The Beast of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  “Please understand that what you saw…” Bridget cleared her throat. “What you saw taking place between Duncan and me meant nothing. Our embrace was … an innocent one. He was only comforting me because I was concerned about your father’s health. Duncan is a dear friend, and has been for many years. He is my counselor. That is all. You understand, don’t you?”

  That wasn’t true, and Elspeth knew it. The embrace she had observed had been one of unmistakable passion. Unmistakable. For one thing, both of Duncan’s hands had been squeezing Bridget’s bottom, as he lifted her off the ground against him. Not to mention all the groaning and gasping that had drawn her attention to that far corner of the garden in the first place.

  Something told her that now wasn’t the time to mention that.

  She needed time to think about what to do. Should she inform her father of what she had seen? She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to hurt or, worse, to humiliate him—but how could she remain silent? She and Bridget stared at one another. The sound of the rushing river filled Elspeth’s ears.

  Cat, where are you?

  “Yes, I understand,” she said, wanting only to be free of Bridget and to assure herself that the child was safe. “May I go?”

  “You’re lying,” Bridget accused, her eyes filling with tears. “You don’t understand! You don’t know what it’s like to leave one’s home and everything you’ve ever known—”

  She choked on the words.

  And just like that, Elspeth’s heart did a turnabout, softening in sympathy. She did understand. She and Bridget had that in common. She too would have to marry soon, and leave behind her father and sisters and all she held dear.

  Bridget’s lip curled, transforming her face into one of cruelty. “—and be forced by duty to marry a sick old man.”

  Elspeth recoiled, her sympathy gone as quickly as it had come. A sick old man? Her father?

  Fire blazed up from her heart. Vows of marriage were sacred and once sworn, to be treasured and upheld, not cast aside like rubbish in favor of a handsome face. The Laird MacClaren had welcomed Bridget into their clan like a queen. They all had. Yes, he had been ill of late, but he would soon recover and continue on as the formidable warrior and great leader to their clan that he had been since before her birth.

  Elspeth blurted, “I can only imagine how the laird must feel to find himself married to a spoiled child, who impulsively seeks to satisfy her every trivial desire.” Until this moment she hadn’t replied harshly to Bridget, because she’d wanted to get along with her father’s new wife, but the words rushed out in a tumble. “I know what I saw, and you can’t tell me otherwise.”

  Her heart beat painfully fast. She hated the feeling of being angry and losing control and, more than anything, she hated the infidelity she’d witnessed to whatever extent it had occurred. She wished she hadn’t seen. She loved her father, and she wanted him to be happy. Only he wouldn’t be. Not with this young, foolish woman. Not ever, and it made her sad.

  “If you tell him,” Bridget hissed. “I’ll say you are lying.”

  “My father will believe me,” Elspeth countered.

  “He wishes you to marry soon.” Bridget stepped closer, her eyes aflame. “He has told me this. I’m not without influence. I’ll ensure your husband is older and sicker and uglier than mine.”

  “He couldn’t be any uglier in spirit than you!” exclaimed Elspeth.

  “Oh, you little—” Again, Bridget raised her hand high and swung down—

  Only Elspeth caught her by the wrist and pushed Bridget away with such force her stepmother stumbled back against Duncan who had lunged closer, she supposed, to intercede if necessary. The faces of the warriors nearby turned to watch, but they did not move.

  Elspeth glared at Bridget. “Don’t ever strike me again. Do you understand?”

  Again, she prayed Cat had not seen. Her concern for the child still foremost in her mind, Elspeth spun away and ran.

  “Elspeth, wait,” said Duncan.

  “Come back,” commanded Bridget.

  But she did not. She fled over the grass, scouring the landscape for Cat. She crossed the empty meadow, descending toward the river and when she did not see her half-sister there she slowed and searched among the trees clustered near the riverbank.

  “Cat!” she called, continuing on, looking this way and that.

  At last Elspeth spied her at the river’s edge … balancing on the stones, her arms outstretched and water rippling around her small, booted feet. The girl edged out farther, reaching for the puppy who had ventured onto a promontory stone and stood, wobbling and sliding, amidst a whorl of floating leaves.

  “Cat, no,” Elspeth shouted, leaping over a large tree root, fearful because of the strong current and the slipperiness of the stones. Cat could swim, but barely. If she fell in, the river would sweep her away. It would swallow her alive. “Don’t move. I’ll get him.”

  A log floated past, bumping against the stone upon which Cat stood—

  The puppy crouched … and pounced onto it, paws grasping. The log rolled. The animal disappeared in a splash, then bobbed to the surface, to be swiftly carried away.

  “No, don’t!” Elspeth’s fear heightened into terror because she knew what Cat would do. And she did. The child leapt—

  Elspeth did as well, splashing knee deep into the frigid water, reaching—just missing the girl as she spun out of arm’s reach, carried, arms flailing, away.

  “Elspeth!” Cat cried, her eyes wide. “My puppy—”

  Her small red head dipped under the water.

  Elspeth dove after her. Shocked by the cold, her heartbeat staggered. After the first few strokes she could not even tell if her arms and legs moved as she wished. She glimpsed Cat’s small hand raised—and strained to touch her fingers—

  Only to be torn away.

  The water. It dragged her—in what direction she did not know—so fast, churning, twisting her gown around her limbs, pitching her up—

  Then sucking her down … down … down into darkness and a fear greater than she had ever known.

  Its deafening roar filled her ears. She fought it. Tried to push out, but the river wouldn’t let go.

  Oh, Cat. No …

  A sudden force seized her up, into the light.

  Chapter 3

  Elspeth coughed, expelling water from her nose and mouth, and gasped for air. A man—yes, most certainly a man of strength—dragged her toward shore, his hand fisted in the back of her gown, but she could not see him for the water and her hair streaming over her eyes.

  Her feet grazed the river bottom and she stretched, trying to stand, but her boots filled full, dragging her down. She lost her footing and slipped under again. Her savior—whoever he was—wrenched her higher and closer against his body, all power and muscle, and carried her from the river, at last depositing her, palms down, on a flat expanse of stones.

  Voices sounded close by, raised in alarm, and footsteps. Bridget and her retinue.

  Elspeth crouched, still choking on each breath, alive and half-frozen—her thoughts frantic, her pulse racing because Cat was still in the river. If there was even a chance the child was still alive they had to go now and find her, to save her—

  She opened her mouth, but only an unintelligible sound emitted. Desperate for someone to understand, to help, she looked up at the man who had saved her.

  A dark-haired stranger looked back at her, water streaming from his beard—

  Over Cat, whom he held in his arms.

  “My puppy!” the girl sobbed, straining over his shoulder to reach toward the river.

  Elspeth’s heart bounded with joy and relief.

  “Cat,” she croaked, leaping up and reaching for her sister.

  The man’s pale blue eyes looked into hers for one long, startling moment, before releasing the girl into her arms. Knowing the others approached, she turned from him, clutching Cat, eager to show them they had survived. Her legs, still weak and tangled in her
drenched gown, faltered.

  The stranger caught her from behind—fast against his chest, his arms coming around and under hers so she did not fall or drop the girl. He knelt, easing them gently to the ground.

  “Thank you,” Elspeth half-whispered, half-gasped, looking at Cat through tears, pressing a kiss to the girl’s wet hair. It was a miracle and nothing less that both she and her sister were alive. She almost couldn’t believe it was true that he had saved them both. Her heart nearly beat out of her chest with gratitude and joy. “Thank you.”

  Cat cried against her shoulder. “Puppy’s gone.”

  “I know, sweet girl,” Elspeth soothed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Step away,” thundered a voice, sharp with command.

  The man’s muscles tensed against her shoulders, and his arms tightened around them.

  Elspeth’s head snapped up. Duncan stormed toward them, his expression ferocious and his sword pointed in their direction.

  Elspeth blinked in disbelief.

  Bridget approached at a slower pace, surrounded by her warriors, all of whom had drawn swords and looked with outright distrust at the man behind her.

  “Now,” Duncan bellowed, lifting the sword higher, aiming its tip at the stranger.

  Slowly … the man released her and stood. She heard the crunch of his feet on the stones as he backed away one step … two.

  The loss of his warmth sent a chill down her spine.

  Elspeth couldn’t abide what she saw. Did they not realize what had occurred?

  “This man saved our lives,” Elspeth exclaimed. “And you think to threaten him?”

  Duncan ignored her words. Instead he ventured closer, his jaw clenched, and his limbs poised for combat.

  Bridget watched in silence, her gaze bright and interested.

  Of course. Duncan made a show of bravery—of his manhood—for the Lady MacClaren. Disgust surged through Elspeth. If not for the two of them and the drama they had created, this might not have occurred at all. She would have found Catrin and her puppy sooner, before they went into the river.

  Duncan scowled. “Aye, he saved your lives, but toward what end? Just look at him.” His eyes narrowed on a point above her head. “Clearly, he is not one of us, but an allmharach—”

  “A barbarian?” she repeated in disbelief. Her pulse pounding, she eased Catrin from her lap and stood between the two men. Water streamed from her hair and her gown, pattering on the stones.

  Just look at him, Duncan had demanded. Yet even now, she could not summon a clear image of the man she defended. She recalled only the brilliance of his eyes, as they’d stared into hers. He had held her and Cat so gently. He has risked his life against the overpowering current of the river, to save them. Why would he do so, if he intended them harm?

  “Nay, he is not that,” she concluded.

  “Foolish girl, he is exactly that,” Duncan spat with an arrogant jerk of his chin. “He has come down from the Dark Hills to pillage and thieve like his filthy brethren, who have already taken far too many of our livestock and horses—not to mention our women.”

  She, like every member of the MacClaren clan, knew of the half-naked, uncivilized warriors that reived along the edges of Inverhaven and outlying farms, absconding with animals and, yes, at least one young woman. But those attacks only came at night, and never this close to the castle. Certainly this man was not one of those criminals. Even if he was, she would not allow him to be mistreated.

  “You know nothing about him,” she countered, desperate to calm the confrontation. “Put away your sword and let us converse in a civilized manner.” She shook her head. “What has happened to us that we can no longer offer a stranger hospitality?”

  The fire in Duncan’s eyes grew hotter. “Those old ways are gone. Now, in these northern lands, lawlessness rules where order and power does not. Do as I say, and hie with the child to the Lady MacClaren’s side.” He bared his teeth. “And let me deal with this savage, as I know is right.”

  “I will not,” Elspeth cried.

  Duncan lunged forward, and reached as if to seize her arm—

  She jerked away, her back colliding into the chest of the stranger. Catrin wailed. Duncan snarled, and drawing back his arm, thrust his sword above her shoulder. Without thinking—she raised her hands to stop the blade—

  Only to be seized by the waist and swept aside—

  … a blur of movement …

  … strong arms … flexing shoulders …

  The sword clattered to the stones several steps away, cast there by the stranger who in a mere moment had disarmed Duncan.

  All motion and sound seemed to stall. There was only the blood pounding in her ears, and the sight of Duncan’s stunned and enraged face.

  Then came the hiss of swords unsheathed as Bridget’s men advanced. The stranger backed toward Elspeth—shielding her with his body.

  “No!” another man’s voice bellowed. “Stop.”

  Conall—her father’s captain—appeared, dressed in a yellow, knee-length tunic and boots, his shoulder-length silver hair gleaming. A dozen more of her father’s men followed and interspersed themselves among Bridget’s, halting all forward movement. Breathing heavily, as if he had run all the way from the castle, Conall crossed the stones and bent to touch Catrin’s cheek. The child leapt into his arms. He held her tight, murmuring a few soothing words, and rubbed a hand over the crown of her sodden head.

  To Elspeth, he said, “I saw from the tower window, the two of you in the water, and arrived as quickly as I could.” He exhaled. “Och, my poor heart beats so! I thought you had both certainly drowned.”

  “We did not,” Elspeth answered, moving toward him, eager to explain. Conall’s arrival did not necessarily guarantee peace. He and her father, much like Duncan, often made decisions directed at ending—and winning—a conflict, ignoring what they considered lesser matters of conscience or heart. “But only because this man saved us.”

  Conall’s gaze settled on the man behind her.

  “Aye, and so we thank him”—his voice increased from a gentle burr, into a thunderous boom, as he turned back toward Duncan and the others—“by threatening him with a sword?”

  The muscles along Elspeth’s shoulders relaxed a bit, realizing Conall did not consider the stranger an enemy. Cat wiggled, and he lowered her to stand on the stones. The child hurried to Elspeth and wrapped her arms around her waist.

  After a long moment of extended glaring at the men, Conall shrugged and chuckled. “Not that I’m worried about this one. He can take care of himself—and all of you. You’ll see. Aye, ye almost did, and you would have been mightily sorry!” Serious again, he said, “This man is a guest invited here by me, on behalf of the MacClaren. From this moment forward, you will treat him as such.”

  Relief coursed through Elspeth. A guest? New questions crowded her mind. Who was the man, and why had her father invited him here? Her gaze flickered aside, drawn by the towering figure, but morning sunlight shone in her eyes, obscuring all but the haziest outline of his features … the powerful burl of his shoulder … the masculine cut of his jaw.

  “He made no such invitation known,” gritted out Duncan, scowling, and bending to seize up his sword.

  “You didn’t give him a chance,” Elspeth answered.

  “Forgive Duncan’s misunderstanding,” Bridget gushed, moving forward and wearing a brilliant smile. “He is sometimes overzealous in ensuring my protection. But of course this man—our guest’s—valor must be rewarded.”

  She removed a plaid from the shoulder of one of her men, and approached, her gaze never leaving the stranger as she moved past Elspeth and Catrin, without extending any measure of concern or comfort to them.

  Turning to watch her stepmother, Elspeth, for the first time, truly took in the sight of the man who had saved her.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  A barbarian. Yes, that word did describe his appearance.

  He stood with every inch o
f his muscular body bare to her eyes, save for his hips, which were covered with a wet kilt that lay slick and dark against his powerful thighs. Tattoos decorated his skin, draping like armor over each of his shoulders, and down one arm. A beard, as black as kohl, covered the lower half of his face. He wore his hair much longer than the men of her clan, drawn back on either side in rough braids. It clung damply against his neck and chest, rising and falling as he breathed. He looked dangerous and fearsome—and beautiful. He was like nothing she had ever seen.

  And thrillingly, he looked at her over Bridget’s shoulder, his eyes the color of a frozen loch. Yet somehow their attention did not make her feel cold at all. Indeed, her cheeks flushed and she forgot all about her wet clothes and chilled skin.

  “I am the Lady MacClaren,” Bridget announced grandly, lifting the plaid toward his shoulders. “Allow me the honor of welcoming you to Inverhaven, and granting you this small comfort.”

  Did Elspeth imagine it, or was there something seductive in the tone of Bridget’s voice—something possessive, as if she already claimed him for her own? Elspeth remembered what she’d seen that morning, her stepmother and Duncan in a tight clasp of passion. For a moment she imagined Bridget in the stranger’s arms instead. A shard of misery struck straight through her heart.

  Yet, at her offer of the plaid, the stranger lifted a staying hand. Bridget froze, the garment hanging down between them. Silence hovered everywhere, save for the rush of the river.

  For the first time, he spoke. “I would have you offer it to your maidservant and the child.”

  His voice was like a warm fur blanket on a cold morning … rich, deep, and pleasing. Only his speech was not that of a barbarian. Rather, he spoke with the polished pronunciation of the king’s envoys who sometimes visited the castle.

  Bridget’s eyes widened, bright as crystals, and she glanced at Elspeth, then back to him, an unkind smile curling the corner of her mouth. “Who is it that you mean, good sir? My … maidservant, you say?”

  Elspeth flushed. He meant her, of course. He thought she was a servant, a mistake that wouldn’t bother her at all if not for Bridget’s sly taunt. She clenched her teeth down on an angry reply.