TemptationinTartan (12 page)

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
here 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.