The Beast of Clan Kincaid (5 page)

Her breath caught in her throat.

A barbarian
. Yes, that word did describe his appearance.

He stood with every inch of his muscular body bare to her eyes, save for his hips, which were covered with a wet kilt that lay slick and dark against his powerful thighs. Tattoos decorated his skin, draping like armor over each of his shoulders, and down one arm. A beard, as black as kohl, covered the lower half of his face. He wore his hair much longer than the men of her clan, drawn back on either side in rough braids. It clung damply against his neck and chest, rising and falling as he breathed. He looked dangerous and fearsome—and beautiful. He was like nothing she had ever seen.

And thrillingly, he looked at
her
over Bridget's shoulder, his eyes the color of a frozen loch. Yet somehow their attention did not make her feel cold at all. Indeed, her cheeks flushed and she forgot all about her wet clothes and chilled skin.

“I am the Lady MacClaren,” Bridget announced grandly, lifting the plaid toward his shoulders. “Allow me the honor of welcoming you to Inverhaven, and granting you this small comfort.”

Did Elspeth imagine it, or was there something seductive in the tone of Bridget's voice—something possessive, as if she already claimed him for her own? Elspeth remembered what she'd seen that morning, her stepmother and Duncan in a tight clasp of passion. For a moment she imagined Bridget in the stranger's arms instead. A shard of misery struck straight through her heart.

Yet, at her offer of the plaid, the stranger lifted a staying hand. Bridget froze, the garment hanging down between them. Silence hovered everywhere, save for the rush of the river.

For the first time, he spoke. “I would have you offer it to your maidservant and the child.”

His voice was like a warm fur blanket on a cold morning … rich, deep, and pleasing. Only his speech was not that of a barbarian. Rather, he spoke with the polished pronunciation of the king's envoys who sometimes visited the castle.

Bridget's eyes widened, bright as crystals, and she glanced at Elspeth, then back to him, an unkind smile curling the corner of her mouth. “Who is it that you mean, good sir? My …
maidservant,
you say?”

Elspeth flushed. He meant her, of course. He thought she was a servant, a mistake that wouldn't bother her at all if not for Bridget's sly taunt. She clenched her teeth down on an angry reply.

“
Her
,” the man answered, and with a lift of his bearded chin indicated Elspeth. “The one who went into the river to save the child.” He paused … and when he spoke again, the tone of his voice had deepened. “The one whose cheek still bears the mark of your hand.”

He sought to champion her. Elspeth melted just a little inside then. But relations were not good between her and Bridget, and his words would not improve them.

Bridget stood as still as a stone. Then, like a porcupine she bristled, her back and shoulders going straight. Exhaling, she stepped away and with a cold glare all around, thrust the plaid dismissively against Elspeth's shoulder as she moved past, toward the shore and the company of her men.

Elspeth clasped it there for a moment before wrapping the woolen cloth tight around Catrin. She offered the stranger a look of thanks.

Conall took Bridget's place at the side of the MacClaren's “guest,” but glanced with concern at Elspeth's cheek.

To the stranger he said, “Welcome and thank you for what you have done here today. I apologize for this poor welcome. On behalf of the clan chief of the MacClarens, please accept his invitation to the castle where there is a fire, dry clothing, and a warm meal.”

Bridget and her men left them, disappearing into the trees. The stranger watched until they were gone, at which time his stance relaxed and the hard gleam in his eyes lessened.

He replied to Conall, unsmiling. “I accept your offer of hospitality, but later, if you will. You remember Deargh. I want him present if we are to discuss arrangements.”

The corners of his eyes bore few creases from age, and his torso and limbs were lean and taut. He was a young man. Younger than she'd first believed, and she wondered what his face looked like under his beard. Would he be handsome, or did the beard hide scars such as the ones she spied on his abdomen and shoulder?

Conall nodded. “At nightfall, for the evening meal, then. I and my laird will expect you. Bring your companion and your horses as well. And no need to swim this time.” He gestured upriver, and chuckled. “Go by way of the bridge, just north of here. It will take you straight into the village, and you can follow the road to castle gate.”

Catrin rushed to Conall's side and pulled him a few steps toward the river, woefully recounting the loss of her puppy.

The stranger looked at Elspeth again. A few steps, and he came to stand just inches from her, so close she felt the warmth radiate from his bare skin. She looked into his eyes and her pulse surged, beating faster.

“You are well, then?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, breathless, struggling not to lower her gaze to the droplets that glistened on the bare skin of his shoulders and chest. “Very well.”

“And the little one?”

“She is well also,” Elspeth answered, looking up into his eyes. “Just sad about her puppy. Thank you for saving us. I will tell my father what you did.”

“Your … father?” the stranger repeated in a low voice, his gaze fixed on her lips.

She nodded, blushing, for now he would learn that she was not, after all, a servant. Which unfortunately would likely end any flirtation between them, which was well and good because as Bridget had so
kindly
reminded her, her time for idly flirting was surely about to come to an end. Not that he was flirting with her, or she with him.

She nodded. “The MacClaren is my father.”

The stranger stared back at her.

“Is he, then,” he murmured.

There was something intimate in the tone of his voice that made her go weak at the knees. His gaze swept lower, over her body, over curves that she knew would be plainly revealed by her wet gown. Her cheeks flamed hot but she did not turn or shrink away. Rather his attention made her feel lovely and admired.

Conall answered, “Indeed. She is his
eldest
and much beloved daughter.” His voice carried a gentle warning, no doubt intended to separate them. He neared, holding Catrin's hand. “The child is his daughter as well. Our clan chief will be most grateful for what you have done.”

“No thanks are necessary,” her father's guest answered, stepping away. “I am simply pleased they are both unharmed.”

“Tonight then,” said Conall.

“Aye,” he said quietly. With a nod to Conall, he turned and strode toward the river and without hesitation, ventured thigh deep into the water before sinking in. Immediately, the current swept him downstream, but with a powerful turn of his arms he crossed toward the far shore.

Conall chuckled admiringly. “Oh, to be young again. Hurry now, we've been here far too long.” Briskly, with a raised hand, he urged them away from the river, pausing a moment to remove the plaid from his shoulder and to tuck it around Elspeth's. “Let's get the both of you inside where it is warm before you fall ill. By now, your father must have heard what happened and he will be beside himself with worry.”

As they walked his glance touched on Elspeth's cheek, and his lips took on a displeased slant.

“Bridget,” he muttered darkly. “Tell me, what disagreement occurred between the two of you.”

“I don't wish to talk about it,” she answered quietly. Her emotions still welled too high and she hoped to summon some measure of calm and wisdom before deciding what to say to her father.

“Nonetheless,” he asserted. “I know the MacClaren would not stand for any abuse. I will speak to him.”

“Please, do not,” she urged with a hand to his arm. “I will speak to him myself.”

They passed into the trees, where the other MacClaren warriors lingered, talking among themselves, waiting to escort them to the castle. The men's faces were all familiar, as much her family as her own and they now looked at her and Cat with the same concern and care loving uncles and brothers might, in the aftermath of a harrowing event.

“God be thanked that the both of y' were saved,” said one, his relief apparent in the hushed intensity of his voice and the paleness of his skin. He nodded jerkily at her and repeated, “God be thanked.”

Another reached out to give Cat's head a playful rub. “When I saw y' in the river in the clutches of that giant, lass, I thought for sure one of those kelpies old Murdoch is always warning the bairns about had gotten hold of ye.”

Old Murdoch being her father's bard.

“But the giant isn't a kelpie,” exclaimed Cat, peering up through tearstained eyes. “Because he saved us rather than drowned us!”

“Aye, that I see,” he answered. And more quietly, “A true miracle, that.”

Elspeth glanced over her shoulder and saw the man emerge from the river, his dark hair streaming down his powerful back. He gripped the sagging, sodden kilt at his hips, and with a tug of his hand, yanked the garment free—

She caught only a momentary flash of his muscular buttocks before he was gone, into the trees.

She closed her eyes, suddenly feverish, and turned back toward the castle. Conall and the others proceeded, oblivious to what she'd just observed. It wasn't the first bare bottom she'd seen. After all, the Highlands could be mightily windy … but my, somehow, seeing his had made her feel differently. Flustered in the nicest possible way.

“Who is that man?” she asked him, slipping her hand into Cat's, so as to keep her close. “What is his name?”

“His name?” he repeated. “I'm not sure men like him have names, or perhaps it is best we simply don't know them.” He paused … and shrugged. “But there were soldiers passing through the village where I encountered him. They knew him—or, knew
of
him, I might say. They had witnessed him in battle and were … remarkably impressed by his skill. They called him
béist
.”

Elspeth's pulse increased.

“Beast!” she murmured.

 

Chapter 4

Conall nodded. “He is a mercenary, Elspeth. A
gallowglass
. A professional warrior with no clan, and no loyalties, other than to serve whoever has the ability to pay him best.”

“I see,” she said, suffering a twinge of disappointment that he was only a soldier, and therefore would be deemed an unsuitable suitor, at least in the eyes of her father and their clan. Perhaps she suffered more than just a twinge.

Mercenaries were nothing new. Her father, like many clan leaders, hired them from time to time to defend their borders and their people—not only from the barbaric hill reivers, but more recently from the Alwyn, a rival clan chief whose lands bordered the MacClarens. Once an ally, he now seemed intent on provoking a confrontation.

But this man—the
béist
—was different than the others. Her intuition told her that. For one thing, he was undeniably
moighre
. Very handsome. At least the sort of handsome that made an impression on her. And according to Conall, other men considered him legendary for his fighting skills. Obviously he had power and strength—but Elspeth knew full well no warrior became legend on strength alone. There had to be intelligence as well, which she had heard distinctly in the words he spoke and observed in his blue eyes.

Conall pushed aside a wayward branch so that she and Cat could move past. “While I'm glad he was here to save the two of you, it is best you don't speak to him again.”

Yes … Elspeth agreed, with regret. In truth, it was probably best that she not think of him again. What useful purpose would that serve?

And yet … as twilight fell, a nervous anticipation grew in the pit of her stomach. She felt intensely curious to see the man they called
béist
again, though she knew she shouldn't want to.

“And which gown will you wear this evening?” asked her maid, Ina, who stood willowy tall at Elspeth's trunk, her vibrant red hair hidden for the most part beneath a plain linen headscarf.

That was simple. She would wear the green dress if she were dressing for him.

“You choose,” Elspeth answered, with a melancholy sigh, plucking at the sleeve of her chemise. “It matters not to me.”

“The green, I think,” Ina answered, reaching inside. “It will be warm and soft on this cold night, and it flatters your figure very nicely.”

Elspeth suspected that to be true, from the admiring glances she received from the men of the castle when she wore it. The green gown was closely fitted, with delicate gold lacing in the front and back. Not that it mattered how she looked. She could be bald-headed and have a mouthful of rotten teeth, and it would make no difference at all. Soon she would be married to a man of her father's choosing, a man with holdings and influence. Someone who would swear to be an ally for her father and the MacClaren clan during times of prosperity and conflict. Her very generous dowry would ensure the interest of such a man.

Her husband wouldn't be a mercenary soldier, no matter how skilled or well-spoken he might be. Her stomach clenched with regret. Not that the
béist
was the man she wanted to marry, but wouldn't it be nice to decide for herself? Wouldn't it be nice to … fall in love?

Ina lay the gown on Elspeth's bed, and loosened its laces.

“I can dress myself tonight, Ina,” said Elspeth. Ina was some ten years older than Elspeth, and happily married to a MacClaren stableman. “Spend your evening with Clach.”

“I'll see him later,” Ina answered, and taking Elspeth by the hands, urged her to stand. “I'm happy to be able to spend this time with you. After all, how many more times will we have like this together, before you leave Inverhaven to start your life with a new husband?”