The Beast of Clan Kincaid (3 page)

“What a wild stroke of luck,” Deargh said quietly from where he stood behind him on the riverbank. “An invitation to visit the hearth of the very man you intend to kill.”

“Luck?” Niall answered, with a slow shake of his head. A fire burned in his chest, fueled by hatred, but he had learned over the course of the years to tend its flames. How to harness strength and purpose from its heat, rather than to be consumed by it. “No, more like fate, I think. And don't forget, it's
my
damn hearth.”

Deargh threw his head back, and laughed.

For weeks they had circled Inverhaven, making their way from one village to the next, doing their best not to draw attention to themselves as Niall sought, unsuccessfully, to discover the fate of Faelan and Cull, who he had long since conceded were both likely dead. Neither they nor the men who had sworn to protect them had appeared at the Greyfriars monastery in the Highland burgess of Elgin, five winters after the murders of their parents, as had been agreed upon the night they were separated.

His recent attempts to track them closer to the place that had once been their home had also failed. He had encountered only old bard songs about the murder of the Laird of Kincaid and his three sons, and ghost stories claiming they haunted the Highland countryside. What other explanation for their complete and utter disappearance could there be, besides death? Perhaps from Heaven, they now guided him … because two evenings before, a band of outlaws had chosen to terrorize the very inn where he and Deargh rested after having spent a fortnight outdoors. In no way amused at having their comfortable sleep interrupted, they had, in a moment's time, sent the thieves limping and bleeding into the night.

And at that moment, fate had smiled upon him, for a man had emerged from the shadows, introducing himself as Conall, the Chief MacClaren's war captain. He had informed them the MacClaren might have a need for men with their particular skills and had invited them to visit the castle at Inverhaven.

It was how he and Deargh had lived all this time—as mercenaries.
Ceathearne
.
Gallóglaigh
.

As a boy, Niall had served as Deargh's shield bearer, but before long he fought as well, becoming a fearsome warrior in his own right. At some point, their roles had changed. Now the aging Deargh acted more as his side warrior and counselor than his protector.

In time, Niall's skills were highly sought after by many a powerful leader. And so they had traveled and seen the world. At times, they had lived like paupers. At times, they had lived like kings. It had always been Niall's decision as to when they would return, and now that his decision had been made, after years of preparation and having obtained the assurances of necessary alliances, he would not turn back.

Now at Conall's invitation they had made their way here, encamping with their horses in the forest the night before, on the opposite side of the river from Inverhaven. Midmorning, they would find a boy in the village to carry word of their arrival to Conall, and await summons to present themselves to Laird MacClaren—one of the two men Niall knew to be responsible for the murder of his father.

And so it began.

Niall's heart beat steadily, at peace with the approaching conflict. All his life, he had anticipated and prepared for this moment. One way or another, he would prevail.

“How does it feel to be here?” asked Deargh.

Lines creased the corners of his eyes and he had some years before taken to wearing his thinning hair completely shorn, which only made him look more formidable, always a desirable trait in a mercenary.

Niall scooped up two handfuls of water and scrubbed his chest with a sliver of fragrant soap, which had been gifted to him at the inn by a fetching serving lass.

“It isn't home,” he answered. “Not truly, not yet. But it will be, soon. What about you?”

That night seventeen years ago, Deargh had been a young man of twenty-nine, the same age as Niall now. A warrior to his core, he had left behind no wife or children, but his loyalty to his clan and his village had been strong and remained unbroken by the passage of time.

“It feels good.” Deargh nodded and smiled, his bright gaze taking in the scene around them. “Very good. I can't wait to begin. To gather our clan. To take back our home. I only hope no one recognizes me. That is, not until I wish them to.”

He gestured to his face and winked, his grin broadening with mischief.

Niall chuckled. “I don't think there's any danger of that.”

It wasn't that time had aged his guardian badly. Rather, Deargh referred to the shadowy stains that covered half of his face, tattoos etched there over the years by Scottish and foreign hands. If one were to examine the symbols closely, they would find a history of their travels after they'd left Inverhaven.

“Are you hungry?” asked Deargh. “I snared two rabbits.”

Niall nodded. “A moment more.”

“Aye,” answered Deargh. “Enjoy the solitude. It won't last for long.”

He disappeared into the trees. Left alone, Niall simply stood, listening, but no, he wasn't alone. For years he'd been unable to recall his father's voice, but now a familiar rich timbre sounded all around him, woven into the deep rush of the river and the wind in the trees, full of pride and welcome. He belonged here and now that he'd returned, he would never leave.

There were so many questions yet to be answered. What happened the night his father and mother, and his kinsmen—including Ian and the other boys—were murdered? And his brothers as well. Who had found them, and when? What remained of the Kincaid clan? Would he find their remnants in the village, or had they scattered into the hillside or beyond?

Again, he looked toward the castle.

A movement caught his eye, near the base of the tower. From out of the mist appeared a woman, moving quickly along the footpath, young and lithe, with dark hair flowing over her shoulders. Despite the chill, she wore no mantle for warmth, only a simple dress of blue. His interest awakened. Even from this distance he recognized her loveliness. A pale, round face above a long neck and delicate shoulders.

Only she wasn't alone. A smaller child bounded past her—a boy in a tunic and trews, chasing a black puppy that streaked across the grass. Another woman followed, regal, tall and fair haired, and adorned in a long cloak thickly trimmed with fur.

Niall's muscles flexed with caution when other figures emerged from the mist behind the second woman—men at arms, some eight or nine of them, all dressed in a similar fashion, with ochre-colored plaids draped across their shoulders. Niall assessed the side arms each wore as best he could considering the distance. No doubt the men served the Chief MacClaren … although Conall, when he had met him at the village inn, had worn no such identifying color.

The taller blond woman called out to the young woman in blue, only he could not hear what she said for the distance and the loud rush of the water. The young woman halted, her shoulders visibly rigid. He could only assume she was a servant, and that she had displeased her mistress in some way. Whatever the matter, it was none of his concern, especially when his morning meal awaited.

He watched as the maid turned to accept her lady's address, and for one long moment he admired the way her hair cascaded down her shapely back, rich and shining. Once inside the castle, he would look for her and see if she was as comely as she seemed from a distance.

Turning, he stepped out from the river and took up his tunic, shaking it free of leaves. He turned back for one last glance at the beauty in blue—

Just in time to see the blond woman strike her.

*   *   *

Elspeth gasped and lifted a hand to her stinging cheek. She had never—not in all her life—been struck in such a manner. Not by her parents. Not by either of her prior two stepmothers. Not by anyone.

Until now.

Elspeth's newest stepmother of a fortnight, Bridget—who was her same age, almost to a day—peered at her imperiously, with bright spots of color on her cheeks.

“Don't walk away from me when I'm talking to you,” Bridget snapped. “Don't
pretend
as if you did not hear me. I will not abide such disrespect, do you understand?”

Elspeth stood frozen on the stone pathway. She had been doing exactly that, rushing away from Bridget as swiftly as her legs would carry her, pretending not to hear her calls, thinking that if she got far enough ahead they could avoid speaking to one another, because she wasn't ready yet. She wasn't ready to talk about what she'd seen.

For days, heavy rains had confined them to the castle and during that time Elspeth had been subjected to endless hours of Bridget's petty grievances. Elspeth realized her new stepmother was young and likely lonely and homesick, just as she would be one day soon as well when she married, but God spare her! The young woman's complaints were incessant.

One moment, Bridget was accusing Elspeth of undermining her authority with the servants, whom she criticized constantly. Next, she claimed Elspeth was vying to be her father's favorite, at Bridget's expense. And on, and on, and on, and now the MacClaren was ill and unable to mediate on either of their behalves.

All Elspeth had wanted was to escape the miserable confines of the castle walls and breathe and most of all, be alone—except for Catrin's company. The young girl's chattering and constant activity only annoyed Bridget. At just six years of age, her little half-sister still grieved the death of her mother—the second of Elspeth's three stepmothers—and had of late taken to dressing like a boy, Elspeth could only assume, in an attempt to gain their father's attention and approval. While the MacClaren loved his four daughters in his own way, he had never made a secret of his very deep disappointment in never having sired a son. She couldn't replace Cat's mother, but she and the child had always been fond of one another, and it was clear the little girl needed to be outside to run and play.

Elspeth looked over her shoulder to be certain the child had not witnessed the ugly sight of Bridget slapping her.

Only … she didn't see Cat, which worried her, because with the rains the river had risen high and the current would be dangerously strong—

“Answer me.” Bridget leaned close, demanding all of her attention.

Bridget's personal retinue, a small company of warriors who had come with her to Inverhaven as part of her
tocher
, kept their distance, most of them looking off into the forest, their expressions distinctly uncomfortable.

All save for a red-haired warrior—Duncan—who stood just behind Bridget. He looked at Elspeth coldly, his demeanor very different than
before
when he'd been jovial and friendly.

Of course, things had changed since then because of what Elspeth had accidentally seen in the shadows of an alcove, in the castle's small pleasure garden, as she searched for Catrin that morning.

“Please, I must go and find Cat,” said Elspeth between gritted teeth, her breath frosting the air.

She really
was
worried. She didn't hear Cat laughing or the puppy barking, only the roar of the river.

“Not until we're finished here,” Bridget asserted, stepping closer and clasping her cloak at her neck. Several rings glimmered on her hand, studded with jewels. She was pretty, yes, but displeasure contorted her features into an ugly mask.

Elspeth did not shrink from her. “We
are
finished.”

Dropping her hand from her still-stinging cheek, she turned and took several steps, and opened her mouth to call for Cat—

Bridget swung in front of her, blocking her way. The taller woman's chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes bright and her nostrils flared.

“Please understand that what you saw…” Bridget cleared her throat. “What you saw taking place between Duncan and me meant nothing. Our embrace was … an innocent one. He was only comforting me because I was concerned about your father's health. Duncan is a dear friend, and has been for many years. He is my counselor. That is all. You understand, don't you?”

That wasn't true, and Elspeth knew it. The embrace she had observed had been one of unmistakable passion.
Unmistakable.
For one thing, both of Duncan's hands had been squeezing Bridget's bottom, as he lifted her off the ground against him. Not to mention all the groaning and gasping that had drawn her attention to that far corner of the garden in the first place.

Something told her that now wasn't the time to mention that.

She needed time to think about what to do. Should she inform her father of what she had seen? She didn't want to. She didn't want to hurt or, worse, to humiliate him—but how could she remain silent? She and Bridget stared at one another. The sound of the rushing river filled Elspeth's ears.

Cat, where are you
?

“Yes, I understand,” she said, wanting only to be free of Bridget and to assure herself that the child was safe. “May I go?”

“You're lying,” Bridget accused, her eyes filling with tears. “You
don't
understand! You don't know what it's like to leave one's home and everything you've ever known—”

She choked on the words.

And just like that, Elspeth's heart did a turnabout, softening in sympathy. She did understand. She and Bridget had that in common. She too would have to marry soon, and leave behind her father and sisters and all she held dear.

Bridget's lip curled, transforming her face into one of cruelty. “—and be forced by duty to marry a
sick old man
.”

Elspeth recoiled, her sympathy gone as quickly as it had come. A sick old man? Her father?

Fire blazed up from her heart. Vows of marriage were sacred and once sworn, to be treasured and upheld, not cast aside like rubbish in favor of a handsome face. The Laird MacClaren had welcomed Bridget into their clan like a queen. They all had. Yes, he had been ill of late, but he would soon recover and continue on as the formidable warrior and great leader to their clan that he had been since before her birth.