The Beast of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  “Take me home,” she demanded for the thousandth time. Hurt, furious, and miserable, she had pled, begged, and railed ceaselessly until her voice was hoarse, not knowing if he could hear her, but making every effort all the same. “Take me home now.”

  At last the horse slowed.

  She readied herself, knowing she must act quickly if given the chance. Whatever he intended would happen now. She had completely lost her bearings, but if she could escape him she could hide away in some furrow or crevice until first light and then stealthily find her way home. She wasn’t afraid of Magnus. He wouldn’t hurt her physically. Because of that, she felt no fear over attempting an escape.

  Magnus dismounted. She felt his body gone behind her, and heard the hard stamp of his boots on the earth. He pulled her down. Tangled in cloth and darkness, she lost her footing and slumped against him, gasping.

  “Are you all right, Elspeth?” he asked, holding her tight.

  “No,” she bellowed.

  He was arrogant enough to chuckle.

  Men’s voices spoke in low tones around her.

  “Take the horses. Secure them in the trees where they won’t be seen.”

  “Take her that way, down the path, and you will see the light.”

  “Whatever it is you have planned,” she cried, thrashing against his arms and the blanket, “it is a terrible plan, and it’s not too late to stop. Please.”

  He did not answer. Instead, he hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her, near crushing her ribs as he climbed, up up up, she feeling each rise in elevation, as his boots crunched against stone and moss.

  She kicked. He smacked her bottom.

  “Magnus!”

  “Then stop it,” he commanded.

  The others laughed heartily.

  He placed her onto her feet and quickly freed her of the shroud. Cold air chilled her skin, and a strong wind caught her cloak. She wobbled, out of sorts and unsteady, trying to see through the darkness, and the wild tangle of her hair.

  They stood atop a high sìthean, that much she’d already surmised—but before she could bolt, he seized her hand and pulled her into a copse of trees, where in the distance a lantern flickered and a bald-pated man stood, wearing a cassock. Tree limbs creaked ominously.

  She dug in her heels. “You cannot force me.”

  “Of course I can,” he answered with a dry laugh. “It happens all the time.”

  “I can’t believe you’re laughing about this,” she wailed.

  “I think at least one of us should be happy on the night we are wed.”

  “I will never be happy,” she blurted. “Not if it happens like this. Which means you will never be happy either.”

  He paused on the path, and turned toward her, grasping her by the upper arms.

  “I know what troubles you,” he said, suddenly serious.

  “Yes, Magnus, you,” she retorted.

  He tilted his head, considering her thoughtfully. “You think because we have been friends for so long, like brother and sister, that being husband and wife will be strange. But you’re wrong. You’ll see. I will learn to love you, and you will learn to love me.”

  Squeezing her arms, and pulling her a few inches closer, he looked at her a long moment … and swallowed hard, as if gathering courage—

  “Don’t do it,” she warned, eyes wide.

  Seizing her close, he crushed his mouth to hers.

  He tasted of ale—and Magnus—and everything wrong.

  She wrenched free, swinging her fist, and struck his jaw.

  Stumbling back, she stared at him as he laughed ruefully and muttered a curse, all while rubbing his face. Her lips throbbed, offended by his unwanted kiss. His companions moved closer, as if to subdue her, but he waved them off.

  “Don’t touch her.”

  Elspeth stared at him. Things were changed between them now … forever, and it made her sad. But she was too angry to cry over it.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

  “That was a mighty wicked thump,” he said, still rubbing. “But I am not surprised. I did teach you how to use your fists, if you recall.”

  Yes, to protect herself against Hugh, when they were young. Back when their clans had gathered together. He spoke of old times, and yet she did not know this tall, blond stranger anymore. He was no longer her childhood friend.

  “It wasn’t all that bad, was it?” he inquired teasingly.

  She heard something else in his voice. Shame. A plea for forgiveness. He had transgressed, and he knew it, which gave her a glimmer of hope.

  “Magnus—” she pled softly.

  “You’ll forgive me in time,” he said with finality, straightening his shoulders. “So let us go now and get married.”

  Her stomach twisted at his words.

  “This is wrong,” she asserted, scooting backward.

  He stepped toward her, and reached for her hand—

  She seized her arm back, out of his reach.

  He lunged—

  But never touched her.

  Because a shadow hurtled out of the night, slamming him to the ground.

  * * *

  Elspeth didn’t know every detail of how it happened. She just knew that within moments, she was racing down the hillside, doing her best to keep up with Niall, who held her hand tight and pulled her along.

  “Come on now.” He paused, a step below her, his muscular legs braced wide on the uneven ground, looking back at her.

  Her sleeve dangled, torn at the shoulder, and leaves and twigs rustled and bobbed in her hair. Niall had blood on his face and sleeve—which she felt certain did not belong to him. The wind ruffled his hair. Even in the darkness, his blue eyes were bright and he wore an exhilarated sort of smile, as if he took satisfaction in a good fight.

  Someone burst out of the trees behind them.

  Startled, Elspeth scrambled closer to Niall. With one arm, he swept her behind him, shielding her with his body.

  But it was only the priest, with the lantern swinging from his hand. He froze at seeing them and in a burst of movement, rushed past.

  “Man of God!” he exclaimed shrilly. “Please don’t hurt me. Peace be with you both.”

  He disappeared down the hill, until he was just a bobbing light in the dark.

  Niall peered down at her, breathing hard and looking so handsome her heart turned over inside her chest. “This way. Best we hurry as well.”

  He offered his hand, open palmed.

  “I’ll try.” She nodded, taking it, and with her other hand lifted the hem of her skirt. “But I seem to have lost my shoes somewhere along the way.”

  She was not tenderfooted by far, and often went barefoot, but the stones here were loose and sharp. He looked at her feet.

  “We can’t have that, now, can we?” he asked. “I will carry you.”

  “Ah, you needn’t—” she protested.

  Well, perhaps not protested, but the idea of him holding her seemed too much—

  He dipped low, catching her up into his arms, and holding tight against his chest.

  How nice.

  The night sky spun high above as he thudded down the incline, deftly sidestepping outcroppings of stone, soft moss, and tufted ferns, carrying her as if she were no burden at all. She held fast, her arms around his neck, feeling the hard flex of his shoulder muscles beneath her palms as he twisted and moved. She remembered Fiona saying something once, that there was nothing more attractive than a competent man. At the time she’d been a young girl, without true understanding, but now she agreed.

  She would remember this night forever. What a magnificent melee it had been. Bodies flying. Fists thudding. She’d even jumped on someone’s back, and been thrown off, so she felt some pleasure in having done her part. What pleased her most was that Magnus and his men had been completely stunned and overwhelmed by Niall’s sudden attack. Ha! They had deserved to be taken completely unaware, for what they had done. Magnus, she felt quite cer
tain, had earned himself a broken nose.

  At the bottom of the hill, hidden in the shadows, a horse awaited, an enormous black animal with wise, intelligent eyes and a disciplined stance. A battle destrier, most assuredly, finer than any she had ever seen. Niall set her down on a patch of moss, which was cool and soft under her aching feet. In the distance she heard voices. Shouts. Hooves, pounding on earth.

  “They are coming,” she exclaimed.

  “Aye, let them.” He chuckled—and she knew he meant it. For this man, fighting was not only livelihood, but apparently sport. He looked at her beneath the dark slash of his eyebrows. “Can you climb up?”

  She did so, swiftly, thrusting her bare foot into the stirrup and swung astride the leather saddle, careful to secure her skirts about her bottom and her legs for comfort—and modesty—as she did when she rode her own pony.

  In a breath, he was behind her, close and strong, his trew-covered thighs flexing against hers, bringing a blush high into her cheeks. She had never felt such excitement, such pleasure at being close to a man. Taking up the reins, he gigged the animal with his heels, and they started off into the dark at a rapid canter.

  At his urging, the destrier moved faster, and faster still. And yet the terrain was neither flat nor clear of obstacles. The horse pivoted and lunged around the stones and leapt over a patch of sweet gale, sending up thunder from its hooves. She clenched the wide pommel and leaned forward, the muscles of her stomach and thighs clenching as she anticipated its next movement, half terrified she’d fly out of the saddle.

  Niall’s arm caged her tight across her ribs. “I have you.”

  And she was glad. She had never been on a horse so powerful, so mightily agile—in that way, a mirror of its master.

  Her heart beat faster as shadowy figures hurtled toward them from either side—Magnus and his companions on their fast, strong-legged ponies.

  Niall slowed his animal, speaking commands in a tongue she did not understand. The horse reared, as if in battle, and screamed magnificently before plunging forward and breaking through their ranks, sending the smaller animals spinning round in retreat. Voices shouted curses after them. She looked back, her hair flying over Niall’s shoulder, and saw that Magnus and the others followed at a distance.

  A moment later, when she looked again, she did not see them anymore.

  They raced toward MacClaren territory. She did her best to hold herself forward in the saddle, to keep her body apart from his. She had never ridden on a horse thusly with a man, both of them astride and their bodies so intimately aligned. Oh, perhaps as a child, riding with some equally childish boy or with her father, but not as a woman with an awareness of a man, and never with a man such as Niall.

  And yet when he pulled her tight against his chest, his hold firm and decisive, she gave into temptation … easing against him, her body taking on the rhythm of the horse, feeling so secure in his arms she almost dozed off to sleep. But she did not, because she did not want to miss a moment with Niall. In the past months, she had increasingly come to feel like a prisoner in her own life with no hope of ever seeing the light again. With him, she felt alive and free.

  Eventually the night landscape became familiar and in the distance she saw the castle tower. She was almost home. Her time with him was nearly over. Would she think of this night later, when she was married to someone else? She knew she would.

  Though it was after midnight, she wished the journey back had taken longer. That they hadn’t returned so soon. Above, outside the castle walls, the bonfires still burned, though dimmer now. The music still played—but quieter. Voices still laughed and sang. Just fewer. No one had missed her at all. Anyone asking about her would have likely believed she had remained with Fiona for the night.

  Niall guided the animal toward the base of the hill, where the footpath led to the castle, but he did not stop there. Instead, he continued on as if he would instead take the wider road used by riders and wagons, all the way to the gates. But she could not allow him to do that.

  “You can let me down here,” she said, straightening in the saddle, prepared to dismount immediately.

  Yet Niall did not move his arm, which prevented her from going anywhere.

  “I’ll take you inside to your father and bear witness to what happened,” he said, the deep tone of his voice sending a frisson of awareness down her spine. “It would be wrong of me to send you to face him alone.”

  “No,” she answered, twisting in the saddle to look into his eyes—her heart beating wildly at finding their faces, their lips just inches apart. “Please, Niall, I don’t want him to know what happened with Magnus.”

  * * *

  Niall froze—nay, more aptly, burned, his every physical sense attuned to the woman between his legs, her pretty mouth speaking his name, so close to his that he felt her breath feather across his lips.

  He hardly comprehended her words, for the pounding of his blood in his ears.

  And elsewhere.

  It was no simple thing, riding a horse with a winsome young woman, and Elspeth was … more than winsome. He had taken notice of everything. The way her bottom pressed against his groin. The way her waist felt against the curve of his arm. And God spare him. The weight of her breasts, each time their undersides brushed, warm and heavy, against his linen sleeve. Not to mention her hair. Her soft, honeysuckle-scented hair as it flew back on the night wind to caress his cheek, although she had done her best to secure it beneath her hood. Everything about her was sweet—and he was one dangerous breath away from being smitten.

  Yet this was the MacClaren’s eldest daughter and because of that, his seduction of her must be undertaken without the involvement of his conscience. In this—the claiming of his enemy’s eldest daughter—he must proceed with the same calculated precision as he did in all things, and not to make a single misstep.

  “Will you keep my confidence?” she asked, her hand squeezing his arm. “Please, Niall. I beg you. You must.”

  But … Magnus. What, exactly, was she asking him? Standing in the stirrup, he lifted his leg over and stepped down.

  “Come here,” he said, extending a hand to her. “I want to talk to you.”

  Not there in the saddle, where he could hardly think, with her being so close against him, his mind clouded by desire. She brought her leg over, and for the briefest moment he glimpsed her slender legs and ankles amidst the jumble of her skirts. She braced her hands on his shoulders and slid off the saddle.

  Just like that, the temptation proved too great. His hands on her rib cage, he pulled her close—closer than he ought, as he lowered her to the ground. His blood hummed, from the simple act of touching her so, of feeling the crush of her breasts against his chest, her arms around his shoulders. His ardor roused, he knew in that moment that she would be a fantasy in bed.

  Aye, in his bed. Furs. Tangled linen. Her mouth. Her skin. Her hair.

  Now. Kiss her now.

  Yet earthbound, she sidestepped him, quickly backing away, and turned to look at him expectantly. He remembered the request for secrecy that she had made.

  “Your father must know about Magnus,” he said. “That your virtue and your very life were threatened by him. Such a grievous assault against your person cannot go unanswered.”

  “My father doesn’t even know I was gone,” she answered urgently. “No one does. That must not change.”

  His heart flared with jealousy. Would Elspeth entertain the idea of marrying Magnus, if he courted her properly? If their fathers came to a peaceful agreement?

  “Why is it that you want to protect him?” he asked darkly.

  He wanted to know how she felt about the tall, blond warrior, a competent fighter who had slammed Niall to the ground, and rammed a fist against his jaw making him see stars that had nothing to do with those in the night sky above. He felt certain a bruise might be visible there, when not concealed by shadows.

  She shook her head. “It is myself I protect. I have always enjoy
ed a certain freedom here. If my father knows I was taken, that will end. I will be confined to the castle, escorted everywhere by guards. If these are to be my last days of freedom before marrying, I wish to be free.”

  “And Magnus?”

  She shrugged. “Things are already so tense between our clans. While I don’t understand why he did what he did tonight, and I am very angry with him for it … he is a friend. Since childhood, Niall. I don’t want him hurt. I don’t want anyone to be harmed or to die, not for me. If my father finds out, I fear what he will do.”

  He looked at her a long moment, into her wide and pleading eyes, and reminded himself that everything must work toward his end, not hers. Perhaps sharing this secret with her now, would be to his benefit later.

  “As you wish,” he answered.

  She gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  They looked at one another. Jesu, she was lovely, looking back at him from beneath those dark lashes, her skin illuminated in the night. His pulse quickened at the prospect of pulling her close. Of discovering the feel of her in his arms, the softness of her lips.

  “I must go,” she said, backing away. “Before someone finds me here.”

  He growled inwardly, watching her go—knowing it was too soon to do anything but. She turned, pulling the hood of her cloak over her hair, and climbed the path on steps created of earth, flat stones, and grass.

  Niall bent and snatched up Fitheach’s reins, prepared to return to the saddle and the solitude of his camp across the river.

  Yet something made him turn back and watch her.

  One moment he saw her shadow moving along the path—the next he did not. He stared hard into the darkness, but no. She was not there, on the path, as she should be.

  Had she simply disappeared into shadows, or had she stopped along the way? Having seen her abducted once already this night, he could not simply ride away.

  He dropped the reins and climbed the steps, his curiosity quickly transforming into concern. He peered into each curve and cranny—

  Until he found her in the deeper shadows of an alcove.

  Seeing him, she let out a small sound of surprise, and lifted a hand to her eyes, he knew, to strike away tears.