TemptationinTartan

by Suz deMello

  Moira’s blood, days old, had lost much of its power and he reckoned he’d better take someone weak first, a straggler who had wandered from the herd.

  He scented the reek of the MacReivers and left Sentry tethered to a tree a few yards beyond the first of the wattle and daub stinking piles surrounding MacReiver Castle. He crept forward until he sheltered behind a bank of shrubs near a lean-to. He deduced by its rank stench that it was the clan privy.

  He waited, watching a crone have a piss p’raps ten feet away. He didn’t plan to take any woman but one.

  The next person to use the local pissoir was a youngish man. Possibly a guard, for he bore a shortsword in a scabbard hanging from the rope belt that supported his trews. He stank of ale, and Sir Gareth decided to allow his victim to relieve himself before striking. No sense getting piss on his fine boots.

  He glanced down, enjoying the sight of his well-polished boots, high-heeled and buckled in the Cavalier style, and allowed himself to reminisce for a brief moment. An image of his monarch floated through his mind, the dark-visaged Charles, a fellow who had loved a good tup and a good time. They’d often gone a-wenching together, but with Sir Gareth careful to hide his predilection for blood from his friend.

  The memories reminded him of his losses. After his son Carrick and grandson Ranald had been killed, his brother Euan had been the last person with whom Sir Gareth had been able to be truly open.

  The sound of urine hitting the wooden lean-to’s back stopped, and he drew his dirk. As the guard turned, fumbling with the laces of his trews, Sir Gareth pounced.

  He wrenched his victim’s head back and punched his dirk directly into the neck’s big artery, then dragged him back into the shadows.

  The dead man quickly lost a lot of blood, Sir Gareth noted with resentment. At least the gouting red fluid hadn’t soiled his breeches, though something had soiled the guard’s. Sir Gareth wrinkled his nose at the stink of shit before daintily bending his head to drink, careful not to stain his shirt or plaidie.

  He took many minutes to drain his victim, then tucked the body beneath the shrubs. Energy sank through his gut, sang through his veins. Stretching his arms high, he exulted in the new power and strength that the guard’s blood had delivered.

  Without fear, he stalked to the nearest hut and entered. A woman sat near a fireplace that was no more than a round of stones set in the center of the scraped earth floor. A vent in the ceiling allowed smoke to escape.

  Small and young with grimy yellow hair, she wore an oversized dress of rough brown wool that he guessed had been a hand-me-down based on its poor fit and even poorer condition. Her feet were bare and cracked. A bairn, p’raps two years old, played on the dirt floor near her as she licked her bare fingers and cautiously turned over bannocks baking on a flat stone set in the embers.

  A great hand squeezed Sir Gareth’s heart. Beneath the dirt on her careworn face, she was pretty enough that had she been born a princess in the House of Hanover or even a Campbell of Argyll, she would have led a life of ease, wealth and privilege. She would have married well and never wanted for anything. Instead she lived like a pig in a hovel.

  ’Twasn’t fair. ’Twasn’t right. Despite a long-held vow never to kill a woman, he wondered if p’raps it would be kind to release her from the burden of her existence.

  Her baby fussed and she immediately stopped her baking to pick up the wee one. She started crooning to it. “Hush-a-bye bairnie, dinnae say a word…”

  When the wee one had quieted, Sir Gareth cleared his throat. Looking up, the woman nearly dropped her bairn into the fire.

  “Whisht, madam. I mean thee no harm.” But he knew he’d frightened her. He was unnaturally tall and pale, with long, wavy white hair hanging to his shoulders, clad all in black and, when he wanted to be, silent as a shadow.

  “Who are ye? What do ye want?”

  He decided to adopt the burr he’d left behind long ago. “What news be there hereabouts? I have heard that the MacReivers killed one of the diabhol Kilborn blood drinkers.”

  “Och, ’tis true, kind sir.” She stood and settled the baby on her hip.

  “How was it done? Do ye ken?”

  “’Tis said that Moira Cameron, the woman who’s handfasted to Seamas MacReiver, knew of the diabhol Kilborn’s haunts.”

  Moira Cameron. Tha thu ’nad luid. So she was calling herself Moira Cameron. The lass had more cleverness than he’d known.

  “She led a war party to a glade,” the woman continued. “There our Seamas ran the hell spawn through and his second-in-command, Martin, beheaded him.”

  “Who is Seamas MacReiver?”

  “He is our leader until the young laird can rule. Able he is. He took an oath to destroy the Kilborns when Kieran Kilborn murthered our laird and drank his blood. And he has already killed auld Euan.”

  The relish with which this one told her tale destroyed any mercy lingering in Sir Gareth’s soul. He smiled at her and advanced, intending to take her.

  She shrank away. “Ye said ye would do me no harm!”

  Halting, he tipped his head to one side. “So I did. And ye have done me a service this eve. I thank ’ee.” He sketched her a bow and stepped toward the hut’s opening.

  She called after him, “If ye wish to see the head of the auld diabhol, it’s piked above the castle gate.”

  He stopped short his retreat, deciding that p’raps mercy was less important than old Billy Shakespeare had thought. Sir Gareth had never felt the tendency drop on him as a gentle rain. Still, be he man or vamp, he had to keep his word.

  Instead, he turned and bared his fangs, hissing at her. With a short scream, she fainted dead away. The bairn crashed to the floor and began to cry.

  He smiled. There was no need for mercy at the next hut, nor the next, nor the next, until he reached the castle. And those who didn’t die would wish they had.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, Dugald joined Kier and Lydia at the laird’s table. When Owain strode toward them with intention in his steps, her belly contracted. What now?

  “Good morrow, milady.” Evidently distracted, Owain nevertheless spoke politely. “Milaird, Sentry was discovered early this morn.”

  She sensed a bit of Dugald’s tension fall from him like a discarded plaidie. “Where?” he asked.

  “In his stall, curried and fed.”

  She dropped her spoon, which clattered on the polished wooden table.

  “He was ever a courtly, polite one,” Dugald said.

  “Er, himself?” she asked.

  “Aye.” Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Another scrap of information to add to her trove. Sooner or later she’d be able to piece together a quilt that would reveal all.

  “Two other horses were discovered wandering in the near meadow,” Owain said. “They aren’t ours.”

  “They are now, I suppose.” Kier lifted a brow. “I wonder what his errand was.”

  “I dinnae ken, but I ken what mine is this day.” Dugald shifted in his seat to face Kier.

  While the men talked, Lydia had picked up her spoon again and dipped into her oat porridge with a heartier appetite. Nothing bad had happened and she hoped that nothing would, but forgoing breakfast wouldn’t help if another crisis beset them.

  “I would ride to the MacReivers’ castle and take back me da’s head.”

  She dropped her spoon again. This time, it fell into her bowl with a splash.

  “Milady wife, the porridge needs no further stirring. I assure you that the cooks ken how to make it properly.”

  She pressed her lips together and strove to control her reactions.

  Kier turned back to Dugald. “I agree. We ride in force. Their men will be out at midday, hunting and patrolling. We’ll strike then.”

  She cleared her throat. “Milaird, I ask a boon.”

  “Aye?”

  “’Tis Sunday, and I find myself in need of spiritual solace after…after all the tumult of the
past days. I wish to attend services at the Gwynn chapel.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then said, “They be Papists. Do ye want to see Mass and take communion?”

  “I don’t see why not. God is God wherever I may be.” When a frown passed over his face, she pressed on. “You did tell me that I might if I wished it.”

  “I did, and I pride myself on being a man of my word. If that is your wish, of course.”

  She was surprised that he’d so easily acceded to her request.

  “You dinnae ask for much, kylyrra,” he said, as though looking into her mind. “I do require that you be accompanied by an escort.”

  “Of course. These are trying times.”

  “And we’ll have to send a messenger in advance to Laird Hamish, the Gwynn chieftain, to tell him of your arrival. I dinnae want to start a clan war over your desire for spiritual solace.” He rubbed his chin. “Dugald, we’ll suspend the regular patrols and hunts this day. We’ll take thirty men, and twenty will accompany Lady Lydia, including Owain and Kendrick. Keep the rest here. I want constant vigilance from atop the walls, and sentries ringing the castle in various placements, on guard until we return.”

  * * * * *

  Kieran hadn’t known what to expect when he approached the MacReiver stronghold but complete silence wasn’t it. At Kilborn Castle and the surrounding village, the hum and bustle of activity always filled the air. People talked and laughed as they spun cloth, tended bairns or cooked meals. Hammer clanged upon anvil as the blacksmith worked. Chickens scratched between the cottages and crofts, with puppies chasing kittens, and goats eternally gnawing on their tethers. The nearby meadows were dotted with sheep and those herding them, human and canine.

  But the low, smelly huts around the crumbling bulk of MacReiver Castle were oddly quiet. A hen or two huddled in the shadows. Skinny dogs napped, with an occasional fly buzzing. No smoke emerged from the crofts’ vent-holes.

  He reined in his buckskin and raised a hand. The line of men behind him stopped. With a faint jingle of harness, Dugald rode to Kier’s side. Today he was mounted on a black, allowing Sentry to rest after his nocturnal adventure.

  Kier lifted a brow at his second-in-command. What now?

  “I dinnae ken.”

  “We’ll learn naught by sitting on our horses.” Kieran dismounted and peered into the nearest hut, drawing his short sword. Dugald followed.

  A man’s body lay on the earthen floor, with a dark substance pooling around it. Kier sniffed and scented drying blood, not too much and not too old.

  He entered, then stopped short when he saw that the body had no head. “Ah,” he breathed, spying it flung into a corner. Closer examination revealed that the head had been twisted off the corpse, which had been drained of most of its blood.

  He heard a rustle of cloth rubbing against cloth and whirled. A mass of bedding stirred and a woman emerged, puffy-faced and red-rimmed of eye.

  “Have ye come to kill me too?” Her voice was raspy, from crying, he reckoned.

  “Nay.” He sheathed his sword. “What happened here?”

  She sat up. She wore a tired gray gown and a defeated expression. “The diabhol came to visit last eve. He killed everyone.”

  “Ye’re alive.”

  Her laugh was short and joyless. “I might as well be dead. I cannae survive without my man. None of us can.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  “All the men are dead, except a few who were out on patrol or somehow…escaped or were overlooked.”

  “This diabhol,” Dugald said. “Did ye see it?”

  “Nay.” She closed her eyes. “I was spared the sight. But others werenae.”

  “What did the others say?” Kier asked.

  “Black as the night and swift as a shadow, but with eyes blazing icy fire and a halo of silver hair.”

  Kier caught Dugald’s glance.

  “The women and bairns were spared, were they no’?” Dugald asked.

  “Aye, but cold comfort that is. How are we to survive without the men? Who will hunt? The young laird is but ten years old. Who will protect us?”

  “I will.” Kier sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “But who are ye?”

  “Your new laird, Kieran Kilborn.”

  She gasped and shrank back.

  “Fear not. I’ll not harm ye, and I’ll set all to rights.” He glanced at Dugald. “Let’s ride to the castle.”

  Looking up at the fortress’s collapsing upper battlements as he approached through the eerie quiet, Kier couldn’t see anyone on duty. Likewise, the gate, open to allow anyone to enter, appeared to be unguarded. He set his warriors roundabout to warn of the approach of any enemy before entering the bailey. Silence had captured the castle, except for the odd animal sleeping or foraging.

  He caught Dugald’s eye. “Secure this fortress,” Kier said softly. “I ken that our lands have grown greatly this day, though I doubt that was the auld vamp’s intention.”

  “Nay. There was great anger here, I feel.” Dugald lifted his nose into the air and sniffed.

  Kier did the same. “Aye. He killed many and fed well last eve. And we will reap the benefits of his anger.”

  Though he knew he should be saddened by the carnage that Sir Gareth had wrought, Kier was relieved, and soon a strange levity overtook him as he searched the castle for survivors. Others felt the same way. He even heard Dugald humming Blow Awa’ the Morning Dew as he went about.

  * * * * *

  Untrained in warcraft, unable to even ride a horse or lift a claymore, Edgar MacReiver felt as useless as a cat’s second tail. Awakened the previous night by the screams of women and the dying gurgles of men, he’d huddled in a linen closet until the morning. When he’d crept out, he’d discovered only females and boys under the age of twelve. Though he was ashamed of having hidden, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he would have been spared even if he had tried to confront the monster who had finished the job Kieran Kilborn had started—that of destroying his clan.

  Even so, a heavy weight sank into his belly. He was laird, and he had failed. The ancient feud between their clans had ended last night when someone—or something—had taken an awful retribution. His fears had been confirmed when he had climbed to the upper gate in the early morn to see the lay of his lands. The head of the one his Uncle Seamas had called the diabhol, Euan Kilborn, was gone. The creature that had killed scores of men and striplings had taken it, Edgar guessed.

  But who could it have been? Definitely a Kilborn, for he had heard the tale of his father’s death. Though no one had ever told him the reason the Kilborns were devils, he had reckoned that a race of beings who killed by personally tearing off the heads of their enemies surely were the children of hell, even if he wasn’t sure that such a place existed.

  When Edgar heard voices in the lower hall, he sprinted to the upper wall-walk of the castle. Parts of it had fallen into ruin, and he had vowed that when he became laird, he’d rally the people away from their usual indifference and repair it, make the castle into a proper stronghold. But even in its current decrepit state, enough of the higher reaches were in decent enough condition to allow him to clamber over the big rough stones to see below.

  Mounted warriors—a lot of them—were fanning out over the land…his land. And they were wearing Kilborn plaidies.

  His breath hitched in his chest and his heart began to pound like a blacksmith’s hammer.

  They were directed by a massive figure, larger than the rest, seated on a big horse whose hide gleamed golden in the midday sun. He had to be Kieran Kilborn, his father’s murderer. Had he also come last eve to kill every man jack in the MacReiver clan?

  As Edgar reclaimed his spot in the linen cupboard, he nevertheless marveled at their boldness, for everyone knew that the Sassenachs forbade the wearing of the tartan. Kieran Kilborn had to have the ballocks of an ox, as his father would have said.

  He fell into a fitful rest until the cupboard’s
door flew open. “Laddie, ye can come out now.”

  “How did you know I was in here?” Edgar peeked out at the speaker.

  He squatted, filling the gap with his bulk. Even in the shadows, Edgar saw a face as white as cloud, with eyes and hair like the deepest midnight. A Kilborn, then, and possibly their chieftain, for he greatly resembled the man on the horse.

  “I didnae,” the Kilborn said. “We’re looking everywhere for survivors. Show yourself. Ye’ll not be harmed.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “Do ye have a choice?”

  The Kilborn had a point. Choices were few. And how should he, the laird of his clan, meet his death? Cowering in a closet or with courage?

  Edgar shoved the Kilborn’s knees and he fell back on his arse with an oof. Edgar took the chance offered to dart around him, but was snared by one outstretched arm.

  “Let me go!” Edgar shoved at the man’s arm, digging in his finger at the soft place near the elbow, the way his da had taught him.

  Kilborn turned his arm one-quarter, moving Edgar’s finger to a spot that wouldn’t hurt. “Go where?” the man asked reasonably. “There isnae much in this storeroom.”

  Edgar stopped struggling. The man’s arm tightened, lifting Edgar onto his lap.

  For long moments, neither moved. Edgar’s frantically racing heart stilled, allowing him to become aware of the Kilborn’s clean scent and non-threatening stillness.

  Kilborn shifted, setting Edgar to one side. Now on the floor, he missed the cozy cuddle. He blinked. He was not a wee bairn. He would not cry.

  “I find that I am hungry.”

  Hungry? The statement startled away Edgar’s tears.

  The Kilborn reached into his sporran and took out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. He opened it, revealing a bannock. Edgar’s stomach rumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. And the bannock, while a little squashed, was crisply browned. It looked tasty and smelled even better.