The Beast of Clan Kincaid (19 page)

Leaving Fiona's simple home, she closed the door behind her and set off along the path toward the castle. It was night, and Fiona's neighbors in the village were outside, sitting on stools around fires, talking and laughing. Many called out greetings as she passed, and she stopped here and there to exchange pleasantries and to admire children.

Once home, she would avoid the great hall, and the possibility that Niall was there, and go straight to bed, though she dreaded sleep inasmuch as each passing night took her one day closer to the Cearcal. Crossing through the gates, she found a bailey crowded with young villagers, dancing around a small bonfire. The wind carried the scent of smoke and ale. She pulled her plaid over her head, so as not to be pulled into a dance—which she enjoyed on some nights—and sidled past in the shadows.

Curiosity drew her glance down the narrow lane that led toward Niall's quarters, though she knew not which belonged to him.

A movement caught her eye, a figure hurrying toward a shadowed door and pushing it inward. For a brief moment, firelight from within revealed a woman's profile.

A servant, bringing food or tending to a fire?

No, Elspeth realized, seeing a glimmer of her hair as the woman pushed down her hood, just before closing the door.

The woman she'd seen going into the cottage was Bridget.

*   *   *

Niall sank naked into the steaming hot water, and in that moment, felt bliss. He had arrived a short time ago, to servants filling a large wooden tub, and they had quickly left him alone to enjoy the bath. He knew not who had given the order, but he appreciated it all the same.

Because … what a miserable day it had been.

He had spent far too long with the MacClaren and Conall, and their warriors. It was fatiguing hiding his true feelings, and spending hours in the company of men he despised and intended to conquer—and very likely slay. He resolved that once this thing was done, he would involve himself with intrigue no more. It was not in his nature.

Later, he had met his secret forest warriors beneath a darkening sky, and been told they had been unable to find any trace of the Kincaids in the hills beyond Inverhaven. Being skilled trackers, their report had stunned him—and disheartened him greatly. Aye, regardless, he would conquer the MacClaren and seize this place with or without a Kincaid force, but he wanted more than anything for them to fight by his side. Though he felt certain many Kincaids lived in the village and in the nearby farmlands, it would be a tricky endeavor to inform them of his presence among them. Did their loyalties remain firmly Kincaid? Would they take up arms and stand beside him? He could not be certain. Neither could he risk word of his true identity and intentions reaching the MacClaren's ears too soon. For now, he had instructed Deargh, who enjoyed flirtations with numerous ladies in Inverhaven, to discreetly seek out their clanspeople, so that when the time came, the announcement could be made.

And yet those challenges were not the only blights on his mood.

He cupped his hands, and splashed his face, wishing he could wash Elspeth's memory away. Her skin beneath his fingertips. Her kiss. Her smile. Ironically, it was not his failed seduction—as part of his plot against her father—that troubled him so greatly.

It was that as much as he wished to deny it … he wanted her.

He, Niall, wanted Elspeth.

Having lived his life thus far solely concerned only for himself, it was an unsettling feeling to discover that after all these years he cared for another person. That another person occupied his thoughts. It wasn't that he'd never wanted to cherish a woman—to claim one for his own. It was just that his life as a mercenary had never allowed for anything but the most fleeting and self-serving of affairs. For the first time, his heart signaled revolt, wanting something more.

He rested his arms on the wooden edge of the tub, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Just as Elspeth had made it clear that she wanted nothing at all.

The door opened, without a knock of warning, and he came alert. Looking, his gaze narrowed on the intruder and his muscles tensed.

A woman hovered in the doorway, her head covered in a cloak.

For a brief moment, he thought it was Elspeth, hoped it was—but then, when she pushed away her hood he saw it was not.

Bridget came toward him, smiling. “Do you like your gift?”

“Very much, thank you.”

It was not the first time he had been visited thusly by a lady of the castle, to be served during a bath. Indeed, it was considered a good and proper practice, although normally said ladies arrived accompanied by servants, for propriety's sake. He would venture to guess Bridget's husband did not know she was here, alone with him.

She removed her cloak and tossed it to his bed. She wore only a thin white kirtle. Her unbound breasts moved provocatively beneath. Proceeding toward him, she lifted a cloth from the table, and dipped it in the water.

“May I?” she offered seductively, her lips curving into a smile.

 

Chapter 14

“If you wish,” he answered, his soul darkening.

After all, he owed no particular loyalty to the MacClaren—or to Elspeth. And Bridget was beautiful, in a different sort of way than the young woman who haunted his dreams. Perhaps he should welcome this opportunity to rid her from his mind.

She rubbed the cloth over his shoulders and across his chest, leaning forward so close that the warm mist bathed her breasts. Allowing the cloth to sink into the tub, she spread her hands over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Your muscles are so hard, and tight.” Her fingers traced his tattoos, and moved down over his chest and stomach, lower with each teasing stroke. “I know how to ease your tensions.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the first stirrings of desire … but not for her.

Damn him to hell, he wanted someone else here. He wanted someone else's hands on his skin offering him pleasure. Until he forgot Elspeth, no one else would do.

He seized Bridget's wrist—just as her fingertips grazed his sex.

“Thank you,” he said, opening his eyes. “But that is enough.”

He heard the breath catch in her throat, and she gave a little laugh. “No one has to know.”

“I appreciate that,” he said coldly. “But I am very tired, and wish to be alone.”

She stared back at him, her eyes glassy with arousal, her lips parted in disbelief.

“Another time then?” she said hopefully.

After drying her hands on a cloth she reached for her cloak.

“Perhaps.” Truly. Perhaps. Seducing the MacClaren's wife would be just as cruel as seducing his daughter, but tonight he had no taste for it.

He suspected he never would.

When she was gone, he left the bath and dried himself. Dropping the damp linen on a chair, he pulled on knee-length
braies
, rolling them at his hips. Normally he slept naked but if Bridget were to suddenly return at least his manhood would be somewhat secured.

Crossing the earthen floor, he climbed beneath the furs and stared up at the shadows dancing with the firelight on the rafters above. The fire crackled on the hearth. He laid his arm over his eyes, praying he would not only sleep, but not dream again of Elspeth.

His breathing slowed.

Until a sound came from across the room. The door, again.

Why had he not thought to secure the bar? Annoyed, he lifted up onto his elbow to look, expecting to see Bridget or possibly Deargh—

But it was Elspeth, dressed in a simple linen sheath, a plaid covering her shoulders and her hair. His heart stopped beating in his chest.

“It is true then,” she said in a whisper, her face pale.

He sat up quickly, pushing back the furs.

“What is true?” he asked, standing.

Her gaze descended over his body—his chest, abdomen, and hips—as he moved toward her. A blush rose into her cheeks—and yet her gaze accused. She even appeared to tremble.

“I saw her leave,” she blurted, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

He knew instantly what she believed … how it must look, with Bridget sneaking away from his quarters and her coming in to find him there in bed.

What he didn't know, was how she felt about it.

He approached her, slowly.

“Did you, then?” he said in a dispassionate voice, intended to provoke her.

With an angry cry, she flew at him, her fists striking his chest. His face.
Hard
.

He had never been more well pleased.

He caught her wrists—seizing her up against his chest and carrying her to the bed as she writhed like a furious cat—and he tossed her down. She moved quickly to escape him, but he captured her easily there atop the furs, pinning her wrists and halting the thrashing of her legs with his thigh.

He looked down into her beautiful, outraged face.

“
You
are jealous,” he declared.

She struggled, wrenching her arms, and twisting. She felt so good beneath him, lithe and womanly all at once. A dangerous pleasure tightened his loins.

“Nay, not jealous,” she spat. “You betray my father with her and for that I hate you.”

He admired the fire in her, finding it enthralling. At the same time, he took pleasure in the differences in their bodies, his size and strength—and her femininity. He overpowered her every attempt to strike him or throw him off, but gently, with an intent toward seduction.

“That's not it,” he said, his hands moving, binding her still … but lowering his head to nuzzle the tantalizing skin of her neck … kissing her there, and savoring her fragrance.

“
Niall
,” she gasped, squirming, warm and soft against him. His body reacted, his sex going hard against her thigh. “Please stop.”

“Confess it,” he growled low, in her ear, grinning. “You were jealous over me.”

“Let me go.” Her body remained rigid.

“Not until you say it,” he murmured.

She turned her face away from him, and closed her eyes.

“I won't,” she exclaimed softly. “I can't.”

His eyes hungrily memorized her delicate profile, which now reflected more hurt than anger. He understood her refusal. She had her pride just as he did, which made certain confessions difficult. But he would be nothing less than ruthless in drawing her out from behind the high bastion of her pride, and making her his own.

“You think I kissed you … toyed with you, and then made love to her,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Kisses are
only
kisses.” She pushed against him, straining her muscles to be free. “You mean
nothing
to me.”

“That's not true,” he dared answer, an edge of arrogance in his voice. “You only say that because you think I betrayed you—”

“—you
did betray me
,” she choked out.

The torment in her voice satisfied him, to his soul. It all but confirmed she had been as miserable as he. Tenderly, he grazed his thumb along her cheek.

“How could I ever betray you,” he answered gruffly, “when from the first moment, there has only been you?” He exhaled through his nose. “I see you … everywhere. Every time I close my eyes. Even when I sleep.”

Elspeth remained rigid, but she listened. He knew she did.

“She came here, yes,” he said. “But I sent her away, because she's not you.”

He used the words as a weapon, yes, but they were true—so true that speaking them made him feel like he walked naked onto a crowded and bloody battlefield, blindfolded, with no weapon in hand.

Beneath him, she stared up, her gleaming dark hair spread out across the fur, her breasts rising and falling, crushed by the neckline of her lèine.

The tension in her body slowly … eased … and she went soft.

“
Niall
.” She shifted against him, innocently, he had no doubt, but in doing so, she brought his sex more intimately between her thighs.

He clenched his teeth as heat rippled through his body, the power of his need causing his vision to blur.
Slow down
, he commanded himself
. Slow down, else you'll frighten her away
.

“Don't move that way, lass,” he warned. “You don't know what it does to me.”

She sighed. “What do you think it does to me?”

Her words surprised him, and he laughed, but then … the smile fell from his lips because he felt more for her than he ought to feel.

“I've been so miserable,” she whispered, her cheeks flushed and her lips parted, a temptress peering up at him. Gently, she pulled free from his hold, and touched her hands to either side of his face. “I don't want to be miserable anymore.”

Firelight bathed her face half golden, half in shadows. In this moment, surrounded by darkness and completely alone, with their bodies so intimately matched, he forgot about revenge and saw only Elspeth. Not because of blind desire, which he could control, but because she was the first woman to calm his raging soul and in this moment he needed to make love to her like he needed his next breath.

He lowered his head, kissing her, gently at first, but then, as his heartbeat ramped higher, pressing his mouth hard to hers, slanted and open, only to pull back, grazing … teasing … until she let out a sigh and lifted her head from the furs, kissing him back.

“I tried to forget you,” she whispered against his lips, her hands touching the bare skin of his torso.

“I tried to let you forget me, but I cannot.”

He kissed her again—more fervently, a drumbeat of warning even now sounding in his head, telling him he must lock his heart securely away before going any further. Caring for her too deeply would be a dangerous thing. Despite this, all he felt was the need to claim her, and keep her. To make her his woman.

Pulling back, wanting to
see
her, he delved his fingers through her silken hair, cradling her delicate skull. Her hands came up between them, smoothing over his naked chest, and higher, to clasp his shoulders.