TemptationinTartan (23 page)

He also saw the extent to which farming had begun. Given the
lack of manpower, much arable ground had been plowed. Tender green shoots had
poked their heads above stony ground. He nudged Dugald’s side and pointed.
“What are you trying to grow at this time of year?”

“Winter barley, kale, a few other crops that we think may
survive.”

“Hmm.” Edgar caught Kier’s eye.
’Tis a risky venture.

Kier shrugged in response. “And fishponds?”

Edgar looked. Sure enough, several silver patches glittered
below.

“Likewise risky,” Dugald said. “But we willnae ken unless we
try. We’re preparing for the winter as best we can.”

He led them into the solar, where Edgar’s grandmam sat in
front of a spinning wheel, humming a tune. She shrieked when she saw Edgar, who
braced himself for the onslaught. Hugs were exchanged, with Edgar holding his
breath. They went to the Lower Hall for lunch, while Grandmam pinched his
cheeks and exclaimed over his added weight and height.

Lunch was bannocks, stew and wild greens. Most of his clan
sat at the long tables—all women and children—as well the Kilborn men. They
didn’t separate into clan groups but sat in clusters, most often each woman
with a man, frequently accompanied by children.

After finishing his ale, Kier leaned back into his chair
with a satisfied grunt. “Any weddings or handfastings?” he asked Dugald.

“Aye, and I predict that there will be more than a few new
bairns come this spring.”

“And thus Laird Edgar’s clan increases.”

“They’ll all be Kilborns. Not that I mind,” Edgar added
hastily.

“The children that ye see bear the name of MacReiver,”
Dugald said. “Trust me when I say that Dame Ellen is making sure they
understand their loyalty belongs to ye.”

Kier fixed Dugald with his dark eyes. “We have to take Dirk
home.”

“He’s a loss, to be sure, even with his head in the clouds
mooning about his Rose. She’s close to droppin’ their bairn?”

“Aye.”

“Well, it cannae be helped. Who are ye leavin’ in his place?
We need every hand to fit this drafty auld pile of rocks for winter.” He caught
Edgar’s glance and winked.

“Archie,” Kier said.

Dugald rolled his eyes.

“He’s nae so bad,” milaird said firmly.

“Duncan.”

“Are ye mad? He’ll cause havoc amongst the wenches when they
catch a look at him.”

“Ye’re right,” Dugald said with evident reluctance. “Archie
it is.”

* * * * *

The sun glittered on a calm blue sea. Niall relied on the
northward-flowing current to carry his craft to a spot he judged would yield a
goodly catch on this, one of the last good fishing days of the year. He reefed
the sail, set his fishing lines and sighed.

“What ails ye, Da?” Ian asked.

“We’ll no’ be seein’ the sea much after this day.”

“Nay, not much through the winter.”

They sat in silence for some hours, reeling in their catch,
mostly herring and whitefish. As the sun lifted higher into the clear sky, Ian
unwrapped a few slices of meat and offered one to his da, along with a chunk of
bread.

Niall chewed thoughtfully, eyes on the lines. The boat rose
and fell softly with the gentle swell until it bounced. Ian was standing, hand
to his forehead, staring at the northward horizon. “Da! Da!” He pointed.

Niall balanced himself with one hand on the mast and,
continuing to chew, rose to his feet to see p’raps a half-dozen sails, maybe
more. The boats tacked hither and yon over the sea, for the day was relatively
windless, providing only slight breezes for sailing.

“’Tis odd,” he mused.

One of the boats caught a puff of wind and scudded closer.
Niall squinted. “Ian,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “do ye see swords
at the side of the men in that boat?”

“I…mayhap…that’s no’ a fishin’ boat, Da. There are too many
men in it! We have to get back now.”

Ian set the sail while Niall grabbed the tiller and turned the
boat. Unanchored in the deep waters, they’d drifted farther north. Ian hastily
dragged in the lines as Niall waggled the tiller, trying to catch the breeze in
the limp sails.

He saw a flash of light before a loud bang sounded. Pain
tore through his shoulder and he fell.

Ian grabbed his father a moment before he toppled over the
boat’s side, dragging him to the nearest bench seat.

“Get us home…” Niall mumbled. “Clan under attack.”

“It cannae be!”

“It must be. Why…why else would…” He weakly indicated his shoulder,
from which blood oozed.

Ian grabbed it and squeezed to stop the red flow. Niall
screamed. Ian let go and looked up. The attacking fleet was closer still, not
more a hundred yards away, but moving slowly…could it be that the overloaded
craft couldnae sail any faster?

He yanked off his shirt and stuffed it into his da’s hand,
then shoved that hand against the wound. “Good…good boy,” Niall mumbled,
wincing. “Now get us home.”

* * * * *

Owain tended to be more alert on those days when milaird was
absent. True, most days Laird Kieran would go out on patrol or to hunt, but
when he went further afield—like today, when milaird had traveled to the lands
of conquered Clan MacReiver—Owain was doubly on guard.

He took his noontime meal atop the wall-walk, munching bread
and cheese rather than eating in the comfort of the Great Hall. He knew that
he’d not enjoy his food if worried. He perched within a crenellation, his
shoulder against a great block of stone near the Dark Tower, watching the
soothing lap of the waves as they eternally washed the shore and slapped
against the sea stacks that guarded their little cove.

A red-sailed fishing boat shot between the sea stacks and
into the cove. Niall’s boat. But what the
diabhol
? Owain couldnae see
Niall, but there was Ian at the tiller, heading the craft directly toward the
stony beach without slowing it a whit.

The lad was screaming, but Owain couldnae hear the words.
Sensing trouble, he dropped his food and stood. Then Ian bent toward a pile of
rags inside the craft, and lifted what was finally recognizable as Niall. A
splotch of blood marred the fisherman’s shoulder.

“
Rach air muin
,” Owain swore. “What now?”

He looked at the barred door of the Dark Tower. The old keep
was surely the swiftest way down to the cove, but after the punishment meted
out to milady and the wench Moira, Owain had no wish to test Laird Kieran’s
tolerance. And the tower, with its twisty corridors floored with rotting wood,
was dangerous.

Instead, he leaned over the opposite wall and shouted to get
the attention of the men in the courtyard. “To the cove, quick! And find auld
Mhairi. We need a healer.”

He dashed down to the beach by the quickest way possible,
which was down a staircase that went from the upper walk to the bailey, then
through into the courtyard and out of the great gates, which stood open.

He hurried down the cliff path to find that he’d been
preceded by a half-dozen men who were tending to Niall.

“Sir!” Ian grasped Owain’s arm.

“What is it, lad?”

“We saw boats, many boats, heading this way. They werenae
fishing boats. There were many men aboard, and one shot me da.”

Kendrick pressed a pad of cloth to Niall’s shoulder and
bound it there before three others lifted the wounded fisherman, preparing to
carry him up to safety.

“
Rach air muin
,” Owain said again. “We’re being
attacked.”

“That’s what me da said. But who? Why?”

“Doesnae matter, lad. Raise the alarm. Get yourself and your
mam and your sisters into the castle. Tell everyone ye see to get inside the
bailey.”

Ian stared, stunned.

“Go!” Owain gave him a little push and the boy scurried
toward the cliff path, reaching it before the party carrying Niall. Owain
followed at a trot, eying the sea caves at the base of the Dark Tower with
longing. That route could be faster, but who knew how the old gentleman would
react to any invasion of his home? And who understood the warren of tunnels and
passages? A man could easily become lost.

No, the cliff path was best. Anyone who braved the ancient
keep was a fool.

* * * * *

Roused by the ruckus, Sir Gareth grumbled and muttered as he
hauled his creaky old body out of bed. He thrust his arms into a long-sleeved,
lace-trimmed linen shirt and found his trews. Boots and a jacket followed. ’Twas
a sunny day, so he eschewed his cloak.

Up or down? Was he hungry for a visit to his prisoners or
did he wish to see what the kerfuffle was?

He thought fondly of his larder, of the flavorsome wench,
Moira. And taking blood from Seamas, his brother’s killer, was equally sweet.
Oh,
the delightful taste of revenge!

But best that he observe the situation before having a bite
to eat.

He trotted up the several flights of stairs between his
bedroom and the topmost turret of his keep. Shoving open a secret trapdoor, he
emerged into the sunny afternoon. He squinted, disliking the sunlight after the
pleasant dimness of his lair.

Below, men were carrying a wounded man up the cliff path
from the cove. One of young Kieran’s men was shouting orders. And sails dotted
the sea, some trying to use the faint breeze to tack quite near.

His interest piqued by the unusual events, he bounced a
little on the balls of his feet. Quite worth getting out of bed to see this, he
thought, then wondered what
this
was.

The boats were not of his clan, he realized, watching them
try and fail to shoot the narrow strait between the sea stacks into the cove.
Every Kilborn fisherman worthy of the job could make landfall on their beach.

And these boats carried peculiar cargo. No fishing gear or
bottles of wine for his enjoyment, but men.

Men and weapons.

His clan was under attack.

Gareth rushed downstairs to grab supplies from his
bedroom—an ancient pistol, a dirk, flint and steel—and sprinted to his larder
to fortify himself for the fray. It had been at least a century since he’d had
the opportunity for a good battle and he certainly didn’t plan to miss this
one.

He strode toward Seamas MacReiver. The dim light flashed on
something that whipped and clattered like a metal snake a moment before a chain
wrapped around Gareth’s neck. He choked and grappled at it with frantic
fingers, his mind racing.

MacReiver must have loosened his chain and thrown it to
strangle him, Gareth realized as he choked, his breath cut off. If MacReiver
tugged hard enough, the chain would tighten, and Gareth would lose his head
entirely with precious little chance of regaining it. He’d die the final death.

Seamas grunted and pulled the chain tighter. Dots swirled
before Gareth’s vision. The eyes inside saw clearly though, and he stopped his
futile effort to loosen the chain and instead reached for Seamas’ wrist. He
squeezed it until Seamas screamed and bones crunched. The gruesome sounds
echoed around the cave, bouncing off the rough, damp walls.

Gareth ripped Seamas’ arm out at the shoulder and used it as
a handle, unwrapping the chain and manacle from around his neck. Finally he
sucked in enough air to laugh.

“He almost had me there,” he choked out between fits of the
giggles. “Did you see that, lass? He almost had me there.”

Moira watched with wide green eyes while Gareth sucked appreciatively
at the torn end of Seamas’ arm, then at the shoulder. As the vampire drained
Seamas, she whispered, “Not today. I willnae die today.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Go, now. Find milaird and bring him back.” Owain slapped
the big bay’s rump and the messenger headed out of the gate at a trot, his
horse’s hooves clattering on the drawbridge. “Get everyone in here, now!” Owain
shouted. “We’re closing the gate and lowering the portcullis in five minutes!”

Rose staggered through the gate and leaned against the wall,
panting. Lydia dashed toward her, feeling the drag of the chatelaine’s keys and
hearing their jingle as they clattered at her waist. She grabbed the pregnant
woman’s arm as another contraction seized her. Rose bent, wrapping her arms
around her belly and trying to stifle her scream, which came out as a choking
gurgle.

Lydia waved to Grizel and the thin blonde hurried to them as
quickly as her skirts would allow. She took Rose’s other arm. “Take Rose to the
nook off the kitchen,” Lydia told Grizel. “Make sure that there’s boiling water
and enough clean cloths for her. Attend her until Mhairi finishes with Niall.”

The bailey was crammed with clanspeople and their children
running amuck, angry and terrified. Though the hold was enormous, it was
crowded and disorganized, and became more so with every minute as some tried to
bring in their goats and chickens.

Lydia struggled through the throng to Owain’s side. “The
larger animals cannot stay here, sir,” she said. “They should be driven up into
the hills.”

“Aye, the shepherds have done so. There’s an area of the
stable—” He turned away from her to shout, “Get the goats and pigs out of here.
Into the stables, not in the courtyard! Archers to the upper wall-walk, now!”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked him.

“Milady, your very presence buoys the people. Try to get the
women and bairns inside the Great Hall.”

A shout came from above. “Riders! Riders from the northeast,
with a company of soldiers on foot following.”

“How many?” Lydia called.

“P’raps a score of riders and a hundred men.”

She glanced at Owain, who said, “These are good odds.”

“My husband told me that we have a permanent garrison of
p’raps three score men.”

“Aye, but all the men know how to fight. Everyone can use a
bow or a sword. And ’tis hard to mount a siege, milady. They—whoever they
are—believed that they would take us unawares. With the great gate open, as it
is every day in times of peace, they could have walked in. And they seem to
think that they can attack us by sea.” He snorted derisively.

“What of the sea caves? Do they not give access to the
castle through the old keep?”

“Would ye go through there?” Owain’s brown eyes regarded
her, and she guessed he was thinking of her foray into the Dark Tower and her
subsequent punishment.

She shuddered. “No, I have no wish to encounter himself
again.”

“Exactly. What he has, he will keep.”

Kendrick approached. “Everyone’s inside.”

“Bring up the drawbridge and close the gate!” Owain bellowed
louder than the milling mob. “Portcullis down!”

As the great gate creaked to a close, Lydia urged the women
and children to follow her as she hastened inside the Garrison Tower and to the
busy Great Hall. When she’d settled the frantic mass of clanspeople, she went
into the kitchen where Fenella bustled among enormous pots of porridge and
stew.

“La!” Red-faced and sweaty, Fenella staggered to a chair and
collapsed. “I havenae seen so many of us here for an age.”

“Everyone’s inside, though,” Lydia said with satisfaction.
“And somewhat organized. The women and children are in the Great Hall and the
men are readying for battle.” Her belly churned. Where was Kieran?

“Where is Mhairi?” Fenella asked.

“Tending to Rose. Niall has been put in one of the guards’
barracks abovestairs. His family is with him.”

“Good. I’ll send up some food.”

“What else can be done?”

Fenella shook her head. “Nothing, now that the women and
bairns are inside and the men are readying for battle.”

“Nothing to do but wait.” Lydia drew in a trembling breath.

But where was Kieran? Would he be ambushed, trapped and
killed? Who had attacked? And why?

* * * * *

On the way back from his clan lands, Edgar caught sight of a
swift brown shadow flashing through the woods and gave chase. But the deer
easily outpaced poor Scout.

“I need a better mount,” he grumbled after he’d returned to
milaird’s side.

Leaning over, Kier ruffled his hair. “The next foal is
yours, laddie. Ye’ve earned it.”

The thump of cantering hooves caught Edgar’s attention, and
milaird dropped his sword hand to his weapon.

“Milaird! Milaird!”

“’Tis Davy,” Kier said with surprise. “This isnae good.”

“That’s milady’s horse. Why? Is she nae all right?” Edgar
grabbed Kier’s sleeve.

“I dinnae ken.”

Davy reined in the bay gelding, which slavered at the mouth
from exertion. “Milaird, the castle is under attack.”

“And milady?”

“Fine. I took her horse, for it’s the fastest one left in
the stable.”

Edgar relaxed and saw that the set of milaird’s shoulders
eased.

“Let’s be off. Quickly!” Standing in his stirrups, Kier
gestured to the escort, and they set off at a swift trot.

“They came by land and by sea,” Davy said, guiding his horse
by his laird’s side. “We were lucky to get warning. Owain is getting everyone
into the castle and closing the gate.”

“How many?”

Davy shook his head. “I dinnae ken. P’raps a hundred, all
told.”

“And they seek to besiege Kilborn Castle?” Kier laughed.

“I wonder who?” Edgar asked.

“It doesnae matter. Whoever they are, they will be dead by
nightfall.”

* * * * *

“Come, milady,” Owain beckoned Lydia. “’Tis right that ye
should see this.”

With Owain holding her arm, Lydia crossed the now peaceful,
organized courtyard to the staircase and climbed to the highest wall-walk.
Facing south, it ran between the Laird’s Tower and the old keep.

The battlement was crowded with archers readying their
weapons under Kendrick’s command. These were men she knew, had seen every day
as they went about smiling, eating, dicing and wenching—Gilchrist and Randal,
Rhain and Conn, now grim-faced but efficient. Some wielded longbows while
others had the more complex but powerful crossbow. Both, she knew, were lethal
in skilled hands. And she’d seen Kier train his men and hunt with them day
after day.

Far off, across the fields and scaling the hills, were the
flocks of Kilborn sheep being driven by the shepherds and their dogs over the
slopes and into the forests. Nearer was a company of ill-armed men led by a man
on a brown charger. He and p’raps a score of mounted guards rode swiftly toward
the castle. The men on foot struggled to keep up.

She drew in an angry breath. “That’s…that’s Hamish Gwynn.
Laird Hamish. I lately drank tea with him and his wife. What can he mean by
this?”

Owain stared in the same direction as she. “Ye’re right,
milady. And I ken the reason.”

“What?”

He pointed at a cassocked man mounted on a smaller gray.
“Yon rides their priest.”

“The Gwynn’s priest? What has he to do with this?”

Owain sighed. “When I went with ye to Straithness, I drank
in the tavern and listened to the talk. The Gwynns be very religious, milady.
They think that we Kilborns are some kind of fae creatures. What did ye and the
priest discuss?”

“The priest did talk about that. He spoke of fae creatures
he called vampires.”

“Did ye say that we are vampires?”

Lydia glanced at Owain’s midnight-black hair and dark eyes.
“Of course not. I don’t believe in such foolishness.” She kept her voice smooth
and calm, wondering for the umpteenth time,
What if?

“Well, the Gwynns do.”

“Mayhap…” Lydia gestured upward to the top of the Dark
Tower, where a figure capered and danced on the highest turret, swinging what
looked like…what looked like an arm.

An arm that lacked the rest of the body.

Drops of blood were flung this way and that, and some landed
on her. She wiped the foul moisture from her forehead and, with shaking
fingers, took out a handkerchief and cleaned herself. “Mayhap,” she whispered,
“mayhap they have reason to be afraid of something unnatural in this castle.”

She looked down to the cove, grabbed Owain’s arm and
pointed. Several boats she didn’t recognize, crowded with men she didn’t know,
had beached and were unloading their cargo.

Not fish, but weapons. The creature on the turret screeched
with fury and threw the arm down, striking one of the attackers. The capering
monster then disappeared.

Lydia gulped against the bile that had risen into her
throat. She had previously understood that he was mad but had never before
quite appreciated the extent of his insanity. ’Twas one thing to be told that
he had utterly destroyed the MacReivers and another to see the proof of it
before her eyes. A man’s arm…that meant that somewhere there was a man who had
lost an arm. And who had probably lost his life.

A few yards away, Kendrick snapped out a command in Gaelic.
As one, the archers turned toward the cove and raised their bows. Another command
and arrows rained down upon their attackers. Most dropped where they stood,
bloody flowers blossoming on unarmored, unprotected white shirt-fronts.

Pathetic, the rag-tag rabble that had dared to attack her
clan so unprepared. Lydia hardened her heart as she watched the carnage. She
felt sorry for the men—she knew that each had a mother or p’raps children—but
they’d attacked her clan without reason. She firmed her lips and resolved not
to waver. Hamish Gwynn was a fool who deserved to die. Anyone who had followed
him was equally foolish and deserved the same fate.

Owain produced flint and steel from inside his shirt. He
handed his firebox to the nearest archer and said, “Burn the boats. Aim for the
sails.”

“Have you rags?” Lydia asked the man. When he shook his
head, she handed him her handkerchief. Taking the scarf from around her neck,
she tore it into several strips. “That should be enough.”

Owain raised a brow. “Well spotted, milady.”

Flaming arrows arched through the blue noonday sky, their
brightness rivaling that of the sun. When they dropped into the boats, some
smoldered and others smoked. Sails caught fire, at first burning slowly, then
with larger flames. One boat exploded in a violent report, flinging fiery
debris.

She jumped and gasped.

“Gunpowder,” Owain said.

She controlled herself and forced her breathing back to
normalcy. “That could have caused great damage.”

Burning spars struck men who shrieked and fell, rolling in
an effort to smother the flames that ate at their clothing. She bit her lip and
thought of her father, her grandfather, her great-grandfather—all had been
soldiers. All had watched, fought, endured.

“If they could do it, so can I,” she murmured.

“Milady?”

“Nothing.” She sent Owain a faint smile which she hoped
showed leadership, firmness, the courage to act as the laird’s lady. At the
same time she prayed she’d be worthy of her birth and her position.

She was also glad she’d skipped her noon meal. The small
cove was crowded with the dead and the dying, and even from this height she
could hear their groans and screams. At the shoreline, boats burned and
smoldered, sending up a smoky stench that twisted her gut into an uneasy coil.
The waves lapping the shore were red with blood, flecked with gray and black
ash.

Kendrick shouted another order and half the archers turned
their arrows on the cliff walk, where p’raps half a dozen men struggled. He
then eased his way through the line of archers toward her. “Some have gained
the Dark Tower,” he told Owain and Lydia.

“How many?” she asked.

“I dinnae ken. Half a score, mayhap.”

“Other than the sea caves, there are but three exits from
the auld keep,” Owain said. He nodded to his right, indicating the door through
which she’d started her Dark Tower misadventure. “One there, and one on the other
side of the tower, leading to the northward wall-walk. And the double doors
into the courtyard. We’ll set guards at each exit and kill anyone who comes
out.”

“
He
went down into the keep,” she said.

“Even better,” Kendrick said.

She looked down. Across the moat, thatched roofs smoldered
and smoked. Hamish Gwynn had shouted a retreat and his forces obeyed, but not
before wreaking what damage they could. They now headed away, forced toward the
nearest meadow by the Kilborn archers, who shot a steady stream of arrows
toward them. She guessed the Gwynn forces would regroup to consider their next
move.

“Good day,” said a deep voice from above her.

Her body spasmed. She controlled herself, then looked to the
topmost turret of the old keep, and there
he
was. She swallowed hard.
“And t-to whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

“Gareth, lately laird of this clan.” He gave her a courtly
bow.

“Gareth. Sir Gareth?”

“Yes. I was knighted by his majesty King Charles the
Second.”

Her knees weakened and she clutched the nearest stone block
for support. Bear up, she told herself sternly. You are the daughter of a
general and the wife of a laird.

But she was shocked beyond belief. This was an unexpected
revelation. Or was it?

She stared into Gareth’s black eyes and recalled the
conversation over dinner at Kilbirnie Castle.

“Just how old was Sir Gareth when he died?” the earl had
asked.

“No one’s quite certain.” Staring at his plate, her husband
had sounded evasive.

“Who was Sir Gareth?” she’d wanted to know.

“My grandfather,” Kier said. “The tenth laird, and an
intimate of His Majesty’s.”