“I do not,” he answered, with a lift of his brows. “But it is no trouble that she is not here. I require no additional thanks.”
He forced himself not to look again, but her image … her long hair … the curve of her cheek, returned to his mind as vividly as if he did look.
“Of course you do,” said Lady MacClaren sweetly as she filled his cup. “And I am more than pleased to extend our hospitality and gratefulness to you, where Elspeth cannot.”
He was no fool. If he heard the invitation in her voice, could not her husband?
Servants placed trenchers and bowls at the center of the table, generously heaped with boar and trout.
“So your name is not béist after all,” the MacClaren jested, seemingly oblivious to his wife’s flirtation. “It is Niall, you say?”
It was Deargh who answered, with a conversational lift of his hand. “Niall—yes. I thought it a good warrior’s name. As good a name as any.”
The MacClaren shifted in his seat.
“Interesting, that,” he mused, looking away, his jaw drawn tight. “The previous lord of this castle had a son by that name.”
Chapter 6
Niall’s soul went cold. He had not expected such words to be spoken so soon. Nor had he expected that they would inflict such a powerful response within him.
“Did he?” said Niall, his hand closing on the goblet.
The MacClaren nodded, answering gruffly. “Long dead now, all of them.”
Anger that Niall had believed well-controlled now simmered to the surface. It offended him that the MacClaren talked of his “murdered” self with such ease.
From across the table, Deargh cautioned him with a glance, and continued in an easy tone. “You have all heard of the famed King Niall of the Nine Hostages. No? It is an old tale in Ireland, where we spent several years before moving on, told around many a battlefield campfire.” He grinned and looked around the table. “Except I would propose to you that it is I who have been held hostage since taking the lad as my shield bearer all those years ago.”
The MacClaren laughed, as did Conall and Deargh—though Niall recognized the edge of artifice in his companion’s voice.
“He was but a lad, you say?” the laird inquired, eyebrows raised.
“Aye, an orphan.” Deargh nodded, his smile fading.
From his seat beside him, the MacClaren looked Niall up and down. “Tell me, where did you find this orphan, who turned out to be such a man?”
Deargh shrugged. “Aye, I hardly recall. Somewhere along the way.”
The MacClaren looked to Niall. “You remember nothing of your family? Your clan? The name of your chief? Of the place where you were born?”
Niall’s muscles tightened along his shoulders, tense with the effort of controlling his response, because in that same moment he happened to glance down and see something he had long ago forgotten—a series of marks carved into the wood of the table in the place where he sat. Marks he himself had carved, a young boy’s prideful tally of the deer he had hunted and contributed to the Kincaid bounty. He focused on them, and remembered the reason he was here.
“I like to believe,” he answered evenly. “That it would have been a place much like this.”
The MacClaren tilted his head, and squinted. “I would say ‘how sad’ but it is the plight of so many in this life. And you have made good for yourself, have you not? See there, what those men said about you?” He lifted a hand toward the room. “I heard. Everyone in this hall heard. You are legendary.”
Niall looked into the eyes of the man, who along with his neighbor to the south—the chief Alwyn—shared responsibility for his family’s murder. He had hated the two men for so long, that his hate had become part of him. His thoughts. His blood. His every breath. For that reason, his pulse did not so much as waver when the laird’s hand gripped his arm.
“Your father, whoever he was, would have been proud,” the MacClaren said.
“Aye,” said Deargh roughly, holding his goblet aloft. “No doubt he would have been.”
Deargh looked at him, long and hard, a silent warning not to draw swords and slay the man now, whilst they were so thickly surrounded, before turning in his seat to listen to the harp player. Or at least pretending to do so.
Just then Niall’s glance caught that of Elspeth’s, who listened to their conversation. She looked at him, her eyes wide with sympathy … before having her attention drawn away by the man at her side—the one called FitzDuff, who did nothing but leer at her breasts, from what Niall observed.
Her sympathy for him raised his ire. Would she find his story so sad if she knew her father were responsible?
The MacClaren leaned closer. “After such an entrance, I will not humor myself into believing that I am the greatest or richest lord who has ever sought your services. Indeed, I may be hard pressed to afford you.”
Lady MacClaren leaned over Niall’s arm again, setting a plate—which had been filled at her direction by the servant assisting her—before him. In doing so she pressed her breast against his shoulder. “Certainly some satisfactory arrangement can be made.”
Niall shifted forward and away. “These high lands were once my home, and Deargh’s … before his own clan was broken up—”
“Broken up?” asked Conall. “Aye, it has been the fate of many. Which clan?”
“It is in the long ago past,” answered Deargh, scowling. “I carry the memory in my heart, but do not speak of it.”
Conall nodded. “Then we will not press you.”
Niall said, “We have come to a time in our lives that, for now, this is where we wish to be.”
“The wanderers come home.” The MacClaren nodded. “Good. Good. If we can agree on terms, I and my clan would be pleased to have you—”
A child sprouted up between their elbows—the little girl Niall had saved with Elspeth, whom he had at first believed to be a boy. She peered up at her father from beneath a head of roughly shorn red hair. The puppy circled behind her, gnawing playfully at a leather leash.
“Papa, that ugly man touched Elspeth under the table,” she said, scowling. “She slapped his hand away but he did it again.”
Lady MacClaren lowered her husband’s meal to the table before him and seized the girl’s arm. “Catrin, don’t wander during the meal. I instructed Derryth to watch you! Pah. I am not surprised by her disobedience any more than I am by yours. Come with me.”
She led her—and the puppy—away. Niall again looked toward Elspeth. Seated between Keppoch and FitzDuff, her countenance revealed she struggled for composure.
“My daughter,” said the MacClaren, in a quiet voice. “She is fair, is she not?”
“Aye,” he answered. Any man laying eyes on her would surely answer the same or be called a liar. “She is that.”
Elspeth scooted away from Keppoch, pushing his hand away from somewhere near her thigh. Yet when she turned from him, FitzDuff leaned over her in an obvious attempt to drop a pinch of bread down her bodice. Lifting her arm, she covered her breasts with the long drape of her sleeve and pretended to listen intently to the harp player’s song.
Her breasts. Jesu, he’d be lying to say he hadn’t noticed them as well, crowded so beautifully by the bodice of her green dress. They demanded a man’s attention almost as equally as her dark, nettle-thick lashes and rosy mouth.
“Despicable men, the both of them,” muttered the MacClaren. “But necessary alliances. Curse the way this world works, that I should be forced to give my daughter up to a man such as that.”
Lady MacClaren returned without the child, something Niall only vaguely noticed because Elspeth held his attention completely.
Again, she shrank from FitzDuff, only to again be submitted to Keppoch’s relentless attentions. The man leaned forward, jowls hanging, his eyes glazed—already drunk. He lifted a greasy hand under the premise of touching a tendril of hair that lay on her shoulder and in doing so heavily grazed her breast.
Filthy cr
eature. Niall’s muscles burned, prepared to react—to intervene.
Yet he did not. Because she was not his to defend.
Present alongside him were her father and a host of his warriors, all watching, all bound by honor to defend her before he should consider lifting a finger toward her protection.
“Don’t touch her.” FitzDuff struck Keppoch’s hand away.
Keppoch snarled in outrage.
At hearing this, Deargh turned to watch—as did everyone else at the table. Numerous MacClaren warriors glanced at their lord, as if seeking some signal to act. The MacClaren growled, looking agonized … conflicted, and he clenched his hands into fists. He closed his eyes, and his lips parted—
But before any order could be given, Elspeth sprang from the bench, her expression murderous.
Niall’s abdomen clenched, as he watched, waiting to see what she would do.
For several moments she stood rigid, before seizing up a pitcher from the table, her knuckles white on the handle. Niall feared—nay, hoped—she might crash the thing down on one of their heads. Preferably Keppoch’s as he found him most offensive.
But she did not.
“We are out of ale,” she announced, and turned away from them, a portrait of dignity. “I shall bring more.”
A servant approached, offering to take the pitcher, but she continued on, storming toward the kitchen—a telling wave of ale sloshing over her hands.
As she passed her father’s table, she glanced at the laird, her eyes ablaze with fire.
Niall’s groin twisted with a sudden jolt of desire. Jesu, what a wild beauty she was. Every fragment of his being took notice, coming alive with awareness.
The tattoos on Deargh’s temples wrinkled as he laughed. “Ah! Look! The lass is angry. I would be too.” He waved a hand toward the two men left behind, watching her go. “Pigs, the both of them.”
Keppoch and FitzDuff glared at him. His eyes narrowed—and he glared back.
Many who crowded the tables laughed, including Lady MacClaren, amused by her stepdaughter’s torment. Not surprising after what he had observed from the river that morning. Despite the closeness of their ages, the two women were clearly not friends.
Niall watched Elspeth go, his eyes lingering on the curve of her back, over which her long hair cascaded in gleaming tendrils, beneath a narrow crown of braids entwined with gold cording and pearls.
She was only halfway to the door when a shout came from the back of the hall, joined by other voices raised in alarm.
Another guest had arrived—this one uninvited, as was apparent from the number of MacClaren warriors who imposed a wall of raised weapons and scowling faces around a striking young man with pale blond hair that hung to just below his square jaw, made all the more notable because he was completely garbed in black leather. Like Elspeth’s two suitors he made his entrance along with a small company of companions who Niall could not help but notice, were younger and more attractive than the others.
Niall saw Elspeth freeze, her gaze fixed on the young man, and in that moment experienced a jolt of inexplicable jealousy.
“Magnus,” growled the MacClaren, rising to his feet and leaving the dais.
Conall followed, but not before turning to Lady MacClaren. “The Alwyn’s bastard? Did you invite him to pay court to Elspeth?”
She answered blithely. “You may think I am wicked—but I am not that wicked.”
As soon as the two men were gone, the lady slid toward Niall and murmured conspiratorially. “I did not invite Magnus. He has nothing to offer. But I might have made it known, in a way that would reach the Alwyn’s ears, that the others would be here.” She bit her lip, and watched the unfolding drama with interest. “I thought perhaps the two clans could settle their differences by a marriage between Elspeth and his legitimate son, Hugh … but I have since heard he is betrothed.”
She sighed in disappointment.
The MacClaren stormed toward Magnus, demanding, “Why have you come?”
Magnus wrested free of the MacClaren kinsmen that held him back. He stood proudly, muscles cording his bare arms, where they extended out from his leather vest. “For Elspeth, of course.”
Elspeth gasped, and her face paled. Niall’s mood darkened a shade more.
“Your laird wants nothing more than to destroy this clan,” the MacClaren retorted. “He plots against us, and does everything to undermine our standing with the king. Such aggressions cannot be overlooked. Any offer you make will be refused.”
The young man’s lip curled. “Keppoch Macpherson. Alan FitzDuff? I don’t see how my suit would be considered any less welcome by the lady than theirs. Come now. I have brought my father’s representative, who has authority to discuss terms.” He gestured to a solemn-faced, older man who stood behind him, who held an official-looking leather case. “Elspeth?”
Niall watched, rapt. Annoyed. How did Elspeth feel about this young man?
“Go away, Magnus,” she blurted, looking angry and miserable.
The tension that pulled between Niall’s shoulders relaxed a bit. The room exploded into laughter, the loudest coming from Keppoch, who hurled a meaty bone at Magnus, which bounced off his chest.
“Yes, go away,” Keppoch shouted, laughing dismissively.
All went silent. Magnus stood rigid, his cheeks darkening, his eyes fixed on Keppoch. He lunged—
“Stop!” The MacClaren stepped into his path, hands raised.
Yet Magnus’s course was set and he collided with the laird, who stumbled backward, crashing against a table, which tilted … and righted, but not before several pitchers and bowls slid off and shattered, tossing and splashing their contents to the floor.
At his side, Lady MacClaren seized Niall’s arm against her breast, and cried out.
Magnus froze, his expression one of fury tangled with intense regret.
“I—I did not mean to push you.”
The chief’s face darkened, and he shouted, “I would marry her to the Devil himself before I allowed her to marry you. You tell your laird that, straight from me.”
Elspeth rushed to her father’s side, helping him to stand aright.
“Forgive me, I must tend to my husband,” Lady MacClaren said to Niall, leaping from her seat, also moving in their direction.
Looking over her shoulder, Elspeth implored, “Please, Magnus, just go.”
Magnus glowered between Elspeth and her father, and let out an angry sound. Turning, he stormed away, shoving aside any who stood in his path. His companions followed him.
Celebratory cheers and laughter arose from all about the room, and the lute and harp trilled into a cheerful song, which masked the lingering unpleasantness that clouded the atmosphere. Elspeth spoke pleadingly with her father, her expression one of concern and yet he responded sharply to her with words Niall did not hear because of the clamor of the room.
Her face paled, and slowly she returned to the table where Keppoch and FitzDuff and their unruly entourages waited, looking much like a woman condemned to execution.
Moments later, the MacClaren returned, a hand pressed against his side, as if he suffered some ache or pain, Conall accompanying him.
Lady MacClaren fluttered about him. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he growled. He exhaled raggedly, and sat with obvious discomfort, wincing.
“The pain. It has returned?” She pressed a goblet of ale into his hand.
“It never went away,” he muttered. He exhaled, and summoned a forced smile. “Niall. Deargh. The MacClarens may not be able to pay you as richly as a king, but we can certainly give you a most entertaining night.”
Lady MacClaren sat, frowning. “Entertaining indeed.”
The laird added, “Partake in all the food and ale that you wish tonight. Sleep here at my hearth where it is warm and dry.”
Niall answered, “Thank you for your offer of hospitality, but we prefer to maintain our own quarters. We shall seek them out in the village, or encamp again b
y the river.”
He would not have anyone questioning his comings and goings. Besides, he would not sleep a wink in this place. He would lay awake until morning, examining every timber, every stone.
Remembering. Loving. Hating.
The MacClaren nodded. “Whatever you wish. Tomorrow we shall discuss all other matters between us, and see if we can come to some sort of agreement.”
“That sounds very fine to me,” said Deargh.
“Agreed,” said Niall.
“Good,” said the chief. “Until then I bid you, eat and drink. Introduce yourself to our beautiful ladies.” He grinned and Lady MacClaren rolled her eyes. “Aye, look, the old bard has come. He will entertain us with song.”
An old man entered the room, holding the arm of a young woman who led him to a place near the fire. He was obviously blind, which was an unfortunate relief to Niall because the man was the first person he had seen here that he recognized from his past. Deargh cast Niall a quick glance, his brows raised, indicating he recognized him as well.
It was Murdoch, his father’s bard. But unlike the jovial man that he remembered from his youth, Murdoch had turned gray and frail.
The harp player strummed a few, haunting chords and together they sang. For the first several lines, Niall could not hear the words because of the continued talking and laughter of those gathered about, but then the room became quiet.
… I look, I call and I listen in vain.
I know I heard the voice again.
You hear him in the tower, and then in the wood.
You wish to join him … how I wish I could.
Listen … again, the sound I hear.
I do not worry, I do not fear.
The Kincaid calls to them, one, two, three
Three dead sons, all ghosts like me.
Chapter 7
“What an intriguing song,” said Deargh, his voice hollow.
The Beast of Clan Kincaid Page 7