Desire in Tartan: 2 (Highland Vampires) (19 page)

No one was there.

Dugald pushed through the folk in the bailey, finding one man leaning against the wall holding his face. Blood oozed through his fingers, which were pressed to what looked like a knife wound in his cheek. “What now?” Dugald asked the nearest guard. “A fight?”

“Nay,” he replied. “We were attacked. Three men forced their way into the Great Hall. The auld gentleman—”

“Och, aye, if he’s on it, ‘tis all right.” Dugald was relieved. His uncle wouldnae allow harm to come to the clan while he lived, drew breath and drank blood. But ‘twouldn’t hurt for Dugald himself to check on matters. “Come with me,” he told Owain, one of their finest warriors.

After entering the Garrison Tower, he stood at the Great Hall’s doorway. The heated battle inside cramped his insides with fear. Not for himself but…where were milaird and milady?

He struggled to see who was doing what to whom. But the room was dark, lit only by the dying fire’s glow, and he couldnae see his enemy.

Everyone was shouting and screaming, especially the wounded. But one man was silent, slouched in a chair. His head was thrown back, exposing his throat, a gaping red smile. Others gripped red-trimmed slashes in their shirts, stanching blood.

Above, on the laird’s table, a giant figure was holding his own against two attackers, but dark red blotches on his white shirt showed that he’d been wounded.

Dugald bellowed. Followed by Owain, he leaped through the throng, shoving aside the milling mob. He jumped onto the dais, grabbed Kier’s attacker and flung him across the room. A satisfying thump told him that the
nàmhaid
had landed hard. Owain stabbed the other, who went down.

Kier stumbled and fell onto the table where he sprawled, limp or dead. One arm draped over the table’s side, the fingers dripping dark, thick blood. Heart hammering, Dugald rolled Kier over. His jaw was slack and his lips gaped. No brightness glimmered from the half-shuttered eyes.

But blood still seeped from several wounds, giving Dugald hope that his laird still lived. A dead heart pumped no blood.

He drew his knife, slashed one wrist then held it to Kier’s mouth.

Sir Gareth strode into the room. The panicked clansmen immediately calmed despite the auld gentleman’s appearance, streaked and spattered with blood. “Did we get them all, Owain, lad?” he asked.

Owain turned. “Aye, sir. There were only three, but they caused much pain, for they caught us unawares. The last one is there.” He pointed to the fellow Dugald had thrown against the wall.

“Excellent! Provender.” Gareth easily hefted the fellow over his shoulder and left the Great Hall, whistling a jaunty tune. At the doorway, he turned. “Gather the injured here and lay them out on the tables. Get Mairen and the other ladies to tend them. After we’re sorted out, we’ll prepare a war party.”

Dugald watched his blood drip into his laird’s mouth and thought about Kieran. They’d grown up as brothers, the three of them—he, Kier and Kier’s older brother, who’d been killed at Culloden. Keir was a part of Dugald as much as his hand or throat.

His mind grew fuzzy. He slumped against the table then slid to the floor.

Mother of mercy. Where could Isobel be? Alice didn’t know, but she imagined that help was nearby. Crossing the hall, she tapped on Lady Lydia’s door. “Milady?”

No response, and Alice, her fear rising, knocked harder and raised her voice. “Milady? Ma’am?”

Again, nothing.

Panic unfurled, an evil flower crowding her chest. Now she pounded and fumbled at the latch, fingers quivering with fear.

The door flew open. “What the bloody hell is it?” Isobel demanded. Dressed in a long white nightgown, she rubbed sleepy eyes. “You woke us up.”

“Oh, thank the lucky stars.” Alice slumped against the doorpost.

Lydia appeared behind Isobel, similarly clad. “What is it?”

“I…I’m not sure. Something bad. I think we’ve been attacked.” She pulled away from the door and pointed at the corpse in the hall.

Her head turning, Lydia scrutinized the hall, including the blood-streaked walls and the gory, headless corpse. “Bloody hell,” she breathed. She seemed to gather herself together and asked, “Did Kier do that?”

“N-no. Someone I haven’t seen before. He looked quite old, but he was very strong. He tore his head right off his shoulders and then he…then he…”

“Drank the blood.” Lydia concluded the sentence. She didn’t sound surprised. By her side, Isobel was silent, lips pursed and frowning.

Alice gasped. “How did you know?”

Milady raised a brow. “It’s not the first time.”

“What?”

The noise from belowstairs quieted, but heavy footsteps scraped up the stone stairs. Alice’s second gasp was echoed by the other two, and they retreated into Lydia’s bedroom, peeking through the narrow slit left by the half-closed door. Milady’s hand was raised, as if poised to slam the door shut if danger approached. Isobel drew a
sgian dhu.

A tall, thin figure, dressed in blood-drenched clothing, hair matted by drying blood entered the hall from the stairs. He carried an unconscious man over one shoulder. “Good evening, ladies! And a joyous Hogmanay to you!”

“It’s all right,” Isobel said with evident relief. Stepping out into the hall, she offered a clumsy curtsey. “Good evening to you, sir.”

“Good eve to thee, young Isobel.” He continued to the staircase that led upwards, still carrying his burden with ease. “You’re all needed in the Great Hall to tend the wounded.”

Lydia pressed a hand to her heart. “What happened?”

He turned. “We were most treacherously attacked by those who have accepted our shelter.”

“Laird Gwynn?” Lydia’s voice rose with fury.

“Nay, Hamish Gwynn learned his lesson twelve years ago. But apparently he sent proxies.”

What on earth? Alice stared at the old man, then at Lydia, hoping to divine something, anything about the bizarre situation.

“Do not worry,” the old man said. “The invaders are routed. When I’ve stored this offal I will discover the whole. Revenge will be exacted.” He continued up the stairs.

Silence fell before Alice demanded, “Who is he?”

“We’d best ready ourselves. Alice, are the other children safe?”

“Yes, they’re asleep in the nursery.”

“Good. Both of you change into your oldest clothes and wash your hands. I’ll see you both in the Great Hall in two minutes.” Lady Lydia reentered her bedroom and closed the door with a snap.

Alice stared at the closed door, stared at the corpse, then stared at Isobel.

“We’d best obey Mamma.” Isobel went to her room.

So did Alice. She changed as quickly as she could and, with the words “tend the wounded” echoing in her mind, grabbed all the spare cloths she could find. She checked again on the three younger children, relieved to find that they were deeply asleep, oblivious to the chaos and violence.

She closed their door behind her with a satisfying click then headed to the Garrison Tower, following Lady Lydia, who strode at three times her normal speed. They entered the Garrison Tower, then the Great Hall.

At the doorway, milady stopped so abruptly that Alice and Isobel crashed into her. Lady Lydia wasn’t shifted even a hair.

“Silence!”

The chaotic Great Hall immediately stilled. Isobel shot a startled glance at her mother then into the Hall while Alice, bringing up the rear, was equally surprised. She’d never heard milady raise her voice. But ‘twas effective. With the Hall calmer, p’raps they could sort matters out.

She followed the Kilburn women inside and began tending the nearest man. Blain had suffered a slash across one arm that was already healing. Puzzled, she straightened to her full height and tried to unravel the mystery.

Lydia’s commanding tone cut into Alice’s musings. “Alice, go to the kitchen and ensure we have enough warm boiled water and cloths. Then find Fenella.”

She found Fenella in the kitchen. The housekeeper prepared a small cauldron of boiled water and helped Alice to fill a basket with clean, rolled cloths. When Alice returned to the Hall, Lydia and Isobel were on the dais that held the Laird’s Table, hovering over two figures there.

Then Alice saw Dugald slumped on the wooden floor, one shoulder against the table’s leg.

He wasn’t moving.

Dark spots floated before her gaze, increasing in number. Swaying, she grabbed a table for support. When she’d recovered herself, she ran to him, lifting her skirts high so she could jump over the prone bodies that blocked her way.

She knelt beside him. His face was normally pale, but now his skin was tinged with blue. His lips were like those of a corpse. She gasped and pressed a hand to her heart.

Beside Dugald, Kieran stirred. His eyes opened, sparkling like polished onyx despite rents in his shirt that showed he’d been wounded.

Alice looked from one to the other. “Exactly what went on here?”

“Milaird was sore beset by two attackers,” Owain explained. “He was in his cups, ye see. He was putting up a good fight but he was going down.”

“And?”

“I took care of one of the villains and Dugald threw aside the other. But milaird was dying. Dugald saved him with the blood.”

More blotches crowded her vision and she knelt, hoping she wouldn’t faint. She caressed her husband’s forehead, finding it cold and clammy. “He looks as though he’s dying now, rather than milaird.” She looked up at Owain. “And what will save him? Blood?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll do it.” She reached into Dugald’s boot and slipped out the
sgian dhu.

She heard a gasp from behind her. Isobel, she guessed.

“
Mo dòchas?”
Dugald’s voice was husky and weak.

“Yes, darling?” she whispered into his ear.

“Lass, are ye sure? Ye doonae have to do this—”

“I’m sure.” She sat on the floor then lifted the knife. She regarded it for a moment, taking in its evilly winking shine and the tip’s sharpness.

Then she slashed her wrist.

Alice shrieked. She’d underestimated how much cutting herself would hurt. Sobbing with pain, she reached for her husband’s chin with one hand and opened his mouth whilst maneuvering herself into position so her flowing blood would drip between his lips.

Behind her, Lydia knelt and wrapped her arms around Alice. Cuddling close, she whispered, “Be brave and strong.”

Alice sighed, letting her quivery body relax into milady’s embrace. She imagined that the shivering was shock, but she regretted nothing. Dugald had given her so much—everything that made her life worthwhile. If he died, she would have no reason to continue.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift through her memories. Her mother, a faraway, misty figure Alice barely remembered. Her mother had been fair-haired, with hazel eyes she’d bequeathed to Alice, who’d been an only child because of her mother’s many miscarriages. Alice hoped her babies would not suffer the same fate.

Her father…she supposed that she was unfair to lay blame for her life’s misfortunes on him. He simply hadn’t had a practical mind, so after Mamma died everything had fallen apart, becoming worse and worse until the explosive debacle at Shallsbury College.

She shuddered.

She could recall with pinpoint accuracy the moment her life had changed from a cold, lonely purgatory. The moment she’d laid eyes on Dugald Kilburn.

Dugald.

He’d terrified her upon their first meeting, but within days, her fear had transmuted into something very different.

She depended upon him for her happiness and couldn’t imagine that life without him would be anything other than hell.

She sighed. With an effort, she wrestled her mind back to the present. Someone was holding her with strong, loving arms. But those arms weren’t those of her husband, and she didn’t like that. She desperately wanted to open her eyes and look at him but she couldn’t.

She knew she was dying.

She rested her head on his arm and let it happen.

No regrets.

Life gathered in a hot red pool in Dugald’s belly. Life seeped into his veins and arteries. Life rushed in a torrent through his body until his fingers and toes tingled. Even the top of his head seemed to burst with power like a fiery fountain.

He blinked, sensing a warm weight sagging against his left arm. He looked down to see his Alice, but no life gleamed from beneath her half-closed eyes. No movement save for the shivers that accompany grave illness. Skin leached of all color, with a white line around the lips and bright blood flowing from her arm.

She was dying.

“Rach air muin
!” Dugald leaped to his feet, grabbing Alice. Milady let her go, and he laid her out on the Laird’s Table.

Kier stood nearby. He leaned over her and said, “The lassie is close to death. I doonae ken if this will help, but…” Using same
sgian dhu
, he pricked a finger and wiped the blood onto the cut on Alice’s wrist.

The wound’s edges began to close. Dugald took the
sgian dhu
and did the same, but pushed his finger into her mouth. “Suck.”

She blinked and shifted, then obeyed. After a minute or two she seemed to regain a little energy.

“I do not know if the blood will have the same effect on our Alice,” Lady Lydia said. “She is not…a Kilburn.”

“Aye, I ken ye have the right of it,” Kieran said. “Fenella!”

The plump little housekeeper scurried to respond. “Aye, milaird?”

“Fetch Mairen and some broth.”

Alice blinked. Everything was a blur but she could tell she was in her cozy bed. She blinked again and the whitish oval blobs with black dots that surrounded her resolved into a ring of Kilburn faces, all peering anxiously at her.

“She’s awake!” A happy little voice. Carrick.

“I believe I am,” she croaked, and started to cough.

Someone held broth to her lips and she sipped gratefully, for she was hungry and her throat was so dry. She tasted chicken, boar and garlic, smelled the earthy aroma of rosemary.

Finished, she lay back and regarded the lot of them. Her family.

She gazed at one concerned face then the next. They were all there, from milaird down to the baby in Lady Lydia’s arms. Tears flooded her eyes, and someone wiped her face with a cloth.

She focused on one—her husband, then stretched and smiled at him. “Good morning.”

Relief flooded his face and he smiled back. “Good afternoon,
mo dòchas
.”

She cleared her throat. “I believe I’m entitled to some answers.”

Everyone’s expressions altered from concerned to alarmed.

She went on, “Who—or what—did I see that night?”

“What do ye mean, sweetling?” Dugald asked.

“I…saw a man. He was very old, but didn’t…seem so old. He moved with great speed and was very strong. He…he…”

“That was the auld gentleman,” Isobel said. “Himself.”

Her statement was met by glares from her elders.

“We can’t keep it from her!” Isobel was defiant. “She kens what she saw, and she’s no looby.”

“Thank you, Isobel, for your confidence and respect.” Alice mustered a glare for the adults. “Do you mean the old gentleman who lives abovestairs, the one who rarely gets out of his bed?”

“Aye, he’s the one,” milaird said.

“He doesn’t seem so frail.”

“He’s, uh…” Her husband was uncharacteristically hesitant. “He’s not entirely with us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s mad,” Kieran said. “He has an occasional lucid hour or two, but he’s unpredictable. There are times when he can be the best of companions, but at other times…” He shrugged.

“At other times he may tear someone’s head off and drink the blood.” Alice finished the sentence for him.

“Aye, but doonae be afeared.” Dugald sat on the edge of the bed. “He rarely hurts a Kilburn and has never killed a woman.”

“That makes me feel so much better.” She had no reason to keep the edge off her voice. “But who is he?”

Dugald sighed. “He’s my uncle.”

“What?” Alice stared at him. She knew he was fifty but looked younger. Even so, she didn’t understand how someone so obviously venerable could be Dugald’s uncle. “He has to be ninety at least. I know the Kilburns are not like other men, but…”

More uneasy glances, this time accompanied by the shuffling of feet.

“What?” she asked. She was repeating herself but didn’t care.

“Aye, we are nae like others.” Dugald shifted, the bed creaking.

“Yes. You drink blood and he—the old gentleman—does also. Uh, does he have a name?”

“Sir Gareth.”

“He was a knight?”

“Aye, and laird of this clan in his day,” Kieran said.

“Until he went mad.”

“Aye.”

“So he drinks blood. If I were to cut him with a knife—”

“That could be your last act,” Isobel said somberly.

“I thought he did not attack women.”

“None have ever tried to hurt him,” milady said.

“But if he were cut, his blood would be dark and the wound would heal within a few seconds,” Alice said. “Am I correct? And if I were to touch him, his skin would feel oddly cold.”

“Aye.” Dugald’s fingers twitched restlessly on the quilt. “You’re correct.”

“He’s tremendously strong, as are you. Why is that?”

Kier stirred. “Because of the blood, I believe. Mistress, none of us ken why this is, but the legends of our clan say that our ancestors came from faraway Scandinavia, and brought many strange customs. You’ve seen that our ways are not like yours, or even like those of other Scots. We are what we are.” He shrugged.

Alice scrutinized him. Laird Kieran’s facial expression told her that nothing more would be forthcoming, and the others would correctly take their cues from him.

But what would happen if she spoke with the old gentleman—Sir Gareth—himself?

She didn’t have the opportunity for much exploring in the ensuing days. Dugald kept her in bed, not for any amorous reason, but for her health. Mairen, the clan’s healer, stopped by frequently—at least twice every day—to check on Alice’s welfare. After a week of rest, Mairen said that Alice was strong enough to resume a limited schedule. No skating or other outings, but quiet reading and drawing were appropriate.

Alice happily accepted these conditions. She’d have agreed to almost anything to get out of her room.

One day after lunch had been eaten and Carrick settled into the nursery for his nap, Alice went hunting.

She slowly climbed the stone stairs to the next floor up. At the top of the flight, she stopped for a few moments to regain her breath, then reached for the nearest latch, the one that Carrick had told her led to the old gentleman’s quarters.

She entered to see a nicely decorated room, hung with tapestries over the arrow slits and thus dim, for only one candle burned. A bed was shoved against one wall, its posts supporting a long black hooded cloak and a matching hat with a jaunty feather in the band. A wood dresser held a mirror, plus an ewer and a bowl. She crossed the room and checked the water in the pitcher.

It was fresh, so evidently one of the servants kept this room tidy. She frowned, wondering who? Fenella, most likely. The housekeeper made a practice of caring for the laird’s family personally.

A male voice came out of the shadows. “Good morrow, my dear.”

Who was he? She turned.

He was as bright-eyed as a bird, even tipped his head to one side like a curious sparrow. His long, white, wavy hair was thinning where it crossed a pale pate. Today his locks were immaculate and white, his face deeply seamed.

But she remembered him with blood running from his lips and down his hair, dripping onto the shiny wooden floor of the Laird’s Tower.

She swallowed. “G-good morrow, sir.”

“You are my nephew Dugald’s woman, are you not?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’ll not touch you, then. Indeed, I’ve nourishment for a long time.” He laughed.

Alice eyed him, bemused. He had an accent like Lady Lydia’s—a mixture of Highlands and England, as though he were well-traveled. Who was he?

“He’s a good lad, Dugald. None better.”

“Yes. I’m…lucky.”

He chuckled. “You’re a true English lady. Unable to claim your rights as a woman.”

“My rights as a woman? What rights are they, pray?”

“To have and hold your man. To demand and claim his protection and even his fealty.”

“I had not thought of that. Marriage always seemed so one-sided.”

“Who said aught of marriage?” The old man cackled. “But marriage you deserve. For the carrying of the baby you bear, you deserve all that Dugald can provide.”

“Am I increasing?”

“That you are. You have been more tired of late, have you not? Even before Hogmanay.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“I watch over everyone in this castle and have done so for a hundred years.”

Alice’s vision went black and she slumped to the floor.

Sir Gareth laughed a little crazily before his brow furrowed with concern. He did enjoy toying with newcomers, but the young lady was
enceinte…
Best have a care, he warned himself.

After donning his cloak, he lifted Alice with ease, wrapping her in the warm folds. He carried her back to Dugald’s bedroom.

His nephew awaited him, pacing. He glared at Gareth. “If ye’ve hurt even an eyelash—”

“Nay, boy. I did startle her a little.”

“I imagine ye did.” Dugald took Alice from Gareth and laid her on the bed before covering her with quilts against the winter cold. “I’m surprised to see ye here. Did ye not intend to lead a war party against the Gwynns?”

Gareth looked glum. “Young Kieran forbade me.”

“I didnae ken.”

“You’ve been distracted, but for good reason.” He sighed mightily. “Apparently Laird Hamish had naught to do with the dastardly attack on us. ‘Twas purely the plan of those treacherous, traitorous MacReivers.”

“There’s naught wrong with the MacReivers. Laird Edgar—“

“Oh, he’s a fine lad, none better. Nay, I mean the three evildoers who never accepted our alliance.”

“Well, they’re gone noo.”

“Not quite.” The auld man cackled again.

Dugald eyed him. “What have ye done?”

“What you don’t know won’t hurt you.” He leaned toward Dugald and whispered, “But on Hogmanay eve I replenished my larder with a fine, fat MacReiver!” He exploded into gales of laughter.

“Och, aye.” Dugald shrugged. He didna feel even a shred of pity for the imprisoned MacReiver, for the attackers had slain three Kilburns and injured ten more. Worse, he, Kier and Alice could have died. No, the villain deserved whatever tortures Sir Gareth could devise.