TemptationinTartan (21 page)

He wondered, and not for the first time, if his son or grandson
would one day sit in this place, speaking with Kier himself after he descended
slowly into madness.

And how long could Sir Gareth continue? Forever?

“And to what do I owe the pleasure?” the old gentleman
asked.

Ah…this appeared to be one of his grandfather’s sane
moments. Kier relaxed. “Ye’ve done us a great service that has had, um…results
I dinnae ken that you intended.”

“Hmm?” Head tilted, Sir Gareth was entirely focused on
Kieran.

“Ye emptied the MacReiver lands of…MacReivers. Our clan will
benefit from your temper.”

He stroked his chin. “I was very angry.”

“With reason.” Kieran was grim. “And I thank ’ee. Had ye not
taken your revenge, I would have had to.”

Sir Gareth inclined his head. “Whatever service I may
perform for the clan, consider it done.”

“Och, well, I would rather ye’d talked with me first.”

“I was hasty, I know.” His voice dropped, went dark. “I
could not help myself.”

“I ken. We were all sad and angry. But now…”

“Now what?” A shifty expression entered Sir Gareth’s eyes.

Kier noted it and wondered what the old vamp had up his
lace-trimmed sleeve. But speculation about the mad was itself insane, so he
simply went straight to the purpose of his visit. “I’ve taken the young laird
as my foster son.”

Sir Gareth sat back. “A bold and cunning move. I
congratulate you on your foresight.” He smiled.

Gareth had always been quick. A good laird, in his day.

“Aye, and it happens he’s quite a likable laddie. Young
enough to mold.” Kier raised a brow at Sir Gareth.

He held up a hand. “Say no more. I understand he’s not to be
touched.”

“Ever.” Kier was firm. “I’ll marry him to our firstborn
daughter, make him one of us in truth.”

“And thus the clan increases. Well done. A toast?”

“Of what?” Kier wasnae in the mood for bat, rat or cat. Or
whatever else the old boy might have in his larder.

Sir Gareth laughed. “Nothing more fiendish than good Scots
whisky.”

* * * * *

Seamas MacReiver awoke in hell.

Hell was midnight dark and cold, stinking of dead creatures
great and small, with a persistent murmur, p’raps of demons muttering curses or
imps sharpening their claws. Shackled, chained and stretched high, his wrists
and shoulders burned with pain. His naked body was racked with shivers and his
back scraped against the damp stone behind.

He licked his lips, though his mouth was dry and tasted of
bile flavored by blood. He discovered from the roughness and swelling of his
lower lip that he’d bitten it through.

What had happened?

Screams in the night… He’d left Moira in bed to grab his
trews, find his shoes and sword. When he’d rushed out of his room, he’d run
straight into the
diabhol.
Not the resurrected Euan—he was thoroughly
dead—but a tall, thin creature reeking and streaked with blood. Blood lined
every wrinkle in a face so ancient it seemed a hideous mask. Blood matted its
hair, flowed from its mouth, dripped from its fangs.

Fangs. A vampire. The creature had flung him against a wall,
and that was all Seamas remembered until waking up in this hellhole.

Had it been a Kilborn? It lacked the black hair of that wicked
family. But it had been very old. P’raps even the hair of the accursed vamp
turned white with age. But they were undead…not alive…unchanging, were they
not?

Seamas tried but couldn’t think, not when his belly was
cramped from hunger and his mouth leather-dry from thirst. Every limb and joint
ached from being strung up like a haunch of venison for curing.

He ignored the pain and tried to find something, anything
that would help him survive, though he remembered a voice saying, “You,
MacReiver, you will surely die in this place.”

He found that there was a slight looseness in the bolt that
held his right-hand manacle to the wall, though not enough to allow escape. It
moved back and forth. He could turn his head to either side, and the slight
shift afforded a little extra length to the chains that bound him so that he
could twist ’round and touch his lips to the cold rock wall. Rough it was, and
foul, but with enough dampness that p’raps the moisture could keep him alive.
It tasted briny and he realized that the rushing, murmuring sound he heard was
the ocean, not the fiends of hell preparing their tortures.

So he was still on earth. He still might escape and live.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the lack of light. To his
right, the direction his head was turned, he could faintly see a white form,
chained high by the wrists as he was, as naked as he was. His wife.

Her skin glowed but her head hung forward and her hair
concealed her face. Forced by the chains, her body was stretched taut, the
breasts high.

He hardened but was immediately assaulted by a shame so deep
that tears gathered in his eyes. He turned his face away, unable to bear the
sight.

On his left, against the roughly curving stone wall, another
body hung, but this one seemed…wrong. No curves, so he was a man.

But no head.

Seamas retched, his body writhing. Vomit cascaded down his
front, and he puked anew from the reek.

Boots clattered and suddenly, shockingly, he was drenched
and even colder than before. Someone must have thrown a bucket of water over him.
He licked his lips. Salty. Sea water. No relief there. Drink too much of that
and he’d die.

But he was clean and had stopped breathing in his own stink
and bile.

A torch was lit, revealing the seamed white face of his
nightmares.

He shivered violently. “
Rach air muin!
What the fuck
are ye?”

“Speak the King’s English, you ignorant dolt.” The voice was
cultured, with none of the quavering that Seamas associated with great age.

He realized that his life was in this madman’s hands and
remembered again, “You, MacReiver, you will surely die in this place.”

“Beg pardon, sir. I be Seamas MacReiver. And ye are…”

“Gareth Kilborn, lately laird of these lands.”

Seamas tried to think, to remember, but was not one Kilborn
monster very like the next? “Was not the auld laird named Carrick?” he asked
before remembering that the question was nonsensical. Carrick and his firstborn
spawn, Ranald, had died at Culloden. Hadn’t they? He quivered and his bladder
released a hot flood of urine that flowed down his thigh.

“Carrick was my son.”

Seamas fainted.

He came to, coughing and spluttering, to see the vampire, a
tall, skinny figure in black, slosh more water over his wife. Moira raised her
head, blinking. Her flesh was bluish-white in the dimness.

The creature dropped the bucket with a clatter and
approached her. One long hand reached between her spread legs and the other
clutched a hank of her hair, tugging her head to one side. He sank his fingers
into her quim while he sank his teeth into her neck.

“Stop!” Seamas shouted.

Moira’s body began to undulate in a manner that he
recognized. His belly churned as her hips pushed against the vampire’s probing
fingers.

The creature loosened his grip on her head to open his
breeches. He began to thrust and she shoved back. Their bodies moved together
with more ease than Seamas had thought his wife could muster.

Twin sighs accompanied twin shudders of release. The
vampire, grunting with satisfaction, pulled out of her cunt and her neck. He
leaned with one hand against the rock wall for a moment before tucking his
member away and tying his trews. Muttering to himself, he left the cave.

Seamas stared at Moira. “What are ye?” he whispered.

* * * * *

“You have to feed them,” said the eyes inside.

“I know,” Sir Gareth said gloomily. But how? His prisoners
wouldn’t eat raw meat or drink blood. P’raps he could roast a rat, or take a
fish or two from the pond.

Easier if he could get into the kitchen… He slouched along
the maze of corridors twisting throughout the Dark Tower, wondering if ’twere
possible.

At four in the morning, there was little light except for
the moon and few around to see him. Still, he’d have to evade the guard. Most
of the clan was accustomed to thinking of him as one of their honored dead, and
he did not wish to change that notion.

The upper wall-walk was not an option. It was patrolled even
in the most peaceful of times, and Kieran was no fool, Gareth thought proudly.
Given Euan’s death, young Kier would certainly have increased security.

But Gareth could double as a shadow if he wanted, and he
wanted to do so now. Back in his room, he donned clean attire in shades of
black and gray before tucking his telltale white hair into a dark hat. He hid
his marble-white hands with gloves.

He slipped from the old keep to the Garrison Tower by way of
the bailey but kept to the shadows on its rim. About fifteen feet from the
closed double doors, the night watch threw dice against the wall. Their game
was lit by a tiny fire in a circle of stones, which tossed flickering reddish
light against the laughing faces of his clansmen.

Gareth’s heart warmed. It did him good to see his people
enjoying their innocent pastimes, knowing that his efforts through the years
had helped assure their safety.

The Garrison Tower’s doors were shut but unlatched and he
slipped inside, closing them after he’d entered, shutting away the laughter.
Only a few glowing torches shed dim illumination, but he could see the
kitchen’s brightness. He guessed that a cook or two were baking for the
fortress’s inhabitants.

He was right. Fenella, evidently unable to sleep, kneaded
dough and sang tunelessly.

“Any leavings for an old beggar?”

She jumped and spun and shrieked. “Milaird! You gave me such
a fright.”

A blond head poked over the long counter. Its owner eyed him
with suspicion, then looked at Fenella for enlightenment.

“Ah. I see that our newest fosterling also sleeps but
lightly.”

Fenella told the boy, “’Tis only the madman from the tower.”

A sharply indrawn breath. “I believe we hosted you
recently,” the child said.

Sir Gareth started, surprised at the boy’s unusual
composure, then chuckled. “The Laird MacReiver has spoken.”

Fenella glared. “Dinnae tease the child. He has nightmares
from ye.”

He bowed, first to Fenella, then to the boy. “’Twas not my
intention.”

“If it makes any difference, I had naught to do with Uncle
Euan’s death.”

Gareth cocked his head. “Uncle Euan, is it?”

He could see the boy’s blush even in the night-dark kitchen,
which was lit but dimly. “‘Most everyone else calls him that.”

“Not everyone. I called him brother.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered and hung his head.

Sir Gareth approached and tousled the shiny blond hair. “Any
of yesterday’s bannocks to spare?” he asked Fenella.

“Och, aye, here’s a mite.” She busied herself wrapping baked
oaten cakes and other provender in a cloth. “Ye havnae been here for anything
in quite a while.
Ciamar a tha sibh?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just a bit peckish.”

“The bannocks are good,” the child said.

“Aye, they are.” Gareth met the boy’s gaze and was again
startled by the ancient soul peering out of the bright eyes, blue and endless
like the summer sky at dawn. “Fear not, laddie-buck. You’re one of us now.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The sun settled onto the horizon. Its last ray shot through
the standing stone circle on the promontory, striking the central white granite
block precisely in the middle. The clansmen cheered and raised cups of ale.
Bagpipes skirled and sang while children beat on drums.

Lydia sighed and lay back on the quilt to watch the stars
come out, letting body and mind relax. Preparations for the clan’s harvest
festival had proceeded side-by-side with the actual harvest. No one, not even
the laird and his lady, had been excused from autumn’s demands. She’d been busy
from the break of dawn until midnight, it seemed, and she’d dropped into bed
exhausted. Among other tasks, she’d helped Fenella organize work teams, then
picked herbs to dry and learned to pickle fruits and vegetables.

Great pots of ripe berries reducing to jams had released
clouds of sweet-smelling steam in the kitchen. Outside, sheep had been shorn
and inside, their wool spun. Kier hunted often, and sheds were full of meat
being hung and smoked for the winter.

Every day, she’d managed to wedge in an hour or so of
lessons for young Edgar, primarily reading and writing. Kieran was teaching the
growing child how to handle weapons and to hunt. Together they reviewed the
accounts of the MacReiver lands several times weekly, at night after Lydia had
gone to bed.

She should have slept deeply and dreamlessly, but that
wretched priest’s words often whirled and tumbled through her darkest midnight
fantasies. She’d awaken, clutching Kieran, or at empty space if he were on one
of his nocturnal rambles, walks that did nothing to improve the state of her
mind.

She had found herself analyzing her husband like never
before, counting up the vampiric mannerisms and comparing them to Kieran’s
humanity…and never coming to a conclusion. In the end, she supposed she’d
continue as she had been doing, hoping that she wasn’t taking a step backward,
hoping she wasn’t diminishing into Lydia Lambkin.

She’d cast her fears and worries aside for this day. It was
Harvest Home,
Meán Fóghar
—a phrase whose pronunciation she couldn’t
manage, so she called it “the party”. Her gelding was modestly loaded with two
baskets containing quilts, but the mount, trained only for riding, curveted and
danced with discontent as he walked along the cliffside trail.

She quieted him with a gentle tug on the reins and a stroke
to the neck. “Be easy,” she told him. “Others of your brethren aren’t so
lucky.”

She glanced behind her. Pack animals, horses as well as
tough little Highland ponies, bore heavy burdens of food and other items. They
were led rather than ridden. On the feast day, no one was in a hurry. A relaxed
atmosphere enveloped the Kilborns.

Riding north on Kier’s left, she had an unobstructed view of
the sea. In the afternoon, the sunlight gleamed golden on the waves. She wore
her favorite red riding habit and boots. Hats protected both her face and her
husband’s. His broad-brimmed black hat, with a long, shiny pheasant feather,
reminded her of the mad creature in the tower. Beneath it, her husband’s pale
skin seemed to emit an unearthly glow. The sun drew iridescent colors from the
pheasant feather—green, pink, gold.

She turned away. Was the hat a harmless affectation or was
its protection needed to shield his vampire flesh from the autumn afternoon
sunshine?

She took a deep breath and stared over her horse’s ears at
Edgar, who, mounted on his Highland pony, had the honor of leading the
procession. She banished her concerns in favor of dwelling on her pride in her
foster-son.

Though she’d longed for babies, she’d oft wondered if she’d
be a good mother or an indifferent one. Jane and George were so wonderful with
their boys, and Lydia hadn’t known if she’d be their equal.

Now she knew, and the knowledge had prodded her craving for
children. She smiled as she gazed at the small, straight back, the gleaming cap
of hair.

Kier’s saddle creaked as he leaned toward her. “Aye, he’s a
fine laddie, our boy, is he no’?”

Her eyes grew wet but she didn’t know why. She cleared her
throat. “Yes, he is.” She blinked.

As if he’d sensed their scrutiny, Edgar turned in his seat
and gave them a quizzical stare, with brows drawing together and blue eyes
squinting in the sun. She caught Kier’s eye and laughed.

High on a cliff overlooking the sea, the standing stones
gleamed. Though the local rock was mostly a reddish sandstone, these were
granite, pale and gray, almost silvery. Within the circle, scoured by the ocean
winds, nothing grew, so their feast would be eaten outside where the land
sloped slightly and flattened to form a pleasant meadow, still green with soft
grass.

After they’d dismounted, and the clansmen were busy with
unpacking, Lydia, Kier and Edgar walked among the giant standing stones. Each
was far taller than a person, even a man Kier’s height. There were thirteen as
well as one low, large, flat rock in the center of the circle. Struck by the
strange beauty of the place, she asked Kier how old the silvery stones were and
how the circle had been built.

“No one knows,” he told her, his dark eyes dancing. “That’s
part of why they’re unique.”

“How did they come to be here?” Edgar asked.

“No one knows,” Kier repeated. “’Tis said that the nearest
granite rocks like these are far, far away, across the sea in Ireland. No one
knows how they came to be here.”

“Did your Viking ancestors erect these stones?” Lydia asked.

His mouth crinkled in a thoughtful frown. “Nay…if they did
we have no record or legend of that. And I think we would have heard, ye ken?
Because bringing them here was a massive undertaking. We havenae the time for
such folly.”

“Folly?” Edgar asked.

“Well, aye. There’s nae purpose to the stones. They’re pretty,
and a nice place to hold a gathering, but that’s all. We have enough work with
keeping ourselves alive.”

“I’ve noticed.” Lydia stripped off her gloves and rubbed a
callus that had grown on her forefinger.

Kier took her hand and kissed the little hard bump, then
gave it a tiny nip. “Ye’ll have plenty of leisure this winter, milady, with the
storms keepin’ ye inside.”

“You’ll keep me warm?” she murmured, looking up into his
dark eyes.

They twinkled. “Ye can depend upon it.”

Edgar had wandered off to plunder one of the food baskets,
returning with a bannock spread with jam. “Fenella told me to find something to
do.”

For the first time, Lydia heard a whine in the child’s
voice. She again sought Kier’s eyes.
Aha, so he’s not perfect!

Mayhap the laddie is starting to relax.
“Help me set
up the games,” Kier said to Edgar, whose eyes brightened as he scampered after
Kieran.

Kieran took off his hat. He ran his fingers through his
long, dark hair, settling it about his shoulders.

Edgar ran his fingers through his light blond hair, settling
it anew atop his head.

Lydia smiled. Kier’s eyes flashed down to Edgar, then to
hers. He grinned and winked at her as he replaced the hat, giving it a rakish
tilt.

* * * * *

Cabers were tossed, ale was drunk and much food was consumed.
Various objects were thrown—sheaves were tossed over a rail, hammers and stones
of various sizes were heaved various distances, a pastime that Lydia thought a
bit odd. She nevertheless applauded politely when Duncan won the hammer throw.

Fenella, Lydia and the other women dressed the last sheaf of
barley in a rough gown and set it on the flat stone in the center of the
circle. Then they arranged food all around it—the last berries, a few bannocks,
some sausages.

“No doubt you think this custom a bit mad,” Fenella said.

“I’ve seen it before.” Lydia arranged a bunch of lavender at
the offering’s feet. “In England she’s called the mare, and some keep her until
the next spring.”

“Here she’s called the maiden, and we burn her.”

“Burn her?”

“Aye. ’Tis said in the olden days, a maiden was sacrificed
here to assure a good harvest.” Fenella pointed at the stone beneath. Sure
enough, dark stains marred the silvery rock.

“Ugh!” Lydia dropped the flowers.

Fenella laughed. “Dinnae worry, milady. ’Twas long, long ago,
before there were Kilborns here.”

Night fell and bonfires were lit. In the meadow, people
formed a clearing for the pipers and dancers. Lydia, who had been resting on
one of the quilts, roused from her stupor to watch the dancing.

Despite the ale he’d drunk, Kier capered and jumped in the
spaces created by two crossed swords, their blades exposed. The firelight
gleamed off his black hair and reflected off his glittering eyes, as though
flames flickered in their depths. The pipes skirled faster and faster. His feet
flew faster and faster until they tangled and he collapsed in a heap, laughing.

He rose, brushed off dust and came to her, throwing himself
down at her side. His chest rose and fell as he caught his breath.

She brushed his hair away from his sweaty forehead. “Are you
hurt?”

“Nay, I struck only the flats of the blades. I’m not so
witless as to risk an injury merely to play the fool.”

“It looked fun.”

“I’ll teach ye our dances this winter.”

“I was dreading the winter,” she said. “I thought there would
be naught to do.”

“Och, there’s plenty to do. Aye, there’s cold and rain, even
ice and snow at times, but work continues. ’Tis merely different work.”

The moon lifted over the horizon to the east. “Come with
me.” Standing, he offered her a hand.

She followed, wondering if he wanted to join with her. She
didn’t know how she felt about that given the presence of so many of their
people. But he led her into the center of the circle, to the stone upon which
the barley sheaf maiden stood surrounded by the clan’s offerings. Taking
Lydia’s shoulders, Kier turned her toward the burgeoning moon.

“Ohhh…” The moon rose directly over the tallest of the
standing stones, glimmering silver in the magical light.

Kier took a brand from one of the fires and the clan crowded
’round about. He held it high, then touched it to the maiden, who burst into
crackling flames. The fire set an answering glow in his eyes.

For a moment Lydia’s soul went cold while the clan cheered
and danced.

* * * * *

The Kilborn feast was observed from a nearby hill. Late in
the afternoon, Hamish Gwynn had received the news of activity by Clan Kilborn
at the standing stones. Accompanied by his priest and the few MacReiver men who
had survived, he’d rushed to hide behind gorse and rocks.

Feeling a little foolish, as well as more than a little
jealous, Hamish and his cohorts had watched while the Kilborns gamed and
feasted. But he did not overlook other possibilities, and had dispatched a few
of his warriors to reconnoiter Kilborn Castle and the MacReiver stronghold.
Upon their return, they’d reported that not every Kilborn participated in the
ceilidh.
The Kilborn fortresses remained guarded, the Kilborn lands patrolled.

The moon rose. Even from a distance, Hamish could see red
flames dancing in Kieran Kilborn’s unearthly eyes as he burned the ritual
sacrifice.

Hamish’s ballocks retracted until it seemed that they’d
risen into his throat. “P-pagans,” he muttered.

“Ungodly,” his priest said.

Jesus would stand with him, with all of them in this holy
and just battle. And he was the Gwynn, laird of a valiant clan. He firmed his
resolve and buried his terror. “They must be cast out.”

“Nay. Destroyed. And soon. There is need for haste.”

Hamish looked at the priest.

“Today, dark and light are balanced, but with each day,
darkness increases and with it, the vampire’s power grows. Then Samhain will
come and the boundary between goodness and light and the monster’s world of
evil spirits will disappear. Kieran Kilborn’s strength will be at its height.
We must attack before Samhain, and the sooner the better.”