The Beast of Clan Kincaid Read online

  “When?” the little boy pressed.

  “Soon,” he answered, but part of him doubted the words.

  “I don’t believe you,” Faelan blurted, his face white in the night. “We’re never going back.”

  “Never going back?” exclaimed Cull, halting, his eyes wide.

  “That’s not true—” Niall retorted, startled by the magnitude of fear that barreled up inside him at hearing the words spoken aloud.

  “It is true, and you know it.” Faelan glared back at him, stricken. “Why else would Mother have cried—?”

  “Silence, all of you,” commanded Deargh, suddenly standing amidst them, his large hands gripping their shoulders. “Do not speak again until I say otherwise. It is time for you to be men now, not boys. You must make your laird and lady mother proud. Do you understand?”

  For so long Niall had wanted nothing more than to be a man, full grown. Now, he just wanted to be a boy, returned to his home. To his family. But they were all in danger now, and he must set an example for his brothers.

  “Aye,” he responded. “We do.”

  He strode past Deargh. His brothers followed in silence.

  They walked for what seemed an age, venturing deeper and deeper into the forest, over stones and fallen, lichen-covered trunks. The air grew colder, and Niall drew his woolen plaid closer around his arms and shoulders, and helped Cull do the same as well, while Faelan scowled and refused any brotherly care. At last, Deargh signaled that they should stop. In the darkness, Niall perceived a half wall of stones, the remnants of an ancient structure.

  “Rest,” said Deargh, who stood watchfully, staring into the forest as did the other men, their hands never leaving their weapons.

  Niall, however, could stand no longer. Och! How his legs ached, and his lungs burned. He slid down, his back against the wall. Cull slumped next to him, and within a few moments snored softly against his shoulder. On the other side, Faelan held himself apart, but over time inched closer until at last Niall grabbed the sleeve of his tunic and pulled him under his arm.

  “We’ll be warmer this way,” he explained gruffly.

  Faelan nodded. Soon he dozed as well.

  Niall did not sleep. He missed his father and his mother. He missed his hound and his warm, soft bed. He stared into the mist, his heart tight and heavy, and wondered what had befallen his parents and his kinsmen.

  A sound came from the trees. A rustle … and crack of wood.

  The hair on the back of Niall’s neck stood on end. The warriors silently drew their weapons. Niall shrugged out from between his brothers and stood, drawing his sword as well—

  A figure hurtled out from the trees, stumbling to a halt before Deargh.

  Niall recognized Angus, one of his father’s men. Dark stains marred his hair, face and neck, and his yellow tunic. Stains Niall knew to be blood. He carried no weapon.

  “Go,” he said, gasping for breath. “Now. They are coming. They must not find you.”

  “What of our laird?” demanded Deargh.

  “Our laird … is murdered.” With a hand to Deargh’s shoulder, Angus shoved past him and staggered, falling on his knees in front of Niall.

  “Take … this.” He pressed something circular and hard into his hands. “It is yours now.”

  Niall did not have to look down to know he held his father’s brooch. His entire body went numb. Frozen. Through the fog clouding his mind, he heard the man speak again.

  “You must survive. When you are grown, return. Avenge … the treachery done to your father. Your mother. Your clansmen. Avenge them all.”

  Those words. He did not want to hear them. His father dead? His … mother? It couldn’t be true. His thoughts shattered. His mind couldn’t comprehend.

  A sound echoed through the small clearing … the sound of war drums and voices calling to one another.

  Deargh looked to the other warriors. “You know what to do.”

  “Aye.”

  “Let us hurry.”

  “God bless and protect you all.”

  Deargh strode toward Niall. Seizing his arm, he dragged him toward the trees. Over his shoulder, Niall saw one of their protectors carrying Cull away, still sleeping, in the opposite direction. The third pulled Faelan into the shadows, as if to go elsewhere, toward the mountains—

  Faelan called, “Niall—!”

  The cry was cut off as if silenced by a hand.

  “Don’t answer,” Deargh ordered. “They’ll hear.”

  “My brothers,” Niall gasped.

  “We are safer apart.” Deargh gripped the shoulders of his jack, his eyes wide and furious. “This way, if God wishes it, at least one of you may survive to see the morning. Tell me, boy, do you want to live or die?”

  The drums grew closer. In his mind’s eye he saw his father’s face, intent and wise, looking back at him and he knew what he must do.

  “I want to live,” he answered.

  * * *

  Hours later as dawn broke across the distant sky, Niall sat on the narrow ledge of a stony hillside, wet and numb, his woolen brat wrapped around him like a shroud. At last, the rain had ceased. Deargh hunted nearby, having left him to attempt a small fire.

  But he hadn’t. Not yet. Instead, Niall stared at the brooch in his hand, and beneath it, his palm stained with his father’s blood. For most of the night as they fled on foot, grief had tangled his thoughts, and the fear of not knowing his brothers’ fate. Had he lost them as well as his parents?

  Now, he sat still and quiet. A cold northern wind swept around him, tugging at his cowl, and filling his nostrils with the scent of rain and earth. His heartbeat, at last slowed, and his thoughts flowed crystal clear.

  Lifting his head, he peered across the valley. There, in the distance, a stone tower emerged from the mist.

  One day he would return. One day, he would have his vengeance.

  His lips parted. “Tha … sinn … Kincaids.”

  Chapter 2

  Autumn, 1387

  Seventeen years hence …

  Niall stood knee-deep in the frigid water, naked except for his plaid secured at his waist. Bending, he cupped his hands into the current and splashed his face. Straightening, he peered across the fast-moving river, swollen by days of heavy rain. Atop the stony hill above, he beheld a castle, barely visible through the trees and the morning mist.

  An Caisteal Niaul. The castle in the clouds.

  A vision from his dreams—one he’d almost convinced himself did not exist. Real at last.

  For seventeen years he had traveled, and had grown older and stronger and wiser.

  Now, he had returned to fulfill his destiny.

  “What a wild stroke of luck,” Deargh said quietly from where he stood behind him on the riverbank. “An invitation to visit the hearth of the very man you intend to kill.”

  “Luck?” Niall answered, with a slow shake of his head. A fire burned in his chest, fueled by hatred, but he had learned over the course of the years to tend its flames. How to harness strength and purpose from its heat, rather than to be consumed by it. “No, more like fate, I think. And don’t forget, it’s my damn hearth.”

  Deargh threw his head back, and laughed.

  For weeks they had circled Inverhaven, making their way from one village to the next, doing their best not to draw attention to themselves as Niall sought, unsuccessfully, to discover the fate of Faelan and Cull, who he had long since conceded were both likely dead. Neither they nor the men who had sworn to protect them had appeared at the Greyfriars monastery in the Highland burgess of Elgin, five winters after the murders of their parents, as had been agreed upon the night they were separated.

  His recent attempts to track them closer to the place that had once been their home had also failed. He had encountered only old bard songs about the murder of the Laird of Kincaid and his three sons, and ghost stories claiming they haunted the Highland countryside. What other explanation for their complete and utter disappearance could there b
e, besides death? Perhaps from Heaven, they now guided him … because two evenings before, a band of outlaws had chosen to terrorize the very inn where he and Deargh rested after having spent a fortnight outdoors. In no way amused at having their comfortable sleep interrupted, they had, in a moment’s time, sent the thieves limping and bleeding into the night.

  And at that moment, fate had smiled upon him, for a man had emerged from the shadows, introducing himself as Conall, the Chief MacClaren’s war captain. He had informed them the MacClaren might have a need for men with their particular skills and had invited them to visit the castle at Inverhaven.

  It was how he and Deargh had lived all this time—as mercenaries. Ceathearne. Gallóglaigh.

  As a boy, Niall had served as Deargh’s shield bearer, but before long he fought as well, becoming a fearsome warrior in his own right. At some point, their roles had changed. Now the aging Deargh acted more as his side warrior and counselor than his protector.

  In time, Niall’s skills were highly sought after by many a powerful leader. And so they had traveled and seen the world. At times, they had lived like paupers. At times, they had lived like kings. It had always been Niall’s decision as to when they would return, and now that his decision had been made, after years of preparation and having obtained the assurances of necessary alliances, he would not turn back.

  Now at Conall’s invitation they had made their way here, encamping with their horses in the forest the night before, on the opposite side of the river from Inverhaven. Midmorning, they would find a boy in the village to carry word of their arrival to Conall, and await summons to present themselves to Laird MacClaren—one of the two men Niall knew to be responsible for the murder of his father.

  And so it began.

  Niall’s heart beat steadily, at peace with the approaching conflict. All his life, he had anticipated and prepared for this moment. One way or another, he would prevail.

  “How does it feel to be here?” asked Deargh.

  Lines creased the corners of his eyes and he had some years before taken to wearing his thinning hair completely shorn, which only made him look more formidable, always a desirable trait in a mercenary.

  Niall scooped up two handfuls of water and scrubbed his chest with a sliver of fragrant soap, which had been gifted to him at the inn by a fetching serving lass.

  “It isn’t home,” he answered. “Not truly, not yet. But it will be, soon. What about you?”

  That night seventeen years ago, Deargh had been a young man of twenty-nine, the same age as Niall now. A warrior to his core, he had left behind no wife or children, but his loyalty to his clan and his village had been strong and remained unbroken by the passage of time.

  “It feels good.” Deargh nodded and smiled, his bright gaze taking in the scene around them. “Very good. I can’t wait to begin. To gather our clan. To take back our home. I only hope no one recognizes me. That is, not until I wish them to.”

  He gestured to his face and winked, his grin broadening with mischief.

  Niall chuckled. “I don’t think there’s any danger of that.”

  It wasn’t that time had aged his guardian badly. Rather, Deargh referred to the shadowy stains that covered half of his face, tattoos etched there over the years by Scottish and foreign hands. If one were to examine the symbols closely, they would find a history of their travels after they’d left Inverhaven.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Deargh. “I snared two rabbits.”

  Niall nodded. “A moment more.”

  “Aye,” answered Deargh. “Enjoy the solitude. It won’t last for long.”

  He disappeared into the trees. Left alone, Niall simply stood, listening, but no, he wasn’t alone. For years he’d been unable to recall his father’s voice, but now a familiar rich timbre sounded all around him, woven into the deep rush of the river and the wind in the trees, full of pride and welcome. He belonged here and now that he’d returned, he would never leave.

  There were so many questions yet to be answered. What happened the night his father and mother, and his kinsmen—including Ian and the other boys—were murdered? And his brothers as well. Who had found them, and when? What remained of the Kincaid clan? Would he find their remnants in the village, or had they scattered into the hillside or beyond?

  Again, he looked toward the castle.

  A movement caught his eye, near the base of the tower. From out of the mist appeared a woman, moving quickly along the footpath, young and lithe, with dark hair flowing over her shoulders. Despite the chill, she wore no mantle for warmth, only a simple dress of blue. His interest awakened. Even from this distance he recognized her loveliness. A pale, round face above a long neck and delicate shoulders.

  Only she wasn’t alone. A smaller child bounded past her—a boy in a tunic and trews, chasing a black puppy that streaked across the grass. Another woman followed, regal, tall and fair haired, and adorned in a long cloak thickly trimmed with fur.

  Niall’s muscles flexed with caution when other figures emerged from the mist behind the second woman—men at arms, some eight or nine of them, all dressed in a similar fashion, with ochre-colored plaids draped across their shoulders. Niall assessed the side arms each wore as best he could considering the distance. No doubt the men served the Chief MacClaren … although Conall, when he had met him at the village inn, had worn no such identifying color.

  The taller blond woman called out to the young woman in blue, only he could not hear what she said for the distance and the loud rush of the water. The young woman halted, her shoulders visibly rigid. He could only assume she was a servant, and that she had displeased her mistress in some way. Whatever the matter, it was none of his concern, especially when his morning meal awaited.

  He watched as the maid turned to accept her lady’s address, and for one long moment he admired the way her hair cascaded down her shapely back, rich and shining. Once inside the castle, he would look for her and see if she was as comely as she seemed from a distance.

  Turning, he stepped out from the river and took up his tunic, shaking it free of leaves. He turned back for one last glance at the beauty in blue—

  Just in time to see the blond woman strike her.

  * * *

  Elspeth gasped and lifted a hand to her stinging cheek. She had never—not in all her life—been struck in such a manner. Not by her parents. Not by either of her prior two stepmothers. Not by anyone.

  Until now.

  Elspeth’s newest stepmother of a fortnight, Bridget—who was her same age, almost to a day—peered at her imperiously, with bright spots of color on her cheeks.

  “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” Bridget snapped. “Don’t pretend as if you did not hear me. I will not abide such disrespect, do you understand?”

  Elspeth stood frozen on the stone pathway. She had been doing exactly that, rushing away from Bridget as swiftly as her legs would carry her, pretending not to hear her calls, thinking that if she got far enough ahead they could avoid speaking to one another, because she wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t ready to talk about what she’d seen.

  For days, heavy rains had confined them to the castle and during that time Elspeth had been subjected to endless hours of Bridget’s petty grievances. Elspeth realized her new stepmother was young and likely lonely and homesick, just as she would be one day soon as well when she married, but God spare her! The young woman’s complaints were incessant.

  One moment, Bridget was accusing Elspeth of undermining her authority with the servants, whom she criticized constantly. Next, she claimed Elspeth was vying to be her father’s favorite, at Bridget’s expense. And on, and on, and on, and now the MacClaren was ill and unable to mediate on either of their behalves.

  All Elspeth had wanted was to escape the miserable confines of the castle walls and breathe and most of all, be alone—except for Catrin’s company. The young girl’s chattering and constant activity only annoyed Bridget. At just six years of age, her little half-si
ster still grieved the death of her mother—the second of Elspeth’s three stepmothers—and had of late taken to dressing like a boy, Elspeth could only assume, in an attempt to gain their father’s attention and approval. While the MacClaren loved his four daughters in his own way, he had never made a secret of his very deep disappointment in never having sired a son. She couldn’t replace Cat’s mother, but she and the child had always been fond of one another, and it was clear the little girl needed to be outside to run and play.

  Elspeth looked over her shoulder to be certain the child had not witnessed the ugly sight of Bridget slapping her.

  Only … she didn’t see Cat, which worried her, because with the rains the river had risen high and the current would be dangerously strong—

  “Answer me.” Bridget leaned close, demanding all of her attention.

  Bridget’s personal retinue, a small company of warriors who had come with her to Inverhaven as part of her tocher, kept their distance, most of them looking off into the forest, their expressions distinctly uncomfortable.

  All save for a red-haired warrior—Duncan—who stood just behind Bridget. He looked at Elspeth coldly, his demeanor very different than before when he’d been jovial and friendly.

  Of course, things had changed since then because of what Elspeth had accidentally seen in the shadows of an alcove, in the castle’s small pleasure garden, as she searched for Catrin that morning.

  “Please, I must go and find Cat,” said Elspeth between gritted teeth, her breath frosting the air.

  She really was worried. She didn’t hear Cat laughing or the puppy barking, only the roar of the river.

  “Not until we’re finished here,” Bridget asserted, stepping closer and clasping her cloak at her neck. Several rings glimmered on her hand, studded with jewels. She was pretty, yes, but displeasure contorted her features into an ugly mask.

  Elspeth did not shrink from her. “We are finished.”

  Dropping her hand from her still-stinging cheek, she turned and took several steps, and opened her mouth to call for Cat—

  Bridget swung in front of her, blocking her way. The taller woman’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes bright and her nostrils flared.