on her mouth and her skin, the night before.

  “Is he not the most magnificent thing?” Anna whispered. “All the ladies think so, but thus far, no one has claimed his interest or his heart.”

  Tara’s heartbeat stalled in her chest, realizing he faced Hugh … who knelt, gasping and red-faced, in the dirt of the practice yard, also holding a sword, but point down in the ground as he leaned upon it for support.

  Magnus circled him, as alert and agile as a hunting lion assessing his weaker opponent. Hugh attempted to stand … but collapsed back to his knees. The men cheered loudly, some of them leaning in and shouting encouragements, or perhaps taunts.

  The Alwyn did not cheer, but watched with several older, gray-haired men, off to the side.

  Another man, wearing armor—perhaps the weapons master—stepped into the ring, and waved his arms, ending the contest. The circle of men shifted, closing around another pair of men who faced one another, raising swords.

  Yet she still watched Magnus, transfixed by the sight of his body, her mouth gone dry, and Anna forgotten.

  At that moment he turned toward her, striding away from Hugh, who crouched on the ground, defeated.

  His gaze lifted just then, and their eyes met, and he stopped. She felt the heat in his gaze, even from that distance. She knew in that moment that he had defeated Hugh not only for himself, but for her.

  Behind him, she saw a blur of movement.

  Hugh standing, lifting his sword, and lurching toward Magnus—

  Tara gasped. Pointed—and screamed.

  Chapter 9

  Magnus spun round—and seeing Hugh, slashing—twisted away. The blade whooshed across his torso.

  He stared into Hugh’s hate-filled eyes, and bellowed in rage.

  “You want to kill me?” he shouted, stalking toward him—only half aware of the men gathering round … the faces watching … the voices shouting. “Kill me now then, face-to-face. Not with a blade to my back.”

  “I will kill you.” Hugh lifted his sword with both hands, and swung the blade.

  Magnus repelled the attack with a shattering series of counterblows, beating Hugh back, back and back again … and with the last powerful blow, forcing him to the ground.

  Hugh lay panting on his side, his sword at a useless angle beside him.

  “Coward,” Magnus shouted at him. “Cheat.”

  The Alwyn stepped into his line of view, his gaze sharp and steady. “That is all. The contest is done. You have won, Magnus, and rightfully so.” He glared down at Hugh contemptuously. “What were you thinking?”

  Magnus exhaled deeply, backing away. Only then did he realize he was bleeding from his side. Touching the wound, he judged it to be nothing serious. No deeper than other wounds he’d suffered before. He turned and strode from the field.

  The Alwyn called after him. “Magnus, I wish to see you in my counsel room. As soon as you tend to your wound.”

  Magnus heard the words, but his eyes were fixed on Tara, who looked at him, her eyes wide with fear and concern, over her shoulder as another young woman led her toward the castle.

  He wished he could go to her. Talk to her. Make sure she was all right. And most of all, thank her for warning him of Hugh’s attack, but he couldn’t, not with everyone watching.

  “Aye, laird. As you wish.”

  He found his discarded tunic at the edge of the field, and taking it in hand, set off toward the castle.

  A short time later, he lay on the large wooden table at the center of the kitchen while Lorna stitched him up. He gritted his teeth at each pinch of her needle, and tug of the thread, but he had suffered worse. When she was done, he sat up and patiently allowed Kyla and Laire and a score of other young women to flutter about him, wrapping his waist with unnecessary bandages, and dabbing his forehead with damp cloths, the point of which, he did not understand because he’d suffered no injuries there and had no fever.

  “Thank you all,” he said. “But I really must go.”

  Kyla tilted her head and looked at him sympathetically. “Someone should stay with y’ tonight. I don’t mind at all. Your bandages will need changing.”

  Bandages he planned to remove as soon as he could get away.

  “I can tend to myself,” he replied.

  Laire’s gaze moved to his bloodstained plaid. “If y’ give me that now, I can
wash it, straightaway.”

  What, and stand naked here in the kitchen, with all of them ogling him? He was tempted to drop the garment just to watch their reactions.

  “Thank ye, Laire, but no.”

  Lorna turned from the hearth holding an enormous steaming pot. “You’ll need ta eat, ta keep yer strength up. Sit down, and I’ll serve y’ some of my stew.”

  Well, then. The stew did tempt.

  “All this extra care, while appreciated, is not necessary,” he said, extracting himself from their midst. “’Twas merely a flesh wound, no different than others I’ve suffered before. Lorna, I’ll return for stew later. Have no doubt of that. For now I must go.”

  After all, why delay? If he was going to receive a tongue-lashing and punishment from the laird for taking down Hugh before God and everyone, then he preferred to get that out of the way now. He knew of a certain, that there would be no apology issued to him, no acknowledgement that Hugh had unfairly attacked him.

  He entered the laird’s council room. Three elder council members sat at a table, in earnest discussions over something. They lifted their hands in greeting when he entered. The Alwyn stood beside the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back.

  For Magnus, it had gotten easier each day, to conceal his hate. To act normally when in the man’s presence. But now, looking at the man he once believed to be his father—a distant father who had never shown any desire to acknowledge him as a son—he wished more than anything, his true father was still alive, and that it was he who he came to visit, rather than the conspirator who had plotted his death.

  “Magnus,” the Alwyn said. “There you are.”

  The clan’s leader had changed tunics since returning indoors, this one made of deep blue, while Magnus remained clad in a bloodstained plaid, his legs and boots spattered with mud. Magnus strode closer.

  “I came as soon as I could,” said Magnus.

  The laird tilted his head, scrutinizing him. “I have wanted to speak to you for some time now.”

  Then they met to discuss something other than the public humility he had just inflicted upon Hugh.

  “Have you?” answered Magnus. “About what?”

  “Aye … as you know, very soon, Buchan will arrive. I am certain that when he does, he and his forces will support us in taking the necessary actions against the false Kincaid, and his army.”

  “It is what you want,” Magnus replied, even as the fires of rebellion flared hot inside his chest.

  “Indeed it is. And … I have made a decision…” The Alwyn’s gaze burned with the delight of a secret held, and he smiled.

  Magnus stood tense, and listening. “Yes, laird?”

  “I want you to stand at my side, to represent the clan as the Alwyn war-captain.”

  The words echoed in his ears. Words he’d never expected to hear.

  “Me?” Magnus answered, stunned. “But … there are other warriors who have served you far longer.”

  And also Hugh, who by Alwyn tradition, would normally hold the honor.

  “But you—” the laird said, pointing at his chest. “You are the best.”

  Despite his hate for the man … pride rose up through Magnus’s chest. Aye, he knew he was the best. He had striven endlessly to become so, and praise from this man’s lips was rare. But the pride he felt was that of a Kincaid, who would one day soon use his lethal talents to defeat the man into whose eyes he presently stared.

  Turning, the Alwyn paced several steps, appearing deep in thought, before shifting on his heels, and looking back. “You know as well as I, our lowland rulers and their governments believe us to be barbaric savages in need of transformation.” He spoke with an edge of sarcasm, holding his hands upward, toward the Heavens. “Since I was a boy, they have been trying to … change us. Our language, the way we possess these lands and our very way of life. While I, like every highlander, find this gravely offensive, if we are to survive, we must look forward, and change. Others have refused, and paid the price.”

  “Such as the Kincaid clan?” His heart pounded.

  The Alwyn dipped his head in agreement, his gaze darkening. “Such as the Kincaid clan, indeed.”

  He looked away a moment, before turning back.

  “Hugh is my son, and my ceann-cath. But you are.… deserving in other ways. The council is in full agreement. We want you here, taking part in the meetings of the council, as a leader of this clan, and of our warriors. It is important for me—for all of us—that Buchan understand that the Alwyns, as a clan, are far more civilized as men and skilled as warriors than those who surround us. He is a powerful ally we must impress and keep. You are the man who will represent us best. Not only that, but the men respect you. They will follow your order. Your example.”

  For most of his life, he’d lived at Burnbryde, just hoping for the slightest scrap of recognition from this man. And now that he, as a secret son of the murdered Kincaid, plotted the Alwyn’s demise … that he should be chosen to lead forces against the Kincaid clan …

  Well, how perfect.

  Indeed, he could not imagine any circumstance more perfect than this.

  “I am honored,” he answered. “And I accept.”

  “Very good.” The Alwyn clapped a hand on his shoulder. “There are chambers, upstairs. A fine set of rooms, befitting your new position.”

  “Thank you, laird, but I prefer to remain with the men of the Pit.”

  “Somehow I knew you would say that,” the laird answered. “Because you’re a warrior, through and through. Whatever you prefer. Just make ready. New garments. A finer horse. They are yours for the asking. Make ready, as you will.” The laird tapped his shoulder with his fist. “Just know that Buchan arrives in less than a fortnight.”

  The council members rose from the nearby table. Coming nearer, they congratulated him, and voiced their agreement with the laird’s choice. He could not help but wonder if any of them had been present when his father was murdered. Likely, all of them—and he felt pleasure knowing they would remember this moment, and realize they themselves had given him the power to defeat them.

  The Alwyn walked him to the door. “As for this thing between Hugh and yourself … try not to kill him. I would never hear the end of it from his mother.”

  “I will do my best.” Magnus nodded, assuming the chief was jesting, and took his leave.

  In the corridor, he exhaled, still in disbelief. He had been appointed clan war-chief. It was a clear sign the laird had lost hope that his true son would prove worthy to lead.

  And yet the decision would be the laird’s downfall—the key to his own destruction.

  Returning to his chamber, he found the men of the Pit already there, some washing and some resting, but all in a state of anger and disbelief over Hugh’s cowardly act on the practice field. They gathered around him as soon as he stepped into the room.

  “The craven fool!” growled Finlay.

  “’e would have killed you,” Walter muttered, fire in his eyes.

  “’e’ll go ta the dewill, by God,” Quentin snarled.

  Magnus lifted a hand and all grew quiet.

  “I met with the laird,” he said.

  He told them what had taken place, and within moments grinning male faces surrounded him, and hands clapped on his back.

  “Well deserved!” Chissolm shouted.

  “Our leader!”

  Adam pushed in close, smiling. “We will follow you anywhere.”

  Would they, if they knew? It felt wrong to keep the truth from them, but he must for a while longer. He sought the solitude of his room, and after removing his bloodstained plaid, and boots, he washed and wearing only linen braies, stretched out on his bed.

  Whereas before, his plan for revenge had been a vague plot in his mind and utterly reliant on the chance that he—a warrior of the guard, without authority or command, could bring the Alwyn and Buchan together, and elicit the testimony necessary to condemn them both, he now held the necessary position an
d status to do just that.

  As war-chief of the clan, and thereby a leader of the council, all he needed to do was summon the two men when he was ready … and they would appear.

  Only … should he pursue justice by his blade, or take both men prisoner, and petition the Estates of Parliament?

  If he killed Buchan—the king’s son—he would be a wanted man forever. He would never be able to speak his true name, for fear of royal reprisals against the Kincaids. He would have no choice but to leave Scotland, and allow everyone to believe the Alwyn’s bastard had inexplicably committed murder, and seek a life of anonymity abroad.

  He was willing to sacrifice himself in that way, but not before he talked to Niall. Together they could decide what must be done.

  And yet as soon as he closed his eyes, he thought of her. She lit up his mind like a flame.

  Less than a fortnight and the earl would be here. Any wedding would take place quickly, he had no doubt, in order to solidify the alliance that would then march against the Kincaids.

  His hand moved to the wound on his side. An inch deeper …

  His heart beat faster and sweat broke out on his skin, as he allowed the truth to settle over him. An inch deeper and he would either be grievously wounded or dead. Hugh had intended to kill him. Tara had saved his life.

  Now he must save hers.

  That meant, saying good-bye to her.

  Restless, his skin drawn tight, and his mind swarming with thoughts of her face, her voice, her lips, her hands, Magnus sat up, planting bare feet on the ground. Bending, scoring his fingers through his hair, he groaned in agony.

  He would not rest until he saw her again.

  *

  Tara stood to the side, as servants poured steaming buckets of water into the tub.

  “Anna, you are too kind to me.”

  But it wasn’t the bath for which she thanked her. Rather it was the key the girl had furtively pressed into her hands some two hours before, as she’d lay on the bed, awash in devastated tears. A key stamped with the shape of a crescent moon.

  Anna poured a goblet of wine and set it on the table, very near to the tub’s edge.