The Beast of Clan Kincaid (8 page)

He might as well have embraced her, for the way her body reacted—with every inch of her skin going warm and her knees weakening.

“I almost didn't recognize you,” she said. “With your beard gone.”

His gaze moved over her face. “I'm certain I would have recognized you anywhere.”

The words were a compliment, and how wonderful they made her feel. She flushed, and everything inside her—her heart and her soul—felt feather light and aglow.

As eldest daughter of the clan chief, she often received compliments. People said flattering things about her all the time, that she was lovely, intelligent, and hale—mostly, she knew, to curry favor with her father. She did not even take the words to heart, but … she hoped this man's words were sincere. She would like very much to be memorable in his mind.

But she couldn't just stand here like a starry-eyed maid, staring at him. He would notice her admiration and know she was smitten, and her pride would not allow that. Especially when she would soon be betrothed to another.

“I am Elspeth.” She imposed an easy tone to her voice, hoping her cheeks were not as flushed as she feared. “I know my father wishes to meet you. May I take you to him?”

He nodded. “Thank you, yes.”

“What is your name?” Aye, that she wished to know. A name would make him seem real—and not a mythical
béist
. A name would make him just a man.

He looked at her for a long moment.

Suddenly, a dark shadow moved between them—

A hulking figure that blocked her view of him. A strong arm banded around her back, leading her forcefully away.

“There you are, my lovely Elspeth,” a man's voice wheezed.

Her vision focused on the shiny, pockmarked face of Keppoch Macpherson, just as her nose and throat seized closed against a witheringly strong stench—just one of the unfortunate traits for which he was known.

“Keppoch, a moment, please,” she said. “I was just—speaking with someone.”

She twisted, looking over her shoulder for the stranger, but he was gone. Vanished like a ghost.

Her heart sank, heavy as a stone.

Keppoch wasn't alone. A score of his men accompanied them, they with their long, damp hair and oily leather tunics. Like a dark wave, they pushed through the now silent gathering hall, making way for their chief, asserting his importance by displacing any who stood in his and Elspeth's way.

And indeed, Keppoch was an important man, the chief of a small but ferocious clan who presently swore fealty to another, larger clan to the west. Her father had, of late, sought to sway his allegiance in favor of the MacClarens. Such an alliance would bolster security along their weakest border where the Alwyns had taken to making costly incursions onto MacClaren lands, raiding farms and stealing livestock. Those raids, along with the ceaseless harassment from the Kincaid hill people, stretched the MacClaren's defenses thin.

A smile broke across Keppoch's face, revealing a row of yellowed, broken teeth. “Do me the honor of sitting beside me at your father's table tonight.”

She stiffened at his words, recognizing by his cold tone and unyielding grasp that they were not an invitation—but a command.

Lord spare her! Without a doubt Macpherson was one of the suitors Bridget had invited to pay court to her.

Once, several years ago, she had traveled with her father to the Macpherson stronghold. It stood stark and alone, a dark tower on a barren landscape, surrounded by a squalid village. The idea of spending the rest of her days there, forced to submit to such a slovenly creature, made her stomach turn.

Suddenly, another arm came round her waist. Strong and forceful, it wrested her free of Keppoch's hold. Spun round, she found herself face-to-face with the fine-featured countenance of Alan FitzDuff.

“My, my, my. Sweet Elspeth. A child no more, but a woman grown.” His gaze swept over her face—before dropping straight to her breasts. “When did this remarkable transformation occur?”

His perfect smile stretched wider.

Curse Bridget!

Yes, FitzDuff was handsome and he boasted overflowing coffers and a fine castle. But the countryside was replete with stories of his ruthless womanizing. Indeed, it was an oft repeated jest that Alan FitzDuff was building a formidable Highland army, one bastard at a time.

Keppoch glared at FitzDuff, growling like an angry wolf.

FitzDuff stared coldly back, a smile of challenge on his lips.

From either side their men crowded closer, each entourage jostling the other in an attempt to claim dominance, pushing Elspeth more firmly between the two men.

Her heart beat painfully in her chest. She could hardly breathe.

These
beasts were to be her suitors?
This
would be the manner in which she would be courted—and wed?

Anger flared up from inside. She wanted to plant an elbow in each of their sides—nay, perhaps even into each of their faces! She wanted to scream. The only thing that stopped her was an intense desire to preserve her dignity, for certainly the entire room looked on, including her young sisters.

Elspeth looked toward the dais where her father and Bridget looked back at her. The MacClaren wore a dismayed expression. In contrast, Bridget smiled serenely, as if all were well—and even lifted her goblet in salute!

Standing at her father's side, Conall scowled, his brows furrowed. Derryth and Mairi observed as well, their shocked faces proof enough that their excitement in the evening, and all their high expectations of romance, had been thoroughly dashed.

Rebellion rose up inside Elspeth. This would not do! She would not marry either of these men. Aye, she was a dutiful daughter, but she would not commit herself to outright misery for the sake of Bridget's amusement.

With a hard push she broke out from the melee and strode toward the dais, FitzDuff still clutching her sleeve and Keppoch muttering curses as he trailed behind.

Of course, she would not publicly rebuff either suitor. She would take more care than that, understanding as she was of the necessity of political alliances. But she must have some reassurance that her father did not support Bridget in these choices.

“Father—” she began.

“Macpherson!” the laird barked out, startling her. “FitzDuff.”

He strode forward and grasped the arm of each man in greeting. “I and Lady MacClaren bid you welcome to our home.”

Her father did not look at her.

She spoke again, albeit nervously. “Father, if I could speak with you privately for just one—”

“Daughter”—he interjected—“see that your special guests are comfortably seated, that their goblets remain filled. Also that they are sufficiently entertained and the recipients of your good graces all the evening long.”

Elspeth stood stunned, her arms at her sides, realization filtering through her. Her father's abrupt manner denied her safe haven. His words forbade any complaint.

Certainly … certainly he could not be in agreement with Bridget's choices.

Seeing her hesitation, her father's face reddened and a dark scowl turned his lips.

She wasn't a fool. She would win no battles here, not with everyone watching. She must wait to speak to the laird in private. For now, she had no choice but to obey.

“Yes, laird,” she said, her voice tight from the effort of speaking the words.

She lowered her head in acquiescence, and turned toward FitzDuff and Keppoch who both stared at her with such lustful expectation that revulsion stole her breath.

She should never have worn this dress. These men did not make her feel beautiful, but rather like a joint of meat to be snarled and fought over by hounds in the mud and filth of the castle's bailey.

The stranger had not made her feel this way.

The stranger
. Her pulse jumped. How could she have forgotten him, for even a moment? No doubt he stood at the edge of the room, a witness to her humiliation. She turned back toward the dais.

“Laird,” she said. “Another guest has also arrived who I know you will wish to welcome as well.”

At this the MacClaren did cast a glare at Bridget, and he growled through clenched teeth. “Keppoch Macpherson. Alan FitzDuff. I am brim with anticipation. Who might our next guest be?”

Bridget raised her eyebrows, peered down at the sparkling rings on her hand—and shrugged.

Elspeth answered, “It is the man who saved Catrin and me from the river today. The
gallóglaigh
.”

Conall stepped off the dais, moving toward her.

“Where?” He searched the room. “I do not see him.”

Elspeth turned with him, but found her view largely obstructed by the men who still stood thickly around her, Macpherson and FitzDuff, and their companions.

Suddenly, through the shadows and faces and wavering firelight, her gaze locked on his. He leaned in the shadows at the back of the room, his shoulder against one of the stone arcade columns.

“He is there beneath the unicorn tapestry. Do you see him?”

Conall struck into the crowd, shouldering through the men who still gathered behind their lords refusing to give up ground to the other. After the MacClaren's captain had passed, the two groups converged again, bumping chests and muttering challenges and slights.

A moment later, Conall returned, followed by a remarkable-looking, stone-faced man with every bit of his skin covered in tattoos. This man had a bull-like neck and enormous shoulders and appeared completely hewn of muscle. He eyed the warriors who cluttered the path and when one refused to give sufficient way, he reached out and planted his hand at the center of the man's chest like a battering ram, shoving him with such force the man's boots certainly left the ground.

At this, Conall caught her gaze—and winked above a satisfied smile.

Elspeth's heart beat in anticipation, because she knew for whom he cleared the way.

And indeed, a flurry of movement in the gallery above caught Elspeth's attention. Ladies leaned forward, murmuring excitedly among themselves, their breasts straining at their bodices as they watched someone.

It was the stranger, of course. Broad shouldered and self-assured, he followed the tattooed galloglass with the bearing of a conqueror.

“My lord,” Conall called grandly, lifting his hand. “I wish to present to you—”

“
Béist
!”

Someone—a man—blurted the word in awe.

The outburst had come from one of Keppoch's warriors. Indeed, the man pushed through his companions toward his scowling chief and murmured fervently in his ear.

Elspeth could just make out the words he spoke.

“It is the
béist
—the
gallóglaigh
I told you of, who fights for Buchan. The one who fights like a demon from hell.”

A shiver of excitement coursed down Elspeth's spine, followed by a rush of heat, over every inch of her skin. Such words were a high compliment coming from a member of Keppoch's personal guard, famed as they were not only for their skill with the sword but their brutal strength. But … the stranger had served Buchan?

She was not the only one who had overheard the man's explanation to Keppoch. Male voices repeated the words and they carried in a murmur to the farthest edges of the room. At that, the opposing factions that crowded the floor parted ways, providing a narrow but unencumbered path.

Elspeth stood in place, riveted by the unfolding scene. When Conall passed her, and then the tattooed warrior after him, each man pressed close by and in doing so forcefully separated her from her unwanted suitors who she had not even noticed remained at her sides.

“You're welcome, lass,” murmured the tattooed man, a playful lilt in his voice.

Yet she forgot him in the next moment when her eyes met those of the
béist
. She thought he would simply pass her by, but when their arms touched, every so lightly as he passed, he paused and tilted his head toward hers.

“A troublesome night you are having, Elspeth,” he murmured teasingly.

Obscured by the drape of his cloak, the back of his hand grazed the back of hers.

It was a secret touch. A forbidden touch. One that no one else could see, and it set her heart thudding hard and painfully in her chest and set every inch of her skin afire.

He was gone, moving past her as quickly as he had come.

Turning, she watched as Conall and the tattooed warrior stepped to the side, revealing her father waiting there. Along the dais, the laird's personal warriors and council stood, watching with keen interest.

The MacClaren smiled. “Welcome to Inverhaven. What an honor it is to have you here, in our home. Tell me, good sir, what is your name?”

The silence that followed seemed thunderous in the already absolute quiet of the room. But then he spoke.

“My name is Niall.”

*   *   *

It had been important to Niall that he stand here—in this moment of all moments—unmasked.

To enter into their midst bare-of-face and to speak his own name … the name his mother and father had given him … the name by which he had been known when last he set foot upon these stones.

He would not sneak furtively like a rat. He would stand proud like a Kincaid and look the MacClaren and his warriors in the eyes so that they—his sworn enemies—would recall this moment later with clear understanding.

Soon enough they would know the truth of who he was and why he was here. And now that he was here, inside, they would not be able to stop him.

He would take everything from them, as they had taken everything from his family and his clan. And in that moment, he wanted them to realize, even as they took their last breath, that they had been given more honor in death than all the Kincaids who had been slain. He wanted them to know shame for it, in those last moments before they answered to God.

“Please join me,” said the MacClaren, his eyes moving over Niall with sharp-eyed interest, marveling over his height and the thickness of his shoulders and arms, as one would a new and dangerous weapon being considered for one's armory.