TemptationinTartan (8 page)

He waved it at her, grinning. “’Tis just a wee
gibearnach
,
what you would call a squid. Nothing to be afeared of.”

She gave it a closer look. Mottled and gray-brown, it looked
like offal, but it didn’t smell…yet. A tiny tooth broke the dully shining
surface and its many tentacles writhed. “Ugh. Who would eat that?”

His mouth twitched with distaste. “None of our people. We
use it for bait.” He tossed it back onto the pile and went to the shoreline to
rinse his fingers.

After they had eaten, Kieran lifted her aboard Niall’s boat,
an undecked craft that had but one mast with two sails. With Niall’s help, and
grasping the slippery side rail in her leather-gloved hands, she inched to the
back of the boat—the stern, Niall called it—and sat gingerly on a plank set
athwart the boat’s two sides.

The three males set themselves at the pointed prow and
shoved it hard backward into the cove’s softly lapping waves, then jumped
aboard. After grabbing oars, Niall and Ian rowed them out until the limp sails
caught the breeze flowing from the north, then tacked to the east. At the same
time, she thought she sensed an opposing tug from below. Subtle, almost lost
amidst the pitch and heave on the small boat on the swells, it was nevertheless
there.

She trailed a hand in the water, trying to feel the pull of
the current, but that slight energy was lost in the boat’s motion, for a brisk
snapping gust had caught the craft. She thought she saw a line of current out
to sea.

Kieran set a hand on her shoulder. “The ocean flows from the
south, but the wind opposes, blowing from the north, especially in winter. ’Tis
a fine trick, taking advantage of each depending upon the direction of sail.”

“Where are we going?” She gulped deep breaths of the chilly
air, controlling her belly, which seemed to pitch and heave along with the
ocean.

“Northeast, but not far, for ’tis but a small craft. Duck!”

She did, and the jib swung around as the boat tacked in the
opposite direction. The sail grabbed the breeze and sped along the coast. Her
seasickness fled, replaced by wonder. To her right, she could see the stony
coast, riven occasionally with deep clefts. Where the land sloped to the sea,
meadows topped the dark cliffs. Rough pillars of pale stone stood on one,
sentinels watching over land and sea.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Ah, memorials of my pagan ancestors.” He winked at her.
“They are standing stones, great blocks of rock arranged in a circle, just so,
catching the sunlight perfectly.”

“When there is some,” she said, wry, turning her head away
as they sailed past the stones.

He grinned. “The ancient ones used them for rites at
midsummer and winter solstice, and at other times of the year.”

The clouds broke and allowed a ray of light to shaft from
the heavens to the coast, briefly illuminating a massive Celtic cross set atop
the cliff. “That marks the border of our lands,” Kier said. He swiped a hand
through his dark hair, gathering it at his nape, and tied it with a thin leather
strip.

She shivered. “So that’s the MacReiver clan’s outpost?” She
pointed.

“Nay, they’re in the other direction. This is the Gwynn’s.”
He sniffed the wind.

“What do you smell?”

“Nothing much. Not like the MacReiver lands, for example.
They are somewhat odorous.”

“What’s our relationship with Clan Gwynn?”

He shrugged. “We’re not enemies, but not bosom bows, either.
We get along with them well enough.”

“Does the cross mean there’s a church?”

“Aye, there’s a wee kirk. Do ye wish to attend services?
They’re Papists, ye ken.”

“P’raps,” she said with a flash of guilt. She had been so
busy that she hadn’t missed church. “We lack kirk or chapel?”

“Aye, we’re so isolated that no priest will stay.”

She wanted to know why Clan Gwynn managed to keep a priest
but the Kilborns couldn’t, but a distant expression in Kier’s eyes kept her
silent. Instead, she again slipped off her glove and bent to the side to slide
her hand through the cool, flowing water, and looked in the other direction,
toward the dim horizon.

“I’m drawn to it,” she said. “The sea.”

Niall, approaching, must have heard her, for he laughed.
“Have a care, milady, for what the sea wants, she will have.”

His laugh had been bitter, not merry. “What do you mean?”
she asked, remembering old Mhairi’s talk of sea sprites.

“I’ve lost my brother and my da to these waters. Dinnae love
them too much. She’ll return your love with heartbreak.”

“Why do you do it?”

“It’s what I ken,” he said simply. “And, like ye, I love
her. I cannae help myself. One of these times I ken she’ll take me, and my wife
will have to use this for my funeral.” He touched the golden earring he wore
and left them again to tend to the mainsail.

Kieran glanced at her. “We Kilborns are full of tales of the
sea and the fearsome creatures that live beneath its waves and on its shores.
Did ye ever hear of the kraken?”

She shook her head.

“Och, the kraken is a fearsome beastie indeed.” Kier settled
his back against the gunwale. “Ye recall the wee
gibearnach
ye met this
morn?”

She winced at the memory.

“Well, the kraken is also a
gibearnach,
but so great
that it can wrap its tentacles around a boat and crush it.”

She shivered but found her voice. “Nonsense!”

“’Tis true, milady,” Ian said “When ye see the spars of a
destroyed boat wash ashore in midsummer, when there have been no storms, it be
the kraken at work.” The lad stared at her with the same blue, somber eyes as
his father.

“A little boat like this would be a tiny bite to a kraken,
and we but teatime snacks,” Kier said.

“Then I s’pose we needn’t worry.”

The men laughed. “That’s the spirit, milady,” Niall said.

“Do you go out in all weather?” she asked.

Niall hesitated. “Nay,” he finally said. “Though the sea may
cry for us in winter, we try to ignore her pleas.”

“Her pleas?”

“The crash of a stormy sea is a powerful call.”

“She calls to you in the wind and the waves.” Staring at the
line of current far out to sea, Lydia understood.

His smile flashed white against sun-darkened skin. “Aye, a
call, a test of skill and bravery.”

She glanced at Kieran.

“Those are calls and tests that must be resisted,” he said
stiffly. “Ye’re too good a man to lose to such foolishness, Niall.”

The fisherman bowed his head in apparent acquiescence, but
Lydia caught a secret smile that he vainly tried to hide.

“That was how we lost Ivor.” Kier continued to scowl at
Niall.

“Who was Ivor?” she asked.

“Ivor Kilborn, a clansman and good Fenella’s husband. Father
to Moira.”

“Ah.”

“Aye, he wished to test his mettle against the wild winter
storms. ’Twas foolish.”

The day darkened toward nightfall and Niall turned the craft
homeward. With the wind in their favor, the boat sped over the flat sea.

Scant minutes later, a light gleamed through the gathering
darkness: Castle Kilborn. As they approached, Lydia was startled to see a glow
emanating from the seaward tower…the old keep. She nudged Kieran and pointed,
raising her brows.

His forehead wrinkled. “That’s not possible,” he muttered.
“Or is it?”

“Someone’s in there,” she said. “Isn’t the Dark Tower
forbidden to everyone?”

“Aye, it is, but for me and Euan, and Euan should be out on
patrol.” He looked grim, his jaw set. “Niall, make all speed.”

In the back of the boat, Niall adjusted the tiller and his
craft leaped over the waves. She grabbed Kieran as she bounced up and down on
the hard seat. He hauled her onto his lap. Bending his head, he murmured into
her ear, “I like your bottom burning, but not from a wood plank.”

Embarrassed, she turned her face into his chest. “Kier!” she
snapped in a fierce whisper.

His low laughter vibrated against her cheek, but stopped as
he gazed at the mysterious light in the forbidden keep.

When they gained the pebbly beach, he jumped ashore and
quickly helped to drag the boat up beyond the tide line. “Niall, help her
ladyship to the Laird’s Tower,” he called over his shoulder before dashing up
the cliffside trail to their fortress.

Lydia stared after him, astounded by his odd behavior.
Orders or no orders, she’d investigate the keep.

Chapter Ten

The next day, after finishing her duties with Fenella, Lydia
again donned her old brown sacque, warm gloves and sturdy boots, then climbed
the stairs in the Laird’s Tower to the upper walkway. Kieran had left in the
morning to hunt, and most days he didn’t return to the castle until nightfall.
His seconds, Euan and his son Dugald, patrolled the clan’s borders night and
day. She’d noticed that their duties were at opposite times of the day and
night. She assumed that they rested whenever they weren’t on horseback.

Guards did patrol the castle walk, but she chose the midday
hour, when many were eating and their shifts were changing, to quietly enter
the old keep’s upper door. She was reasonably sure she wouldn’t be seen.

The door’s hinges seemed well-maintained, opening and
closing with nary a squeak after she’d disengaged a metal latch. The latch was
also in good repair, as though Euan, the castle caretaker, sought to keep
something in rather than others out. She wondered about that, and about the
door itself, which was stoutly fashioned of good wood rather than rotted away,
which would be more likely in such an ancient structure.

Inside, the keep was much like the other towers, built of
stone with wooden floors and walls. It was lit only by thin light filtering
through the narrow arrow slits. Above her, the wooden ceiling was rotting,
pierced by random holes. Desiring to avoid notice, she had not brought candle,
lamp or torch, and trod with caution. Though the door had been rebuilt, she
wasn’t sure of the quality of the wood beneath her feet. As she walked, she
stared at the floor, examining it before taking each step.

The room smelled of dust and ancient, rotted things, things
she didn’t wish to contemplate. Probably mice, she told herself. She pulled a
handkerchief out of her pocket and held it to her nose. The deathly still character
of the place led her to move quietly, slip so slowly and carefully that the
ring of keys hanging at her belt, the chatelaine’s keys, mark of her authority,
didn’t clash together and chime to announce her intrusion.

The bare, dusty room bore a track through the dirt to a
narrow archway she guessed led either to a staircase or another room. She crept
forward, the oppressive silence grating on nerves already jangled by the guilt
of disobeying her husband. She quaked to think of Kieran’s reaction should he
discover her transgression. He was normally the mildest-mannered of men, but
she had seen his temper when roused, and feared it.

The archway did lead to another room on what she judged to
be the courtyard side of the keep. She avoided chance observation by anyone
down on the ground or in the other towers by staying away from the cuts in the
stone. Larger than the usual arrow slits, for they faced away from potential
invaders, they admitted a fair amount of afternoon light.

Though with wildly beating heart and trembling step, she
explored farther. The Dark Tower was a warren of small, low-ceilinged,
interconnected rooms and twisting corridors. She didn’t know much about the
history of the place, but she imagined that it had been in use for centuries, housing
generations of Kilborns.

Finally she believed she’d searched the upper floor, so down
she went, carefully negotiating the broad wooden stairs. A board squeaked
beneath her boot, a scream in the unearthly quiet.

She stopped with one hand on the wall to support herself,
the other at her nose. The handkerchief fell from a nerveless hand. She placed
a palm over her madly racing heart.

Breathe
, she told herself.
Just breathe
.

Silence held the tower in its sure grip.

Finally she bent to retrieve her handkerchief. She didn’t
dare to leave a single trace of her presence. The stairs weren’t as dusty as
the rooms, so she tucked the scrap of cloth back into her pocket.

When she could raise her foot, heavy in her boot and
weighted with trepidation, the board again squeaked.

She froze in place.

Again, silence.

The wood is fragile
, she told herself.
The stairs
aren’t haunted by anything but your fear. Stop it!

Step by dread-laden step, she reached the middle story of
the tower, which seemed barren of anything but dust. Not even the scurrying
paws of a rat or a mouse disturbed the eerie silence. Again, footfalls had
cleared trails across the grubby planks. Some led her to…what? Walls? But most
led to the next room, and the next, and the next, and then to the ground floor.

This staircase was also wide but lacked side rails, and she
kept to the wall to her left, trailing her hand along it for balance.

The old keep’s Great Hall was grimy with the smoke of
ancient fires. The creaking floor had not been well maintained and she could
see cracked boards and many holes. The air was colder. She caught the scent of
the sea through the few very narrow slits. More fetid odors emanated from the
gaps underfoot, reminding her of rotting seaweed and even less savory dead
things returning to the earth. Occasionally a waft of stale urine reminded her
that live people and animals often tarried there.

Closing her eyes, she visualized the view of the keep she’d
seen from Niall’s boat. Its base was built into the cliff, which itself was
pierced with narrow openings, sea caves, p’raps. She guessed that she was now
above those caves.

She shivered. Had Kieran’s berserker ancestors used them as
oubliettes? She glanced fearfully at the rotting floorboards. She was already
careful but vowed to double her caution, now wishing she’d decided to bring a
candle.

A soughing sound from beneath the staircase again froze her
in place. Was it the sea? But p’raps some living thing other than herself
lingered in the tower.

She could see little detail of the wood siding that clad the
base of the staircase… Might it be hollow?

She tapped. Yes, hollow.

What could be inside? She ran a gloved hand over the rough
planks, tugging futilely on each edge and board. Nothing, until…

One of them gave way with a squeal that was echoed by
Lydia’s own frightened squeak. Then silence, the sighs hushed.

Beneath the oddly wide staircase was yet another corridor,
dim and dark, but there was a little light, just enough that she could fumble
her way along as it sloped, first down, then up.

One side was wood and the other stone. Not hewn blocks like
the rest of the castle, but rough, as though she’d reached the cliff itself,
the rocky promontory that protectively embraced the base of the keep. But how
could that be? She’d gone upward, hadn’t she?

Hadn’t she?

She’d lost track. Where was she?

The wood disappeared and she was left in a hallway, black as
tar. Even though she knew that outside was a late summer afternoon, inside it
could have been midwinter at midnight for all the light and warmth that had
seeped through the damp rock.

She’d kept her trembling, gloved hands on the walls, but
here and there the stonework fell away, as though opening onto rooms. A few
steps more and her footfalls echoed with a different timbre. Was she in a room?
She’d lost touch.

Could she hear the ocean, or was that the roar of her blood
rushing through the chambers of her terrified heart? Her belly twisted with
dread. Where the bloody hell was she? If she didn’t know where she was, how
could she get out?

She wished with all her soul she hadn’t disobeyed Kieran.
Her eyes adjusted so that she could see a bed thick with hangings, now securely
closed, with a small half-moon table nearby. A looking-glass hung on the wall,
cracked and crazed with age but clean, as though someone had recently dusted.

She crossed the room on shaky legs and stared at her pale,
tense face in the glass. Over her shoulder, she could see the bed. Hung atop a
bedpost was a dark hat with a curly brim and a long, extravagant plume. An old
style, she thought. She’d seen similar in portraits of her Cavalier ancestors.

The room smelled of stale perfume and body odor tinctured
with…what? An aroma that was animal, yes, but not musk or bodily waste. What
was it?

And who lived here?

As she left, she brushed the bed’s tightly closed hangings.
A light riffle of dust fell, as though its denizen were a careless housekeeper.
She opened the bed’s curtains with a hesitant hand, laughing at herself… Who
could be there?

He sat up in the bed and regarded her, his face an ancient
mirror of her husband’s.

Her shriek stuck in her throat and he reached out toward her
neck with a long, white hand. “Good morrow, my dear.”

She whirled and stumbled out of the room, whacking into the
rock walls as she fled. She didn’t know how, but after interminable minutes she
gained the crude doorway, slammed it behind her and set her trembling body
against it.

Despite her shock, or p’raps because of it, she remembered
every detail of the creature. Long, wavy hair, thin and white with age; a
deeply seamed visage with a hawk nose and full lips; a yellowing, creased
nightshirt…the midnight eyes that seemed to be characteristic of her husband’s
family.

He had to be a Kilborn, but who?

Kier’s brother and their father, the old laird, had both perished
at Culloden. The creature she’d met seemed quite old, older even than Euan,
whom Kier had introduced as his grand-uncle.

While she ruminated, the sun shifted. A silvery glint caught
her eye and she crossed to what she guessed was the seaward side of the hall. A
small pewter candle holder sat in the arrow slit facing the water. She picked
it up and stared at it. Where had she seen it before?

She took another step, shifting her weight, and her booted
foot sank through a rotted spot on the floor.

“Bloody hell!” She tried to wrench her foot free, but
succeeded only in twisting her ankle to and fro.

Door hinges squealed and Kieran entered. The holder fell
from her suddenly limp hand. It rolled across the wooden floor, the sound
seeming to boom and echo in the tense silence.

He advanced, his face grim. “Is this how ye obey your
laird?” His voice was soft but all the more threatening because of that
deceptive gentleness.

“I, uh, I, I…”

“At least you thought to bring a light.” He stooped to pick
up the candle holder in hands clad in black leather gloves.

She found the ability to form words. “Th-that’s not mine.”

He touched the wax, which didn’t give way. The burned wick
broke. “This must have burned yestereve. So we saw this last night.”

“You didn’t find it when you looked?”

“Nay, I didnae. ’Twas too dark.” He seized her by the elbows
and lifted her free, then dragged her toward the open door. “Dugald!”

This afternoon the courtyard was busy, but Kieran’s shout
carried and Lydia saw Dugald as he left a group of guards lingering at the base
of their tower.

“Why, Lydia? Why?” Kier asked.

“I was curious, and Moira said—”

“She said what?” His black eyes narrowed.

“I, er…I had noticed you leave our bed often, husband.”
Gathering her courage, she tugged her arm out of his grip and faced him. “I
wondered why. She told me that the answers were in this tower.”

She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Dugald had
stopped at a respectful distance. Kieran turned his head. “Find out whose this
is.” He tossed the candle holder to Dugald.

“I can tell you,” she said. “’Tis Moira’s. I saw her with it
one night, when I’d followed you.”

Dugald and Kieran stared at each other in silent
communication.

“She tempted ye, did she, milady?” asked Dugald. He didn’t
seem surprised.

“Aye, that she did,” Kier said, his jaw set with
uncompromising solidity. “Both of you will have to be punished.”

“P-punished?” She couldn’t stop her voice from squeaking. An
image of the MacReiver’s severed head gouting blood flashed through her memory.

“Aye. The auld keep is forbidden to all but Euan and me.
Worse, your disobedience has been seen by everyone here today. I cannae allow
this transgression to go without penalty.” He grabbed her again, this time
around the waist, and slung her over his shoulder.

She emitted a small, unladylike shriek that she stifled
immediately. Maybe if she kept quiet, no one would notice this humiliation. She
squirmed, trying to get away, but he held her tightly. Upside down, she
squeezed her eyes shut, but nevertheless tears leaked out.

She found herself overwhelmed by other sensations. The
hardness of Kieran’s body. His male scent. His brawny arm heavy on her thighs,
anchoring her securely.

She couldn’t imagine that he was thinking about sex, but
despite the situation she couldn’t think about anything else—not with her
buttocks sticking up in the air inches away from her husband’s face and with
his arm so close to her body’s most sensitive places.

She had to have lost her mind.

He stopped to give orders, so she knew others witnessed her
disgrace. She squirmed anew and Kieran slapped her across the haunches with his
free hand. Someone laughed and her heart plummeted.

Kier spoke briskly. “Dugald, Euan, find Moira. Punish her.
Do what ye will, and dinnae be kind. She misled my lady to her shame.” He
gripped Lydia’s bottom, squeezed it hard through her gown. Her quim throbbed
despite herself and she stifled a moan of desire.

“Aye, milaird.” Euan sounded eager.

“Milaird?” Dugald’s voice was puzzled.

“Aye. I believe she wanted
him
to find my wife.” The
crunch of his boots and the jolt of his stride told Lydia that Kieran was
crossing the courtyard.

She pounded on his muscled back with an angry fist. “Him?
Who is he? Who lives there?”

“Never ye mind. Are ye not in trouble aplenty from your curiosity?
Ye could have fallen through the floor to the dungeon, or drowned when the sea
came in.”