The Rebel of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  *

  “Is this true?” the Alwyn demanded, scowling at Hugh.

  “Truly?” Hugh sneered, with a cutting glance toward Magnus. “You’re going to allow your by-blow to tell tales on me?”

  Hugh had always been the one person who would state the relationship between Magnus and the laird, to his father’s face, but only ever as a means to provoke.

  “Answer me,” the chief thundered. “Is … this … true?”

  “What does it matter?” Hugh retorted loudly. “She is my betrothed. Bound to me, by duty and law. Not you, and certainly not him.”

  Magnus stood to the side, arms crossed over his chest, not wishing to be caught anywhere between them, though he’d caused the entire scene.

  “Fool,” his father bellowed. “She is far more than that. She is noble born, and Buchan’s ward. The second sister of a fine family that he has seen fit to bestow unto us. One who must be treated with care and respect, so there will be no question we remain worthy of that alliance. Dolt! Do you not understand the precarious position we are in, how carefully we must tread, with the first one dead?”

  “You’re reveling in this, aren’t you?” Hugh muttered, glaring at Magnus.

  Magnus held Hugh’s gaze. “I intend no malice. Your affairs, of course, are entirely your own. But in this instance, I felt it necessary to voice my concern, as it is unlikely we can defeat the Kincaid without Buchan’s support.”

  It was crucial that he not show any glimmer of interest in Tara. That he appear as if his only concern were for the clan.

  “You will surrender the key,” the Alwyn barked, slamming his fists against the table. “Now.”

  He’d cast his lots, and thrown Hugh under the horse’s hooves, so to speak, and for the moment, it appeared his wager had paid off, though he felt certain there’d be a price to pay later.

  Hugh thrust his hand into the leather pouch he wore at his waist, and cast the key onto the table, where it clinked loudly, before skidding across the surface and landing with a clatter against the stone floor.

  “Take the damned key, then,” he uttered in a guttural tone. “Soon it won’t matter, anyway.”

  Once he and Tara were wed, he meant. She’d be at his mercy then. Her life. Her virtue. But Magnus had already sworn that he wouldn’t allow that union to take place.

  “One day you will be laird of this clan,” his father said. “Best you learn to act like one. It is time for your self-indulgences to end. And you will exert control over those unruly, impulsive hounds you call your guard. I will no longer allow them to run rampant, doing as they wish. From this moment onward, you will conduct yourself with care. Most importantly, you will devote yourself, in the coming days, to wooing that girl.” He jabbed a finger upward, in the direction of the tower.

  “May I go?” Hugh snarled, his jaw clenched.

  Magnus spoke then. “Stay. You may be interested to hear what I have seen of the Kincaid’s forces at Inverhaven.”

  He didn’t really care if Hugh stayed, but it served his purposes to appear deferential and inclusive in the eyes of the Alwyn.

  “Well, I’m not,” Hugh answered in a petulant growl.

  Turning on his heel, he strode from the room.

  Magnus took care to keep all expression from his face of his dislike for Hugh, and of his hatred for the man who remained.

  The laird stared at the empty door. “Proceed.”

  *

  “Mistress,” said a voice, but softly. “Mistress, awaken.”

  Opening her eyes, she looked up into the near identical faces of Mary and Anna, Lady Alwyn’s maidservants, who wore their dark blond hair braided into neat buns on either side of their heads.

  The feeling of dread returned instantly—as did her memory of the earlier hours of the day. Her failed escape. Grizel’s banishment. Magnus’s promise to help her. And like a recurring nightmare … the realization that her sister, Arabel, was dead.

  Returned to her room, she’d fallen into an exhausted and anxious sleep.

  The youngest of the two curtsied. “The lady has sent us to assist you in dressing for the evening meal, in the gathering hall.”

  The gathering hall.

  She would be allowed outside of the tower? Even after her attempted escape, and her argument with the laird?

  Tara sat up on the bed, shaking free of her sleep. “Yes. All right.”

  No, she did not wish to spend time in Lady Alwyn’s company, who upon her return to the castle had greeted her with aggrieved silence, refusing even to meet her gaze, or to converse about why Tara had felt compelled to leave in subterfuge. Instead, she’d seen Tara to her chamber—and locked Tara inside.

  Neither did Tara wish to see Hugh, or the laird, who would certainly treat her with contempt.

  But she must take any opportunity to leave her confines, for it would allow her to better learn the world into which she’d been so forcefully thrust—and to discern opportunities for extracting herself from it, for yes, her options were again limited to escape. The laird had made it clear her wishes would not be considered, and that under no circumstances would she be allowed to end her betrothal.

  She feared that her failed ruse today had considerably lessened her chances of ever breaking free. They would guard her more carefully now … which was exactly why she found it so curious they were now allowing her to venture from her cage.

  Perhaps in the gathering hall, she would see Magnus.

  Now that she knew the unfortunate truth of Hugh, she’d all but forgiven Magnus’s initial deception of her in the forest. Not just because he seemed truly regretful for misrepresenting his identity to her, but because if she’d lived a lifetime with Hugh, she’d likely do anything to provoke him as well.

  Now that she’d looked into Magnus’s eyes, and believed she understood him better, she thought … hoped … she saw a hero in him. He had insisted so firmly that she trust that he would save her from this. But had he done so out of honor and goodness, or merely to best Hugh?

  The truth of his heart mattered not. It was all just a game of power and control between men, and as society dictated, she would be their pawn. Or so she must allow them to believe. She would not succumb to the role of victim. No, she must be as cunning and self-serving as them. She must learn from all she heard and observed, and make use of every piece of knowledge, to her own benefit.

  She would not invest the entirety of her hopes in Magnus’s promises. And yet … after their moments together today in the carriage, just knowing he was here in the castle, gave her some small comfort.

  Oh, but the heat that had flared between them when they’d kissed … They’d shared an undeniable attraction, the memory of which even now warmed her cheeks, and made her go breathless.

  Now that she’d seen his face, and again felt the power of his warrior’s body against hers, her interest in him as a man only grew. No doubt the “fires” of attraction had brought about the downfall of many a lady. She could not, under any circumstances, allow desire to affect her good judgment.

  “Let us change your clothing, and dress your hair,” said Anna, the younger of the two.

  She still wore Grizel’s rough, gray habit—a symbol of her failure, which she was eager to shed.

  “Thank you both for helping me,” Tara said, looking between them, seeking some glimmer of compassion or understanding.

  “You are most welcome,” Anna answered with a meek, yet warm smile.

  Mary’s eyes did not reflect the same kindness. Nor did she offer any reply.

  Mary went to Tara’s trunks. Opening the lid, she pulled out several kirtles.

  “Your sister’s clothes.” Anna sighed sadly.

  “Hush,” warned Mary, with a sharp glance.

  Anna did hush, pressing her lips together until they were thin. She avoided Tara’s direct gaze after that.

  “Which one,” Mary asked brusquely, displaying the garments on extended arms.

  “That one,” said Tara, gestur
ing at the closest one—a blue kirtle with gold cording at the bodice and shoulders—for no particular reason, other than the room was cold and the kirtle appeared warm.

  In silence, with only a murmured word here and there, they assisted her in bathing, and then donning the garment.

  Anna dressed Tara’s hair, smoothing out long, thick strands, and turning them into artful curls, which she pinned at either side of her head. Tara, used to simple braids, had never seen herself look so fine, and like a noble lady.

  “Very pretty. Thank you, Anna. Did my sister wear her hair like this?”

  Anna tilted her head, her gaze admiring. “Sometimes, but your hair is longer, and thicker and I must say, quite vivid in color.” She laughed softly. “Though the style is the same, the appearance is very different.”

  “Anna, hush,” her sister warned from the corner, where she folded Grizel’s habit.

  When she’d finished, Anna fastened a transparent gold head covering over her hair, which allowed an alluring glimpse of the elegant style beneath. Mary fastened an embroidered piece of linen across her bosom, tucking it artfully into the gown’s bodice, where Arabel’s dress, tailored for her slenderer frame, crowded Tara’s bosom upward to a degree that might be considered unseemly.

  “Have you any adornments to wear?” asked Mary. “Jewelry?”

  Tara thought of her mother’s necklace, and wondered about its present whereabouts. Had it been thrown to the bottom of a well, with other stolen prizes, or did the brigand’s elderly mother or wife wear it as she darned his hose by the fire?

  “I don’t,” she answered.

  “Your sister had some things,” Anna said. “Would you like to look at them?”

  “I would,” she responded eagerly. Her heart swelled in her chest.

  She wanted to see … to touch … any object that had belonged to her sister. Perhaps Anna or Mary could tell her something about her sister’s time here, and confirm the manner in which she had died, putting to rest, once and for all, the dark suspicions in her mind.

  Mary left the room.

  “Anna, tell me, did you know my sister?” Tara asked in a gentle tone.

  “Oh, indeed.” Anna nodded, smiling. “I served her, as I am serving you now.”

  “Can you tell me anything of her last days? Of how she died?”

  The smile disappeared from her lips. “How she died … well, it was—a fever.” A flush rose on the girl’s cheeks, and she looked away, clearly uncomfortable with Tara’s question.

  Uncomfortable because she was telling a lie?

  “So I have been told,” Tara answered in what she hoped was an unsuspicious voice. “I had not seen my sister in some years, but loved her very much. I would welcome any details that might help me remember her better, even though she is gone. Did you tend to her during her illness? Were you with her when … when she died?”

  Emotion thickened her voice, and tears blurred her vision.

  “No, mistress,” the girl answered softly. Her eyes, too, glimmered with tears. She turned quickly, placing the comb on the table. “For safety, Lady Alwyn forbade us from coming into the tower, so the sickness would not spread. But I wish I had been here. She was very kind to me.”

  She’d been kept from the tower. The words did nothing to settle Tara’s doubts, for what if … what if the story of a fever had been a ruse, which even those in the castle had been led to believe?

  Mary returned then, holding a small wooden chest. “Here are your sister’s things.”

  Her mind still swirling with suspicions, Tara looked inside. There were several gilt brass necklaces and plated bracelets … various decorative hairpins and combs … three rings bearing inexpensive stones … and a locket.

  None was familiar to her, and unfortunately none was valuable enough to fund a clandestine journey to Elgin. Most certainly not anywhere beyond. But while they wouldn’t pay for passage on a ship or for even a horse, they might get her a goodly distance away from Burnbryde in the back of a farmer’s wagon. But how to ensure she would not be intercepted again? Most importantly, she wanted no innocent person punished because of what she’d done.

  “I’ll wear this one,” she said, lifting a delicate torc.

  A sound came from the outer room … something like a bell tinkling.

  “Oh, hurry,” whispered Anna, taking the necklace and quickly fastening it at Tara’s throat. “The lady is waiting. We must go.”

  Tara’s already pensive mood tumbled. It was time to face Lady Alwyn.

  Tara found Lady Alwyn waiting for her in the common room, dressed in a dark green kirtle, her throat and wrists gleaming with gold adornments.

  “A word before we go down,” said the older woman in a subdued tone, her expression shadowed.

  “Yes,” answered Tara, bracing herself for whatever chastisements the woman would issue.

  Lady Alwyn nodded, sighing, clasping her hands. “I must … apologize.”

  She straightened the cuff of her sleeve.

  An apology? The announcement surprised Tara. She had expected to be subjected to a lecture.

  The lady continued on, speaking with obvious care. “I have been informed by my husband that … our son entered your room on the first night of your arrival.”

  “He did. Yes.” Tara nodded, her back going rigid. “While I slept.”

  The woman’s cheeks flushed. “I had … no idea. While he is your betrothed and will soon be your husband, there are boundaries to be observed, at least in this household. No doubt he was still in a drunken state.”

  “Yes. He was.”

  Lady Alwyn sighed. “Then of course I understand why you reacted as you did, and felt compelled to escape. Please know that he no longer possesses a key, and his father has let him know such coarse behavior will not be tolerated.”

  Magnus.

  Tara’s heart warmed. He was responsible for this somehow. She had doubted his ability, and believed that he helplessly stood by, but this … this changed everything.

  “I must accept my part of the blame,” said Lady Alwyn. “Hugh is a spoiled boy, who has grown into an arrogant man, but I hope you will forgive him this one mistake, for which I know, deep down inside, he is truly regretful. He is just not very good at saying the words.”

  Tara wanted to argue. She wanted to say she knew Hugh’s behavior the night before would not be a singular occurrence, and that if she were to marry him he would surely make each day of her life miserable with his cruel and controlling ways.

  But mayhap it was best to remain silent, and not draw attention to her unabated discontent. Perhaps she should let Lady Alwyn believe she’d been appeased. Now that they were talking, perhaps she could broach an important subject.

  “Thank you, my lady. However, it was not only Hugh’s intrusion that alarmed me, but the matter of the locked doors. I am unaccustomed to being locked in my chamber, and being unable to move about as I choose.”

  Lady Alwyn pressed a hand to her forehead. “You are right, of course. I … was overzealous, as I so often am. It was only my intention to keep you safe, away from the filth and pestilence of the world below, because clearly…” Her eyes sparkled with tears. “Clearly I failed your sister.”

  Her shoulders shook with sudden tears. Despite everything, Tara could not help but feel pity for the woman.

  “You didn’t fail her.” Tara stepped forward and touched a reassuring hand to her shoulder. After all, she couldn’t condemn the woman for anything. She had no proof that Arabel’s death was anything other than what she’d been told. “Oh, please don’t cry.”

  She didn’t like being so suspicious of everyone. It wasn’t her nature. She would much rather know her sister had peacefully died of a fever, as was claimed. If only she had some way to know for certain.

  “You’re so very kind to absolve me,” Lady Alwyn answered shakily, rising from her chair. “But I will forever carry that guilt. Even so … from this moment on, your chamber door will remain unlocked, unless you
desire to lock it.”

  She wore a small brass ring at her waist, from which dangled several keys. Removing this, she selected one key, separating it from the others and pressed it into Tara’s hand. “There you are. My gift to you. You may move about the solar as you wish. I never intended it to seem otherwise, truly I didn’t.”

  For the first time since she’d arrived, Tara breathed a little easier. No, she would never willingly marry Hugh, but for the first time, at last, she felt as if she was having a normal conversation with someone. Even so, something the lady said repeated in her mind, that she might move about the solar. But only the solar?

  “May I also come and go from the tower whenever I wish?” Tara asked hopefully.

  Lady Alwyn’s head tilted to the side. “Not for now, I’m afraid.”

  Her optimism flagged. “But … why?”

  The lady’s expression grew grave. She paced a few steps away, then turned back.

  “I have no wish to frighten you, especially after all that has happened these past two days, but you aren’t a child. You’re part of this clan now, and deserve to be informed.”

  “I want to know.”

  “Then, dear, I will tell you that even as we speak, warriors keep watch from Burnbryde’s ramparts for any sign of an attack by the clan to our north … the Clan Kincaid.”

  Tara’s heart sank, for she knew what the lady would say, that because of this rising conflict, she would be trapped here for the indeterminable future.

  “The conflict between our clans goes very far back, to when Hugh was just a small child, and you, child, weren’t even born. The old Kincaid laird, you see, acted in such a way as to be deemed a traitor against the king, and the Alwyns, as loyal servants of the crown, assisted their necessary defeat. Since then, the Kincaids have been landless. What a sad lot they are, all scattered to the winds. But very recently a man came forth, claiming to be the son of the Kincaid. He is, without a doubt, an imposter. And mercenary by trade, he commands a large army of similarly dangerous and untrustworthy warriors, with which he proceeded to seize lands that once belonged to the Kincaids. Lands chartered, by law, to the MacClaren laird.” She shrugged. “Lands that by law they no longer had right to.”