Their hips moved in tandem, she inviting him, welcoming him inside, knowing he had not yet spent himself.
“You feel like paradise.” He moved slowly, coaxing her to return to the same edge of pleasure she’d just experienced. Amazingly, she did. Soon, she was moving … moaning … sighing, meeting each movement of his hips, eager to take the pleasure he gave her.
Suddenly, braced above her on his elbows, his flexed arms, he stilled, looking down at her, his eyes dark in the night. Her hands rested against the taut sides of his torso.
“What is it?” she asked, savoring the feeling of him deep inside her.
“I love you, Tara,” he said intensely, his nostrils flaring. “Remember that. I’ll die to protect you.”
Tara’s heart clenched. The words felt like a good-bye—
But he moved again, urgently now, his eyes going glassy. He rolled, holding her … bringing her astraddle his hips, dazing her with a rush of sensation and pressure between her legs, and deep in her womb. Cold hair bathed … teased … her heated skin. Her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened. She gasped as his hands cupped and caressed them. His body felt so good, his touch so magical. She never wanted the night to end.
“I love you, too, Magnus.” Instinct told her to move. She rocked against him, once … twice … her palms planted against his chest, then harder … and harder. “I love you too.”
His eyes glittered in the darkness, his gaze fixed on hers. He pushed up onto his elbows, then … his hands. The sound of their pleasure—their moans, and the sound of their skin shifting … thrashing, against the linens filled the curtained space. His hips jerked off the bed, and she let out a throaty gasp, her womb … her body … exploding with joy.
“My love.” His head fell back, and he groaned. “Always, my love.”
*
Magnus left her sleeping. Before, because of the forced circumstances, he had not felt as if they were married, but now … now she was not only his wife, but a sacred part of his soul. For that reason he would fight tomorrow—not only as a Kincaid, but for him and Tara. Tomorrow, he vowed, he would join her as a victor. Never again would he creep away in secret from her bed, a shadow in the night.
He left the tower, and in darkness, continued to the village, to a small cottage perched on the far hillside. There, he quietly opened the door, and passed inside. He did not want to frighten Robina by waking her from her sleep, but neither did he wish to waken her entire household, and all the children therein. A small fire still burned on the hearth, providing some warmth to the room, and faint light by which to see. He carefully stepped over one boy, and then a little girl. They were everywhere—at least seven of them—sleeping on their pallets. In the far corner, he saw her sleeping, and beside her, turned away, the hulking back of her new husband, the widower and father of all the children she’d come to love so dearly.
He touched her shoulder gently. “Mother.”
Her eyes opened … and focused on him.
“Magnus!” she exclaimed.
“Shhhh,” he shushed. “Quiet now. We don’t want to wake them all. Can I talk to you?”
“Yes.” She sat up, with her long dark braid falling over her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“But you haven’t come to visit me for so long. And now, here you are, in the middle of the night.”
She led him to the small kitchen, where she pulled the door closed behind them, and gestured for him to take a chair.
“No, mother. I will stand.”
“What is it?” she asked. “I see it on your face. Something has happened. Something has changed.”
He nodded. “I know who I am.”
She went utterly still. “What do you mean.”
“I know that I am Faelan Kincaid, and not the Alwyn’s bastard son.”
She exhaled shakily. “Oh … oh, Magnus. How did you find out?”
“From Niall. The mark on my arm. He recognized it as matching the one on his.”
“You must hate me.” Her voice grew thick, and she spoke through tears.
“I don’t.” His chest flooded with emotion. He did not want to hurt her. “No. You saved my life. I have no doubt of that.”
She reached for his hand, and peered up at him in the darkness.
“Tell me what happened that night,” he urged.
“I still don’t know, exactly. I only know that the MacClaren and the Alwyn betrayed your father’s trust, and turned against him. When they attacked, I and many others who serve your family as servants, fled the castle, into the hills. It was there I found you … and the warrior who had gave his life to protect you.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “He was dead. Horribly slain, and you, grievously injured by a blow to your head, and barely breathing. I do believe he gave his last breath to save you. To get you away from danger.”
“Did you see my younger brother? Cullen?”
“No. I do not know what happened to him.”
Magnus clenched his teeth on his disappointment. “What then?”
“I was so fearful that you would die. Your poor mother. Your father. They loved you and your brothers so much. I knew I had to keep you alive. So I carried you as far as I could, until I could carry you no more, and then I slept. But I awakened to soldiers. Alwyn men. Though your mother never knew … no one did, I had fled Burnbryde years before, cast out of the village here by the Lady Alwyn, when she found out about me.”
“You were the Alwyn’s mistress then,” he said.
“Aye,” she murmured. “That much of the story is true. I did what I had to, to ensure that you survived. I demanded that the soldiers take us to him, and I told him that you were his son, that I’d kept secret from him. He wasn’t a good father. No, but he gave me a cottage, and we were safe. I … gave you a new name, and over time I filled your fragile, healing mind with false memories, like the old Celts used to do when they wanted to make someone forget. My old grandmother had the skill, and I learned it from her.”
She peered up at him through the darkness—and reached for him, pulling him into her embrace.
“Oh, Magnus. Faelan. You aren’t my son, but I love you just as much as if you were.”
He held her tight, against his chest. “And I love you too. Which is why tomorrow, I want you to take your new husband there, and those children, to the festival in Rackamoor. Camp there for several days, until it is safe to return.”
“What are you planning to do?” she asked worriedly.
“What I must do. I’m going to avenge my father … my mother, and my clan.”
“I’m afraid for you,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” he answered, thinking of Tara. Envisioning her face in his mind. “I have every reason, now, to want to live.”
After they talked a while longer, he returned to the front doors of the castle, where he entered to find the great hall still filled with revelers. He passed unnoticed, continuing on to the chapel, where he said a brief, silent prayer for strength and for Tara’s safety. At last, he descended to the Pit, and entered to find most of the men there, asleep or talking beside the fire.
Chissolm stood when he entered and followed him to his chamber, where in a low voice he said, “This thing we do tomorrow, against the Kincaid…”
“Yes?” he answered.
“Do you agree with it?”
The question startled him. He did not know, exactly, how to answer. Was it merely a question posed by Chissolm? Or was someone questioning his loyalty to the cause?
“We are Alwyn warriors, are we not?” He answered, deciding on caution. “We are paid to fight for our laird … not to make decisions for him. Why do you ask?”
Chissolm backed toward the door. “It’s just that … if you were not leading us tomorrow, I, and the others, might not feel so easy about it all. We have been told for so long that the Kincaids are our enemies, but no one seems to know the truth of why. Something feels wrong.”
&nbs
p; The words teased his tongue. The truth of his birth, his hatred for the Alwyn—
—and his plan for tomorrow.
In the end, he met his friend’s gaze directly, and spoke a different sort of truth.
“Battle has a way of revealing the absolute truth about men—and tomorrow you’ll learn that truth about me. It’s up to you and the others to decide whether to follow me, or go your own way.”
Chissolm looked back at him, his expression grave. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. I feel like I’ve been given a riddle, and no way to solve it.”
“You’ll know the answer tomorrow. I promise you that. For now, just know that I will always lead you and the others, in a way I know to be right and honorable.”
Chissolm nodded. “Ye always have. And I know that tomorrow, you will.”
Chapter 15
Early the next morning, Tara followed the Lady Alwyn—who leaned heavily on the laird’s arm—to the chapel, telling herself that as the wife of Faelan Kincaid, she must be brave, despite her regret that she still had no answer as to what had happened to Arabel.
When they reached the chapel, she peered inside, and saw a room crowded with warriors and women and familiar—and unfamiliar—faces.
But where was Magnus? As she entered, the room went silent. She glanced around, and her heart beat harder, in fear. He was nowhere. Not even in the dark shadows at the back of the room.
The Alwyn turned to her, and bent to kiss her cheek. “God bless you on this special day.”
The lady peered at her from beneath a sparkling veil. “I pray you will be happy.”
Suddenly Hugh was there, taking her roughly by the hand and leading her forward toward the waiting priest.
And suddenly, Magnus was there, in front of them—tall and masterful, his expression like stone.
He glanced at Hugh, but it was Tara’s gaze he held. “That which God has joined together, let no man separate.”
“Mmmfff,” Hugh responded, his lip drawing back into a snarl.
Tara’s pulse thrummed in her veins, hearing his words. Words that reminded her she was already married. That she would never belong to Hugh, because she already belonged to him.
Hugh led her, brushing past Magnus, and continuing on toward the priest.
And yet despite Magnus’s meaningful words, standing here, at the sacred altar, she felt as if she were not inside her own body. As if she were trapped inside a terrible dream. The Laird and Lady Alwyn stood to one side, and Buchan and his sons to the other.
She reminded herself for the thousandth time, that even if she went through the motions of the wedding, she wouldn’t be married to Hugh because she was already married to Magnus. She closed his eyes, and in an instant, remembered the touch of his hands. The scent of his body.
Always, my love.
The ceremony began, and it seemed only a moment before the priest looked at her expectantly. She breathed heavily, as everyone looked at her. The walls closed in. She couldn’t. She could not speak the words.
It felt like sacrilege to speak the vows with Hugh. With any other man.
“I can’t breathe,” she gasped, and pushed past the bodies and faces surrounding her, hearing their collective murmurings of dismay in her ears.
“Come now, child!” Buchan called out behind her. “I command you to return.”
She only ran faster, her rich kirtle hissing against the stones, out through the back of the chapel, into the dim light of the day. Away … away, running down a well-trodden path, and through a narrow gate and into the open air—
Until the ground ended at her feet. Gasping, she filled her lungs with air.
Trembling, she peered down from the cliff, to the black, jagged stones below. An immense wave crashed, bathing her skin with frigid spray.
“Don’t,” said a voice behind her. “Don’t jump.”
She spun around to see Hugh standing behind her, his arm extended. His eyes wide and fearful … as if the edge of the cliff filled him with terror.
“Why would you think I was going to jump?” she asked, eyes wide.
“It’s so dangerous there,” he said, his countenance gone ashen. “Don’t make me suffer the sight again. I command you to come away.”
“The sight of what? Do you mean Arabel? Did my sister jump? Or did she fall? Was it an accident, Hugh, or did you push her? Did she fall down there? Is that why she isn’t in the graveyard? Oh, please just tell me so I can know the truth. She was my sister and I deserve to know.”
His eyes went from sharp and black … to cloudy. He squinted. Lifted a hand to his head. “I … don’t know. I can’t remember. I just … recall her running from me, and standing … like you are now … saying how much she wished me well, but that she carried another man’s child, and that she loved him, and because of that she could never love me…”
His expression transformed to one of fury then. “I was so angry. She was to be my wife. I would have cared for her. Been loyal to her. But already, she’d been disloyal to me? And a child, who I’d be expected to raise as my own.”
He let out a low growl, and made a sharp, shoving motion with his hands, the palms flattened toward the sea.
“I must have pushed her,” he hissed, shaking his head. “She wanted to be free. She wanted to go back to him. She wouldn’t have jumped.”
A sudden gust of wind tore at Tara’s heavy garments, rendering her unsteady …
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye she saw a dark shadow move forward—
“God, get away from that ledge.”
Strong arms seized her, crushing the air from her lungs, pulling her back. Lifting her high and safe, against a solid chest.
Magnus. Just as another blur of movement drew her eye.
Robert Stewart stormed forward, his face a mask of hatred.
His booted leg came up, its heel landing at the center of Hugh’s back. With a shout, he shoved, pushing Hugh over—
Tara screamed, her eyes fixed on Hugh’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed face as he twisted, falling, his arms and legs flailing.
And then, there was nothing but the sea and the clouded sky.
Someone wailed—the Lady Alwyn, who stood white faced with shock beside her husband, who stood frozen in place.
“Oh, my God,” Magnus uttered, turning her face against his chest, where Tara closed her eyes, trying to forget what she’d just seen.
“Why did he do that?” she cried. “Hugh did not try to push me. I was safe.”
The Alwyn approached the empty ledge, his face a mask of shock. Lady Alwyn continued to cry, grief-stricken, and staggered toward the ocean, arms outstretched as if she could bring back her son.
Buchan glared at Robert, who glared at everyone. Duncan stood, arms crossed over his chest, looking unaffected.
“You murdered him!” Lady Alwyn screamed, tearing her veil from her head.
“’Twas not murder,” Robert growled. “’Twas retribution, and as rightful as God’s justice. Hugh was the murderer.”
Magnus lowered Tara so that she stood on the ground, but he held her close to his side, a steadying hand at her back.
Robert stalked past, his jaw clenched, his hair blowing wild in the wind. “Don’t chastise me, father. It was my child she carried—you know that.”
“As if she were the only woman you’ve seduced,” Buchan replied, staring back into his son’s eyes. “The only child you would have sired. You’re like your father in that way.”
“Not with her. She … Arabel was different, and you took her from me. You sent her here, because you didn’t want me to have what you couldn’t have … happiness … love … forever … and he murdered them both. And I’ll never forgive you for allowing it to happen. She should have been mine, father. She should have been mine.”
Tara watched … listened in shock.
Buchan peered back at Robert. “Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now, isn’t it? So let’s get on with our day. With our l
ives. All of us.”
Robert cursed loudly, and turning on his heel, strode toward the ledge, and there, looked down. Duncan strode forward, joining him there.
Buchan turned his attention to the Alwyn. A look of sympathy came over his features, and he sighed. “I’m very sorry, but…” He squinted, and shrugged. “There was always something wrong with that boy. You know it. I know it. You’re better off without him. You’ve a much finer son there, to put forth as your heir.”
He pointed at Magnus.
The Alwyn gestured to Anna and Mary, who had come forward to support the lady, who had fallen to her knees, and appeared insensible in her grief. “Take her away from here. Put her to bed.”
He then turned to look at them all. He appeared pale … shocked. His eyes, bright with grief. But the words that came from his lips were deferent.
“You’re right of course, my lord.”
The wind still blew, and the ocean still crashed, and an air of shock still hung everywhere. There was nothing right in any of this. Tara felt numb, inside and out, feeling as if she were surrounded by madmen. Her only comfort came from Magnus, who remained at her side, silent and strong. Watching and waiting.
Still, she did not know how to feel. Yes, Hugh had killed her sister, but she wasn’t convinced he’d intended to. Clearly his thinking had been twisted … and he, perhaps ill of the mind. She could not believe he deserved to die in so terrible a way.
Anna and Mary helped Lady Alwyn to stand. The lady heaved out deep, broken sobs … clearly heartbroken. Overcome with grief. Of course she was! Her son, her only child, had just been executed in a most cruel and unexpected way. No matter how deeply Tara had disliked him, his mother had loved him as any mother with a heart would love her children, even with their faults, unconditionally. She broke away from Magnus and put her arms around her, only to have the woman sag against her, weeping in in her arms.
The Alwyn joined her, but only for a moment.
“I’m so sorry, my love,” he said to his wife rigidly, without touching her. “Remember him fondly.”
It was a horrible, unfeeling thing to say! Tara could only think to get Lady Alwyn away from here.
The Rebel of Clan Kincaid Page 26