The Beast of Clan Kincaid (10 page)

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 by 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 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.