The Rebel of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  She sighed, surprising even herself when she yielded, her arms slipping around his waist, her hands flat against his back. She clung to him, savoring the flex of his muscles beneath her hands, so foreign from anything she’d ever touched.

  Distantly, she heard the wind rush through the trees, felt the wet and cold against her skin and her feet, but in his arms, in that moment, she felt warm and safe and shielded from the shock and sadness of the previous days. His hand cradled the back of her head. Tilting his face, he kissed her again.

  Was it wrong?

  Was it wrong to hope that something meaningful existed between them, from this first moment?

  A low growl emitted from his throat. He pressed his lips hard against hers, before releasing her.

  “Best we go and find the others,” he asserted, stepping back. “Before they come looking for us.”

  She blinked, dazed, and watched as he moved in the darkness, lifting his arms over his head as he pulled on his tunic. He came near again, placing his hand at her back, as if it were the most natural thing to do, and led her away.

  Only now he wasn’t overwhelming her with his kisses, and with each step, her mind grew clearer. Regardless of whether this man was her betrothed … regardless of how nicely he had kissed—he was still a stranger. Just because they had shared a moment of passion did not mean he warranted her trust.

  Her necklace.

  “Wait.” She dug in her heels. “What about the Kincaid?”

  “The Kincaid? Oh…” He glanced over his shoulder. “He is gone.”

  The words shattered her calm.

  “Gone?” she cried. Her heart fell. She broke free from him to turn and search the darkness. She found the space of ground empty, her attacker gone.

  And with him, her only guaranty of freedom.

  “Aye,” he answered, catching her hand, and gently pulling her along beside him. “Somewhere between I-don’t-trust-you and my-name-is-Tara-Iverach.”

  “I thought you’d killed him,” she whispered.

  Numb with shock and loss, she walked alongside him through the frigid ankle-deep muck, in torment over the lost necklace, not even caring that she’d left her mittens behind. One foot sank unexpectedly deep, and she stumbled—

  Only to find herself lifted up into strong arms, and held against the bulwark of his chest. Held thusly, with her arms around his shoulders, she realized he was even larger and stronger than she’d believed.

  “Killed him?” he repeated, his mouth near her ear. “We’re not savages here. We don’t kill each other. Well … sometimes we do, but mostly we just enjoy a good fight.”

  “He took my mother’s necklace,” she said quietly, looking into the night. “The only thing I had left of hers.”

  “I’m … sorry,” he answered, in his deep brogue, sounding genuinely regretful. “You should have told me, I did not know. Tell me what it looks like so that if I see it again, I will know to take it back for you.”

  “Rubies and pearls.”

  “Rubies and pearls. I will not forget.”

  She found his voice soothing. And yet she could not be soothed. Instead she was grateful for the dark, so he would not see the angry tears gathered in her eyes. Yes, anger, for she was angry at herself for surrendering so easily to a stranger, for allowing herself to be distracted from what mattered most. For liking the way it felt to be held like this in his arms.

  “Where is Buchan?” he asked. “It was he whom the courier informed us to expect.”

  She flinched, at hearing the name.

  “Called away at the last moment by some duty or another,” she answered. “I bear a letter from him for your father in which he sends word that he will come in a fortnight for the wedding.”

  A wedding she’d intended would never take place. But now? Would she consider this man as her husband?

  She did not know. She needed to think … and she found it difficult to think with his arms around her, and while his kiss still lingered on her lips.

  They arrived at the carriage, where to her surprise, in the darkness, she discerned the driver on his perch, rubbing his head. Her betrothed slowly returned her to her feet, his hands lingering on her waist for a long, deliberate moment before he stepped away.

  To her great relief, she also spied Sister Grizel—recognizable in the dark by the white wimple encircling her face.

  The old woman rushed toward her, hands raised to her face. “Thanks be to God! You are spared. Filthy brigands.”

  There were other men there. Warriors, by their stature. They returned Tara’s chests to the wagon, and calmed the horses.

  “Where are Buchan’s men?” her betrothed asked, in a clear tone of authority—and the men all paused in their efforts to respond to him.

  “The outriders?” One of his companions snorted. “Gone.”

  “Fled,” said another.

  A third growled. “Cowards. We saved what we could from the wagon. We don’t ken if anythin’ is missing. The lady will have to look ance we return tae Burnbryde.”

  She did not care about gowns or shoes or linens. Nothing but her mother’s necklace mattered, and it was gone.

  “You’re safe now, with us,” said her betrothed.

  He seemed sincere, and her old self might have believed him. But she wasn’t safe. Even here, she felt Buchan’s shadow looming everywhere. She feared she’d never feel safe again.

  “We’ll go straightaway to Burnbryde,” he added, pointing west. “It’s not far.”

  She could not help but notice, and admire, the way he moved and spoke with such decisiveness and confidence, quietly instructing one man to ride fast ahead to inform the laird of their impending arrival, and the others to ride behind the wagon and on either side of the carriage, for defense, if necessary. She also grew more curious with each passing moment, to know what he looked like.

  “Then we are not on Kincaid land, as the brigand claimed?” she asked.

  He paused, silent for a moment. “Nay, my lady. This is Alwyn land. We were waiting for Buchan to arrive at the glen just north of here when we heard shouts and screams from the direction of the forest road.”

  She caught a pale glimmer of his hair in the shadows, as he opened the door to the carriage. He carefully assisted the elderly sister inside—before turning to her.

  “Up now, you.” Though he spoke the words in a tone of teasing affection, his manner toward her seemed quieter now. More reserved, and distant. His hands at her waist, he lifted her inside.

  Pausing in the open door, he peered at her in the darkness as if he had something to say.

  “Yes?” she inquired.

  After a moment he answered, “I’m glad we were here. That is all.”

  Backing away, he secured the door, and was gone. Tara leaned nearer to the window, thinking to watch him go, but it was too dark to see anything. There was only the sound of his boots crunching over the earth.

  Suddenly … she could not wait to see him again, to match his voice with his face.

  Would she find him pleasing? Would he be pleased to see her?

  Would he kiss her again, tonight, before she slept? And would she allow it?

  She did not know. How would she feel, arriving in the place where her sister had died? Sad … of course. And eager to have answers about Arabel’s death.

  I never kissed her.

  Why hadn’t he? The words had not been spoken unkindly. Perhaps he and Arabel had been good friends, without the romance that sometimes blossomed during a courtship. Perhaps he grieved Arabel too, and they could exchange memories of her. Perhaps she had been too hasty in deciding she could never marry him, and should at least give him the chance to convince her otherwise. She must be smart, and judge her choices carefully, and not cut off her nose to spite her face just to defy Buchan.

  Perhaps despite the earl and his schemes, she could indeed find happiness here.

  “You’re freezing!” Sister Grizel declared, tucking blankets about her. “And where
are your mittens?”

  She did not answer. Her attention lay elsewhere. With him … outside the carriage, and just down the road, where her journey would end, at least for tonight. The place where Arabel had taken her last breath. She heard the sounds of the men climbing into their saddles. They set off then, at a rapid pace. Bursting out of the forest, they traveled down a wide, sweeping hillside before climbing again, up a stony incline that seemed to go on forever, as silvery as fish scales in the clouded moonlight, until in the distance, a shadow rose up, enshrouded by mist, along with the distant crash of ocean waves. Flames wavered against the stone. A chill rippled through her.

  At long last, she’d arrived at Burnbryde.

  Chapter 4

  As they neared the castle, she could discern very little of the actual structure, other than to believe it resembled a sleeping black dragon perched on a cliff. The carriage crossed over a wide, stone bridge, which she could only suppose gave them safe passage over a ravine or a moat. Fires burned in large metalwork cages on either side of the high, broad gates, which they passed through.

  Faces appeared all around, pressing close, peering inward with curious eyes. Villagers she could only suppose, from their rougher garments and speech. Their voices clamored loudly in welcome. Her heartbeat increased with anticipation of the moments to come. Would she be made to feel welcome, and as if Burnbryde were her home?

  Scores of men spilled from the immense front doors of the stronghold, into the courtyard, holding torches aloft, lining the carriage’s way—an impressive and primeval sight all at once. They bellowed greetings.

  “Just look at them all,” Sister Grizel murmured beside her. “This, all to welcome you.”

  “No—to welcome Buchan. It was he they expected.”

  Although suddenly … instinct told her he might never come. That she had been sent alone intentionally, as an appeasement. As a sacrifice.

  Remembering her betrothed’s kiss and his forthright manner, she brushed the feeling of apprehension away. If the earl never came, she would be glad for it. She would be happy to never see him again.

  The driver drew the carriage to a stop.

  She shivered from the cold that crept up her legs through her sodden shoes, hose, and kirtle. At last. There would be a fire inside. She could not wait to be warm. She wanted to see her betrothed again, without the darkness that had concealed their faces from one another, and know if her fears could be set aside.

  Through the window she observed a tall, silver-haired man descend the steps, gold chains gleaming around his neck, atop a heavy tunic. He wore a rich fur cloak draped across his shoulders. No doubt this was the Highland ally of whom Buchan had spoken, and her intended father-in-law, the Laird Alwyn.

  The door of the carriage opened. Tara’s heart raced, thinking that Hugh would step forward to present her. But it was another man who stepped forward to offer his hand. An old warrior, who grunted in welcome as she stepped down.

  Now that they’d arrived, where had her betrothed gone? The crowd pressed close all around, and though she looked everywhere, she did not see his face.

  “Mistress Iverach? Fàilte!” the laird bellowed, descending the steps toward her, his steps quick, his demeanor urgent. His gaze moved over her sullied garments, and his brows gathered. He scowled. “Thank God you are safe. Tell me, someone, what has happened?”

  “Brigands, my lord.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. It was his voice, deep and rich, just behind her.

  Her body responded, going warm and aware. Though he did not touch her, just knowing he stood behind her, reassured her.

  “Brigands, on Alwyn lands?” the laird thundered, his brows gathering sharply together.

  “Indeed.”

  “An outrage,” the chief seethed, his nostrils flaring. “Did you capture them?”

  “Nay, sir.”

  She wondered why he did not mention that their attackers were Kincaids. But she would watch and listen for now. Certainly he and his father would confer once they went inside, and all such details would be shared.

  The laird looked behind her to the carriage, as if expecting something more. “Where is Buchan?”

  “I have brought a letter for you.” She smiled, hoping he would be satisfied. “He will come for the wedding in a fortnight’s time.”

  The Alwyn’s face darkened with obvious disappointment. Perhaps even anger.

  “A fortnight,” he said, with a jerk of his chin. “I see. I look forward to reading the letter. I trust he will do as he promises and we will welcome him them.”

  “What is this?” called a man’s voice from behind him.

  A black-haired young man stood at the top of the steps, his face swollen and flushed. Finely dressed and wearing more gold chains than even the laird, he peered at her through glassy, darkly shadowed eyes, and wavered unsteadily on his feet, either ill … or very drunk.

  “There you are,” said the laird, lifting a hand, indicating the young man should come closer. “Mistress Iverach, I would have you meet your betrothed.”

  His words thundered in her ears. A sickly feeling crept into her stomach.

  “My … betrothed?”

  “Yes, child. Come, come,” he urged. Turning away from her, he gestured to the man on the steps … not the man behind her. “Hugh, don’t just stand there gaping at her.”

  A hand touched her back, the touch sending a jolt through her.

  “My apologies,” murmured his voice near her ear. “I am the wrong … eldest son.”

  Then the hand was gone. She felt him brush against her, moving away.

  She stood rigid, in shock, but did not turn around to look after him. She would not give the offender the satisfaction of her dismay. She did not understand exactly what his words meant, but she did know a cruel trick had been played on her. That she had been betrayed by someone she had hoped to trust.

  Instead she gathered herself to greet another man. The betrothed that Buchan had chosen for her.

  Her intended shambled drunkenly down the last few steps, followed by a contingent of men, all glassy eyed, all as intoxicated as he.

  “Is that her?” he squinted, scowling. His lip curled, and he let out a ragged sigh. “Look at her. She’s filthy. And plain … and dressed like a nun. She’s a plain, filthy nun.” He teetered there, his knee bent, his booted foot hovering above the last step. The men crowding the steps behind him snorted with laughter.

  “I liked the last one better,” he declared, stepping down.

  The last one. Arabel.

  He landed hard and swayed … losing his balance. He attempted, with outstretched arms, to right himself—then pitched forward, limbs flailing. Though several warriors lunged, reaching, grim faced, to catch or steady him, he tumbled headfirst, landing on his hands and knees at Tara’s feet. Another moment more, and she would have recovered her self-control and reached to help him, but—

  His shoulders bunched and with a groan he retched on her shoes and the hem of her gown.

  She peered down, aghast.

  “Good god,” the Alwyn muttered, plainly annoyed.

  Reaching, he took her firmly by the hand and guided her around his fallen son, who remained on all fours, heaving. Tara’s cheeks burned with mortification. Tears stung her eyes. What an ignoble welcome. One she would never forget.

  She thought of the necklace then, and how badly she wished she still had possession of it.

  Together they ascended the stairs. Looking back, Tara saw that Sister Grizel followed, wide-eyed, her lips thin with disapproval. Her gaze searched the crowd, wondering if he watched, laughing.

  “You must forgive my son,” the laird said. “He was very eager to meet you, and when you did not arrive, he feared greatly for your safety. He must have had too much wine, while waiting for word. Come inside. Come inside, dear girl. You’ve had a very trying journey, and we must get you warm and fed.”

  However, at the top of the steps, someone else waited—a woman
wearing an exquisite blue gown and a resplendent black robe, embroidered with colorful thread. She could not see the color of her hair, for she wore a head covering, but jewels sparkled everywhere, at her throat, ears, wrists, and fingers.

  “Welcome to Burnbryde,” she said, smiling warmly. “I am Lady Alwyn.”

  Tara curtsied. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  The lady tipped her head in response. “I’ve had your chambers prepared, and a meal and a bath are waiting.”

  The laird cut in, his smile turning into a scowl. “A feast has already been prepared, in anticipation of Buchan … and our new daughter’s arrival. I know it is late, but I do not ken why the both of you cannot come and enjoy a celebration at least for a little while, so that Mistress Iverach may converse with Hugh, once he is recovered.”

  Two men hauled Hugh past them, up the stairs, carrying him by his arms and shoulders. His booted legs dragged behind.

  The laird looked at Tara and smiled tightly. “Which would only be a few moments, for he is hearty and strong.”

  “I think Mistress Iverach has had quite enough of Hugh and everything else for tonight,” replied his wife, her manner a shade more abrupt now. “She is wet and cold, not to mention, covered in mud. A delicate creature in need of rest, lest she fall ill.”

  Like her sister had?

  The chief glared.

  Lady Alwyn extended a hand. “Come with me, child.”

  Though neither of them touched her, Tara felt as if she were being pulled back and forth between them.

  “Of course,” the Alwyn answered between gritted teeth, stepping back to allow her to pass. “I have been thoughtless … again. As I so … often am. According to you.”

  The lady ignored him. Tara could only conclude that the laird and his lady were not on the best of terms, at least not presently.

  “Well, go then,” he snarled. The laird gestured with an exaggerated forward sweep of his hand, that Tara should follow the lady of the keep.