The Beast of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  Her sisters came away from the window, because apparently there was nothing more to see. They chattered and gave opinions as to what she should wear and how her hair should be plaited. Elspeth, for her part, sat silent, preparing herself for what would not be an easy audience with her father and the council.

  Now, in the light of day, surrounded by her sisters and everything she loved so well, she knew she would never abandon her duty to her family and clan. She would not be the willful child Niall had so wrongly proclaimed her to be. But neither would she agree to marry someone she could not abide.

  After Ina secured the final braid, Elspeth left them straightaway, silently exhorting herself to be brave. Downstairs she entered her father’s council room, seeking no permission or announcement.

  “No doubt the Alwyn is bewildered!” The MacClaren chuckled. “Wondering where a whole herd of cattle has gone.”

  Her heart clenched, seeing that Niall stood there, and Deargh, accepting accolades with a roomful of MacClaren warriors.

  “Indeed, laird,” answered one of the MacClaren men. “We acted with such efficiency and stealth, I do not think they have yet realized what has occurred.”

  “All thanks to this man,” said another, gesturing toward Niall. “Aye, we all learned a few new tricks today.”

  Deargh looked at his companion proudly. Conall stood to the side, practically glowing in agreement.

  Elspeth moved to stand beside the fire, listening in begrudging fascination, while pretending not to care. She wished she did not.

  “Elspeth,” said her father.

  She pivoted toward him, holding her expression calm. Though she felt Niall’s gaze fix on her, she did not allow hers to waver from the laird.

  “You summoned me,” she said.

  “That I did,” he answered, his features growing instantly solemn.

  She knew also that she did not imagine the change in the council members who were present. All went quiet and pensive.

  The MacClaren thanked the other men and led them to the threshold. She glanced aside at Niall, as he moved past, covertly examining the strong line of his nose, which bore the slightest arch, and the angular slant of his jaw. Regretfully, he remained an alluring mystery, with fascinating lines and details she could not help but seek to examine further and memorize.

  Yet he did not deign to look her way, employing the same air of disinterest she had employed a moment earlier, perhaps because his indifference was real, which was all for the best.

  He disappeared from view, along with the others, which left her alone with her father and the members of his council, including Conall, who came toward her.

  “Come and sit,” he said, with obvious sympathy.

  “Thank you,” she answered in a steady voice. “But I prefer to stand.”

  Chapter 10

  “Dear child,” said Dunlop—one of the clan’s longtime council members—his eyes twinkling kindly. “May I say it has been an honor to watch you grow into the beauty you are today.”

  Elspeth looked at him, her arms crossed over her chest, trying to keep a mulish expression from overtaking her face. She was fond of the man and had no wish to be outright disrespectful to him.

  Before she was born Dunlop had been a formidable warrior of the clan, but now walked stooped with age. When she had been little he had always given her pretty stones he had found lying about. She still had them all in a pouch, which she kept in her box of childhood treasures underneath her bed.

  “I hope you know we care about your happiness,” said another, named Ennis, who years before had taught her many silly riddles, which she had in turn taught Catrin. “Each and every one of us, and we consider you as dear as a daughter. Especially those like me who have no children of our own.” He touched a hand to his heart.

  Ennis’s only son had died two winters before of a fever.

  Three more council members looked on, clearing their throats and shifting stances repeatedly. Tellingly, they did not meet her gaze.

  Her father stood near the window, looking outward. Bridget sat in his chair, plucking unsatisfactory stitches from a small frame of needlework.

  Elspeth wasn’t a fool. Poor Dunlop and Ennis. They had been set forth by the others to carry out a most unpleasant task. She knew what came next.

  Dunlop cleared his throat. “We hope you will be flattered to know that before departing this morning, both Keppoch Macpherson and Alan FitzDuff, made very generous offers for your hand. Separately of course.”

  He smiled up at her, chuckling faintly as if he had made some jest.

  She did not smile back.

  Ennis edged closer, clasping his hands together thoughtfully. “Either of these chiefs, along with their clans, would be a valuable ally to the MacClarens at a time when strong allies, who would bolster our authority, are needed most. But you know this, because you have faithfully attended these meetings of ours and understand the dangers of the world in which we live. You also know the threat from the Alwyn clan has become more serious. More grave. Which is certainly why Magnus attempted to force your hand last night, so as to legitimize their claims on what have become disputed lands. Including the lands upon which this castle sits … your family’s home, and the heart of our clan. Of course, you know just as well as any of us, that we cannot allow that to happen.”

  Her father turned from the window. “What say you, my daughter? Which of these men would you choose as your husband?”

  Although they were the exact words she’d expected to hear, she gritted her teeth, finding them utterly distasteful. But she must remain calm and dignified, and make the council and her father see rational sense. It was the only way she would win them to her side.

  “I understand the danger to our clan,” she said. “And can plainly see why you find value in these men as allies, but I respectfully decline to marry either of them.”

  “Think longer on this choice—” urged Dunlop, his hands raised in a gentle plea.

  “Ponder all they offer for a few days more, child.” Ennis nodded.

  Though her heart beat a tumultuous thrum, she forced her countenance to remain placid. “I am no child, but a woman grown and I know my mind. I could have five hundred days to think on the two choices with which I have been presented, and I still would never choose Alan FitzDuff or Keppoch Macpherson to be my husband.”

  “Daughter—” the MacClaren hissed, in a warning voice.

  The men of his council whispered among themselves, their faces grave and judging.

  She had never defied her father. To do so now, before his council, sucked the air from her lungs and crushed her heart. She moved to stand before him, her composure close to fracturing—but not her resolve.

  “I am prepared to do my duty. I am not unreasonable. I am agreeable to marrying, and marrying with haste.” Looking at her father, she said, “You told me I would be able to choose—”

  “So choose,” he thundered, eyes wide.

  “This is no choice,” she shouted back with equal ire. “I will not accept it as such.”

  The words echoed in her ears ugly and shameful. Not because she did not mean them, or doubt she was entitled to say them but because she had shouted them and she had never before raised her voice to her father.

  “Elspeth!” Bridget rebuked, looking shocked.

  She stood her ground, unmoving. “I know my rights within the law. You cannot force me to marry either of those men against my will, and I tell you now, firmly resolved, that I will accept neither. I will not be swayed.”

  Her father’s nostrils flared.

  “Certainly there are other choices, and other clans,” she suggested calmly. “Give me—give us just a bit more time to find a more suitable choice.”

  Elspeth’s back ached from holding it so straight and proud. But she would not bow to their expectations until their expectations matched hers.

  Niall’s face flashed across her mind, blue eyed and handsome. Through mere will, she forced the vision a
way, knowing he was just as unsuitable as the others.

  The chief’s gaze faltered.

  “Please … leave us,” he said to his council. “I wish to speak to my daughter alone.”

  “I, too, would like to stay,” said Bridget, standing from her chair.

  Her father scowled in annoyance.

  “It is my right,” she said, standing and dropping the embroidery frame to the chair behind her. “As your wife and her stepmother.”

  He nodded, his lips pressed thin.

  One by one, the council members left the room.

  Her father turned to her. Rather than shouting out a lecture about her selfishness, as she expected, he looked at her with soft and loving eyes.

  “Elspeth … certainly you know by now that I am ill.”

  She went cold, to her soul, not wanting to hear what he would say. “You will get better.”

  He shook his head. “I … will not.”

  Hearing the pain in his voice, Elspeth closed her eyes, feeling her own heart break. He all but told her he expected to die. But how soon?

  Bridget looked at her as well, her demeanor calm, but … not unsympathetic.

  “Don’t say that,” Elspeth whispered.

  Yet she knew what he said was true. She had seen the signs for so long now, and they only became more apparent, rather than fading away. The wince of pain when he moved. The change in his body and his features as he grew frailer and weaker. Though she’d tried not to see it, the MacClaren was a dim image of his prior self.

  Though he was maddening and blustery and controlling, she loved him, and loved him fiercely. She wanted to embrace him, to kiss his face and hold him close, but he had never been one for such affection. His love had always come from a distance, and that was all right. She knew it was strong and unwavering, just the same. The best gift she could give him now was respect.

  He covered his mouth with his hand, and paced a few steps. “For this reason, I am being pressed to name a successor with more urgency than before. It is a difficult choice because as you know there are no clear candidates among the MacClarens. Good men are plentiful among our people, but a man who can be its leader to defend against our present dangers has yet to emerge. Until a choice can be made, I must do what I can to secure the future of this clan. And Elspeth, I must do so quickly, before I am unable and the choice is taken from my hands. The Alwyn, if he learns I am not long on this earth, will use my weakness and his royal favor against us to seize the very stones upon which we stand. We need the strongest possible allies, sworn to stand with us, else we will fall. You are not some pawn in this. You are my eldest daughter. A MacClaren warrior, just as certainly as any man. Though it is difficult and sometimes painful to our souls, we have a duty to do what is right.”

  Pride swelled her chest. What he said was true. What she had always believed. They were words she had needed to hear from his lips.

  “I will do my duty,” she answered. “No one loves our clan—our people—more than I. But—”

  Bridget turned to them, speaking suddenly. “Perhaps there is another way.”

  The MacClaren looked at her, almost as if he had forgotten her presence.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Elspeth dreaded what her stepmother would say, fearing whatever she suggested as a new resolution would commit her to an even deeper pit of wretchedness. After all, it had been she who invited Keppoch and FitzDuff to offer for Elspeth’s hand.

  Her young stepmother tilted her blond head. “I propose that we send word separately to FitzDuff and Keppoch, thanking them for their interest, and advising that Elspeth will make a decision very soon.”

  Yes. Elspeth was all in favor of that. But she remained unsure of whether she could breathe easier just yet, until she heard more.

  Bridget went on. “The Cearcal will take place in less than a fortnight. Let us all attend.”

  She referred to an annual festival held each autumn, which Elspeth remembered attending with her mother and father as a child. Such memories! It had always been a time of excitement.

  The “circle” referred to the encampments set up by the clans that attended, at all points around a circular valley, with an enormous bonfire at the center. It also referred to the inter-clan courting that took place, and the way men and women who had never been close enough to cross paths before had the opportunity to “circle” one another there.

  On the last day of the festival, there were always a score of weddings, most among the common people, but sometimes there were dramatic surprises and stunning alliances forged among the powerful families of the north.

  “The Cearcal,” her father repeated, his gaze growing distant. “Our clan has not attended in years.”

  “It is not so far,” said Bridget. “We could dispatch a messenger tomorrow to deliver news to all the northern clan chiefs—except for those we wish to exclude—that Elspeth intends to entertain and consider suitors there. If you make clear the extent of her tocher, and what you expect in exchange, I know you will draw many interested parties. There are many sons and nephews of powerful and influential chiefs and earls eager to start dynasties of their own, and like you, they don’t want the interference of the crown. I know such travel will be tiring for you, but we could make the trip slowly so that you could be there to ensure Elspeth’s decision is wise.” She rested a hand on the chief’s arm. “What say you, husband?”

  He looked from his wife to Elspeth. “Would you agree to this?”

  To answer now, outright, seemed so final and binding. But what more could she ask? She could imagine no better reprieve than this. At least at the Cearcal, she would have a broader choice of husbands than those with whom she’d previously been presented.

  But no one to compare with Niall.

  “Yes,” she blurted. “I would agree.”

  “Then it is decided.” He nodded, his gaze sharp. “I will inform the council.”

  A short time later Elspeth left the castle, inhaling deeply of the cold morning air, needing time alone to think and renew her resolve, not as a young woman with romantic dreams—but as a MacClaren, whose vision and purpose must remain crystal clear. Not wishing to speak to anyone just yet, she took the wooded path she often walked with her sisters, which ran toward the river, purposefully avoiding the stone steps that would take her past the alcove where Niall had kissed her the night before. She would go to her favorite place beside the water, where she could sit in the crook of her favorite tree.

  That she had won the immediate battle—surprisingly, with help from Bridget—offered little relief as far as the burden on her mind and heart. She would still be expected to choose a husband within a fortnight. Any wedding would take place very soon. The idea of being thrown into such an intimate situation, when she couldn’t even imagine her husband’s face, made it difficult to prepare herself.

  One face did repeatedly come to mind. Niall’s.

  That had to stop, for obvious reasons.

  She told herself he could not be as intriguing as her mind made him out to be. He was merely a superficial representation of all her girlish dreams, which she must now leave behind so that she could have an open heart and mind for a man with considerably more substance.

  Oh, but his kisses.

  All foolishness. Like many young women, she had made the mistake of being seduced by a handsome face and a strong body. It did not mean that inside, at his heart, he was anything she would admire in an enduring way, or ever come to love.

  She simply had to stop thinking about him. Do her best to forget his kiss, and the way her body had come alive at his touch.

  The way she conducted herself in the coming weeks, and indeed for the rest of her life, would be testimony to her mettle as a woman. As a MacClaren.

  A child’s voice drew her attention in the clearing ahead. Through a break in the trees, she saw that it was Catrin, laughing and swinging a wooden sword, following the instruction of some unseen master, hidden by the trunk of a tree.


  Catrin always made her feel better. She was such a happy child, when allowed to be so. Boisterous and full of energy and fun. She recalled with fondness a time when she had been that happy herself.

  She moved closer, stepping quietly, wanting only to watch, not to interfere.

  She recognized Niall immediately. The back of his dark, glossy head. His broad shoulders, beneath a linen tunic, and long, lean legs in brown woolen trews and leather boots. He held a long tree branch in his hand, as if it were a sword.

  She weakened instantly at taking in the endearing scene. Just like that, all the attraction she’d felt for him the night before crashed over her, taking her breath away, leaving her feeling thrilled and defeated all at once.

  “You must anticipate what your opponent will do, and react quickly,” he instructed in his deep, resonant voice. The same one that had murmured her name in her ear the night before. The memory sent a frisson of pleasure down her spine.

  “What does ‘anticipate’ mean?” Cat asked, laughing. She pressed her lips together, and tapped her sword against his.

  “It means you must guess correctly what they are going to do before they do it.” He assumed a fighting stance, albeit a gentle one. Even covered in wool, she saw the powerful flex of his legs. “If I am standing in this pose, with my sword already pointed down to the ground, after failing to strike you before … where do you suppose I shall move the blade next?”

  “Back to me,” the girl said brightly.

  Elspeth covered her mouth, sighing … trying not to reveal her presence there. There was something poignant about what she observed. Catrin was so hungry for the MacClaren’s attention. A father’s love. And he so rarely gave it. Niall’s manner seemed so easy with her. He would be a good father.

  “And yet look how you are holding your sword,” he noted gravely. “Would you be able to stop me from cutting off your nose and feeding it to the fish?”

  Catrin giggled. “I should hold it here instead.”

  “That’s right. So that when I—”

  Slowly … he raised his sword …

  Cat gave it a mighty whack.