The Warrior of Clan Kincaid Read online

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  For my agent—and friend—Kim Lionetti.

  Thank you!

  Acknowledgments

  I want to express the most sincere thank you to Cindy Miles, Jeri Chatterley, Rachel Osborn and my wonderful mother, Ella Dawn. You wouldn’t know it, but you said (or wrote) the words I needed to hear, just when I needed to hear them, and I’ll never forget it.

  Thank you to Lizzie Poteet for loving Highlanders, and romance, and for your editorial guidance. I was so lucky to have you work on these books! Thank you to Jennie Conway for your cheerful help in bringing this book to publication. John Simko, thank you for your excellent copy editing on the manuscript (and giving me the giggles, more than once).

  All my affection to Eric, Jon and Tristan for your unfailing love and support. I couldn’t ask for a better family!

  Much love to my author lunch (and movie) group, who brings me endless smiles.

  And thank you to the wonderful readers who read romance with an open and happy heart, for the joy of the love story and the adventure.

  Prologue

  At the master’s command, the boy crept up from the pit of the vessel and squinted into the dim light. Because he had spent so long in darkness, the sky seemed as brilliant and painful to his eyes as the light of a blazing Mediterranean sun.

  But there was no sun here, only thick fog, all around, and the blood-chilling cold that for the previous blur of days had crept into the hold of the ship and through his rags to claim his bones.

  He struck away the stinging pain from his eyes—so akin to tears—though he had stopped crying a very long time ago, all emotion flayed from him by the master’s punishing whip.

  “Here, boy,” called his black-eyed Venetian master, his voice sending a ripple of hatred through the boy.

  For as long as he could remember, that hatred had consumed his heart. That hatred had kept him alive, while others had died, like his only friend, Omid, who one day had whispered stories of Trojans and Greeks, of Achilles and Hector, and the next had been still and cold … and before noonday, swallowed up by the sea.

  The boy complied, his chains dragging against the wood as he moved to stand before his bearded master and another man, a stranger he had never seen before. But strangers were nothing new on this vessel. They came, and they chose, and they passed coins to the master, and they left with men and boys who had been deprived of their spirits and their souls.

  “There he is,” said the slaver. “Aye, just look at that pale hair … the blue eyes.”

  Dark eyes assessed him, from head to toe.

  “A Scots boy among all these Greeks and Slavs? How uncommon. How strange.” The man spoke as if amused, and leaned back upon the rail of the ship. “I cannot even imagine how that came to be.”

  The slaver grunted out a laugh.

  Scots … the boy did not know what the word meant. Indeed, he could barely understand the man’s foreign words. They bore a thick and unfamiliar accent, yet strangely, the accent matched the mysterious cadence of his dreams.

  He kept his head bowed, as he had learned to do, but he saw that the man’s boots were of the darkest, finest leather. That the hem of his heavy wool tunic was thickly embroidered with leaves and circular symbols.

  The visitor sighed, as if burdened. Aggrieved. “How can I, if I have one fraction of conscience, allow a kinsman of mine, no matter how lowborn, to live the life of a slave?”

  Would the man purchase him, and be his new master? Would he be taken off this vessel to live in this strange, cold land? He did not believe it. In the past, no price had ever been good enough.

  The boots stepped closer. “How old now, tell me if my estimation is right…”

  “Twelve I would say.” The master strode forward then, dragging his whip along the planks. He seized one of the boy’s wrists, wrenching his arm high. “Though he is as hearty and strong as a bull. Do you see his muscles? He has been fed well, and labors long, and he has not been overly mistreated.”

  Aye, he had been treated with favor. His punishment, more often than not, had come from a bruising club, and not from a cutting whip.

  The Scot scrutinized him with dark eyes. “What is your name, boy?” the stranger commanded of him.

  The boy searched the blackness of his mind. His name? He had never been called a name. Not a true name, like Omid or Ivar.

  “Boy,” he answered, his voice a croak.

  The stranger laughed then, throwing his head back.

  Dark eyes returned to him, alight with satisfaction. “Boy, how would you like to become a warrior for Scotland? How would you like to fight for me?”

  Chapter 1

  An Caisteal Niaul, Inverhaven, March 1390

  It was after midnight. Cold and raining.

  “Doesn’t it matter at all that I don’t want to be sent away?” Derryth MacClaren sat atop her mount, gripping the reins in her mitten-covered hands, her chest tight with fear and dread.

  Just moments ago, it seemed, she had been warm and asleep in her bed. The next she’d been hoisted by a Kincaid warrior into her saddle, as rain pattered on the stones all around. There was a wagon … and a group of Kincaid men gathered nearby, speaking quietly. They wore dark hoods and furs, with weapons glinting beneath. Clearly they were to be her escorts.

  But she did not want to ride out of the castle gates, into the great darkness beyond, even if she did have an escort of the clan’s largest and most skilled warriors to protect her along her way. Though sleep still muddled her mind, the frigid air quickly cleared the cobwebs away.

  Her older half-sister, Elspeth Braewick, the Lady Kincaid, stood looking up at her in the shadows of the castle bailey, out of the dark frame of her cowl. Drops glittered on her face.

  “Of course your wishes matter,” Elspeth answered softly, in a conciliatory tone. “But sometimes you must trust that decisions are being made for your own good. I’m sorry, Derryth, but you have no say in this. You must go.”

  “Elspeth! What a paltry reply,” Derryth said with a frown. “I am not an unquestioning child.” She was nineteen, nearly twenty. “Tell me why you are sending me away.”

  Derryth had only a dim, sleepy memory of Elspeth rousing her from her sleep and urging her to dress in garments that were quickly laced by two silent castle maids. Now, beneath a thick fur cloak, she wore the costume of a peasant—layers of oilskin, leather, and wool, all roughly hewn—and underneath those, not one, but two pair of heavy woolen hose. A dagger had been strapped to her waist. Instead of riding her own gentle gray pony, she sat on a hardy young mule.

  Derryth’s grip on the reigns tightened, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on her sister. Why hadn’t she been told the day before of this plan? Why would they send her away now, in the dead of night?

  Then suddenly … she knew.

  “It’s the Wolf, isn’t it?” she whispered, her heart sinking like a weighted stone in
her chest. Just speaking his name caused her vision to blur and her throat to close. Though the last two years had passed peacefully, an enemy presence loomed like a dark shadow over Inverhaven, always. A threat that had never really gone away.

  “No, of course not,” Elspeth murmured with a shake of her head. Her gathered brows and half-smiling lips declared Derryth’s suggestion to be the silliest thing. But tellingly, she’d glanced away as she spoke the words.

  Derryth’s pulse increased, knowing some unpleasant truth was being kept from her.

  “I don’t believe you. He has threatened the Kincaids again, hasn’t he? Don’t send me away. I choose to stay here with you and Niall. I’m not afraid.”

  It was a lie. She was afraid of the Wolf—Alexander Stewart, the Earl of Buchan—and the terrible destruction he’d all but promised to wreak upon the Kincaids. But love for her sister, and all those here at Inverhaven, made her brave.

  Like Elspeth, Derryth was a MacClaren by birth. But since Elspeth had married Niall Braewick, the Laird Kincaid, two harvests ago, the Kincaids had become Derryth’s family too. Once, their clans had been fierce enemies, but those times seemed a distant memory, all but forgotten.

  Since early summer, Derryth had resided at An Caisteal Niaul, the Kincaid clan’s legendary Castle in the Clouds, as a guest of her sister and brother-in-law. There’d been feasts and festivals, and she’d indulged in several exciting near-romances, though she had not settled her affections on any man, as none had satisfied the always changing requirements of her heart. In the meantime, Inverhaven had all but become her home.

  But now they were sending her away, to her other home—to the MacClaren stronghold at Falranroch—over which her young, widowed stepmother, Bridget, presided.

  “Of course you aren’t afraid, and you shouldn’t be, because there’s nothing whatsoever to fear,” her dark-haired sister replied lightly, though Derryth heard the uneasiness that she tried to hide. “But winter has passed, and Bridget deserves a bit of respite from tending to our little sisters, Mairi and Kat, who will be so happy to see you after you’ve been gone for so long.”

  She did miss Mairi and Kat. Their constant girlish chatter and fun. But she did not want to leave Elspeth, not when they had grown so close of late—since their father’s passing the previous year. In their grief, it seemed they’d seen each other for the first time through different eyes. Before, Derryth had always thought of Elspeth as her bossy older sister, but now she considered Elspeth her dearest friend. The years had taken so much from them—both of their mothers and now their father, who had been far from perfect but they loved him still. For now, it seemed important that they stay together, no matter what.

  If all was well and good at Inverhaven, as her sister claimed, and she was merely being sent to help her stepmother with her little sisters, she would be leaving Inverhaven on the next clear day, not under a black night sky, heavy with unspent rain.

  Anxiety pooled like ice at the pit of her stomach. Derryth knew without a doubt they were sending her away to protect her from something, which could only mean they knew of some danger or threat.

  “You’ll arrive at Falranroch in two days,” Elspeth continued. “And you’ll be back in a comfortable bed before you even realize.”

  She offered a forced smile, but Derryth could plainly see that the dampness in her eyes came from tears, not the rain.

  Derryth’s eyes flooded in response, because Elspeth had always been the strong one, and hardly ever cried. But now her sister cried for some reason over her. Because she was afraid? Because they might never see each other again?

  “I don’t even know why we are crying!” Derryth exclaimed, reaching out her hand. “Because you will not tell me!”

  Elspeth reached up and grasped Derryth’s hand and sighed. Just like that, her lips lost the easy smile they’d attempted to hold.

  “Oh, very well,” she said resignedly. “You coax my secrets from me, as you always do.” Elspeth’s damp eyes warmed with sudden affection, and she squeezed Derryth’s hand. “Yesterday, the old farmer, Carmag, came to the castle insisting on speaking to Niall. While working in his field, he claims to have seen three, perhaps four soldiers on a distant hill.” Her voice dipped. “King’s men.”

  Fear struck through Derryth’s heart as she straightened in the saddle. Her heart beat more frantically. Her mind grasped quickly onto the words. The importance of the revelation. The air around them seemed to grow colder, and darker.

  She’d been right, after all.

  King’s men.

  They might as well be called “Buchan’s men,” at least here in this distant corner of the Highlands, so far away from Scone and Edinburgh. As the third son of King Robert, and some claimed, his favorite, the Wolf commanded a force of royal soldiers and private mercenaries, which he dispatched to do his bidding. Though two years ago he had lost much of his power, he had regained it over time and remained just as dangerous as before, though until now he had kept his distance.

  Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to return to the castle, to her soft, warm bed, and go back to sleep, because maybe when she awakened in the morning she would find this had all been a bad dream.

  Elspeth spoke again, a hand coming up—perhaps nervously—to touch the simple bronze brooch that fastened her cowl. “Of course, no one else saw this, and poor Carmag is not the best witness. You yourself must remember a fortnight ago when he arrived naked and drunk at the castle, claiming fairies has stolen his garments—and his cow. Today Niall himself rode out, along with a large company of men, and searched all day and found nothing. No camp. No soldiers. Not even the cold remains of a fire.” Her voice softened. “So you see we don’t know if they actually were soldiers, or”—she shrugged—“just a trick of the light in the shadows and trees. But if there were soldiers, it’s possible they were scouts sent by Buchan. And if something should happen—”

  “An attack.” Derryth spoke the words bluntly, shivering from more than just the cold, damp air. Here, in this place, already stained by the blood Buchan’s army had once spilled, nearly nineteen years ago.

  Elspeth nodded, her skin paling a shade more in the night. “Or a siege. Then Niall and I want you to be safe and away from here, long before there is danger. Today, messengers will be sent to our allies, and all in the village will be informed and urged to come inside the walls, at least for now.”

  The truth, at last. Elspeth’s words, and the fear she saw in her eyes, caused Derryth’s stomach to clench tight, and she felt almost ill. Elspeth, always so strong and decisive. Always the caretaker. Perhaps for the first time, she realized Elspeth needed tender care too.

  “I won’t leave you,” Derryth said firmly, shaking her head—moving as if to dismount. “Not in your condition.”

  Yet Elspeth, whose eight-month pregnant stomach could barely be discerned beneath her cloak, stilled her—reaching up and spreading a hand over hers where she clenched the saddle’s horn. “This is Buchan of whom we speak. It matters not that you are a woman,” Elspeth continued, and Derryth could see the worry and desperation in her eyes. “His actions led to the death of many innocent Kincaids. Not only Niall’s father and his warriors, but Niall’s mother and youngest brother as well. He would be no less ruthless with you or me.”

  Niall appeared then, tall and strong, to stand beside her sister. Dark-haired and striking, and wearing a pladjer over his shoulder, the air became charged anytime he came near. Warriors stood straighter. Castle servants moved faster. Not from fear, but because he carried himself with such presence and each day earned their respect, and they wished, in turn, to earn his approval and praise.

  “Ye’ll not be staying here, lass,” he said in his rich, deep voice. “So cease your arguing, ye’re just making your sister feel worse about it all. She’ll be joining ye as soon as the bairn is born. I’ll have ye all safe, until the danger—if it exists—has passed. Besides, ye know ye are too spoiled a lady to suffer through the hardship of a siege,
should one occur.”

  He spoke the words in a low, teasing tone, but with enough gravity that she knew he was serious.

  Hearing his words, Derryth’s chest tightened with shame. She was indeed spoiled, and had always cared far too much for pretty things and amusements. Even now, her skin complained at the scratchiness of the rough garments she wore. Ugly, shapeless clothes she would never have chosen for herself.

  She winced, regretting the pettiness of her complaints. It was why they sent her away, no doubt. They considered her a helpless creature they would only have to worry about. And why should they not? She had never proven herself to be of any true use or value to anyone other than to be marriageable, and thereby a useful tool in strengthening or gaining a new alliance.

  The burden of her shortcomings weighted her heart. She knew they loved her, but unlike Elspeth she didn’t know how to properly hold a sword or stitch a wound or even clean a goose. Most important, she had no experience assisting in the birth of a child. Instead she’d spent her hours learning every possible way to plait, curl, and otherwise arrange her hair, and how to stain her lips and cheeks with cherry juice without anyone knowing she’d applied anything at all. She had mastered decorative embroidery, because as a young girl, she’d always believed her simple gowns needed something more, but what good were fanciful patterns in thread at a time like this?

  Tears stung her eyes. Tears of self-reproach. Why had it taken this moment—this threat against all she loved so dearly—to make her realize she ought to be more?

  As if Elspeth saw straight into her heart, she said, “Derryth, you’ve done nothing wrong. We just couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”

  “But don’t you see?” she replied, her voice unsteady. “Nor could I bear it if something happened to any of you.”

  “You must trust that I will protect her and our babe.” Niall’s arm went round her sister, and his large hand squeezed her shoulder gently—an offering of comfort.