TemptationinTartan (17 page)

’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.

The man broke a little off one side and offered it. Edgar
eyed it with suspicion. The Kilborn chuckled and ate it himself, then thrust
the bannock at Edgar. “Here, lad, choose your wee snackie.”

He hesitated.

“I couldnae have poisoned the whole thing.”

’Twas true. And though he wanted to devour every last crumb,
Edgar broke off about a third of the toasted oat cake and nibbled on it.

“What be your name, lad?”

He swallowed. Should he lie? “Edgar.”

“Ah, the young MacReiver. So this be your castle.” The man’s
tone was still calm, without tension.

Edgar wondered what to say, and fell back on the shreds of
the manners his grandmam had taught him. He waved an arm. “Welcome.”

The Kilborn roared with laughter.

Another man entered the room, another Kilborn by the looks
of him.

The first Kilborn said, “Dugald, this be the Laird
MacReiver.”

“Is he now?” The man, nearly as big and broad as Edgar’s new
friend, advanced with a frown. He set a hand on his small sword.

Edgar squeaked, cowering behind his new friend, and the two
men erupted with laughter.

“Dugald, Dugald, ’tis no time for the playing of pranks.”

A grin split Dugald’s face and his hand fell from his sword.
Edgar relaxed.

“Let’s see ye, young MacReiver.” Dugald reached down and
pulled Edgar to his feet, surveying him. “Well, ye’re too wee to be managing
everything here yourself.”

Edgar slumped. “I’ve failed.”

The two men exchanged quick glances.

“Ye’re but a young lad,” the first Kilborn said. He stood
and stretched long limbs. “Ye’ll have many more chances to fail, I assure ye.”

Edgar glanced up at him. “Who are you?”