“A servant of the king.”
A courtier. Damn it. They were after him again, and he’d put them off too long. This would be trouble and he had no time for it.
Kenna twisted a bit, making clear that she wanted to be set down. Finlay reluctantly eased her to her feet. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Politics.”
“Who is it?”
“Just a courtier. Nothing more.”
Kenna frowned. “They know about you?”
“No.” The king didn’t know about him, but he and his people suspected something. Something that might benefit the crown. “It’s nothing,” he said again. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Kenna shot him a sharp glance, but Finlay pretended he hadn’t meant what he’d meant, and led her quickly across the courtyard. Not his bed, then. Not tonight.
“Laird MacLain.” The lanky young man bowed just low enough to convey the appropriate amount of respect and no more. “I am Guthrie, here as a servant to our king.”
Finlay inclined his head. “And here I thought you’d come to break bread with me.” The man’s tight smile offered the exact opposite of amusement. Finlay’s gut turned with dislike. He hated court and everything about it, and here was a man who clearly thrived on politics.
“The king requested that I come personally to remind you of your promise to present yourself at Stirling before month’s end. In case it has escaped your notice, the month draws quickly to a close.”
“I haven’t time for this right now,” Finlay snapped.
The man smirked. “You should be careful not to displease him. Again.”
God’s blood. He’d ignored James as long as he’d been able, but his refusal to show himself at court had only sharpened the royal curiosity. Finlay was aware of the rumors floating beneath the surface of polite society. No one suspected he was a vampire, of course. No one at court knew what a vampire was.
No, they thought he was a sorcerer, able to bend people to his will through magic. The king wished to find out if this was true, and if it was…Well, then Finlay would prove a permanent asset at court.
Ironically, if they knew the true extent of his powers, he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the king. Finlay tried one last excuse.
“I have no special skills to offer the king, and I am needed here.”
The courtier’s scornful glance about the hall made clear what he thought of Finlay’s words. “Regardless of your duties here, the king’s patience is at an end. Either you arrive at Stirling Castle before the end of the month, or you’ll be tried for witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft! That’s an outrageous insult.”
“Come now, Laird MacLain. All of Scotland knows you sold your soul to the Devil. But only the king knows what you received in return.”
“God above, that’s ridiculous.”
“I’m sure our liege will be pleased to discuss it with you. Or see you burned at the stake, of course.”
If I punch him, I will kill him, Finlay told himself. His fist clenched, but he managed to keep it by his side and didn’t even consider reaching for his sword. This preening bastard had no idea how lucky he was. Years ago, Finlay hadn’t known the meaning of self-control. Destroying everyone around him had finally taught him that lesson. He wished it hadn’t been so damned hard to learn.
“I’ve had a long journey, Guthrie. If you’ll excuse me, I mean to take my rest. We can speak over supper tonight, if you like.”
“Ah, I’m afraid I’ll have to extend my sincere regret, Laird MacLain. I left my men in Doune and must rejoin them for the journey back. I arrived last night, you know. In fact, I can’t imagine how I missed you on the road as you left. Passing strange, don’t you agree?”
“Not particularly. I wish you well on your journey, then. Godspeed.”
“And on yours as well, Laird MacLain. May it be soon.” The courtier touched a finger to his brilliant blue bonnet, put his other hand on his sword hilt, offered a tiny bow, and left.
Christ, he hoped the man had the good sense to remove the peacock feathers during his ride or he’d likely be killed by hunters. Or set upon by brigands. Finlay tried, and failed, not to smile at the thought.
Light eked past the tight seams of the shutters, so it was past time for him to find his bed. He wondered if Kenna had managed to fall asleep yet. She’d been as skittish as that horse when he’d led her inside. The sight of Mrs. McDermott had seemed to offer only the barest comfort. Then again, the woman was fantastically old. Perhaps Kenna thought the housekeeper was a walking corpse as well.
He waited for Gray to confirm that the king’s man was well and truly gone, and then Finlay took the stairs. The twisted hallway led to ten rooms, then up to the parapets above. But aside from his room, there were only three kept ready. Two of the doors stood open; the third was closed. This was Kenna’s room.
Before he even reached her door, he knew he would end up standing before it. He’d stand there and wonder. He’d imagine her inside. Finlay knew all this even as his feet came to a stop.
Worried that she might be cold, he drew in a deep breath and caught the scent of woodsmoke and hot iron. Yes, Mrs. McDermott’s grandson had laid out a good pyre of wood. The smell of fresh bread crept into the hallway as well, satisfying his next worry.
She was warm and fed and safe, and the sound of her breathing made clear she’d found sleep as well. Finlay could move on now, but he didn’t. Instead, he stared at the latch and told himself not to touch it.
It didn’t matter that she’d let him kiss her earlier. It didn’t matter that her bonny body had heated at his touch and grown wet as he kissed her. It didn’t matter because she’d thought him a man then, and now if she woke to find him watching her sleep, her heart might stop with sheer terror.
Ah, well. When she woke later, perhaps sleep would have stolen some of her fear. As for his own…Well, he didn’t have much hope that his fear would fade before he woke.
Kenna Graham was his mate, and he had no idea what to do with her.
Chapter Three
At first, the darkness was like a cocoon, warm and safe and familiar. But slowly, as Kenna tried to ease free of the muffling bonds of sleep, she realized something was not right. Her tiny room beneath the attic eaves of the inn might be dark and relatively safe, but it was decidedly not warm. And her regular pallet wasn’t thick and springy beneath her back.
Eyes wide open, Kenna lay still and tried to see something, anything. Finally, an ember caught her eye, then another spark of deep orange. The glowing coals looked like the gaze of a beast for a brief, frightening moment, and that was when she remembered.
The MacLain.
A tiny squeak escaped her throat before she could stop it, but then Kenna swallowed her breath, forced it back, and held it tight within her lungs. Was he here with her? Was he in the bed? She listened for breathing, but heard nothing and sensed no one. If only it weren’t so dark.
Before ten heartbeats had passed, Kenna had already grown impatient with her terror. She’d never been impulsive, and she couldn’t stand to lie there wondering what might be happening, so she sighted her eyes on those glowing embers and eased her feet over the side of the bed. She could picture the room now, a simple square furnished with nothing more than a bed and chest. The door was to her left, and it hadn’t been locked behind her when she’d been left here.
Forcing herself to stand, she moved three feet forward and reached her hand to the left. After a few tense moments of groping, she finally touched the wood of the door. The latch opened when she pushed it, and the door swung silently in.
Finally, a bit of light. Not much, but enough to see that her small chamber was empty. A candle sat on a table. Kenna wrenched it from the holder and pushed it into the embers. The wick caught, and she could see. Yes, she was alone, aside from the ghosts who lived here, and there had to be plenty. But after facing the hell-beast who’d tried to eat her earlier, Kenna couldn’t summon
up fear for mere wisps of spirit.
And what of the hell-beast who’d kissed her?
Kenna slumped back down to the feather bed. She was in MacLain Castle. With the MacLain. And he was some sort of faery or demon or vampire, whatever that might mean.
She couldn’t imagine that she’d managed to sleep, but the bread and mead had filled her belly and muddled her mind, and sleep had been the only clear answer as to what to do.
But what to do now? Was it day? Night? She glanced at the shutters of the window and the three thick iron bars that kept them closed. Then she glanced at the open door. Well then. The easiest path seemed the best answer. Kenna pulled on her shoes.
Though she began with weak knees and a rattling heart, as the minutes passed and Kenna found nothing and no one in the passageway, she grew weary of her cowering and simply explored. She found the stairway easily enough, but when she reached the great hall, nothing moved there but two flickering rush lights.
Had she been left here alone then? The last traces of her fear hardened into irritation. For a great laird with the power of the Devil on his side, MacLain led a decidedly severe life. There were no servants rushing about, no pot bubbling over the fire, no fire at all, for heaven’s sake.
Shivering from the cold and scowling over her empty stomach, Kenna ventured toward the small door set next to the hearth. Pray God there was a kitchen there, complete with fire and food. She could not face life with monsters without something warm in her belly.
Her perseverance was rewarded. In the kitchen, Kenna discovered a pot of parritch steaming in the hearth. No servants still. Perhaps the laird had called them all to his chambers to bathe and perfume him.
Laughing at the very idea of MacLain wearing perfume, Kenna retrieved a wooden bowl and spoon from a shelf and ladled out a generous helping of parritch to fill her belly.
She sat at a small wood table, but after the first bite found herself nervously glancing between the doorway that led to the hall and the smaller door that likely led to a garden. How vulnerable it felt, sitting here, waiting for a stranger to stumble upon her.
Kenna grabbed up her bowl and carried it with her to wander the hall. There was not much to see in the huge square room. One large table sat before the cold hearth. Four benches were pulled ’round it. An old claymore hung above the mantel, and two tapestries flanked it. The bright colors of the pictures told her nothing, though, aside from the fact that some long-ago ancestor had greatly enjoyed hunting stag. And perhaps that the wife had resented the time he spent hunting.
There was the arched opening that led to the stairway and on the opposite side of the hall, another opening to a room that looked to be a chapel. Kenna was hardly surprised to see it empty. She swallowed another large bite of parritch and headed toward the last point of interest: the heavy, iron-studded door at the front of the hall.
The bolt hadn’t been thrown, so when she tugged the door open, she expected to see bright daylight, but she found the orange glow of a setting sun instead. It bounced off the birch trees that had been allowed to crowd into the flat yard. The lack of servants had extended to groundskeeping, it seemed. Only a few stones remained exposed in the bailey floor. The rest was grass and tamped dirt.
If she hadn’t seen people here already, she’d assume the place deserted.
Had she dreamed it all? Everything? That seemed more likely than not, considering the memories.
But someone had made this parritch. And someone had brought her here. Someone with fangs and a bonny smile. Surely those two things shouldn’t go together.
Kenna propped herself against the edge of the doorway and watched the light turn from orange to red to dusky violet. She was just scraping the last of the oats from the bowl when she spied a hooded figure come around the corner of the keep. It moved close to the edge of the castle wall, like an animal comforted by the nearness of shelter.
She felt a bit like a wild animal herself, frozen to the spot and hoping not to be spotted. But it was futile. The thing was headed right toward her.
Suddenly, its head lifted and dark eyes locked onto hers.
A girl. Kenna blinked, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure why she thought the person was female. But there was something ineffably feminine in the small mouth and delicate bones of the face. Beyond that, she could have been a boy. Her black hair was shorn close and her sickly pale skin offered no hint at vanity.
“Good even’,” Kenna said, because she could think of nothing else.
The girl watched her for a long moment, scowling, and the scowl identified her as the servant who’d held the horse that morning. Kenna had thought her a boy at the time. Without a word, the girl walked on, right past Kenna, as if she hadn’t intended to enter the door. She looked angry, as if she wanted Kenna gone. Because Kenna added to her work, or was there another reason?
“If you’re thinking of escape, I’d wait till morning,” a deep voice rumbled from behind her shoulder.
Kenna dropped the bowl and whirled around with hands held high. They bounced harmlessly off MacLain’s chest. Her little slap neither hurt nor offended him, it seemed. He merely inclined his head.
“You slept well, I hope, Mistress Kenna?”
“Aye,” she croaked. “And you?”
“I admit to a bit of restlessness, worrying over you.” He smiled and knelt to retrieve her bowl and spoon. “I see you’ve broken your fast.”
“Yes, I-I apologize. There was no one about and I…”
“Will you sit with me while I break mine?”
What could she say? No, I prefer to stay here and watch the moon rise? But it seemed wrong to dine with a monster.
He decided the question by offering his arm and another of those smiles. Kenna gingerly put her hand on his, surprised when he flinched slightly at her touch.
“Are you hurt, Laird MacLain?”
“Nay, nothing like that.”
And what could that mean? She glanced toward him to find his jaw tense, but he said nothing more. She’d never been much for subtlety. “What is it, then?”
He looked down, frowning, and seemed to study her for a moment. Then he shrugged and stared straight ahead. “I was watching you, standing there, and I was thinking of our kiss, and of how I admire you.”
Oh. “Well, I…”
“And then you turned and I saw the look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “The look that sees me for what I am, Mistress Kenna. The truth is not always easy to bear.”
She didn’t know what to say. He’d been thinking of their kiss? Kenna ducked her head. It had been a lovely kiss, soft and hot, and she’d been thinking of it herself before. Before.
He was a beast, and yet he’d been the first man in years to treat her as a woman, as a person.
When they reached the kitchen, Laird MacLain waved her toward the table and served himself. Her husband would never have done that. He’d expected to be cared for by all and sundry. But the laird himself retrieved his own bowl and scooped up parritch as if it were a natural occurrence.
He took the next seat at the square table, his left knee jutting out toward her. As he ate, Kenna found herself sneaking glances at his leg. Crisp bronze hairs dusted the length of his lower leg, more sparsely on his calf than on his shin. Muscles bulged, as sharp as cut rock beneath his skin. She could just see the bottom of his knee beneath the dark edge of his plaid and was suddenly overwhelmed with an urge to touch it. To lay her hand on his bare skin and feel his flesh jump at her touch.
Her husband had often teased her about her physical appetite. Stronger than any man’s, he’d said. And he’d been right. She’d loved that part of married life, and she’d missed it after his death. Until she’d grown too tired to miss it.
But now her fingers itched to smooth over those crisp hairs and listen for the shock of his indrawn breath.
Kenna fisted her hands tightly in her lap. “How can you possibly be fifty years
old?”
“I’m not,” he answered. “I’m past seventy.”
“Good God! But you look so…”
He flashed a smile. “Bonny?”
“Bonny? No, I wouldn’t say bonny. Not at all.”
“Oh.” He looked a bit crestfallen at that, and Kenna couldn’t help but smile.
“I was going to say braw, Laird MacLain. You’re a bit too big for bonny.”
“Really?”
The smile was back, and Kenna had to remind herself that sometimes his mouth held fangs.
“Big and braw, did you say?” He looked exceptionally pleased with himself, just as any man would.
“Aye. Big and braw…and terribly old.”
MacLain slapped a hand over his heart with a grimace. “Och, lassie. Such cruelty in a wee babe.” His plaid rode up a bit, exposing an inch of his thigh as it flexed with the movement. A bonny sight despite her previous words.
And what the devil was she doing thinking such things?
The world sat heavily and suddenly on her shoulders. Her life had been tossed high in the air and she was flailing aimlessly. Flailing, indeed. Tumbling toward the ground and thinking of this man’s legs?
“Laird MacLain, when can I go home?”
His eyes dropped to the empty bowl and he set his spoon carefully inside. “After I’ve hunted down Jean Montrose.”
“You said you’d been after him for fifty years.”
“Aye.” He looked up to her, regret clear in her eyes, and Kenna knew this was worse than she’d allowed herself to imagine.
She shoved up to her feet. “What of me, then? What of my life?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I canna stay here forever in this godforsaken place!”
“I ken that. I’ll do my best to find him quickly. He’s a foul-tempered rat. He’ll try for revenge before going to ground.”
“A fortnight,” she muttered. “I shall give you a fortnight to find him. He’ll have forgotten me by then, surely.”
“A man who lives for hundreds of years does not forget things so easily, Kenna. It isn’t safe.”
Born to Bite Bundle Page 20