The Beast of Clan Kincaid (16 page)

“I'm beginning to think I should fear for my life.” He grinned, captivated … completely engaged in her and pleased that she should surprise him in this way.

“Perhaps you should,” she answered, her gray eyes staring coldly into his.

But then her gaze shifted, moving beyond his shoulder.

“Cat,” she called, her expression changing to one of alarm. “Where are you going? We're in the midst of a battle here.”

“I'm
hungry
.”

Looking over his shoulder, Niall saw the girl scamper out of view.

At the knowledge that they were alone, desire curled low in the pit his stomach, like an awakening dragon. Turning back to Elspeth—

She sidestepped him, a blush high on her cheeks.

“I should go,” she said, moving in the same direction the child had gone.

“Elspeth?”

Was she angry because he had kissed her the night before?

“I wouldn't want you to have to play nursemaid,” she said huffily.

Or there was that
.

He caught her by the wrist, and pulled her around. She stared up at him, eyes flashing.

“You are angry with me, for saying that?”

“Of course not,” she asked, yanking her arm free and stepping behind a tree trunk, where he could not see her. “It let me know the truth of how you feel.”

He dropped his branch and followed to find her standing against a backdrop of lichen, her eyes closed, breathing deeply through her nose, still clenching her improvised sword.

He touched his hand to her upper arm.

Her eyes flew open. “Don't touch me.”

Again, she pushed past him. This time he caught her by the back of her skirt, just above her bottom, and hauled her back against him. With a small cry of outrage, she twisted around, leveling the branch at his head. He ducked—and her sword smashed into the trunk behind him.

He exhaled, eyes wide and focused on her as she stepped back, arms raised, clenching her weapon, poised and ready.

“My life is not some child's game,” she said. “And I am not a toy for you or anyone else to play with.”

In that moment he realized he had never seen anything more beautiful than Elspeth, holding her weapon high, in her purple gown, prepared to knock his head off.

“You think it was true? Those things I said?” he demanded in a low voice, closing the distance between them.

“If they weren't, you wouldn't have said them,” she replied smartly.

“What is it you want?” Towering above her, he intentionally tried to intimidate her.

Yet she did not back down. “I don't want anything at all from you.”

“I don't believe you,” he said. “I think you want me to kiss you again.”

Her eyes flared wide and her cheeks flushed more deeply.

“Of course I don't,” she retorted. “If you kissed me again, I would have no choice but to tell my father.”

She whirled, and moved toward the path, her every step away from him filling his head with rising thunder.

“Please do tell him.” He started after her, moving fast. Because now
he
was angry. Perhaps because in that minute, he believed her. “I would be more than happy to tell him how eagerly you kissed me back.”

“Oh!” She pivoted on her heel, swinging the branch.

He caught it with his bare hand—and stared into her wide, tear-filled eyes.

Seeing this, every bit of anger, every vestige of resolve, fell away.

With a yank, he pulled the stick from her grasp and threw it to the ground.

In one step, he caught her face with both hands, and crushed his lips onto hers.

She moaned into his mouth, going up on her toes … swaying against him … her hands clenched in his tunic. And he was instantly returned to paradise, a paradise made all the more exquisite because just a moment before he had feared, as he had feared nothing else in his life, he would never touch her again. He pulled her close, lifting her into his arms, off the ground, breathing her in, tasting her, backing her against a tree …

Her fingers speared through his hair, clasping his head tight as his lips moved to her cheek … her eyes … her nose … the fragrant place behind her ear. Along her throat, as she arched, clenching his arms, to press his mouth against the pillowy upper swell of her breast.

“No,” she cried in a thick voice—

And wrenched away. Arms empty, he stared at her, his body raging and feeling half out of his mind with need for her.

“I am to be married within a fortnight,” she gasped, her expression stricken. “If you care for me at all, this can't happen again.”

Turning, she fled, disappearing through the trees.

*   *   *

The next morning, after an early morning ride with six of the MacClaren's favored warriors, Niall and Deargh stepped into the great hall, having received summons from Conall that the laird and his council wished to see him after the morning meal.

Niall was instantly besieged by two small assailants, one that immediately wrapped its arms around his leg while the other gnawed at his boot strap. He pried Cat loose, and lifting her high, tossed her up in the air. The girl let out a happy squeal, her arms and legs spread wide. Chuckling, he caught her, and returned her to the ground. He liked the little girl, but shuttered off the immediate thought that sprang to his mind—that one day soon he would likely make her an orphan.

“Again!” she pleaded, throwing herself against him. Her puppy yapped excitedly, now chewing on her trouser leg.

“No, dear,” said a handsome woman wearing a head scarf and apron, whom Niall assumed to be the child's nursemaid. “Back to the table. You and that animal. Finish your porridge like I told y', before Lady MacClaren returns and sees what mischief you're up to.”

She smiled at Niall fleetingly, but winked saucily at Deargh. “Sit yourselves down near the fire. I'll instruct the kitchen t' serve ye as well.”

“Someone you met last night?” chuckled Niall, when she was gone.

Deargh had again remained in the great hall late into the night, listening to any conversations of interest, and as always, paying court to whichever lady, or ladies, struck his liking Niall had again retired to the solitude of his quarters, which he much preferred to revelry—especially when Elspeth had not attended the evening meal.

Deargh responded beneath his breath. “I met quite a few intriguing MacClaren ladies after you left. You on the other hand…” He directed his gaze to the little girl at the distant table, who grinned bright cheeked at Niall over an earthenware bowl. “Have claimed the heart of the wrong sister.”

Niall winked at Catrin, who giggled back.

Last night he had lain awake for hours, committing every detail of the castle's defenses to mind, as well as the strengths and weaknesses of the MacClaren warriors who protected it, as he had observed during the afternoon's weaponry practice. However, in the end, his thoughts had settled on Elspeth, and the manner in which they had parted. Her stunned, tear-filled eyes. The color in her cheeks. Her insistence that he must never kiss her again.

And yet after such a magnificent attraction had ignited between them, he was only more determined to do just that. Aye, he would have Elspeth MacClaren in his bed. As his wife.

Lowering himself to the bench, Niall raised his eyebrows. “There's still time.”

His companion sat beside him and leaned close, keeping their conversation private as other warriors entered the hall. “Not much, I vow. Best hurry, if you wish to have her. I suspect the MacClaren is sicker than anyone knows and that he will try to do his duty to the clan and see her usefully wed before he has no say in that decision. Hopefully not to one of those eejits who offered for her. That would be a damnable waste of a fine woman.”

Niall's chest tightened in response. If it were up to him, neither Keppoch nor FitzDuff would ever look at her again … or so much as touch the edge of her sleeve.

“I won't allow that to happen,” Niall answered, accepting a filled goblet from a servant.

But he would take his time with Elspeth, to the degree he could. Her father and her clan already made demands on her. Despite the impatience that roiled his blood, he must not do the same. To attempt to force her affection would only make her flee. He must take greater care than that. He must be gentle—and ruthlessly so. She must come to see him as her safe place, so that when she chose him it would be by her own decision. Once her loyalty belonged to him, he would use her to break her father.

His blood hummed with the desire to see her again. Where was she now? Would he see her, or would she keep to her chambers abovestairs?

Servants arrived with their morning meal. Surrounded on all sides by MacClaren warriors, he and Deargh ate their fill, after which time Conall appeared at the doorway and gestured for the two of them to join him. They followed him down a corridor, and even though he knew what to expect his heart darkened when he saw the MacClaren inside, ensconced in the same room where his father had once held council, surrounded by five astute-looking men in robes, all conversing with some fervency.

When he and Deargh entered the room, all fell silent, and stood. The MacClaren came to his feet last, his lips pressed thin with the effort it took to rise from his chair.

“Good morning,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Please come inside.”

They did so, and Conall shut the door. The room looked much the same as it had when the Kincaids had held the castle, with tapestries and screens, and scrolls and maps set about. Before Niall sat, he glimpsed the Lady MacClaren in the corner behind him, only halfway concealed by one such screen, watching him over a needlepoint frame.

Introductions were made all around, before everyone sat again, in chairs around a long table near the window, save for Conall who remained standing, his arms crossed over his chest.

“There is something we must discuss, Niall and Deargh, before we proceed. Something that yesterday I decided not to make note of, for reasons of my own. But the subject … the
concern
continues to arise here within the council, and must be addressed. We hope you will not take offense.”

“What is that?” asked Niall, lowering his chin in assent.

He had been waiting for one particular discussion, and believed this to be it.

“The night you arrived, the man in Keppoch's company, who recognized you … while he spoke to your skills and indeed, your legend, which is the reason we have invited you here, he also said something else.”

“That we fought for Alexander Stewart, the earl of Buchan,” Niall answered, with a nod. “Yes, it is true. Is that of particular concern to you? If so, tell me why.”

“The MacClaren clan once supported Buchan as well—” Conall answered, with a lift of his hand.

“But no longer,” interjected the MacClaren gruffly. “Even before his father became king, he … instigated conflict among the clans, to serve his own greed for land and power. Particularly of concern, is that the Alwyn clan, the same clan that harries our borders, has of late threatened to seek a reapportionment of lands that were granted to us by his father's predecessor, David the Second, shortly before his death. I fear they court Buchan's favor, in hopes that by his influence, that egregious deed will be carried out.”

“What lands?” Deargh uttered, speaking the same words that clamored in Niall's mind. “
These
 … lands?” His nostrils flared.

“Indeed.” The laird scowled.

Damn
. Buchan? It was a complication he had not expected, and his mind worked to fashion a solution that on the surface served the MacClaren, but secretly, himself as well.

Standing, he addressed the MacClaren directly. “We are well aware of Buchan's methods, lawful and otherwise. And I will tell you … you have every cause to be concerned. Murmurings in Edinburgh say the king will name him Justiciar of the North, if that entitlement has not been granted already.”

“Justiciar of the North?” The MacClaren leaned forward in his chair, his nostrils flaring.

The room filled with the voices of the council.

“Say this is not true.”

“Disaster!”

“This will only embolden the Alwyn!”

Niall waited until they grew quiet before speaking again. “I am not here to tell you what to do. But neither do I boast when I tell you Buchan holds me in high respect, as his former personal guard, and with me, the hundred or more wintering mercenaries I can summon to my side, loyal to
me
—not to Buchan—to protect your lands.” He looked into the eyes of the council men. “I make no guarantees, but I suspect if you were thusly fortified, and my name set forth as supporting your defense, Buchan would not act against you in support of the Alwyn.”

The MacClaren's cheeks flushed, but he held silent. Niall recognized the face of a man trying to decide whether to believe something that sounded too good to be true, a valuable instinct the laird might wish to pay heed to, but not for the reasons before him.

“Why did you come here, allowing us to believe you were a common mercenary?” Conall said, his eyes wide with suspicion—and admiration.

“Because in truth, that is all I am,” Niall said. “Now that I have left Buchan's service.”

“On the best of terms, if you are curious,” Deargh inserted, with a tilt of his head. “There is no malice between them, which would only work to your benefit in having Niall and the army he can raise, here in your service. Hear my words, Buchan will not wish to enter into any conflict with this man, who sits before you now.”

The MacClaren pressed his hands flat against the table. “I shall have to speak to my council. A hundred men? I must be honest. I do not know if we can provide sufficiently for such a force.”

Niall dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “Of course. You could always bolster your present forces with less. I will await your decision.”