“Give me my fortune, then,” she demanded, swiping the tears from her cheeks.
She would not fall into helplessness. She would go and live elsewhere. Anywhere, abroad, if necessary—away from this man and his machinations.
“Indeed,” he answered, easing back in his chair. “I will gladly convey your inheritance, in its entirety … to your new husband, Hugh of the Alwyns, in the form of your tocher.”
She had awakened to a new day only hours before, and in that short time her life as she knew it had been ripped away. She wanted nothing more desperately than for her mother and father to be alive. Her sister. To be at Menteith, surrounded by familiar faces and belongings. For things to be as they had once been. But life would never be the same again.
“What a despicable man you are,” she said, backing away, already making plans for escape in her mind.
She had many skills. Fine embroidery. She could read and write, in more than one language. She would find a place in a noble household as a maidservant or tutor if necessary, and live under another name until she educated herself on what to do. How to legally petition the courts to end Buchan’s guardianship over her. There had to be a way.
Moving toward the door, she found Sister Agnes waiting there, her eyes filled with sympathy. The nun reached for her, and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders, while opening the door.
And yet, before they left the room, Tara froze at hearing Buchan’s voice call after her.
“Mistress Iverach.”
She stood rigid, listening.
“Be prepared to travel at morning’s first light. And Duncan…”
“Yes, my lord,” his son answered.
“Place guards outside Mistress Iverach’s chamber, and below her window as well. I wish her to rest well tonight, rather than tiring herself attempting to carry out any childish, unwise plans.”
Chapter 2
A sennight later.
Sometime between first cock’s crow and daybreak, Magnus awakened to the cold darkness of his chamber. Wind hummed and moaned through the shutters.
He was a Kincaid.
He had always been a Kincaid.
The blood of his ancestors thundered in his veins.
A spark flared instantly—hot and raging, deep in his soul—the tinder, his hate. A sennight had passed since he had left the bonfire at Inverhaven, his life forever altered. His path in this life, forever changed. Yet anyone watching, not privy to his thoughts, would have observed no change at all.
For since returning to Castle Burnbryde, he had gone through the motions of his days just as before, holding silent on all he had learned and giving no outward glimpse of the vengeful intentions he carried inside. He had gauged the power of his hate, and strengthened his control over it, and observed, through the watchful eyes of an assassin, the man he intended to destroy … the Laird Alwyn.
Not his father.
His father’s murderer.
Once the fog of anger from that first night had cleared, the first question he’d had to answer for himself was whether the laird knew the truth of his identity. Whether he had any part in the years-long deception that had become his life.
Magnus—for he was not yet comfortable thinking of himself as Faelan—had briefly considered the possibility he’d been brought at the age of ten to Burnbryde as a war prize, to be gloated over and tormented for the entertainment of the man who’d destroyed his clan. He had quickly discounted that notion. The only torment the Alwyn had inflicted on him as a boy had been a complete and utter indifference that extended to this day.
Laying on his back, he exhaled and stared up at the ceiling. His breath clouded the frigid darkness. This was the time of day he liked the best, when he could think in silence, and ruminate … and plot.
Neither was the Alwyn a kind or merciful man. It simply wasn’t possible the laird had discovered him—the son of his enemy—alive after the battle that killed his father, his mother, and so many other Kincaids, and out of the benevolence of his heart, brought him to Burnbryde to recover from his injuries in the care of a castoff mistress, who would henceforth be required to claim him as a son. A bastard son, who as soon as he could speak again, was torn from his mother’s hearth, at the order of his “father” who never once called him “son”—commanded to act as his cupbearer in the hall at Burnbryde or when hunting or visiting neighboring clans, and made to feel fortunate to sleep on the cold stone floor of the great hall, with the other servants and the dogs.
Even then, the Alwyn had shown no interest in him—other than the one night, during a feast, when he called Magnus to stand before all the men of the great hall, next to his younger, legitimate brother, Hugh, for the sole purpose of pointing out Hugh’s stature, intelligence, and highborn qualities—and how Magnus lacked all those things.
After that, Magnus had gone to the weapons master and begged to be trained with the other peasant boys of the village to defend the clan. The laird, seemingly amused by his feeble bastard’s folly, had allowed it.
Magnus shifted, tucking his hands behind his head, stretching the muscles of his arms and shoulders, which were sore and tight from the previous day’s sword practice.
Only through Magnus’s own fierce determination had he grown stronger, and harder—both mentally and physically—and dangerously skilled with a sword.
No one was more surprised than the Alwyn himself, when Magnus rose through the ranks to become one of the members of his own personal guard. And yet even then, never had there been one hint of pride in the Alwyn’s manner toward him. Not one smidgeon of a father’s acknowledgement or esteem.
No … any amount of respect he had gained in the clan had not been allowed by the laird’s generosity or guilty conscience, but earned by his own efforts, alone.
Magnus felt quite certain the only person who knew the truth of how he had come to be at Burnbryde was Robina. Those years ago, she had led him, a weak and deeply damaged boy, to believe her untruths. Yes, he felt anger over it. But he wasn’t angry at her for it. Not anymore. He’d had had time to think. To be rational.
It was for that reason he had not yet visited her. Once he questioned her about the truth, the mother and son bond between them would be severed forever. And yet he could not put off their meeting forever. He would visit her soon enough, when it became necessary for her safety to be informed of his intentions.
A gust of wind rattled his shutters, sending a deeper wave of coldness through the room. He returned his arms beneath the wool blanket, greedily pulling its warmth higher, against the bottom of his chin.
For now, he knew the only truth that mattered … that the Alwyn remained completely unaware that a vengeful Kincaid son sat at his hearth every night, watching, listening, and waiting. It was an advantage he intended to exploit to the fullest, as he plotted to exact his revenge.
His revenge … how did he envision it?
Magnus took no pleasure in killing, but yes, he would, without hesitation, kill the Alwyn for what he had done.
Truly, he had no other choice. The Alwyn’s royal ally, Alexander Stewart, the Earl of Buchan and the king’s youngest son by his first wife, had recently been appointed Justiciar of the North, and now imposed Robert II’s laws in the Highlands with the full authority of the Crown. Magnus wasn’t a fool. There would be no justice granted against the Alwyn by any sheriff or court under the earl’s control. As such, nothing would come of seizing him as a prisoner, declaring his crimes for all to hear, and insisting on a trial.
He was grateful, really, for having the choice taken from him. Death truly was the only rightful justice for a murderer.
In that moment, hate numbed his skin, not the cold that consumed his small chamber. From somewhere in the distant corner came a rustling in the rushes, and the faint squeak of a mouse.
Magnus felt no animosity toward the rest of the clan, and would do his best to leave the others living—even Hugh, for he would not kill the son for his father’s sins. Nonetheless
, he would face Hugh again, of that he had no doubt. Indeed, he looked forward to the day, for he bore a lifetime of grudges against his “half-brother.” Most recently, his assault of Elspeth MacClaren while at the Festival of the Cearcal, in an attempt to force a marriage between Hugh and Elspeth, though it had been Niall’s honor to punish the man for that transgression. Hugh’s face still bore the bruises.
Once the Alwyn was dead, Magnus would flee Burnbryde and rejoin Niall, and from Inverhaven, either negotiate peace with Hugh and the Alwyns—or meet them, with the rest of his Kincaid kinsmen, on the field of battle. There, he would endeavor to challenge Hugh, and Hugh alone, and end the conflict by a personal contest of swords.
His muscles tightened, more than ready for that fight. Faint blue light crept through his window, heralding morning. Would he have his revenge today?
Likely not. Because before any of that could occur, he must have a confession. In order to hold his own conscience clear of any death that he might inflict, he needed to hear the truth from the Alwyn’s lips. He would know why … and how … and who else had been involved, besides the MacClaren, who had already been dealt his punishment. Most importantly, who had provided the unidentified warriors who had laid waste to his clan? What northern chief remained unnamed—and what had he gained for his part in the betrayal of the Kincaids?
He must remain close to the laird and those who surrounded him. To keep their trust, and to act on any opportunity to extract the admission. Instinct told him he would not have to wait long. With the conflict between the Alwyn and Niall growing fiercer by each day, the past, which had only been whispered about by the old warriors like a shameful secret, would certainly be resurrected. He would make sure it was so.
He could not miss any opportunity, and the laird would rise soon to break his fast in the great hall. Easing up, Magnus carefully disentangled himself from two pairs of smooth arms, legs and soft, fragrant hair—
The cock crowed, shrill and loud, from the bailey.
“Oh!” Kyla bolted up beside him, her hazel eyes sleepy, but wide. “Was that…?”
Her léine slipped off her shoulder, but with a turn of her head, her long honey-colored curls covered her bare skin.
“It was,” he answered.
“Laire,” she exclaimed. “Awaken! Before that tyrant in an apron comes looking for us.”
Laire groaned from beneath the blanket, and snuggled closer to Magnus’s side, which made him chuckle. Kyla reached across his torso and gave her shoulder a hard shake.
“Make haste,” she urged breathlessly, springing from the bed.
Kyla reached for her kirtle, which had been discarded onto the stool the night before, then circled around to tug at the blanket covering her friend.
“It’s too cold!” Laire complained, holding on tight.
“Come along now.” Kyla won the battle, yanking the blanket free. “We’re already late.”
Magnus stood, and walked on bare feet across the frigid stone floor to the basin.
Aye, the room was cold, but it was autumn and to be expected. He gritted his teeth a half second before he splashed a handful of frigid water against his face and neck.
“Stop,” exclaimed Laire, scowling at Kyla, who pulled her up by the arm. “I’m awake. Mind yer own self, and leave me be.”
Kyla did so, taking up Magnus’s comb from where it lay with his other belongings, and pulling it through her hair before quickly braiding it, while Laire grumpily searched the floor for a wayward shoe. When they were dressed, they stood side by side, looking at him, suddenly both silent and still. Both blushing wildly.
He took up a clean swath of linen from the table and dried his face.
Kyla’s gaze descended over his bare chest, and lower, to where his braies hung from his hips.
She sighed. “Again … thank you.”
Laire’s dark hair gleamed in the dim morning light—but her dark eyes shone even brighter. “Yes, thank you for being so … unselfish.”
“’Twas nothing,” he shrugged, one corner of his lips turning upward.
How could he not smile? They were both lovely young women.
“I hope we can…” Kyla began, clasping her hands. “What I mean to say is…”
Her blush deepened.
“We hope we can do this again,” Laire blurted, smiling.
They looked at him hopefully.
He cleared his throat. How to choose the right words? He cared for them both, of course, but he didn’t want them here every night.
“If there is a need, such as occurred last night,” he answered, with all sincerity, “my bed is always open.”
They were on him then, up on their toes to embrace him, their hands touching his hair, his arms. Pressing warm kisses to his face.
“Magnus, you’re wonderful!”
“A man like no other.”
He grinned because he liked their attentions. It would be a lie to claim otherwise.
A piercing screech came from elsewhere in the stronghold.
“Where are me kitchen maids? Lazy wenches!”
Then came the clatter of something that sounded like a wooden bowl being flung to the floor.
Kyla’s eyes widened in panic. “We must go!”
He laughed, eyebrows going up. “You must.”
They rushed through the darkened outer chamber, and after cautiously peering into the corridor they both disappeared through the door. With them gone, Magnus took up his trews from where they lay across a wooden trunk, along with his tunic. From the outer chamber, there came a rustling sound.
“Oh, Magnus, you’re sooooo wonderful!” said a sleepy male voice, yet high and affected, in the imitation of a woman’s. Quentin, from his pallet near the hearth.
Magnus’s smile widened.
“A man like no other,” exclaimed another groggy falsetto. Adam, of course.
A host of deep voices chuckled then. He moved to stand in the portal, looking outward as numerous pairs of eyes peered up at him from their blankets. His companion warriors. His brothers in life, if not by blood. His friends. All outcasts, like him, at least when they had been young. Bastards, orphans, or simply unwanted, their band of thirteen had befriended one another as youths and together they had grown older and stronger, and become men.
The warriors of the Pit—named for the dark, narrow chamber they inhabited each night, along the defensive wall of the castle—had earned a formidable reputation among the clan’s fighters, and a place of honor in the laird’s hall. A number of them, like Magnus, held positions among the laird’s personal guard. Magnus had emerged as their leader, after proving himself, time and time again, the strongest, fiercest and most cunning of them all, no doubt because he had so much to prove to a man who found him worthless.
And yet he had confided the truth to none of them, that he was a Kincaid.
For as long as any of them would remember, the Kincaids had been their enemies, just as they had been his. They had done as their chief had told them, as warriors were trained to do, taking his grievances as their grievances … his enemies as theirs. Would they hate him if they knew? Magnus wasn’t ready to find out. Though he trusted each man equally with his life, revenge was a plot best carried out with the utmost secrecy. He could take no chances that one or all would reveal him, intentionally or unintentionally, before his plan was in place.
When the time was right, he would give them a choice. Join him, or take arms against him. No matter what they decided, he would respect them for it. For now, things were as they had always been between them. This was one of the many lighthearted moments of camaraderie he’d cherish forever.
After pulling his tunic on, he arranged his plaid over his shoulder, grinning. “You are all just jealous. Perhaps you should refine your methods and your manners and you would find yourself as fortunate as me.”
Someone’s trousers hurtled toward his face. He ducked, laughing, and strode into the corridor.
The talk was all jest, and every
man knew it. Though he was a healthy, hot-blooded man who enjoyed the affections of a beautiful woman as much as any, the only wickedness that had taken place in his bed the night before, as he lay between the lovely Kyla and the ravishing Laire, had been fleeting—and only in his mind—in the brief moments before he fell fast asleep. He’d not touched either one of them, other than allowing them to burrow like squirrels against his sides in the cold night, as his bachelor’s bed was very narrow.
Just as the laird had a personal retinue of warriors, so did Hugh. Only his men lacked the discipline of their counterparts, and Hugh, of late, turned a blind eye to their misbehavior and their crimes. It had not been the first time, late at night in Burnbryde’s great hall, that Magnus had intervened when one of Hugh’s men, in a drunken lust, had sought to abuse a young woman. This time there’d been two.
Afterward, he’d given the two maids—young women from the village that he had known since he was a boy—a safe haven in which to pass the night, where they could awaken in the morning with their virtue preserved for the husbands they would one day wed. He could not imagine a lower creature than a man who would force himself on an unwilling woman.
He moved along the corridor, in utter blackness, as neither candle nor pitch were wasted in this part of the castle for fighting men who neither required nor requested such luxuries. He knew the way along the narrow tunnel, and up the stone steps.
He emerged into wane light, cast down through narrow windows high above, and moved toward Burnbryde’s gathering hall, and the sound of voices. How strange it felt now, to exist here, within these familiar walls, knowing what he knew.
Castle Burnbryde had been a place of abject unhappiness for him—but his home all the same. While he had found no place of honor at the clan chief’s side, as a son, he felt kinship with the Alwyn warriors and clanspeople. For that, he could not help but feel a fissure of remorse for the shock he would inflict upon them. But there were other leaders among the clan. Good and noble men, who would make decisions based on the good of their people, rather than plotting against allies out of greed and an all-consuming hunger for land and power. When the Alwyn—and Hugh—were gone, the clan would be better for it.
The Rebel of Clan Kincaid Page 3
