The Rebel of Clan Kincaid Read online

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  For Richard and Deanne.

  Thank you for raising a hero!

  Prologue

  Magnus stared back into the face of the man, who until this moment he had considered to be the most arrogant, most self-important, son-of-a-sow he had ever had the misfortune to encounter.

  His scalp tightened and the night around him seemed to convulse as he tried to make sense of the words he had just heard.

  “Did you hear what I said?” murmured Niall Braewick, stepping closer, his features blackened by shadows, the bonfire blazing behind him. “That mark on your arm proves you are not the Alwyn’s bastard, as you have been led for all these years to believe … but that like me you are a son of the murdered Laird Kincaid.”

  Magnus’s pulse ramped again, hearing the words repeated.

  He lifted a hand to the back of his neck … to his mouth … and shifted his stance, rendered unsteady by the tangled snarl of emotions blasting up from his soul, and the crashing thunder of the words repeating in his ears.

  The Laird Kincaid. A legendary Highlander who years before had voiced opposition to the crown—and afterward died violently, under the most mysterious of circumstances, along with his wife, his warriors …

  And his three young sons.

  He had heard the ghost stories. The songs the bards sang. All were believed dead. Slain. Buried in some secret haunted grove in the forest known only to those Kincaids who had survived the slaughter that fateful night, and who afterward had taken to the hills beyond Inverhaven, living life like savages rather than submit to another clan or laird.

  Lairds such as his father, the Alwyn. Not his father? Along with their neighbor, the MacClaren. Men to whom the Crown had granted the “forfeited” Kincaid lands in the aftermath of the massacre.

  And yet in recent days the Kincaids had come down from those hills. All around him, in this very moment, those “savages” celebrated their victory against the defeated MacClaren, in the orange glow of the bonfire and the shadow of Inverhaven’s castle walls, which in a single day, they had shockingly reclaimed with the backing of Niall’s mercenary army.

  And they promised vengeance against the Alwyn next.

  “We are not enemies, you and I.” Niall—now installed at Inverhaven as the laird of Kincaid—grasped his shoulders, hard. “You are my brother.”

  Magnus’s childhood friend, Elspeth MacClaren, who only two days before had been tricked into marrying the Kincaid and who now claimed to love the warrior with all of her heart, moved to stand at her husband’s side, her eyes wide.

  “The mark on Magnus’s arm matches yours?” she asked in hushed amazement.

  The secret mark, located on the underside of his arm, tucked high under his shoulder, seemed to burn on Magnus’s skin. He stood rigid and silent, almost wishing he could take the moment that he had revealed it back. He had only come to see if Elspeth was safe and well after her father’s defeat. Instead, in a blink, the world had turned upside down.

  Him, a son of the Kincaid?

  A birthmark, his mother—or the woman who had called herself his mother for all these years, a one-time mistress of the Alwyn—had whispered when, as a boy, he’d discovered the anomaly. A devil’s mark that he must never show to anyone. He’d been ashamed to bear it … had lain awake at night, tormented by its presence on his skin and done his best to forget it.

  But later, when he was older, he’d realized Robina’s explanation wasn’t true.

  The mark—the one he could barely see himself for its peculiar location—had been etched there not by the Devil or even by God, but by man with ink and tool, a tattoo in the shape of a wolf’s head, no bigger than a thumbprint.

  And yet whenever he questioned Robina about its origins, she had steadfastly refused to speak of it, pretending as if she had not heard him. If pressed, she responded with annoyance or sometimes tears, the latter of which never failed to send him into retreat, for what man with any heart or conscience could inflict pain upon his mother?

  Her silence on the matter had troubled him. Raised curious questions in his mind. He could only believe she thought to protect him from something, in some way. But instead of insisting she answer, and dwelling on his clouded past, he had centered himself on becoming the man he wished to become.

  Now, in the present, the warriors who surrounded him in the darkness moved close, their faces wavering in the light of the bonfire. Old men, young men. All Kincaids, all enemies of his clan.

  Not his clan? Not … his enemies?

  “The secret mark!” exclaimed a one-eyed old man, his bushy gray eyebrows going up in amazement.

  “Is it true?” demanded another, pressing close, shoulder to shoulder with others doing the same.

  Magnus broke free of the Kincaid’s hold and stepped back, turning away from the smothering weight of their collective curiosity and expectations, away from the light of the fire and into deeper shadows where they would not see the bewilderment on his face.

  “Aye, it is true,” Niall said behind him. “Look for yourselves, if you must. He is my brother—the Kincaid’s second son, if I judge correctly, and his name is not Magnus.” He spat the name, as if it were an offense. “But Faelan.” Boots crunched on the earth, as he came near. “Faelan, my brother. Do you remember nothing of our childhood?”

  Faelan … it was an ancient Irish name, meaning little wolf. A saint’s name, given to Highland boys to honor a brave missionary who had traveled from across the sea.

  My little wolf, the man in his dreams had said with warmth and affection. A man whose face he could never recall upon awakening, but whose spirit even in waking times seemed to reside in his soul.

  “None of this makes sense,” Magnus uttered beneath his breath.

  All of it made sense.

  He rubbed his palm between his eyes because suddenly he hurt there from thinking so hard, from trying to understand how his life, just like that, could fall away and be replaced by another.

  A life. A family. A proud ancient legacy.

  Now, his?

  Having lived all his days as he could recall them, as the unrecognized and unwelcome bastard son of the Alwyn, should he not feel satisfaction that he was no bastard at all, but held claim to something meaningful? That he was the son of a once powerful and respected lord and his lady? And brother to the fearsome warrior standing behind him? Should he not feel a sense of belonging, at long last?

  He did not.

  Because it was a stolen life. An unfamiliar family and clan. An ancient legacy lost to violence, treachery, and blood. All, cruelly taken from him. A lifetime of love and kinship and memories, stolen. And by whom?

  Those whom he had lived among, for as long as he could remember.

  Why?

  A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched.

  Elspeth said, “Magnus … Faelan? Oh, I don’t know what to call you! I can only ima
gine how you must feel.”

  He turned, glancing down into her pale face before looking beyond and higher, directly toward her husband, who remained fixed to the same spot, arms crossed over his chest, his mouth tight, looking at him guardedly, perhaps even with suspicion, as if he did not understand his response or lack thereof.

  “I have questions,” Magnus answered, in a guttural growl. “And I would ask that you give me time, so that I might have answers.”

  Elspeth nodded, her eyes soft with sympathy. “But it makes sense, don’t you see? You must have suffered some injury, whether to your body or your mind, that night or soon after, and that is why you remained mute for all that time, for years after, not speaking. That is why you don’t remember.”

  Yes, that. There had always been missing time. Missing memories from his earliest days. A blurry, indistinct blot at the center of his existence. A blot that even now remained.

  “I do remember … some things,” he murmured.

  Drums beating. Fear. The flash of swords. And blood. When he’d awakened in a terror, and tried to communicate the pictures in his mind to Robina, she had told him they weren’t memories at all, just nightmares that he must forget. He’d been a child, and he’d believed her.

  “The memories never made sense before,” he said. “Now they do.”

  The Kincaid, his … brother—approached, his blue eyes vibrant with emotion.

  “Then stay and join me against the Alwyn. He bears responsibility for the deaths of our parents and our clansmen. Our father was no traitor against the king, and ’twas no honorable battle in which he and the others were slain. The MacClaren confessed his part, and in doing so, confessed the Alwyn’s as well. It was murder, plain and clear, inspired by greed to take our clan’s land and power.”

  Eyes wide with sadness, Elspeth whispered, “It is true.”

  The Kincaid clenched his fist between them. “There were others also, warriors with unseen faces and unknown loyalties, who came down that night from the hills—belonging neither to the MacClaren nor the Alwyn—who carried out the massacre. We must learn who they served.” His tone became more urgent. “Faelan, the Alwyn knows who sent them.”

  It was too much, the thoughts crowding his mind. He needed time to think, to be alone, and decide what to do.

  He speared his fingers through his hair, and backed away, muttering, “I must go. I … I will … return when I can.”

  His boots crunched upon the path, as he stalked away from them, delving further into darkness.

  “That’s it?” the Kincaid called after him, his voice hollow with dismay and accusation. “You’re just going to leave?”

  Magnus stopped, and looked down at the earth. At the stones and dirt and grass beneath his leather boot. Kincaid land.

  His land. His legacy.

  Turning, he found them all gathered in a line, shoulder to shoulder, looking at him.

  He took several steps toward them, until he was close enough to look into his brother’s eyes.

  “I dinnae know you.” His gaze swept across the faces of the others. “I dinnae know any of you. Ye are strangers to me—and aye, I’m angry about that.”

  Anger. Yes. That was what he felt. He wanted to rage. He wanted to punch a stone wall. He wanted to bellow until he was hoarse from it.

  “Then stay,” said the Kincaid, stepping forward out of the line. “Take your place here.”

  “Yes, stay,” Elspeth pleaded.

  He shook his head and exhaled through his nose, commanding self-control as a fury such as he had never known reverberated through his veins.

  “Brothers. A mother and father. A clan.” He lifted his hands, as the fire in his soul burned hotter. “It is all I ever wanted.”

  He paused, and clenched his hands into fists.

  “But it was taken from me.” His heart thundered in his chest. “I have been grievously deceived. Because of that deceit, all these years I have lived at that lecher’s feet, a cast off. His bastard. His second best.” He again met Niall’s gaze, and slowly nodded. “Aye, there is revenge to be had against the Alwyn, brother—but know this. It is I who will take it.”

  Chapter 1

  Near about the same time.

  “Awaken, child,” said a woman’s voice, low with urgency. The dim light of a lantern washed over the stone walls of Tara Iverach’s small chamber. “Your guardian sends word that he travels near and wishes an audience.”

  Tara pushed up on the narrow bed. The drab blanket fell away, exposing her skin to the chill. She shivered and seized the wool back against her neck and shoulders. Sister Agnes’s words echoed in her ears.

  Her guardian … Alexander Stewart, the powerful Earl of Buchan … here, in this humble place?

  To see her?

  “You must be mistaken,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.

  She had never even met him. Her “guardian” had shown no interest in her in the five years since her parents’ deaths, when he had become responsible for her and her older sister, Arabel. Almost immediately he had summoned Arabel to be presented at court, while Tara had been delivered to Duncroft Priory where she had remained ever since, with only a rare letter from Arabel—once, perhaps twice a year—to remind her she had not been completely forgotten.

  “I wish that I were mistaken,” Sister Agnes replied with a peevish lift of her brows. “I would much rather be sleeping than tending to you. Now hurry. You must be ready before sixth hour prayers.”

  Tara’s heart jumped, beating faster. At long last, she would meet Buchan … the man who controlled her destiny. But what did his visit mean? Would she be taken away from Duncroft? Would her life change somehow, from this day on? Or did the earl simply pass by in his travels, and seek to lay eyes on her for a brief moment before continuing on?

  Sister Agnes took hold of her braid. Deftly unfastening it, she combed out Tara’s hair with quick, brusque strokes.

  Tara gasped, wincing, and rubbing at her temple.

  Others entered then, two sleepy-eyed sisters carrying a small hip tub and novices with steaming buckets of water. Oh … a real bath—a rare luxury here. Most certainly she would be rushed through, and not allowed to enjoy it. Tara had learned early on that the sisters of Duncroft were not ones to waste time on indulgent pleasures, and she very much doubted her early-morning, harried bath would be the exception. After five years of living among them, each day very much a mirror of the day before, she’d learned not to expect special attention or coddling of any sort.

  In less than an hour, she stood in the chapel along with the other inhabitants of the priory reciting prayers, her skin scrubbed pink and her hair tightly braided—and covered, as it was always covered with a veil. She dutifully murmured the words, but her thoughts wandered elsewhere.

  She could not subdue her feelings of optimism. Might this be the last time she stood here? The last time she would wear this shapeless gray gown? It was almost too much to hope for. After years of the cloister’s quiet, uneventful existence, she had come to believe she would be confined here forevermore, forgotten by all, her life unlived—her heart never having loved.

  Not that the other women who resided at the priory served an unimportant or unfulfilled purpose. They had chosen to devote themselves to the Lord, striving each day to center their thoughts and energies on Him.

  Well, most of them had chosen to be here. Some were here, not precisely by choice. There was Lady Gavina, a lively and intriguing gentlewoman who had been deposited here around the same time as Tara, but by a husband who claimed she was mad in order to repudiate her so that he could marry her prettier and much younger cousin.

  Lady Gavina was not the only “mad” wife at Duncroft Priory. Indeed, there was a row of rooms, just beside Tara’s, each one occupied by a raving lunatic who never raved, never lunaticked. Scattered among them were a few accused adulteresses.

  Some of the sequestered ladies seemed completely content to exist in the peace and quiet, away from the turmoil tha
t had committed them here. Indeed, some only left their chambers for prayers.

  Others ached to return to at least some aspects of the life they had left behind—as did Tara. She remembered happy scenes of life as it had been when her parents were alive. Now, no longer a child, she wanted to attend festivals and tournaments, as her sister described in her letters. She wanted to gossip with friends, and dance and laugh, and be introduced to—and flirt—with young men, the sort of creature she’d not caught a single glimpse of in her five long years here. Her chest tightened with wistful hope.

  She wanted to live.

  And now Buchan was coming. Perhaps now that she was twenty, he would present her at court, as he had Arabel, and she and her sister could spend their days together in happy coexistence, as they had when they were younger. Maybe not every day, because Arabel would be married soon, if she was not already, as the last letter she’d written several months before had shared the news the earl had betrothed her to the eldest son of a powerful ally.

  Alwyn. It was a name she had never heard, but she heard very little within these quiet walls. Unfortunately, Arabel had always been a disappointing writer of letters and as usual, her letter was maddeningly devoid of the details Tara craved. Was Buchan a kind and considerate guardian who acted with Arabel’s happiness in mind? Was she pleased with his choice of husband for her? Would she have a new gown for the occasion. If yes, was it threaded with glass beads or pearls—or both? Instead, Tara was left knowing very little about the earl’s temperament, and what she might expect from him as a guardian, and whether Arabel was even happy …

  Just as the prayers came to an end, from behind Tara there came a sudden, excited whispering of female voices. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw two dark-haired, angular-jawed young men in the doorway wearing fine leather hauberks belted with silver-studded scabbards, their boots splattered with mud. They peered inside, their cheeks ruddy, their hair ruffled as if from travel, smiling arrogantly, at least to her unpracticed eye, though she could not claim to be an expert on male expressions. Several of the younger ladies from the Mad and Adulterous Wives corridor smiled back at them.