She remained silent, supposing that to be true.
He crouched, and disappeared into the passageway.
Anna rushed behind him to close the secret door. Turning back, she approached Tara.
“Quick. We must get ye into bed, before Mary comes in with the water for the basin and sees. I had come in to light the fire, and found you gone. Look at you, you are freezing.” Her hands touched Tara’s face, her frozen cheeks. “Where have you been?”
“The bonfire at Rackamoor.” She was suddenly too tired to think. To talk anymore. “Yes, the bed. I need to sleep, if just for a little while.”
She pulled her clothing, and Anna helped her remove it.
“Where did you get these clothes? They aren’t yours.”
“You don’t want to know.”
Anna’s eyes widened. “I think I do.”
“I can’t tell you.” She sat on the edge of the bed, as Anna pulled her boots off her feet.
Still kneeling, the maid peered straight into her eyes. “Mistress, is Magnus your lover?”
“No, Anna. I assure you, he is not.” Not anymore.
“Oh…,” the maid answered, her voice softening with disappointment. “I was going to say how thrilling, if you had answered yes.”
*
Magnus slept for a brief time, but awakened to summons from the laird. After quickly washing and dressing, he made his way to the Alwyn’s council chamber. As he did so, he thought of Tara. His secret, untrusting wife.
Their “wedding” had been nothing but empty words spoken, without meaning or emotion. But binding still, by law, if they so wished it.
The memory of it all—everything that had taken place the night before, ate at his insides, leaving him agitated and dissatisfied. Aye, he had wanted Tara, and even though he was married to her, he’d certainly lost her.
He entered a room already filled with the clan’s council members. They clustered near the far window, taking turns approaching the laird who stood smiling, along with Buchan, who looked very much the same as when Magnus had seen him last, when he’d been just a boy of fourteen. Imperious, self-important, and completely indifferent to those who fawned over him.
Dim morning light filtered through the open window, along with a bracing cold, casting the men in gray. The Alwyn wore splendid garments, a dark green tunic and saffron robe, while Buchan wore dark gray wool and leather, his boots daubed with mud. His sons were also there, watching from the corner as their father accepted the salutations of each man. It was they who had changed since he had seen them last, grown into men, just as Magnus had.
He made his way toward them, at the end of the line of men.
The Alwyn’s face warmed with pleasure at the sight of him—something that still surprised him each time it occurred. “And this is Magnus.”
At this, the earl did straighten, his eyes narrowing with keen interest. “The war-captain I have heard so much about.”
His two sons moved closer, peering over their father’s shoulder, assessing him. Yes—he wanted them all to see his face. To know the man who would hold them accountable for the crimes of the past.
“Welcome to Burnbryde, my lord.” He bent his head.
“Hmm, thank you,” he answered. “Unfortunately, my visit must be brief, as duty demands my presence in Edinburgh.”
His statement appeared to startle the laird, for his brows gathered and he frowned. “How brief?”
Magnus boldly dared to speak then. “We will accommodate your schedule, my lord, whatever it is. But I would request a private meeting with you and the laird, to discuss this conflict with the Kincaids, as we request your counsel over what can be done.”
The earl did not answer. Instead he looked out over the crowded room with annoyance. “Yes. I agree. The three of us alone, without all of these ears, hovering about.”
And yet his sons also remained. Together they stood at the window, looking out at the distant ocean. Only after the room cleared did Magnus see Hugh, sitting by the fire, his eyes closed and jaw slack as he dozed, unaware of the activity around him. Buchan’s gaze flitted over him, dismissively. The laird strode toward him and kicked his leg, jolting him awake. His expression dazed and sour, he stood.
When the door was shut, Buchan lifted his hands. “I am an important man, with little time to spare. My ward—”
“You wish to see her?” asked the laird, stepping toward the door. “I will summon her.”
“What for?” Buchan squinted, as if the laird’s suggestion were utterly pointless. “No. Let us simply call the priest and get the wedding done.” He glanced at Hugh. “Are you not ready to be wed?”
“Oh, I am ready. Ready and eager,” Hugh answered with a gravelly chuckle. “Mistress Iverach is … lovely. I thank you for providing her to me.”
Magnus’s blood turned to ice. His fingers curled tight, his hands forming fists. The words were a grievous offense to his ears, and more affecting than he had ever expected them to be.
The earl let out a huff of breath. “I regretted the decision as soon as it was done. She is a lovely girl, in possession of quite a fortune now that her sister is dead, and I’m certain I could have made a much better match for her, but I do not rescind promises. It is why I am here. To finish this thing with the Kincaid imposter. Because of a promise I made long ago.”
Magnus’s stomach muscles clenched at the speaking of his clan name.
“Do you believe the man claiming to be the Kincaid is truly an imposter?” he dared ask, with the intention of eliciting more words. The confession he needed. “Or could he be the Kincaid son he claims to be?”
“It doesn’t really matter,” answered the earl, flashing a cold grin. “The Beast, as I knew him when he served as my guard, will forfeit the lands, as I have promised them elsewhere. Let no one say I do not reward those who have been loyal to me. Have I not always?”
It wasn’t the confession Magnus needed.
The Alwyn nodded. “Aye, and we are grateful. Please say you will allow us to celebrate your presence here tonight with a feast?”
“Yes, yes. I will agree to that. But the wedding must take place tomorrow morning, and immediately after … we take back your lands.”
Magnus’s pulse increased. Tara …
It had been so simple to swear to protect her. He had meant the words. Now, for the first time, doubt crept into his soul. What if, in the turmoil of the coming days, he could not keep Hugh from her? What if … what if he were killed, and she were left behind?
The earl spoke again. “It must all be done quickly. I can spare no more time than that, and really, it is to your benefit as my mercenaries can sometimes be … undisciplined, at best. I fear Rackamoor will not survive them.”
The Alwyn shrugged. “Rackamoor is a sacrifice we are willing to make.”
Magnus struggled not to flinch at the callous words. There were people involved. Homes. Farms. Families and children—not to mention the women who would no doubt be preyed upon … and the Alwyn so weak a leader he did not even attempt to assert command.
If he could get the confession he needed. Magnus pressed, knowing he risked the displeasure … the suspicion of the powerful man he wished to implicate. “So many highlanders of the time spoke out against that king.” The king who had been in power before Buchan’s father. “What crime did the Kincaid commit, so beyond the others of his day, to bring about the end of his clan?”
The earl exhaled through his nose, as if the request for his time tried his patience. Buchan leveled a look on him. “He displeased the wrong person.
“Now…” continued the earl, “I wish to review your forces, so that all weaknesses can be ascertained. Afterward, discuss our plan of confrontation and attack.”
“Of course,” Magnus answered, before the Alwyn could speak. “We have made many preparations, in anticipation of your arrival, and I do believe you will be pleased.”
The earl clapped a hand to his shoulder, and looked at the Alwyn. “Thi
s one … I like him. If you don’t watch out, I may take him from you. He would do well in my service.”
Buchan’s sons nodded in agreement, while Hugh glowered.
The Alwyn murmured, “Magnus has proven himself most valuable to the clan—and to me.”
Hugh, his expression clouded with darkness, pushed past. “Forgive me. I just remembered somewhere I need to be.”
Magnus, in that moment, understood that he was not the only son who had been judged and humiliated for every flaw. Unhappiness affected different men in different ways … some striving to overcome their life’s challenges, while others fell into darkness.
For that reason, he could not take the chance Hugh would seek out Tara.
Magnus’s hand shot out, grabbing hold of his arm. “I forbid it.”
“You forbid me?” Hugh’s eyes widened, sparking with rage.
Magnus feigned a respect he did not feel. “Who else knows more about the new stock of horses that have been added to our war stable?”
It was an exaggeration at best. Hugh rarely set foot in the stables, but at hearing himself praised, he stood taller, and his scowl turned into a self-pleased smile. “Let us go there now, then.”
The rest of the day passed all too quickly out of doors, at the armory, the stable, on the practice grounds. Repeatedly, Magnus directed conversation in the direction of the past, and it became frustratingly clear neither Buchan nor the Alwyn wished to speak of those fateful days, leaving Magnus more certain that ever, that the reasons for killing his father and attacking the Kincaid clan had been wholly unsubstantiated.
Last, they rode with a large guard, along the border, where from overlooking hills, large companies of the Kincaid’s mercenaries could be seen looking back at them. No one knew the surge of pride Magnus felt at seeing them … or the impatient clamor of his blood in his veins, to see the next day done so that he could join them.
“It appears our enemy is aware of your arrival,” the Alwyn declared, his words a boast. “Let them watch. Let them gaze, wide-eyed upon their impending doom.”
But the Kincaids would be the Alwyn’s doom—and very possibly the earl’s as well.
The same boasts continued into the night, during the promised feast. But Magnus sensed an underlying foreboding in the room that always came before a battle, as the warriors knew that some who sat among them tonight, would not return tomorrow. Ale flowed, and inebriation and gluttony ensued.
Normally Magnus sat with the men of the Pit, but his presence had been requested at the laird’s table—though frustratingly, he had been placed too far from the laird and the earl to overhear what they said, for the clamor of the room. Instead he had been subjected to the coarse talk of Hugh and his few loyal hangers-on.
Pensive, he ate and drank little, waiting for Tara to appear—but hours passed and she did not, and neither did the Lady Alwyn. While he was thankful she would not be submitted to his present company, he wanted nothing more than to see her. How could she have believed that after the words he’d spoken to her … the promises he’d made … that he would fall into bed with not one, but two women? He had never given a woman his heart. Never imagined a future beyond the next battle. She’d given him a reason that he must survive—and in a moment, stripped that reason away.
Certainly she had cause to fear betrayal. That she’d only been used. And wasn’t that what he and his brother had done to her, once again?
“Where is your bride-to-be?” he asked Hugh, who sat across the table.
“I have been told she prefers to rest tonight.” He laughed coarsely. “Rest, indeed.” He swigged a deep gulp of his ale, which left his lips shining, and he belched. “She will need all the rest she can get, for I will rut between her legs for days on end when she is mine. So ferociously she won’t be able to walk for weeks.”
His companions laughed and slapped his back.
Magnus stood, unable to conceal his disgust, and left the room.
*
Late in the night, Tara paced the floor in her night rail, avoiding looking at the pale ivory kirtle and embroidered lèine that hung on the far wall. Her wedding garments, that she feared she would indeed have to wear as she suffered through a false wedding to Hugh. But those were not the thoughts that consumed her.
The reality of what he intended to do … the danger he placed himself in, had slowly settled over her, and she realized … Magnus could die.
Just the thought made her frantic to speak to him—to tell him she was sorry for her part in their disagreement. But she had slept little in the previous two days and at last, weariness sent her to bed.
She dozed.… slept … until some sound or … movement awakened her. Opening her eyes, she saw the dark outline of man sitting near the center of the room, the fire to his back, the shadows masking his face …
She pushed up with a gasp, and left the bed, afraid—
Only to realize.
“Magnus!”
He sat, broad-shouldered and proud, in a tunic and plaid, his long legs encased in leather boots. In response, emotions tore through her soul, more powerful than anything she’d ever felt.
“I did not intend to wake you,” he answered, not moving. Only … watching her, his expression too shadowed to see. “I just … wanted to see you one more time, before tomorrow.”
She stood with her arms at her sides, her heart pounding, her body begging … aching to return to his arms. “I wanted to see you too. It’s why I left the window unlocked.”
He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “When I found that window unlocked, I … I thought you’d made the decision that you should have made, days ago. I thought you were gone. Escaped, at last. That I’d never see you again. Tara … why are you still here?”
“I never thought of leaving. Not without seeing you. Not without making things right between us. No, Magnus. If it is revenge you want, and I can help, then I will stay. Even if I never learn what truly happened to Arabel, I will see this thing through for you.”
“Tara … I am so sorry—” he rasped, his expression solemn.
She lifted her hands. “I should have demanded to speak to you at the window, instead of believing the worst.”
“But I understand now, why you didn’t. You had to protect yourself. You had to survive. I should have been more understanding, in knowing how difficult it is for you to trust.”
She went to him then, unable to keep from touching him. His legs flexed powerfully, as he rose up, seizing her against his chest, only to fall back again onto the stool, his hands closing onto her hips, bunching her linen gown, his face pressed against her neck.
“I do trust you. I won’t ever question that trust again.”
“I should not have brought you back here.”
“There is no place I would rather be,” she answered. “I couldn’t be there, wondering what was happening to you. No matter what, I wish to be here with you.”
“Be with me, one last time,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, his lips pressed against her temple.
“One last time…?” she whispered. “No, never the last.”
His arms, his hands tightened on her, with such ferocity it stole her breath, and he kissed her with breathtaking passion. The muscles of his shoulders roiled under her hands … as he gripped her thighs … lifting her, bringing her legs to either side of his hips … bunching her gown at her waist—
Beneath her, his legs flexed and with a sudden, upward thrust—
His sex stabbed into her—
“Yes,” she cried.
—shocking her through with pleasure.
“One last time before it is done, and we can be free of this place.”
Her head fell back. She glimpsed stars on the ceiling, as he groaned her name, and thrust into her again, deeper now, at the same time pulling her hips hard against him, stretching her, filling her, proving again that she belonged to no one but him.
“I want to see my wife.” He tore her gown over her hea
d and cast it to the floor, smoothing his hands upward over her waist, her ribs, and with his hands and mouth, devoured her breasts and nipples. “You are my wife, Tara, and if I survive tomorrow, I have no intention of ever letting you go.”
She smiled, loving the words he spoke—the promise in them.
His body … the ways of lovemaking were still so new. She knew little about what to do … how to please him. But passion overtook her, and she could only respond and move as her body commanded.
“I want to see my husband, making love to me,” she answered, daring to rise up, her knees braced on the stool on either side of his hips, enough to see between their bodies. He held her by the waist as she stared down at the erotic sight of his gleaming, thick sex disappearing inside her.
“Beautiful,” he growled, looking too, lifting her to the crown, only to plunge deep again. “Ah. I can’t see enough of you. I can’t get enough.”
He kissed her deeply, his tongue delving into her mouth, pulling her down, off her knees—and to their mutual satisfaction, he filled her completely.
As he kissed her … caressed her … Tara rocked against him, hovering sweetly, perfectly on the verge of climax, her legs hanging down, her toes grazing the floor, but she needed him closer, deeper, something he needed too, because with a growl, he wrapped her legs around his waist and gently pushed … guided her backward … backward, her body falling downward, until her hair fell across his boots, and her hands touched the floor.
She fell into a delirium at the sensation of this new pleasure—a pleasure that only intensified when he stood, and pumped his sex deep inside her. Suspended by his hips on her hands, she climaxed—biting down on a scream, only vaguely aware now that he lifted her against his body—still clothed, and carried her to the shadowed bed.
He left her for only a moment, before returning, as naked as she. Sinking down on top her, his hips between her thighs, he banded one arm beneath her body, the other under her shoulders, his hand in her hair.
“I’m not finished,” he said with a chuckle, the sound emanating from deep in his chest.
“How fortunate for me,” she whispered, laughing too.
The Rebel of Clan Kincaid Page 25