Conquer the Night (20 page)

Kinsey Darrow stood in the center of the manor house at Clayton. It was a lesser manor as such places went; the master here had been from the clan MacDonald, a stubborn old bear of a man, knighted by the guardians while the Maiden of Norway still lived, an irascible fellow if there ever had been one.

Had been.

He'd never signed the oath of allegiance to Edward of England. Naturally, when they'd come here, they'd claimed he had, that his name had been on the Ragman Rolls, a legal document stating that those who signed recognized the king of England as their overlord. This made the man a traitor, and eligible for a traitor's death—and they had given old Sir Tigue MacDonald such a death. He had been a huge fellow, dark haired, tall, and old but muscled like a bear. He had brought down eight Englishmen before he'd been taken. But then, by God, they'd had their revenge. They'd only half-hanged him before they started cutting out his entrails, and when they castrated him, they used his own organs to gag him before they finally struck off his head.

It now sat on a pole before the manor house.

They'd only mowed down half of the old lord's men—he'd used temperance, having learned in the past that if he slaughtered whole villages, there was no one left to serve him and his men. Kinsey was convinced that a good number of the people here were half-wits as it was. They didn't seem to understand much about the conflict going on around them. It was a poor stretch of flatland with some farming, some sheep, even a few cattle, but little more. The house was clean and neat, and the hearth was sound, creating a good enough fire. It was, though, hardly the kind of place he would have considered worthy of such military action, but the old lord had been a vassal of the Earl of Harringford, and he had summoned Kinsey because he'd wanted an example made of the old man. The earl was growing uneasy; the tide of nationalism among the Scots seemed to be rising at an alarming rate.

But as for this place …

At the death of Sir Tigue, the people had stood numbly. Some of the women had cried. He hadn't forced the old man's pretty dark-eyed daughter to watch the show; she had understood immediately the implications of everything that had happened to her home, and she had been a pretty piece in his bed the very night following her father's death. She had understood her choices, and she had wanted to live. Nor had she been unfamiliar with the role he had expected her to play. He thought, perhaps, she had even been glad of his coming. She was not a nationalist herself, Kinsey realized, but an ambitious young thing, who might well be plotting to use her association with him to move into a different circle of society.

“Lord Darrow!”

Hearing his name so anxiously repeated, he strode across the room to the door, which stood ajar, and threw it open wide. Giles of Chester stood there, panting, breathing very hard. He had just ridden in from the south, having been sent with a message to Lady Kyra that Darrow would be returning in a fortnight.

“What is it, Giles?”

“The castle.”

“What castle?”

“The castle has been …”

“Damn it, man, quit blubbering! What has happened?”

“Arryn Graham has taken Seacairn!”

For a moment, Kinsey stood dumbfounded. He had believed that not even Arryn Graham would go after the castle at Seacairn. Not that he had left it heavily defended; he had not. He had been sure that the walls of the place alone would dissuade such a savage as Sir Arryn. The man's audacity to attack such a fortification!

Kinsey gripped the messenger by the throat, shaking him. “What are you saying?” The man gasped, unable to speak. Kinsey released his hold.

“It's true; I swear!” Giles gasped out, rubbing his neck. “He rode in soon after you rode out.”

“What of the men I sent back with supplies?”

“Taken on the road, my lord.”

Pain struck Kinsey's head, his fury was so great. He turned from Giles, so angry he was ready to impale the man with his sword. He drew his weapon anyway, and slashed down on the table. Wood shattered and groaned and cracked. Kinsey's arm shook, and the impact seemed to reverberate through the length of him.

He spun back to Giles.

“What of Lady Kyra?”

Giles hung his head. “She tried to fight him. They said she nearly bested him at arms, waging war with him in the chapel. Then …”

“Aye, then?”

“She threw herself into the river.”

Kinsey stood dead still. If she was dead …

He suddenly saw Kyra: beautiful, proud,
disdainful
Kyra. Always keeping her distance from him. Always courteous, always correct, always so cool and untouchable, and always, always seeming to burn beneath. It was there, something rich, warm, lush, and passionate, something always held away from him! Somehow she was superior; somehow … she used the king against him, but he had forced himself to reason, knowing that in the end she would be his. And when the vows were spoken, and the woman and the titles and property were all his …

Well, he would quickly teach her who was superior in marriage, and in the world. He had thought that often, lying awake at night. Wanting her beauty, wanting to break her, wanting more, whatever it was he couldn't touch, whatever it was he couldn't take. He could never walk away—and he could never seize her in a rage, because there were men—his own men!—who would defend her, just as he defended all that was English, in the name of the king. Somehow she drew their loyalty, their admiration. And their love.

But now …

If she was dead, she would never have the power to make him feel like a lesser man again! If she was dead, the king would know his sorrow, his pain, his rage … and the king might well reward him….

Aye, that much was true. But he suddenly doubled over, thinking that Sir Arryn, his greatest enemy, had taken Kyra. Taken what Kinsey could not take, seized what he could not have!

Kyra had thrown herself into the river….

“Is she dead?” he whispered.

“Nay, my lord, thank God; the lady lives! She swam right out of the river—”

“And escaped him?”

“Nay, my lord, she remains his prisoner.”

Kinsey turned around, placing both hands on the simply carved wooden hearth. His prisoner. His whore. She remained his whore. She'd be better off dead.

“By God …” he began, and his voice thundered with emotion. “Damn him, damn him, damn him! We'll ride against him.”

Sir Richard Egan, second in command of his men, burst in behind Giles. Richard was a very tall man, deceptively lean. At thirty-five, he had watched a great deal of the world, and was as hardened a warrior as a man was likely to find to fight beside him. “Kinsey! I've heard about the events at Seacairn. But you've got to think, my lord. Word has traveled here, and we're all furious, and your men pray for your lady; yet as your friend, and a man who would die for you, I beg you, don't throw all our lives away. My lord, you must realize your death will do her little good! He has a great many men with him. And he holds the castle. He has garnered support with every day he has traveled. He has gained the respect of such powerful traitors as Andrew de Moray and William Wallace. We need greater strength. The earl will come tomorrow, and tomorrow you can appeal to the king for the army you will need.”

Kinsey spun around, ready to strike out, but one look at Richard and he suddenly controlled his own temper. Richard knew about ambition—power, revenge, lust, and fury. He had to fight the sick rage seizing him now. He couldn't throw himself blindly after the outlaw—his own life was of greater importance.

He lowered his head, hating Kyra, hating that she had the power to make him forget reason for rage.

For longing …

Hating that she could make him feel as if he were not superior. As if he were …

Inferior
.

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He lowered his head. “Leave me.”

“Lord Darrow—”

“Leave me!” he shouted, and he raised his sword menacingly at Giles.

“Come,” Richard told Giles, and urged the man out.

“You, too!” Kinsey grated to Richard.

Richard shook his head. “You will use this to your advantage. The king will know your rage, and know your sorrow! The world will hear that she cast herself into a river to be free from such a savage. All men will want to join with you for revenge. We will be justified in all that we do.”

“Richard, you don't understand what has happened here.”

“Indeed, I do. Listen to me; pay heed to my advice: you are a smart and cunning man—you are no fool, and you mustn't behave rashly.”

“Aye!”

He turned back to the fire.

“Kinsey.”

“Get me ale, and leave me be.”

“My lord—”

“Get me ale, and leave me be!”

Richard wisely turned aside.

Kinsey drank heavily, tankard after tankard in a matter of minutes, wanting to spend the night in oblivion. The poor ale went straight to his head. He felt ill.

He retired to the master's chambers when it was late. The ale had not eased the rage that gripped him. He felt dull and angry still.

Night. She was with him.

Impotent rage filled him anew.

The buxom daughter of the dead master of this house he had claimed came to him. He looked at her dispassionately as she shed her tunic and undergown and approached him. She crawled atop the bed, rubbing her body over his. She seemed to have grown more wanton with the passing days. He didn't touch her. She continued to move against him. With no encouragement, she shifted his clothing. Her hands closed around him. She whispered things, pressed her lips to his, smiled, eased down the length of him. He inhaled sharply as she serviced him.

Enough …

But she moved up the length of him again, touching him, kissing his lips. She suddenly made him want to vomit.

He gripped her by the hips and was unhappy with the flesh he found there. “You're built like a cow,” he told her.

“My lord?” she murmured, as if she hadn't comprehended his words. Maybe she hadn't. “Cow!” he repeated, and he gripped her by the shoulders, throwing her forcefully from the bed. He didn't understand his own rage. Kyra. He had hated her at times. She was all he could see now. The fine detail of her features. The smooth, graceful, effortless way she moved. The green of her eyes, the gold in her hair. He thought of her, and of this whore he had taken.

And all others paled in comparison.

And as he had so many times, he hated Kyra.

And wanted her.

And raged impotently.

He thought of Arryn Graham's lady wife. The woman he had taken who had stared at him, not fighting the inevitable, but ignoring him. As if he didn't matter in the least. As if he hadn't even really touched her….

Alesandra! What a ridiculous name for such a timid maid
.

She had barely fought him, and still …

She left him feeling as if he had taken nothing. Nothing!

He hadn't meant to kill her. But when the fires began and he saw her face, he had remembered the way she had looked at him. He hadn't even touched her. He didn't matter. He hadn't bruised her, harmed her, violated her in any way because he just hadn't mattered. Her husband would come home, and she would love him, and he would love her still…

And so, when the flames had risen …

He had let her perish.

Aye, she had died! She had burned in agony! She had died, pregnant with the outlaw's whelp. But not even that seemed enough now. He had thought Sir Arryn a savage, like a Highlander, a man accustomed to the petty family and clan feuds of the chieftains, with no knowledge of real warfare. He had managed to murder his kin, aye, but that had been the kind of fight that such barbaric men could win, hand to hand, muscle and brawn, no strategy needed. He had considered him a baying hound with no real bite.

But now the man was moving, and moving against him, and Kinsey Darrow couldn't help but feel rage.

The outlaw had Kyra. And God help him, he couldn't help but wonder …

Was Kyra not glad of it all?

Jay left the great hall after Arryn had done so, feeling restless and anxious. He walked toward the stairs to the outer wall. Summer. Such a beautiful time here, with warmer days, cool, soothing nights. There were times in winter when the snows were so fierce and cold that no fire seemed to warm a man, but summer, ah, summer was the time for Scotland. The land was so rich, verdant, striking in its roll of meadow and valley, green grasses, bright wildflowers, rich, dark forests. Aye, summer was lush. And the moon would sit high in the sky, and the stars would sparkle, and it was a good time just to be alive.

That thought always made him grave, because so many of his friends and relations were dead. Not many of the people who had been friends, kith, and kin had survived the massacre at Hawk's Cairn. Brendan, left for dead, was with them now, a strapping and handsome lad, grave beyond his years.

And his own sister, Katherine.

She had been in the manor when Darrow and his men had come.

It had been summer as well, then. Early summer, the freshness of a season just turned from spring, with warmth, richness, a redolence in the earth. The shaggy cattle had grazed in the fields, sheep had huddled on the hills, and the river had sparkled under the warmth of the sun. The old family manor, begun before the country was even formed as it was now, sat in the center of thatched-roof houses, fields of activity, valleys of produce. Orchards surrounded them, and the forest, alive with game. It was a great place, where the old spirits had lived in hollowed-out tree trunks, maidens had fallen in love with strapping lads, toothless old wiccans had cast spells, senachies had told daring tales of long-ago fights, and men had waged fair trade. This was where Kinsey Darrow had ridden to repay his kinsman's death, and he had done so with a vengeance. There were few men-at-arms there, for none had been needed; they quarreled with none of their neighbors, fought no family feuds. And they should have been deep enough into the country, close to warring Highland chieftains, to be far from the demands of such men as Warenne, the old Earl of Surrey, Edward's most able commander in the field—and Cressingham, the king's tax collector, a man hated even among the English.