The Beast of Clan Kincaid (15 page)

“Elspeth … certainly you know by now that I am ill.”

She went cold, to her soul, not wanting to hear what he would say. “You will get better.”

He shook his head. “I … will not.”

Hearing the pain in his voice, Elspeth closed her eyes, feeling her own heart break. He all but told her he expected to die. But how soon?

Bridget looked at her as well, her demeanor calm, but … not unsympathetic.

“Don't say that,” Elspeth whispered.

Yet she knew what he said was true. She had seen the signs for so long now, and they only became more apparent, rather than fading away. The wince of pain when he moved. The change in his body and his features as he grew frailer and weaker. Though she'd tried not to see it, the MacClaren was a dim image of his prior self.

Though he was maddening and blustery and controlling, she loved him, and loved him fiercely. She wanted to embrace him, to kiss his face and hold him close, but he had never been one for such affection. His love had always come from a distance, and that was all right. She knew it was strong and unwavering, just the same. The best gift she could give him now was respect.

He covered his mouth with his hand, and paced a few steps. “For this reason, I am being pressed to name a successor with more urgency than before. It is a difficult choice because as you know there are no clear candidates among the MacClarens. Good men are plentiful among our people, but a man who can be its leader to defend against our present dangers has yet to emerge. Until a choice can be made, I must do what I can to secure the future of this clan. And Elspeth, I must do so quickly, before I am unable and the choice is taken from my hands. The Alwyn, if he learns I am not long on this earth, will use my weakness and his royal favor against us to seize the very stones upon which we stand. We need the strongest possible allies, sworn to stand with us, else we will fall. You are not some pawn in this. You are my eldest daughter. A MacClaren warrior, just as certainly as any man. Though it is difficult and sometimes painful to our souls, we have a duty to do what is right.”

Pride swelled her chest. What he said was true. What she had always believed. They were words she had needed to hear from his lips.

“I
will
do my duty,” she answered. “No one loves our clan—our people—more than I. But—”

Bridget turned to them, speaking suddenly. “Perhaps there is another way.”

The MacClaren looked at her, almost as if he had forgotten her presence.

“What is it?” he asked.

Elspeth dreaded what her stepmother would say, fearing whatever she suggested as a new resolution would commit her to an even deeper pit of wretchedness. After all, it had been she who invited Keppoch and FitzDuff to offer for Elspeth's hand.

Her young stepmother tilted her blond head. “I propose that we send word separately to FitzDuff and Keppoch, thanking them for their interest, and advising that Elspeth will make a decision very soon.”

Yes
. Elspeth was all in favor of that. But she remained unsure of whether she could breathe easier just yet, until she heard more.

Bridget went on. “The Cearcal will take place in less than a fortnight. Let us all attend.”

She referred to an annual festival held each autumn, which Elspeth remembered attending with her mother and father as a child. Such memories! It had always been a time of excitement.

The “circle” referred to the encampments set up by the clans that attended, at all points around a circular valley, with an enormous bonfire at the center. It also referred to the inter-clan courting that took place, and the way men and women who had never been close enough to cross paths before had the opportunity to “circle” one another there.

On the last day of the festival, there were always a score of weddings, most among the common people, but sometimes there were dramatic surprises and stunning alliances forged among the powerful families of the north.

“The Cearcal,” her father repeated, his gaze growing distant. “Our clan has not attended in years.”

“It is not so far,” said Bridget. “We could dispatch a messenger tomorrow to deliver news to all the northern clan chiefs—except for those we wish to exclude—that Elspeth intends to entertain and consider suitors there. If you make clear the extent of her
tocher
, and what you expect in exchange, I know you will draw many interested parties. There are many sons and nephews of powerful and influential chiefs and earls eager to start dynasties of their own, and like you, they don't want the interference of the crown. I know such travel will be tiring for you, but we could make the trip slowly so that you could be there to ensure Elspeth's decision is wise.” She rested a hand on the chief's arm. “What say you, husband?”

He looked from his wife to Elspeth. “Would you agree to this?”

To answer now, outright, seemed so final and binding. But what more could she ask? She could imagine no better reprieve than this. At least at the Cearcal, she would have a broader choice of husbands than those with whom she'd previously been presented.

But no one to compare with Niall
.

“Yes,” she blurted. “I would agree.”

“Then it is decided.” He nodded, his gaze sharp. “I will inform the council.”

A short time later Elspeth left the castle, inhaling deeply of the cold morning air, needing time alone to think and renew her resolve, not as a young woman with romantic dreams—but as a MacClaren, whose vision and purpose must remain crystal clear. Not wishing to speak to anyone just yet, she took the wooded path she often walked with her sisters, which ran toward the river, purposefully avoiding the stone steps that would take her past the alcove where Niall had kissed her the night before. She would go to her favorite place beside the water, where she could sit in the crook of her favorite tree.

That she had won the immediate battle—surprisingly, with help from Bridget—offered little relief as far as the burden on her mind and heart. She would still be expected to choose a husband within a fortnight. Any wedding would take place very soon. The idea of being thrown into such an intimate situation, when she couldn't even imagine her husband's face, made it difficult to prepare herself.

One face did repeatedly come to mind. Niall's.

That had to stop, for obvious reasons.

She told herself he could
not
be as intriguing as her mind made him out to be. He was merely a superficial representation of all her girlish dreams, which she must now leave behind so that she could have an open heart and mind for a man with considerably more substance.

Oh, but his kisses.

All foolishness. Like many young women, she had made the mistake of being seduced by a handsome face and a strong body. It did not mean that
inside
, at his heart, he was anything she would admire in an enduring way, or ever come to love.

She simply had to stop thinking about him. Do her best to forget his kiss, and the way her body had come alive at his touch.

The way she conducted herself in the coming weeks, and indeed for the rest of her life, would be testimony to her mettle as a woman. As a MacClaren.

A child's voice drew her attention in the clearing ahead. Through a break in the trees, she saw that it was Catrin, laughing and swinging a wooden sword, following the instruction of some unseen master, hidden by the trunk of a tree.

Catrin always made her feel better. She was such a happy child, when allowed to be so. Boisterous and full of energy and fun. She recalled with fondness a time when she had been that happy herself.

She moved closer, stepping quietly, wanting only to watch, not to interfere.

She recognized Niall immediately. The back of his dark, glossy head. His broad shoulders, beneath a linen tunic, and long, lean legs in brown woolen trews and leather boots. He held a long tree branch in his hand, as if it were a sword.

She weakened instantly at taking in the endearing scene. Just like that, all the attraction she'd felt for him the night before crashed over her, taking her breath away, leaving her feeling thrilled and defeated all at once.

“You must anticipate what your opponent will do, and react quickly,” he instructed in his deep, resonant voice. The same one that had murmured her name in her ear the night before. The memory sent a frisson of pleasure down her spine.

“What does ‘anticipate' mean?” Cat asked, laughing. She pressed her lips together, and tapped her sword against his.

“It means you must guess correctly what they are going to do before they do it.” He assumed a fighting stance, albeit a gentle one. Even covered in wool, she saw the powerful flex of his legs. “If I am standing in this pose, with my sword already pointed down to the ground, after failing to strike you before … where do you suppose I shall move the blade next?”

“Back to me,” the girl said brightly.

Elspeth covered her mouth,
sighing
 … trying not to reveal her presence there. There was something poignant about what she observed. Catrin was so hungry for the MacClaren's attention. A father's love. And he so rarely gave it. Niall's manner seemed so easy with her. He would be a good father.

“And yet look how you are holding your sword,” he noted gravely. “Would you be able to stop me from cutting off your nose and feeding it to the fish?”

Catrin giggled. “I should hold it here instead.”

“That's right. So that when I—”

Slowly … he raised his sword …

Cat gave it a mighty
whack
.

“Very good,” he announced, his voice warm with praise. “Now you know, you must always … what?”

“Anticipate!”

“Yes.”

Catrin saw her then. “Look, Elspeth, Niall is teaching me how to fight.”

Heat rose into Elspeth's face, and she took a step back. “Don't stop. I was just watching your lesson. I'll go on to the castle so I don't distract you.”

Niall looked at her steadily, not smiling, his expression giving nothing away.

“Or…” he said. “You could take up a sword and join us.”

“Yes!” shouted Cat, pointing her stick at Elspeth. “Join us.”

She stood frozen for a long moment, indecisive over what to do.

But then the most reasonable answer occurred. The easiest way to forget him, to lose her fascination for him, would be to spend time in his company. To prove to herself that he was just a man, no different than any other.

And most important of all, she must let him know that what happened last night, in the shadows of that alcove, would never happen again.

 

Chapter 11

“It is a dangerous invitation you make,” Elspeth said.

Niall watched, riveted by the sight of her as she moved toward them, lovely in a heathery purple gown, searching the ground. She bent, reaching for a straight-ish branch. In doing so, her breasts crowded against the round neckline of her bodice, full and tempting. His mouth went dry, and—

His loins stirred in his trews.

God help him, if she could arouse him like that, so innocently and without intention, he could only imagine his response if she were in his arms, willing and eager. When she stood again he quickly looked away, so she would not see his interest—nay, his hunger—written plain and clear on his face.

“A worthy sword, if ever there was one,” he observed huskily.

She replied in a cool tone of exaggerated smugness—playful dramatics, he realized, intended for the child. “I can't believe neither of you claimed it for yourselves.”

“My sword is better,” shouted Cat, holding her wooden sword aloft.

Aye, her sword was indeed better than their bent, lichen covered branches. As it should be.

“I would take care if I were you,” he said to Elspeth, tilting his head toward the girl. “Catrin is a cunning one.”

“Cunning swordswomen
are
always the best.” She extended her “weapon” and with a twirl of her wrist, gave it flourish. “The question is, Cat, are you more cunning than me?”

“Hi-
ya
!” The child lunged, swinging a sword at her sister's skirts.

“A surprise attack,” exclaimed Elspeth, feinting back, bringing her branch around to defend her knees from attack.

And yet when she gently jabbed her weapon toward Cat, the child soundly deflected the attempt.

“Do you see, Niall?” Cat cried, turning to him and grinning triumphantly. “I anticipated.”

“Aye, that you did,” he answered through laughter. “But now is not the time for celebration. Watch out, she'll come sneaking up the back.”

Elspeth poked the child in the bottom with the end of her sword. “Ha! Got you.”

Cat ran behind Niall. “Cover my back!”

This left him face-to-face with Elspeth, who looked back at him, cheeks flushed, and a dazzling smile on her lips.

Yet her smile faded, and her eyes took on a darkly mischievous gleam.

She raised her sword—and lunged.
Whoosh
.

Requiring that he defend himself.
Smack
.

Stunned by her ferocity, Niall almost stumbled, backing away as she swung at him again with admirable form, whirling, her arms coming round, her weapon aimed square at his chest.

He intercepted her blade firmly with his own.

“You're good,” he said, breathing hard. “You've had training.”

Satisfaction warmed his cheeks as he stared into her battle-bright eyes.

“A little,” she said between clenched white teeth.

He had an inkling that she
might
be displeased with him somehow. Perhaps angry even? Oddly, he found the possibility attractive. The only Elspeth he had observed before had been gentle and sweet-natured. This was a distinctly different and interesting side of her.

Proving him right, she lifted her sword and launched an aggressive assault, which he again repelled and countered, his heartbeat surging. Pushing toward her, his branch crossing firmly against hers, he crowded her against a tree where she glared at him, the sight of her tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and heaving breasts more intoxicating than any wine.