The words echoed in Niall’s mind. He closed his eyes, wishing he could not hear them.
“Oddly, it is my husband’s favorite,” the Lady MacClaren said with a sigh, looking bored. “I have heard that dusty old ghost story more times than I can count.”
“We are all haunted by one thing or another, are we not?” the laird said, his voice distant.
What a peculiar thing to say. Was the song a sort of trophy of triumph past, or was the MacClaren more complicated than that? Could it be that the memory of the Kincaid clan deaths haunted him? That he had a conscience?
Niall did not want to know. He did not want to know this man. His hopes. His dreams. His fears. Because of this man’s treachery, his father and mother’s remains lay moldering in a grave somewhere, perhaps unconsecrated, and he would answer for it dearly.
A sudden movement caught his eye—Elspeth standing from her place at the table. With a gasp of outrage, she slapped Keppoch, and when FitzDuff laughed, she seized up a goblet of ale and doused his face. The firelight reflected off her hair, and bathed her skin so that it appeared golden.
Deargh, seeing this, lifted his hands and grinned. “Och. There we go. It’s settled, I think. There will be no love match tonight.”
Elspeth strode to stand directly before her father, bright spots of color staining her cheeks.
“I don’t care what you do or say,” she said in a low, tremulous tone. “Shave my head. Cut out my tongue.” Her voice rose. “Drive a hot poker into both my eyes.” She pointed forked fingers at the glittering orbs in question. “I’m not marrying either of those … those…” She grimaced, her composure all but shattered. “Churls.”
Lady MacClaren chided. “We’re being a bit dramatic, are we not, Elspeth?”
“We … are not!” Elspeth cried, her gaze hot and intense. “We do not exist. It is only I”—she pointed a finger at her chest—“who suffers, while you”—she pointed at Bridget—“are amused at my expense.”
Niall watched, riveted, as her emotion unfolded in vivid color.
“Daughter—” her father warned. “Show respect to your stepmother.”
“Respect?” Elspeth’s eyes flared in anger. “What is that? I would not know as none has been accorded to me.”
She whirled away on the heel of her slipper and stormed across the room, her gown whispering across the stones behind her. It took every ounce of his will not to launch up from his seat to go after her. To pursue her.
“I told you,” Lady MacClaren sniffed, looking annoyed. “And I will say it again. She has grown headstrong. You have spoiled her.”
“I will speak to her in the morning,” the MacClaren said testily.
“Aye, tomorrow,” she responded, haughtily. “For now, you must go and make amends with those she has so unforgivably offended.”
The MacClaren stood, his eyes clouded and made his way down the table, where FitzDuff wiped his face with a square of linen and Keppoch stood with his men, receiving slaps on the back in apparent congratulations for having provoked such a response in the young lady.
Niall’s attention shifted to the far end of the hall as Elspeth, in shadows, climbed the stairs—only to be stopped by a servant girl, who glanced over her shoulder before furtively leaning toward her mistress to say something, perhaps to deliver a message. Just as quickly, the servant left Elspeth, who remained there unmoving for several moments more, as if undecided about something.
At last, she turned and disappeared up the stairs.
Niall had no time to further ponder what he had seen, because the laird returned, his brows gathered.
“What a surprise,” he muttered. “Both men have assured me they are even more determined now to have her as a wife than before.”
“I don’t believe it,” exclaimed Lady MacClaren, with a dry laugh.
However, the laird did not look relieved or pleased—only bemused. Likewise, his announcement cast Niall’s mood into darkness. Indeed, his soul growled angrily in response.
If anyone were to have Elspeth, it would be him.
The magnitude of his desire—of the realization that he wanted her—startled him, heating the blood in his veins. He could not deny that from the first moment he had seen her that morning, from across the river, she had captured his interest. In the hours since, she had remained an alluring promise that hovered in the back of his mind. Tonight, she had become something more. A prize to be claimed.
What better revenge could he have against the man who had murdered his family, than to take his eldest daughter to bed? To turn her against him. To marry her. Doing so would only further secure his claim to this castle and the stolen Kincaid lands, in the eyes of the king and the courts.
He would woo and persuade her. Remembering the fire in her eyes and the color high on her cheeks, his heart beat harder and desire twisted, tight and insistent, in the pit of his stomach. Elspeth was not just a beautiful woman, but a remarkable one. Seducing her, and making love to her—claiming her for his own, would be no hardship. Indeed, it was a challenge that made the vengeful fire in his soul burn hotter.
How strange that now that she was gone, all light seemed to have left the room.
Where before, he had found interest in observing his enemy in his surroundings, now all he perceived were flushed faces, overly loud laughter, shrill music, and spilled wine.
Suddenly he felt smothered by it all. These strangers … these murderers, living in his father’s home, laughing and smiling as if nothing were amiss. It was as if the Kincaids and their history had been obliterated from all consciousness, save for a ghostly tale told only for the entertainment of a drunken crowd. His anger grew, searing his veins. He feared if he remained, he might do something he’d regret, and he could take no chances at that.
Standing, he offered his thanks to his host for the evening meal and entertainment, and bid them good night.
Deargh walked him to the doors. “I wish to linger a bit longer. You never know what one will hear when lips are loosened by drink.”
“I will see you at the camp, then.”
He left the light of the hall behind, and walked into the night. Outside, he crossed the bailey, which was lit by numerous fires, surrounded by MacClarens singing songs and conversing, and eventually he departed through the gate. A sturdy wind carried the scent of peat fires from the village, and tugged at his cloak, lifting it behind him. The cold air and longer nights heralded the arrival of autumn. He followed the winding path to the meadow below, where his horse waited at the stable. Once there, he passed through the circle of light cast by a solitary firepot blazing near the entrance.
To his consternation, he found his and Deargh’s animals tied to posts outside, unattended by the stableboys who had promised earlier to secure them inside. The same stableboys whom he discerned some distance away, down the hillside nearer to the river, gathered around a fire, laughing and, from the sound of it, casting lots.
For a moment he considered summoning the lads for a tongue lashing for leaving his destrier—an immense, costly, and sure-footed stallion—unattended in a place where thievery could at any moment occur. But … he let them be, smiling despite himself at their boyish jests and vulgarities, carried to his ears on the night wind. He thought of his brothers, and remembered the way they had behaved in much the same manner.
Fitheach harruphed in greeting. Niall gave his nose a rub, and only then gave in to temptation.
He looked back at the castle, perched on the hillside above, surrounded by dark earth and stone, against a curtain of blue night sky, ablaze with thousands of stars. Villagers had built several small bonfires on the grounds below, which illuminated the high walls. Lamp light shone from a number of the tower windows, including one on the third floor where he had in childhood passed his nights, along with his two brothers, believing, in his boy’s heart, that his happy and well-protected life would go on forever.
Where did she sleep, he wondered?
Just then he perceived a movement in the
darkness—a cloaked figure hurrying from the castle toward the space behind the stable. A woman by the lightness of her movement, and the pale moon of her face.
He did not need to see her face to know it was Elspeth.
* * *
Elspeth rushed headlong into the darkness as fast as her feet would carry her, praying that no one had seen her leave, and if they had, that they would not question the story she had given the guards at the gate, that she was going to visit her old nursemaid, Fiona, in the village—which in truth she did often enough that they only nodded and watched her go on her way.
The servant girl who had approached her at the stairs had told her he waited in the area of the stables, near the cistern, but Elspeth did not see him. Until, suddenly, she did when he pushed back his hood and his blond hair shimmered in the shadows.
“Magnus,” she hissed. “You should not be here—and I should not be meeting you. My father, if he knew, would never let me step foot unaccompanied from the castle again. Why did you come here tonight? Offering marriage! What were you thinking?”
He strode toward her. Just as always, it took her breath away just a little, seeing him like this. So tall and masculine. A full-grown man, when once he had been just a frail boy she’d taken under her wing out of sympathy because of his inability to speak, an affliction that invited scorn from his father and continued for years, until one day he suddenly spoke, surprising everyone.
But things had changed so much since then, for the both of them.
“If someone is going to marry you,” he said. “It might as well be me.”
She blinked at him. “What a romantic thing to say.”
“We both know romance plays no part in this,” answered Magnus.
Elspeth gathered her cloak tighter against the chill. “Your father sent you, didn’t he? He wants my land. My tocher. Anything he can take from us.”
“Nay, Elspeth, it is I who want your tocher,” he said fiercely, gesturing with his hand. “Surely you understand, marriage is the only way I shall ever come to possess anything of my own. The Alwyn chieftaincy along with every rood, every dabhach of land, will go to Hugh, whether he is deserving or not.”
A year younger than Magnus, Hugh was the Alwyn’s only legitimate son—his designated male heir, or ceann-cath, formally agreed upon by the Alwyn clan council long ago, at the time of his birth.
“Hugh is not deserving,” she answered softly.
Elspeth had always known, from the first time she encountered Hugh, that there was something wrong with him. As a boy he’d been relentlessly cruel to animals and other children, always without remorse. As an adult, she found him frightening. Not because he was fearsome as a warrior but because of his empty, black eyes and ever-present smirk. She had often wondered if he had a soul.
However, his father, the Alwyn, bestowed upon him every possible privilege and honor as if he were a prince—including, apparently, the recent betrothal to the earl of Buchan’s ward.
Magnus, on the other hand, had proven himself not only a skilled warrior and leader among the Alwyn men, but an excellent strategian. The number of stingingly successful raids he’d inflicted on MacClaren holdings of late was proof enough of that. And yet, his father withheld all but the paltriest acknowledgments from him. It had always been so. The Alwyn had never officially recognized Magnus as his own.
“And yet you find me deserving, Elspeth—my dearest and most constant friend?” he demanded softly.
“Of course you are,” she answered, stepping closer.
“Then marry me,” he said urgently, catching her hands, pulling her near. “I know a priest who will marry us tonight.”
She exhaled, and closed her eyes. “If I married you, you know as well as I that my lands would become your father’s—and then Hugh’s.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she retorted softly, pulling away. “Eventually they would, in some way or another, as a way to dishonor my father. Your father would make sure of it.”
“I assure you”—he held up his hands, as if offering peaceful terms—“your lands would remain separate from the Alwyn holdings.”
“As if you’d be able to stop him.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, as cold crept through her leather slippers, up from the ground. She sighed. “You must find another way to make a life for yourself. One that doesn’t involve me. I hope you do, Magnus, because I truly want the best for you.”
“I can’t believe this,” he said incredulously, looking up into the night sky. “You would choose that toad Keppoch before me? Or that lecher FitzDuff.”
“No!” She shook her head, covering her ears because she did not want to hear those names, or even imagine those faces again. “I—I don’t want to marry either of them. But neither does that mean I must marry you.”
He turned back to her again, his face appearing carved of stone. “I know you are loyal to your father. Your clan. But you’re a grown woman now, with a mind of your own. You see now, what he intends for you. If it is not Keppoch or FitzDuff, it will no doubt be someone of their ilk, chosen for their lands or influence, with no care for you. Consider your choices—and give your loyalty to me.”
Elspeth stiffened, and poked her finger into his chest. “Perhaps that might have been possible before you stole forty head of cattle from our herd.” She poked him again. “Or before you burned down the south granary. Aye, Magnus? Do you need more reasons why I could never take you as a husband? I will not marry without my father’s consent, and he will never approve of you because of these things you have done.”
He stared down at his chest where her finger remained lodged, his nostrils flared.
“Do I need to hear more reasons, you ask?” he answered sharply—then looking up, scowled. “No. I can remember them on my own, because I was there”—his voice rose and his eyes flared—“and I’d do it all again. I’d steal your cattle, and burn your granary, because those lands were intended for the Alwyns, not the MacClarens, and you know as well as anyone your father all but stole them from mine—”
“Even now, you take his side?” She rocked toward him, higher on her toes. “That makes you no better than Hugh.”
His eyes widened, and he shook a finger in her face. “Now ye’ve provoked me, lass.”
“Go home!” she shouted, and backed away from him. “Or jump in a bogloch for all I care.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not. Without. You.”
She blinked at him. Opened her mouth to offer a retort. But snapped her teeth closed instead. Because she was finished. Tired. Disappointed. With everyone in her life! Except perhaps Niall.
“Well, then,” she exclaimed, with an exasperated wave of her hands. “You can sleep here on these cold hard rocks and answer to my father’s men in the morning, because you’ll be waiting for me for a long time.” She turned and took several steps toward the castle, calling back over her shoulder. “I’m going to bed.”
She heard the hard stamp of Magnus’s boots as he circled round to block her path.
“You’re certain, then?” he demanded, walking backward, matching her pace, his face a featureless shadow in the night. Behind him, the castle walls shone, illuminated by the bonfires. “You won’t marry me.”
“Are you hard of hearing?” she cried, coming to a stop.
“There is nothing I can say or do to change your mind?” He tilted his head. “Last chance.”
She answered, hands fisted on her hips. “Thank the lord above, because I’m done talking to you.”
“Well then…” His voice softened, and he took one step back, his expression different now … somehow anticipatory. “I’m sorry, Elspeth.”
Why the odd change in his manner? “Sorry about wh—”
Something dark closed over her. Rough cloth, imposed on her from behind her head by even rougher hands.
Shock rippled through her.
“Let me go!” She fought—but found her arms banded … her body turned … twisted … t
ightly wrapped in a heavy cloth.
She should have known he was not alone. That his companions were there in the shadows.
“Be still,” Magnus ordered.
She screamed, outraged, but heard only the muffled sound in her own ears. Her only hope was that a stableboy or the blacksmith might be close enough to hear.
“Quiet!” he growled, clamping a hand across her nose.
She screamed again.
The hand shifted over her mouth.
Och! Now she could scarcely breathe. Despite writhing and kicking as hard as she could, she felt herself seized by numerous arms.
“Careful now,” he instructed.
They lifted her from the ground.
Her heart pounded so fiercely that pain cleaved her chest.
“No, no, no!” she shouted into … whoever’s palm, desperate to convince them, one and all, to abandon whatever Magnus intended. Because she feared she knew what he intended. I know a priest who will marry us tonight.
Jostled … hoisted … heaved high, she was passed into the arms of another. Her fears confirmed, she felt the hard press of a saddle against her bottom and a man’s body behind hers, holding her fast. She gasped for breath, turning her face, seeking enough air to scream.
“You know I would never harm you, Elspeth,” said Magnus, close to her ear. “But if you insist on fighting me like this and fall on your head and die, it is no one’s fault but your own.”
Chapter 8
The animal tensed beneath them and bolted, Elspeth knew, toward the border.
She had snuck out of the castle, without leaving word of her true intentions with anyone. Would anyone even realize her absence until morning? That was too long. Once on Alwyn lands, secured inside their stronghold, there would be no saving her, not without a clan war.
It was up to her alone to escape. As the animal thudded over earth and stone, she held herself painfully alert, waiting for any pause or hesitation of motion in which she could spring free. But for what seemed like forever, they traveled on, she painfully clenched in Magnus’s arms, gasping for breath as the jarring force of their travel over hill and vale threatened to loosen every tooth in her head.
The Beast of Clan Kincaid Page 8