by Suz deMello
She began to tell of Kilborn wealth, which, amended by Lady Lydia’s riches, was a fine prize that could be had if the Kilborn lands were taken and the clan’s power broken.
She found allies.
“Why should we be content,” asked Martin, “wi’ a sheep or two when we could have the whole flock?”
Her heart lightened and her tense shoulders eased. She had identified Martin as Seamas’ second-in-command.
Even better, a rumble of assent rose from a few of the group.
“Castle Kilborn has ne’er been taken,” Angus said. “’Tis unconquerable.”
“There’s no such thing,” Martin said flatly.
Moira cleared her throat. All eyes turned to her.
“I can gain entry into the castle.”
“Talk of taking the castle is too hasty.” Seamas stood and strode up and down the hall, his boots clattering. “I propose we approach Clan Gwynn. We will have Kilborn surrounded and helpless.”
“Hardly helpless.” Angus snorted. “Remember what Kieran Kilborn did to our laird?”
Seamas wheeled to glare at him “I cannae forget. The sight of his body haunts my nightmares and my daily hours. I have sworn to avenge him.”
“How? Why would Gwynn help us, with success so doubtful?” an older man asked. This was Fergus, Angus’ brother.
“’Tisnae doubtful. God will be on our side agin the diabhol Kilborn.”
“Willnae work,” Angus said. “The Gwynns are obsessed with Christ and Mary, not with power. They’ve no interest in conquering Kilborn.”
“The Kilborns are bloodsucking demons and must be cast out!” Moira smacked her hand on the table.
“Why should we listen to a woman?” Angus asked. An uneasy murmur rose from the men.
Seamas, now behind Moira, seized her long hair to force her head to one side, exposing her neck. “Isnae this proof enough of Kilborn’s ungodliness? The Gwynns will be forced by their holy duty to root out the hell spawn.”
Moira reached up and loosened her hair from Seamas’ fist. “Och, I’d like to keep my hair on my head, laddie.”
Her gentle humor had the effect she wanted, defusing the tension in the room. “I believe that a show of success against the Kilborns may help persuade the Gwynns to support us,” she said.
“How?” the steward asked.
“I know the routes and timing of the Kilborns’ hunting and scouting parties. Come upon them unawares and take Euan, the auld castellan. But be careful how ye kill him.” She pointed at her neck. “’Twas he who did this to me.”
“Ah…” The sighs of comprehension—and agreement—floated through the room.
Moira smiled.
Chapter Fourteen
The first inkling that something was amiss came the next morn at breakfast in the Great Hall. Fenella, wringing her hands, told Kieran that no one had seen Moira for two days. He immediately called for Dugald and Euan.
Though the men’s voices were lowered, Lydia listened attentively to the conversation and managed to hear most of it. She concealed her interest by pretending to nibble on bits of hash made from the roasted boar and potatoes she recognized from the previous night’s meal.
“Ye put her in the tower? When?” Kier demanded.
“Night before last,” Euan said. Dugald nodded in confirmation.
“Has she been seen since?”
The two men exchanged uneasy glances. “Not by either of us,” Dugald said, and Euan bobbed his head.
“Dugald, question the guards on duty that night and yesterday morn,” Kier said. “Euan, search the tower.”
“Today, milaird?”
“Today. If you see him, try to get a sensible answer or two.”
She guessed that Kier meant the crazed-looking old man she’d seen in the ancient keep.
“Lydia, where did ye see him?” Kieran asked her.
She set down her cutlery. “I’m not sure where it was.”
“Was it in the central part of the tower or somewhere else?” Euan’s voice was gentle.
She shut her eyes. “It…he was in bed. In a bedroom. Behind a door under the stairs.” Reliving the horror, she shivered.
The three men were now entirely focused on her, and Kier nudged his chair closer to hers and took her hand. “On what floor were the stairs?”
“The ground floor, I believe.”
“Thank ‘ee. Lassie, ye’re icy cold.” Her husband chafed her fingers before enclosing them in his big, warm hand. “Elsbeth, bring milady a bowl of hot porridge.”
* * * * *
Euan left and crossed the courtyard to the Dark Tower. The great double doors were heavily bound with iron, with a thick, sturdy crossbar securing it. The crossbar’s ends fitted into iron-clad bar holes. Strong though he remained, he could not maneuver the crossbar out alone, and gestured for one of the guards to help.
Once inside, he raised his nose and sniffed, but did not scent Moira’s presence. He would know if she were near, for he’d tasted her blood and taken her intimately. Now his senses, finely honed from over a century of experience as well as from the fresh infusion of human blood, told him that she was not in the old keep.
But someone—or something—was. Euan crossed to the wide staircase and without hesitation opened the hidden door to his brother’s favorite lair. He walked without faltering along the path. Where others might stumble, he strode, his vision clear even in the murk.
He found Sir Gareth seated in front of a mirror, brushing what was left of his scanty, yellow-white locks. He wore a nightshirt stained by droplets and streaks of dried blood. The room smelled of his perfume, now stale, and underlying that lingered the faint scent of Moira’s blood. Euan’s heart pounded and his mouth watered. He swallowed.
Sir Gareth’s hands stilled. “Have you come to kill me, brother?” His gaze met Euan’s in the mirror.
Euan sighed. “Nay, ye ken I cannae do that.”
“But I’m mad, you know.” From his tone of voice, Sir Gareth might have been discussing the latest London gossip.
“Aye, I ken.” Euan walked over to the bed and pulled back the hangings. The linens were crumpled and, as with his brother’s nightshirt, the occasional smear of dried blood darkened the sheets. Some of the stains were very old.
A few strands of red hair clung to the pillows. Euan bent his head and sniffed, learning that his brother had taken Moira in this bed. But he could not detect the stench of death, a distinct odor. However, he wanted confirmation, and turned to Sir Gareth with a raised brow.
“Thank you for the gift you sent,” Sir Gareth said. “She was quite a tasty piece, and pretty too.”
“Aye.” Euan couldn’t stop his smile of reminiscence. “Do ye ken where the wench might be?”
“Nay. After I bedded and blooded her, I let her go. Surely you didn’t think I killed her, did you?”
“Nay, ye always had a soft spot for the ladies.”
“Especially for ladies with spots as soft and sweet as hers.” He licked his lips.
Euan examined his brother, who ignored him in favor of fiddling with his hair and humming as he swayed randomly in his seat. He looked well, especially considering that he had left the century mark behind decades before and had been confined to the Dark Tower for nearly fifty years. Moira’s blood had been good for both of them. “But where is the lassie?” Euan wondered aloud.
“She seemed well-used, p’raps a little too well.” Sir Gareth stood and stretched.
“She deserved it.” Euan was grim.
“How so?”
“She tricked our laird’s new wife. Ye met Lady Lydia, did ye not?”
“The dark-haired, very frightened young woman?” He chuckled.
Euan nodded.
“Lady Lydia, you say? Then she’s young Kieran’s wife?”
“Aye, that she is.”
Gareth huffed. “She’ll have to grow a backbone if she’s to help lead the clan.”
“Lady Lydia has plenty of backbone. She came all the way her
e from England, and she’s only eighteen. Ye’d frighten a wolf out of his whiskers, ye would.”
Sir Gareth laughed. “She’s English, then? I could not tell. Her scream lacked an accent. Where’s she from?”
“Swanston. I dinnae ken where that is.”
His brother’s forehead crinkled even more, if that were possible. “Surrey, I believe. Is she General Arthur Swann’s get?”
“Aye. How did ye know of her father? He was after your time.”
“I was speaking of her, um…I imagine her great-grandfather. The Swanns have long been a military family. She’s got good breeding. She should bear a strong son or two, and they will be fine warriors. I approve,” he said loftily.
“I’m sure Laird Kieran will be glad to hear of your approval.” Euan didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “He’s been seeking ye, ye ken.”
“Why?”
“To see ye, to tell ye of his marriage. Out of respect, ye old knave.”
Gareth snorted. “Whyever for? I’m mad.”
“Not today.” One of his good days, Euan thought, for Gareth was reasonably lucid.
“Nay, not today. The fresh human blood helps.”
“Not the sheep?”
“No, nor the dogs. It is human blood from which our power and strength are drawn.” His voice had taken on a solemn note.
“And ye feel no guilt?”
“Not a shred. Does a wolf feel guilt when he takes a fawn?”
“‘Tisn’t the same thing.” Euan sat on the bed facing his brother.
“It is to us. ‘Tis a matter of survival.”
“I can do without it.”
“What about the red-headed wench? She might have died.” Gareth’s tone was mild.
After a brief flash of pity, Euan hardened his heart and shrugged his shoulders. “I dinnae believe so.”
“Then why are you here?”
“The red-headed wench. She’s gone missing.”
“You can’t find her corpse?” Again, Sir Gareth’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“Nay.”
“Look for vultures or ospreys. The sea eagles will eat dead human flesh as well as live fish.” Humming The Oak and the Ash, Sir Gareth turned back to primping what was left of his long, curly hair.
* * * * *
Euan left the Dark Tower and his brother in a considerably more troubled frame of mind than when he’d entered. Though Gareth was mad and occasionally deluded, he wasn’t a liar. Euan believed his brother when he said he had not killed Moira. So where was the wench?
At low tide, he took several men down to the cove and searched the sea caves. No circling ospreys and no Moira, but he found detritus indicating that Sir Gareth had been about—an empty bottle of fine French wine. How had it come to land on their remote shore? P’raps his brother had continued his lengthy relationship with the local smugglers. Euan couldn’t help admiring Gareth’s enterprising nature.
But did the miscreants understand the nature of the danger they courted when they dealt with the old vamp? Surely not, for if he ever caught one of them alone, the unfortunate would surely slake Gareth’s thirst…to the death. Gareth took a care with females and never drank from a child. But men were fair game, as long as they weren’t family. Gareth would ne’er touch Kier or Dugald or Euan himself, possibly because Kilborn men were so tough and strong. Gareth also had the famed Kilborn strength, but he couldn’t match a younger Kilborn, one who was truly alive as opposed to drawing his waning power from the blood.
With the sea caves eliminated as a hidey-hole—or a deathtrap—for Moira, search parties were formed and lined the cliffs, studying the rocks below.
Lydia joined one of them, walking in her serviceable boots and an old dress while younger, nimbler clansmen clambered down the steep crags to explore the tumbled stony boulders. No Moira. The hardiest young men braved the tides to swim out to the sea stacks. Their efforts and the risk they took were futile.
The fishermen, upon their return, had nothing to report. As far as anyone knew, she hadn’t drowned.
The nearby crofts and meadows were searched. Nothing. As the afternoon wore on, Fenella, who walked by Lydia’s side, became more and more distraught, as did everyone else.
Kieran’s mood darkened from anxious to somber. That night before bed, Lydia asked him, “Are people often lost?”
“Nay. Every once in a long while a bairn may wander off, or a fishing boat be blown off course. We usually find them. I cannae remember another time that anyone has just…disappeared.”
She was quiet for a moment before asking, “Have you considered the possibility that she left?”
He turned from where he sat on the other side of their bed, eyes bright and curious. “Whyever would she do such a thing, desert home and clan?”
“Being pilloried, whipped and taken by so many men must have been beyond humiliating. P’raps she couldn’t face everyone after that. P’raps she was a little out of her mind!”
“She’s not the first to be pilloried nor will she be the last. Ye sound as though ye’re sympathizing with her, and lassie, had ye been hurt or killed in the Dark Tower, ‘twould be Moira rejoicing over your sorry fate.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sympathetic. I know she hates me and wants you.” She tucked her legs under the quilt.
Guilt flashed across his face.
“You said she wasn’t chaste. Have you had her?” she asked.
He looked even more uncomfortable.
“Good heavens, Kier! Have you not considered how she must have felt when you brought me home?”
“Of course. I’m not entirely witless.” He climbed into bed beside her. “Moira understood that everything changed after my da and brother died at Culloden.”
“Do you mean that you two were planning to marry?” Lydia’s gut twisted.
“Och, no, but we were…well, ye ken.”
She levered herself up onto her elbows and glared at him. “What exactly do you mean? Do you love her?”
“No! Lydia, kylyrra, I’ve never loved any woman but ye. And my mam, of course. I’ve never told another woman that I love her. Ye must believe me!”
She relaxed a bit. “But why was one of your jilts working for me?”
He huffed out an exasperated breath. “I couldnae send her away.”
“Why not? Though it appears to me that she’s taken herself away.” Lydia found herself smacking the pillows, really to avoid smacking her husband. “No doubt when you became laird, she fancied herself as Lady Moira.”
The bed creaked as he shifted position. “‘Twas a good year or two after I became laird that I married ye. By then, Moira must have realized that she wouldnae be my wife.”
“Did you discuss the matter with her?”
“It was obvious!”
She sighed. “Of course it was obvious. As chieftain, you couldn’t marry someone who wasn’t chaste. And she wouldn’t bring any political or monetary advantage to the union. It was obvious to everyone but Moira.”
“What do ye know of her thoughts?”
“I know she was jealous enough of me to tempt me into exploring the Dark Tower, knowing who…what lives there.” She shuddered.
“‘Tis true,” he said slowly.
“After that, no one here could ever trust her again, especially not you, me, Dugald or Euan. No one who matters. No one who has any power.”
“What would a lass like Moira do with power?”
“I don’t know, but I know she was clever enough to manipulate me. How do you think she would have behaved had you married her?”
He shrugged. “After I became laird, the possibility never crossed my mind. I had more than enough to think about.”
“I cannot accept that one of your jilts worked for me. Please do not allow that to happen again.”
Lydia rolled over, presenting her husband with her back. She wanted to sleep, but was sure her seething emotions would chase sleep far, far away.
How dare he?
Kieran wasn’t usually stupid, but in this instance, he’d been an utter blockhead.
A gentle finger stroked her back, tracing her shoulder blade. “‘Tis our first argument.”
“No, it’s not,” she said coldly, without turning toward him. “It’s the first one you’ve noticed.”
The finger stilled. “What else is there between us?”
“That…that creature in the old keep.”
“Enough about him!” Kieran hauled himself out of bed and grabbed his trews.
Tears forming in her eyes, she watched in shock as he slammed out of their room. What had happened to their happy marriage? Where had everything gone wrong? Was it her fault for disobeying him, or did the chasm run deeper?
She could have simply done everything he asked of her and closed her eyes to the obvious mysteries shrouding Kilborn Castle, Clan Kilborn and its chieftain. She could have continued to be Lydia Lambkin, placidly doing what was expected of her, questioning nothing.
But that wasn’t possible. First off, deep down that wasn’t who she was. She was General Lord Arthur Swann’s daughter and Kieran, Laird Kilborn’s wife. She was responsible and would respond to whatever crisis came her way.
On top of that, she’d changed greatly since her marriage. Not only as a woman, but as the laird’s lady and chatelaine of Kilborn Castle, she was now accustomed to giving orders to a large staff, to the numerous guards who populated the castle, advising crofters and clanswomen. She expected to see her orders carried out to perfection, and so they were.
She’d survived a grueling journey from her home in Surrey to this remote castle and adapted to her new surroundings. She’d not merely survived but thrived.
But what of her husband and their marriage? Would she have to sacrifice what she most loved and needed to uncover the truth?
She sank down into the bedclothes and tried to hold her tears back, without success. Finally she rolled over and allowed them to flow freely into her pillow. The spate was brief, and she rose to wash her face in the cold water in the ewer, grateful that some was left. Bathing her sore, tired eyes helped her to sleep.
Still overheated from excessive emotion, she left the bed’s curtains open, and was awakened when the setting moon’s light slanted through the arrow slits. Her husband was back in bed, his big body curled around hers. Lost in the depths of slumber, his breaths were quiet in her ear. One arm was flung protectively over her.
