TemptationinTartan (16 page)

He pulled out so only his head remained within her, looking
down at her with an odd, quizzical smile on his face. “Ye’ve learned much,
kylyrra
,
in these last few weeks.”

“I’ve had the best teacher in the world.” She grinned at
him.

“I must be, since ye’ve made me the happiest, most satisfied
man in the world.”

“Good,” she said with satisfaction of her own.

* * * * *

By the time the next morn arrived she’d decided that if Kier
wouldn’t fully discuss the matter with her, p’raps someone else would. After
breakfast, she approached Dugald. With a raised hand, she summoned her
husband’s second-in-command.

“Aye, milady.”

She hesitated. She knew that this was a delicate subject and
this was a delicate time. “Walk with me.”

She led him to the upper wall-walk. A piebald seabird,
p’raps frightened by her approach, dashed away with a flutter of wings.

She spoke slowly, gathering her thoughts. “I had never seen
the like of it.”

“Of what, milady?”

She jerked a shoulder. Why was he acting as though he were a
dullard? What was he concealing? “The hatred shown by the way Euan’s body was
treated frightens me. What did he do to Moira?”

After a pause, Dugald said, “Ye must ken, milady, how men can
make use of a woman.”

“Yes, I saw what happened when she was in the pillory. But
Moira wasn’t chaste. Granted she had, er…a busy afternoon, but…”

“’Twasn’t anything unusual for her. Moira liked to swive.
She was candid about her pleasures.”

“So what did Euan do to Moira that made her hate him so?”

“I dinnae ken. He did nothing more than what I did.” He
evaded her eyes.

“So if they’d captured you…”

“Aye. ’Tis possible ’twould be my headless body that had
been burned there, in that clearing.” He blew out a breath.

She looked over the parapet at the sea, then down at her
husband. Kieran was supervising the reconstruction of a battered little fishing
boat. It had been outfitted with a platform, though she didn’t understand why.
“He’s suffered so much loss. You all have.”

“As have you, milady. We are united by the sorrows of this
life as well as by the joys.” Dugald touched her face, surprising her, and she
turned to him. He went on, “Euan was my da and my friend. I dinnae ken how any
of us will manage without him in our lives. He’s always been here for us. He
was our rock.”

“May some joy come upon the heels of this sorrow.”

“I hope so but I doubt it.”

She looked over the wall to where repairs continued. Kieran
helped to raise a tattered red sail onto the mast. In the windless day, it hung
forlornly. Others were piling what looked like kindling into the boat, atop the
platform. That didn’t make sense. Many matters didn’t make sense. Among the
more serious mysteries, ’twas odd to see her husband take an interest in a
fishing boat’s maintenance.

“That sail won’t take the boat very far,” she said.

“Och, milady, ’twill take my da into the next life.”

She stared at Dugald. “What are they doing?”

“Preparing for his funeral.”

She lifted a brow in silent inquiry.

“Our Viking ancestors didnae bury their dead. We send them
to sea in a flaming ship to meet the gods. Ye’ll see what we do.”

“That’s right,” she said thoughtfully. “There’s neither
church nor graveyard here.”

“Aye, our ways are different.”

“My husband believes that Euan’s murder will embolden our
enemies. And that we must make ready for war.”

“He’s right.” Dugald’s jaw squared. “But dinnae worry,
milady. Kilborn Castle has never been taken and it never will. ’Tis
impregnable.”

“My father was a general. He said that there was no such
thing.”

His glance strayed to the Dark Tower and his smile was a
twisted, grim thing. “We have weapons ye dinnae ken of, milady. Ye neednae fash
yersel’.”

Chapter Eighteen

As a faintly glimmering sun dropped into a gray and gloomy
sea, the clan congregated near the water’s edge. The fishermen drew their craft
up onto the cove’s shore, emptying their catches with their families’ help. The
shepherds gathered their flocks and, using swift, shaggy herd dogs, penned them
in a nearby meadow. Every crofter, from the tiniest bairn to old Mhairi, came
slowly and silently to join their kinsfolk. The Garrison Tower was empty of
soldiers, and the kitchen dark and quiet, with only massive pots of stew kept
a-bubbling for their evening meal.

As dusk settled over the land, bonfires were lit. Kieran led
a cortege consisting of the bier bearing Euan’s body followed by members of the
family’s personal guard, including a piper, to the cove. Lydia held her
husband’s arm as the bagpipe wailed a somber tune.

Dugald helped carry the bier and set it carefully onto the
newly constructed platform on the old boat. She noticed that, for the first
time, he had a massive longbow over his shoulder, his arm thrust through the
gap between the bow and the string. His back bore a quiver full of black
arrows.

Dugald waited by the tide line while Kieran released her
hand. Though she was gloved, the evening breeze chilled her when he stepped
forward to speak in a strange tongue she didn’t understand. ’Twasn’t Gaelic,
for she’d learned enough of the language to know. She guessed that some
remnants of the clan’s Viking past infused the funeral rite. But hadn’t some
berserkers practiced human sacrifice? She hoped that the custom hadn’t endured.

Kieran fell silent then grabbed the stern of the boat and
shoved it toward the sea. Good heavens, she thought. She seen her husband’s
great strength many times but each proof of his power awed her anew.

The hull scraped over wet sand and pebbles and the sound
seemed to grate over her very flesh. She rubbed her arms. Though warmly covered
by gown and plaidie, she shivered.

Kier splashed into the shallows, still gripping and pushing
the stern’s rim. The red sail filled and the outgoing tide seized the boat and
tugged it from his grasp. He came back to shore, smiled wanly at her and again
took her hand. As the boat bobbed on the waves, its sail full and red, the
piper continued to play and the clanspeople watched, their unnatural quiet
weighting the occasion more than any weeping or wailing could. It was as though
they were drained dry of tears and conversation, dead husks memorializing a
dead man.

The piper stopped, his instrument belching a last wheeze.
She heard the crunch of boots on sand and Dugald stepped forward, bow in hand.

With the bow now off his shoulder, Lydia could see that it
was six feet of well-rubbed wood so shiny that the reflections of the bonfire’s
flames danced and glittered on its ebony surfaces. He reached behind his
shoulder, took a black arrow from the quiver and held it into a fire. The arrow
lit, and he nocked it on the taut bowstring.

He shot the blazing arrow high and it came down onto the
boat carrying his father’s corpse. Two, three, four more arrows followed, then
Lydia could see a glow, flickers of smoldering red where the kindling beneath
Euan caught fire. The faint crackle of the flames floated across the slap of
the waves hissing against the shore.

The outgoing tide and offshore breeze continued to sweep
Euan out into the ocean to his final rest. The fire consuming him roared high,
catching the red sail in a violent billow of orange and gold. Holding Kier’s
hand, she watched as the boat floated out to sea, a vivid monument to their
loss.

Someone began to sing in a quavery voice… Old Mhairi? Yes,
and that was Fenella joining her, then another and another until the entire
clan sang a sweet dirge to usher Euan into the next life.

A curious emptiness pressed around her heart, threatening to
consume her. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back. No, she thought. I
will not let that witch rob me of my joy in life. She glanced at her husband,
reminding herself that despite the clan’s loss, despite the worries that could
overtake all of them, she had Kieran, and he was all that mattered.

He stood, his face as set and quiet as a marble statue’s,
reflecting none of the inner anguish she knew tortured him.

They stood silent as the dirge ended in thin trails of song,
threadlike in the misty eve.

Soft sounds tried vainly to fill the empty air—the murmur of
the lapping waves, the sigh of their breaths. The hiss of the bonfires as they
burned low.

He squeezed her hand, telling her without words that it was
time to go home. As she turned with him, she thought she saw movement above, on
the parapet of the Dark Tower. She nudged Kier’s arm and pointed upward.

The dimming glow of the bonfires caught the gleam of long
white hair and flashed red on a silver clan badge pinning a Kilborn plaid. As
she watched, the tall figure turned and disappeared.

“Was that…him?” she asked.

“Aye,” Kier said heavily. “I went to the auld keep today to
tell him.”

She wanted to ask who exactly he was, but knew that the
question wouldn’t be welcome, not now. Instead, she said, “How did he take it?”

“Not well. I told ye that he’d known Euan for many years.”

“I thought he was mad.”

“Aye, but today he was lucid. His madness isnae a constant
thing. He has good days and bad days, like you and me.”

Kier led her up the trail to their home, with Lydia
following. He clearly didn’t want to talk more, and that she understood.

* * * * *

Supper began somber and quiet, with clanspeople gathering in
greater numbers than usual. Lydia knew that most of the families generally took
a small meal at dusk in their own cottages. But tonight, as if by common but
unspoken assent, all assembled in the Great Hall for an evening meal of stew,
bread and ale.

As the evening moved on, voices began to chatter, at first
low and soft, later louder as the clan recounted their memories of Euan. As she
moved through the hall, trying to get a sense of her people’s mood, she heard
bits and scraps of talk.

“He took out two of the scum before he was killed.” Owain
looked at Dugald. “Be not grieved, cousin. We all have our time, and he died
with honor.”

On a stool beside the great hearth, surrounded by several of
the clan, old Mhairi told a sweeter tale. “I watched auld Euan dandle ye and
your cousin Dugald on his knee when ye were wee,” she said to Kieran. She
gently bounced the baby in her lap.

He chuckled. “And ye did a fair amount of dandling yourself.”

Lydia laughed, envisioning hulking Kier so small that he
could fit into the little old Mhairi’s lap.

“We used to play horsie when I sat on your knee.” Kier wore
a fond smile.

“And Euan’s also. Up and doon, up and doon for hours.” The
baby cooed as Mhairi began to sing, “Ride to your daddy, me bonnie laddie, ride
to your daddy, me bonnie lamb.”

“Euan lasted longer,” Kier said.

“Aye, he was mighty strong, was auld Euan.”

Though the old lady’s smile lacked a tooth or two, and many
crows’ feet surrounded her eyes, Lydia fancied she saw a twinkle in Mhairi’s
glance that told of a more intimate relationship with Euan than that of crofter
and castellan. That wouldn’t be surprising. Euan’s wife, Catriona, had died
when Dugald was but a young lad, and Dugald was only a few years older than
Kieran…or so Lydia thought.

“And ye were a lot of work,” Mhairi continued, winking at
Kier.

“Was I now?” He cocked his head.

Lydia noticed that he had subtly led the conversation away
from mourning Euan’s loss to happier memories. A clever man, her husband.

Owain approached with Dugald in tow. “Milaird,” he said with
a slight bow.

Kier immediately left the group, Lydia following. “What
now?” he demanded.

“One of the horses is missing,” Owain said.

“’Tis Sentry.” Dugald looked like a man who’d been pushed to
the brink.

“And though we closed the great gate and lowered the
portcullis, it was opened,” Owain continued.

“Anyone or anything else gone?” Kier asked.

The men hesitated. “Not that we know of now,” Dugald finally
said.

“What of…himself?” she asked, for want of a better name.
“Have you looked in the Dark Tower?”

The trio turned to look at her.

“An interesting possibility.” Dugald’s expression changed to
a mixture of aggravation and exasperation. “Well spotted, milady.”

“I’m learning.”

“And what else be ye learning, my curious wife?”

“Not nearly enough.”

“Ye married a clever woman, milaird,” Owain said to Kieran.

“Aye, I’m almost afeared of her brains.”

“Almost? I shall have to work harder to impress you.” She
winked at him.

* * * * *

Sir Gareth knew Kilborn Castle well. Having ordered one of
its many renovations and watched another, he knew its tunnels and warrens, its
secret passages and gates better than any man alive, dead or undead. Though
protected by a portcullis and a guard-house, the great gate set in the double
wall linking the Garrison and Laird’s Towers was no impediment. Though two
normal men were needed to open the gate, Sir Gareth possessed the unnatural
strength of many despite his age. So he turned the wheels and lifted the heavy
bars with ease.

Taking Sentry, his nephew’s big gray gelding, from his
stall, Sir Gareth saddled the mount and rode south. Glancing to his right, he
saw the tiniest spark adrift far out on the breast of the waves. He halted
Sentry and watched as the north-flowing current seized his brother’s flaming
bier and carried it toward their ancestors’ cold, faraway lands.

He began to sing
My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean
in a
high tenor, but cut himself off when he remembered that the song was about that
fool prince. Not a Scot, really, for Charles Edward Stuart had been more
Italian than Scottish and more dolt than either.

Gareth stifled a sigh but was unable to dislodge the pain
shrouding his heart. The last companion of his long years was gone. Kieran was
a fine lad in his way, and Dugald showed strong vampiric tendencies, but as far
as Sir Gareth knew, he was the last of a long line of Kilborn vampires
stretching back to the dawn of time.

He urged Sentry to a canter over the meadows. When boulders
appeared and rocky hills lifted their heads, he cut to the left, taking a track
that he knew would lead him to the most populated portion of the MacReiver
lands. Sentry slowed as the trail narrowed and became progressively steeper as
it wound through wooded glen and rocky defile. Sir Gareth allowed the horse his
head. ’Twouldn’t do to return a lame Sentry to his nevvy. Dugald would rightly
be furious.

Moira’s blood, days old, had lost much of its power and he
reckoned he’d better take someone weak first, a straggler who had wandered from
the herd.

He scented the reek of the MacReivers and left Sentry
tethered to a tree a few yards beyond the first of the wattle and daub stinking
piles surrounding MacReiver Castle. He crept forward until he sheltered behind
a bank of shrubs near a lean-to. He deduced by its rank stench that it was the
clan privy
.

He waited, watching a crone have a piss p’raps ten feet
away. He didn’t plan to take any woman but one.

The next person to use the local
pissoir
was a
youngish man. Possibly a guard, for he bore a shortsword in a scabbard hanging
from the rope belt that supported his trews. He stank of ale, and Sir Gareth
decided to allow his victim to relieve himself before striking. No sense
getting piss on his fine boots.

He glanced down, enjoying the sight of his well-polished
boots, high-heeled and buckled in the Cavalier style, and allowed himself to
reminisce for a brief moment. An image of his monarch floated through his mind,
the dark-visaged Charles, a fellow who had loved a good tup and a good time.
They’d often gone a-wenching together, but with Sir Gareth careful to hide his
predilection for blood from his friend.

The memories reminded him of his losses. After his son
Carrick and grandson Ranald had been killed, his brother Euan had been the last
person with whom Sir Gareth had been able to be truly open.

The sound of urine hitting the wooden lean-to’s back
stopped, and he drew his dirk. As the guard turned, fumbling with the laces of
his trews, Sir Gareth pounced.

He wrenched his victim’s head back and punched his dirk
directly into the neck’s big artery, then dragged him back into the shadows.

The dead man quickly lost a lot of blood, Sir Gareth noted
with resentment. At least the gouting red fluid hadn’t soiled his breeches, though
something had soiled the guard’s. Sir Gareth wrinkled his nose at the stink of
shit before daintily bending his head to drink, careful not to stain his shirt
or plaidie.

He took many minutes to drain his victim, then tucked the
body beneath the shrubs. Energy sank through his gut, sang through his veins.
Stretching his arms high, he exulted in the new power and strength that the
guard’s blood had delivered.

Without fear, he stalked to the nearest hut and entered. A
woman sat near a fireplace that was no more than a round of stones set in the
center of the scraped earth floor. A vent in the ceiling allowed smoke to
escape.

Small and young with grimy yellow hair, she wore an
oversized dress of rough brown wool that he guessed had been a hand-me-down
based on its poor fit and even poorer condition. Her feet were bare and
cracked. A bairn, p’raps two years old, played on the dirt floor near her as
she licked her bare fingers and cautiously turned over bannocks baking on a
flat stone set in the embers.

A great hand squeezed Sir Gareth’s heart. Beneath the dirt
on her careworn face, she was pretty enough that had she been born a princess
in the House of Hanover or even a Campbell of Argyll, she would have led a life
of ease, wealth and privilege. She would have married well and never wanted for
anything. Instead she lived like a pig in a hovel.