The Beast of Clan Kincaid (25 page)

The previous days had been filled with games for the children as well as the adults, where men and women alike displayed their skills in horsemanship, swords, and fighting. Niall had participated in the war games ferociously, for the sole purpose of expending his growing agitation at being forced to stand by and watch Elspeth compete—and win—in archery … ride with heart-stopping skill at the forefront of the hunt … and each night laugh and dance in the company of other men. Men who were not the repulsive creatures Keppoch Macpherson and Alan FitzDuff had been, although those two were present as well, campaigning to be recognized as serious choices. But Elspeth had entertained visits from a number of handsome and powerfully connected chiefs and nobles who would honor an alliance with the MacClaren clan and see her ensconced in her new life like a queen, and each night Niall overheard wagers being made on who she would select. If there was a clear favorite, Elspeth gave no sign.

Tonight, each of the clans had prepared separate feasts, putting their hospitality on display, attempting to outdo all the rest, for each feast was open for the enjoyment of all. The gathered folk walked from one encampment to the next, entering the largest of the tents, drinking mead and ale, dancing and listening to musicians, and hearing stories told—all save for the MacClarens and the Alwyns, who had staked territory on opposite sides of the glen, and made it a point not to intermingle.

A young, dark-haired man in rich robes emerged from the MacClaren tent, accompanied by several companions. He stopped just beyond the threshold and turned to peer back inside, marveling.

“Lord, what a fierce beauty, bright-eyed and fine. I'm in love.” He clasped his hands over his heart. “Can you imagine the sons we would have together?” He grinned.

His companion chuckled. “A pity she did not so much as look at you twice.”

“True, that,” the man agreed, with a slow shake of his head. “But I did not see her look at
anyone
twice, which means I have as good a chance as any.” His voice rang with hope. “But I refuse to sit among the others, begging for a glance. It is more important that her counselors fall in love with my father's army and coffers, I think, and that should put me in good stead.”

“Come on now,” Deargh said in a quiet voice. “Let's go inside. Perhaps it won't be long now, and we can be done with this task and on to more important things.”

What else could he do? To stay away while Elspeth made her choice felt too much like cowardice. Niall entered with him, delving into a crush of people, color, and sound. The song of the minstrels lilted bright and cheerful in his ears.

It made good sense to stay close. There had been such heated competition for the Mistress MacClaren's attentions—and her valuable
tocher
lands—he would not be surprised if one or more of her admirers responded to the rejection of their suit with violence. He and Deargh found Conall and Ennis, who sat on stools, taking positions standing behind them.

On the opposite side of the shadowed tent, Elspeth sat on a pallet, resplendent in a scarlet gown, her long skirts spread out around her. She wore her hair parted at the center, in shining thick coils on either side, caught up in fine gold netting that gleamed in the firelight. Three men … no, four … sat near her, the closest leaning in to whisper in her ear. Elspeth smiled and laughed, her cheeks vivid with color. The other three looked on, scowling and disgruntled.

Niall understood how they felt. The moment he saw her, his stomach muscles had clenched with too many nights of unsatisfied desire, and refused to release.

After the song came to an end, the minstrels paused, before starting up again with a lighthearted trill. Elspeth's handmaidens appeared, all wearing bright ribbons in their hair. They took her up by the hand, bringing her to her feet, and then coaxed the men up as well. At their urging, others from the crowd joined them, making two circles, the ladies within and the men without. In time with the music, they moved in different directions, spinning and laughing and reaching to touch hands as they passed.

Until one of the young men who had been seated beside Elspeth reached out as he passed, and pulled her close—

Swooping down, he kissed her on the mouth. Only Elspeth turned her face, and the kiss met her cheek instead.

Even so, Niall had already taken one step forward—only to be seized and held back by Deargh's fierce grip.

The circles stopped moving. The music fell off … and the room grew silent.

Elspeth looked up at the young man, her eyes wide and startled. Looking out at all the onlookers, she laughed.

“What a very nice kiss!” she proclaimed, laughing. “But how unfair. Should I not now offer a kiss to the others as well?”

The room burst out in laughter—and a pall fell over Niall.

“Someone once told me a kiss is just a kiss.” she said, approaching a grinning young man. “Can that be true? Are they all the same?”

Deargh's face turned then, and he looked at Niall hard and steady. Yet Niall looked straight ahead, the words striking a dagger through his heart for it was he that she taunted.

“Nay!” voices shouted, from all around.

“Nay, lady, my kiss is more pleasing.” The fellow eagerly welcomed her into his arms—putting a frown on the other man's face. Dramatically dipping her backward, he pressed his lips to hers.

A chaste kiss, all in all, but one that set Niall's blood simmering. He barely heard the cheering of the crowd.

“What in the hell is she doing?” Niall growled to Deargh.

Conall shrugged. “Playing the game.”

Elspeth spun free again, smiling, into the arms of another.

“Perhaps you will know your husband by his kiss,” called one of her ladies.

“Kiss them all!” another cried, lifting a goblet high.

The musicians resumed their raucous melody, and the room churned with movement, as the dancers resumed their places, more joining in this time. Niall saw Elspeth dancing around the circle of men, quickly kissing one, before moving to the next.

Every muscle in Niall's body seized tight, and he struggled to contain his reaction—an overwhelming impulse to push forward and jerk her away.

Deargh stared at him,
hard
. “If you can't get that look off your face, then you need to go outside and wait there.”

“What look?” he growled, his blood simmering in his veins.

Deargh moved closer, and gripped his upper arm. “The one that says you'll flay any man alive who dares touch your woman again.”

Niall glared back at him, angry because he knew his companion spoke the truth.

Suddenly, two men broke free from the circle, shoving at one another, their faces contorted with anger.

“This will quickly grow out of hand,” Niall muttered, with a jerk of his chin. “I will see to those two. Deargh, secure Elspeth—take her to her tent. Put a stop to this foolishness now.”

Ennis stood and joined them. “Yes, that. The time has come that she must choose.”

Striding toward the two men, Niall seized them by their tunics and hauled them tripping, dragging, and flailing outside, where they resumed their fight.

He left them, but did not return inside. Instead, he delved into the frigid darkness, allowing it to numb his skin. He wandered, and wandered further, venturing in and out of tents, seeing, but not seeing the faces before again returning to the shadows.

A man crossed his path just then, each of his arms around a laughing woman, making his way toward the bonfire, a wineskin dangling from both hands.

It was Magnus.

“Your heart is inconstant, I see,” Niall called out after him.

This snared Magnus's attention. Straightening, he turned, bringing himself—and the two women around. Leaving them behind, he walked toward Niall.

“Is Elspeth, your true love, so quickly forgotten?” Niall sardonically pressed a hand over his heart.

“Nay, my heart is true,” Magnus answered, stopping two paces away.

“Then why are you here, with those two, instead of in the MacClaren tent, making an offer to beat out all the others?”

He spoke the words to wound, knowing from all he had heard that Magnus could not compete with the other men who had presented suits.

“Alas, I think you know the answer to that. Not only do our clans hate one another, but I have no lands of my own, no armies to command, making me invisible in the eyes of her father, and sadly love alone will not win in this competition.”

“Love…” The word struck Niall like a kick to his gut. “You love her, then.”

“I do. Very much so.” Magnus raised one of the wineskins, and drank deeply. Lowering it, he wiped his mouth and peered at Niall. “But not in the way you might suppose.”

“She said as much. That you were a friend.”

Magnus nodded, closing his eyes, looking deeply morose. “And for that reason, I tried to save her.”

Niall's ears perked up at that.

“Save her?” Niall's tilted his head and stepped closer. “Save her from what?”

Magnus laughed bitterly.

“What does it matter now?” he said, looking toward the MacClaren tent. “It is already too late.”

 

Chapter 18

Elspeth knew the moment Niall left the tent. Seeing that he did not return, her mood crashed into despair, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be alone and away from all this. To avoid the choice she must make for at least a few more hours.

She extricated herself from the amorous embrace of one young man, only to be claimed by another, and brought back into the dance. Through the melee she glimpsed Deargh coming toward her with judgment in his eyes.

Which made her angry, because he was faithful to Niall and because of that, she would not accept his condemnation. Determined to conduct herself without his intervention, she opened her mouth to command that she be set free—

Only to have her arm seized, and her body pulled away from the circle. She stared into the face of the man looking into hers. Her heart pounded, as she recognized him.

She yanked her arm free, and stepped back from him.

It was the Alwyn—and behind him stood Hugh, his eyes glassy and dull.

The hair on the back of her neck rose in warning, and her mind thundered with one question: Why were they here?

Behind him, the Alwyn's entourage spread out among the crowd, daring to take up goblets of ale and platters of food, as they turned to watch their chief.

“Mistress MacClaren.” The chief bowed deeply. He was built like a bull, with a thick neck and muscles everywhere. His hair was brown, with streaks of gray running through.

She stood tall and proud, refusing to shrink beneath his scrutinizing gaze.

She tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Alwyn.”

“It has been a long time. Years. Am I right? And how lovely you have grown.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw that Deargh and Conall came to stand behind her. Other MacClaren warriors maneuvered closer through the crowd, their gazes alert and wary. She wished …

She wished Niall was there.

“It has been years,” she answered. “But I know you have not come to flatter me with compliments and to talk of old times. Tell me, why have you come?”

“Dear child, you speak with such authority,” he said in a teasing—and altogether dismissive tone.

“Does that offend you?” she answered lightly. “I will not apologize.”

His brows came together in offended dismay. “Where … is your father?”

He looked all about the room, as if searching for the MacClaren.

“Come now,” she replied. “You already know that he did not come.”

“A shame.” He feigned an expression of sympathy. “He is ill, I hear. Nothing serious, I hope?” He lifted a hand to his chin, covering his mouth for a moment with his fingers, as if in deep thought. “And yet when such things linger on, we must consider the future and how things must change.”

His words struck an already sensitive chord inside her heart. Within the long sleeves of her gown, her hands curled into fists. “Do tell me what you mean.”

“Is there somewhere private, that you and I can talk?”

“Yes, and my advisors.”

“As you wish.” He shrugged, his lips taking on a sly smile.

She led them behind a curtain into a small private area—the Alwyn and Hugh, followed by Conall and Ennis. Once inside, the music started again and the merrymaking resumed, but at a more subdued level. Deargh remained at the threshold, to prevent anyone from intruding.

The Alwyn opened his hands and nodded. “It is well known throughout the highlands that your father is seeking a husband for you. And while the Alwyns have not been invited to offer, we wished to present one all the same.”

Confusion arose in her mind. An offer … on Magnus's behalf? Had he changed his mind, and did he at last intend to formally recognize his bastard son?

If so, where was Magnus?

Magnus was not there, which certainly he would be if that were the Alwyn's plan …

So, if not Magnus, then who?

Thank God, the Alwyn himself was married, at least last that she knew, and Hugh was formally betrothed to some other unfortunate girl. Not that it mattered.
Any
offer he made would be refused.

“I can think of no reason why we would not at least hear what you have to say,” she said in a magnanimous tone, hoping they would say whatever they had to say, and be gone.

“Ah, what a diplomatic response. Which is more than I could have expected from your father.”

“My father has been more than diplomatic in responding to your recent unfounded claims, threats, and aggressions.” She tilted her head. “But you are here on another matter. I would invite you to proceed.”

His nostrils flared and his chin lowered, and she knew his scowl was a practiced attempt to intimidate. “You are young. I do not know how much you know of the past—the longstanding partnership between your father and me, which has weakened of late, for reasons that are … not important here, between you and me.”