The Beast of Clan Kincaid (31 page)

Though Niall could not guarantee his claim would be formalized, it was likely given the history of what had occurred at Inverhaven—and the growing influence of
his
allies, the king's two oldest son's—that the monarch would decline to interfere, at least for the time being and that was all Niall needed for now.

Every moment of his life, since leaving
An Caisteal Niaul,
seventeen years ago, had been in preparation for this. He had grown strong and cunning, living the life of a mercenary abroad, but in recent years he had returned to the court of Scotland for one purpose only. To watch and listen. To make allies of his own, that he might call upon to support him in a time of conflict, such as now. He had not curried favor with the king, who grew old and sick, and who of late kept mostly to his castle at Dundonald—but rather his sons. It was true—he had acted for some time as Buchan's personal guard, but he had done so at the clandestine behest of the king's eldest sons, the Earls of Carrick and Fife, so that he might report upon their younger brother's activities, as they knew his behavior grew out of hand. The secret alliance had earned him their respect and friendship, and although he had never confessed his true identity to either, he hoped the bond he'd forged with them would serve him well now.

Everything had gone better than planned. He had no regrets … save for Elspeth.

*   *   *

Elspeth stood at the window, looking out into the night. Below, Kincaids and mercenaries celebrated, while the MacClarens remained secured in the bailey. She touched the cold stones, peering down, wondering what it would feel like to throw herself to earth below. Did she not deserve to die a terrible death for falling in love with Niall Braewick? For giving him the means to soundly and terribly defeat her father and her clan?

But she pulled back, sickened by her own cowardice. She did not want to die. She wanted more than everything, for this to be a terrible dream that she could awaken from.

It couldn't be true. Her father, a murderer? And yet he had denied nothing. He who had prepared to battle the Alwyn to keep these lands, had surrendered them to the Kincaid without argument.

Where was her father? What was he thinking? Her sisters and Bridget … they must all be so afraid and as confused as she was over what had occurred. And the MacClaren people. Would they be forced from their homes? Would they die, attempting to defend their families?

One thing she knew to be true … her heart was shattered. She trembled with anger and hurt. Niall had kissed her. Seduced her. Made her believe that he loved her. Worst of all, he had married her, all for this.

She collapsed into the chair, heartsick with grief over losing him. Not him, but the man she'd believed him to be. A man she now knew had never existed.

Hours later, as night and silence fell over the castle, she heard the sound of the door. Heart racing, and legs unsteady, she stood from the chair where she had waited all that time.

He stood in silence, looking at her, a tall shadow in the darkness, his face inscrutable.

“Do you
want
to catch your death?” he demanded, his voice low and tight.

She did not answer. All the angry words and accusations that had crowded her mind in the hours that she'd sat alone in silence seemed to have abandoned her.

He strode past her, so close she felt his warmth and continued on to close the shutter she'd left open. Only then did she realize how cold the room was and that she shivered, her skin numb from the chill. He knelt, his back to her, and built a fire.

For a long time, he remained there, looking into the flames. At last, standing, he turned to her, eclipsing the light. She stepped back.

His jaw twitched. “Do you truly think I would hurt you?”

“You already have,” she whispered.

And yet she hadn't stepped away because she was frightened of him. Rather, she was frightened of herself with him. Because already, after just a moment in his presence, she found herself searching his face for the Niall she had known before.

He shook his head, looking down at the floor between them.

“Ask me anything,” he said, opening his palms to her. “Anything you wish.”

“How could you have done this to me?” she asked in a choked voice.

He closed his eyes for a moment, before lifting his gaze to stare at her unwaveringly. “I tried to send you away. I told you that you would come to despise me.”

“You were right.” She did despise him. He had taken everything from her. Her family. Her clan. Even her virtue.

“This was my home, Elspeth,” he answered fiercely. “He killed my father. My mother. My brothers too, though I have not found their graves. He would have killed me as well if I had not escaped.”

She shook her head, and wrapped her arms around her waist. “I can't believe it of him. My father would not do such a thing. He is not a murderer! You speak of a man I do not know.”

He shifted his stance, covering his mouth with his hand for a moment before answering quietly. “I do not know if his hand held the sword, but he conspired with the Alwyn, and commanded his men in an attack and as a result, my family and many with them are dead. These lands were wrongly taken. My people displaced.” He came closer, but did not touch her. “Elspeth, I speak only the truth. I have always only ever spoken the truth to you.”

His blue eyes pierced into her soul, demanding that she believe and understand. But no matter what had occurred those many years ago, she could not allow herself to forget that she had been grievously used by him in the present. The man she had trusted above all others. He had taken her trust, and manipulated her and deceived her.

“But it is also the
truth
,” she choked out, her voice rising in accusation, “that you seduced me, then married me, and now possess me, all as part of your revenge plot against him.”

Agony stole her breath. Once she had allowed herself to love him, she had loved him powerfully, with all of her heart. Tears blurred her vision, and she turned away, covering her face with her hands, unable to look at him, not wanting him to see the depth of her pain, so powerful it silenced her voice and weakened her legs—

He was there behind her, catching her against his chest. She gasped, shocked by the power of his touch.

“Yes, that is true,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek. “But also because from the first moment I saw you, I wanted you.
I want you
, Elspeth,
for me
, in a way that has nothing to do with any of this.”

She struggled, straining to be free.
Wanting nothing more than this, his arms around her
.
His strength and comfort
. She shook her head, too afraid to believe that he meant the words he said. “If my father murdered yours, how can you feel anything true for me?”

“I don't know,” he answered in a guttural voice, pressing his face to her hair, kissing her there. “But damn me to hell, I do.”

He spoke with such passion. Her heart ached to respond in kind. But she could not be the fool she had been before. She would not allow herself to be used again.

“All lies,” she answered, wrenching free, whirling to stare at him. “Our marriage is based on lies.”

“That's not true.” His lips thinned and his eyes flashed with temper. “I would have been within my right to slay your father for what he has done. For the life he has lived all these years, in my father's stead. And yet I did not.
Because of you
,” he thundered. “Can you not see, Elspeth, that it is you who possesses me?”

Her heart reacted, and her eyes flooded with tears. “No.”

He came toward her, and although she backed away he moved quickly—capturing her by the arms, easily overpowering her, imprisoning her in his embrace, yet gently, his hands on her body, his shadow all around. “Stop fighting me.”

Her hands fisted in his tunic, she sagged against him and would have fallen if not for the support of his arms.

“Just let me go,” she whispered, her cheek against his chest.

“Never,” he said, gathering her more closely against him. Bringing his hand up beneath her chin, he tenderly lifted her gaze to his. She saw then, the dark shadows under his eyes. The tension of the moment, stricken on his face. Could it be true, that he was as tormented as she? “You are my wife, Elspeth, and I am your husband.”

“I hate you for what you've done,” she blurted.

“But you don't … hate … me,” he answered between gritted teeth, but without arrogance. Rather, the words sounded to her ears like a gruff plea that she care for him as she had before.

When he slowly bent … and dared to kiss the corner of her lips, her heart expanded in her chest. She went utterly still as his mouth closed on hers, her entire being focused on him and the way she felt complete in his arms.

Feeling her resolve slip away, she closed her eyes. “I
can't
forgive you—”

“I can live with that,” he murmured, tilting her back in his arms so that her head rested on his shoulder, kissing her cheek. Her forehead. Her eyelids.

Her limbs went soft and languid, as desire overtook her, silken and warm. Of their own power, her hands came up to touch his face. Her lips opened to his, and she inhaled his familiar breath, gasping from the power of the need that rose up within her.

Arms going round his neck, she let out a sound of desperation from deep in her throat. “Niall.”

The line between right and wrong, loyal and disloyal blurred. She knew only need for him, too powerful and overwhelming to deny. Lifting her from the floor, he carried her into the shadows of the room, to the bed. There, as if abandoning herself to fantasy, she surrendered to the deeper darkness inside the curtains of the bed, desperate to forget the grief and sadness, and to be with him.

Her hands pulled at his tunic, lifting. With abandon, she kissed him … touched … tasted his bare skin just as he with his hands and mouth, worshiped hers. Desire blinded her to all but sensation and satisfaction, and within moments they were both naked, and he inside her, both thrusting, the canopy filled with their moans and cries of ecstasy.

Afterward, he held her tight, and kissed away her tears. “You're mine forever, Elspeth. I am yours. Nothing will ever change that.”

*   *   *

Niall arose before dawn. After washing in darkness, he looked down on Elspeth in the bed, her beautiful, naked body tangled in the linens. At last, after hours of making love in the shadows of their dark bed she had slept, but fitfully. She painted a poignant picture, her skin pale and shadows under her eyes. The sight pained his heart—but what was he to do?

He had expected yesterday to be difficult. He was not the sort to gloat or boast over triumphs. He had known that people would be hurt. Innocent people, caught up in a conflict between two men. He took no pleasure in that. But he had not expected to feel so gutted by the sight of Elspeth's tears, and knew that although they had taken comfort in one another the night before, the coming days would not be easy between them.

He left her sleeping, and at the door informed the guard he was not needed further there. Elspeth was his wife, not his prisoner. He would have her move freely, and without restriction. Downstairs, the kitchens radiated warmth, and the scent of baked bread, baked by Kincaid women, who had arrived sometime in the night. It pleased him to hear laughter and lighthearted conversation in the air. The sounds of hope and talk of the past—and the future.

Taking aside a young woman, he instructed her to go out into the bailey and find whoever had been Elspeth's maid, and see that her clothes and belongings were collected and installed in their marital chamber. With thoughts of her weighing heavy on his heart and mind, he did as he knew he must do. He went to the council room and commanded that the MacClaren be brought to him.

He appeared a short time later, dressed in the same garments as the night before, his expression solemn and haggard.

Niall could not look at him without thinking of Elspeth … his wife, laying upstairs, brokenhearted. How different this moment would be if not for her. Indeed, it was remarkable the man stood alive in front of him at all, and not lay on the cold earth, awaiting burial while wrapped in a shroud.

“What have you done with my daughter?” he asked roughly.

“She is asleep upstairs.”

He frowned, morose. “I would hear a promise that you will not hurt her.”

“She is my wife.” Niall took a chair, and looked at the man steadily. “I will honor her as such. Sit.” He indicated the chair beside him.

At first the MacClaren looked as if he would refuse, but then he sat. “I … imagine that you have many questions to ask me.”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “You know that I am ill…”

“Yes.”

“I have often wondered if I have given myself this sickness. Inflicted it upon myself by carrying this heavy burden of guilt on my soul for so long. It eats at a man.” He pressed at his torso. “Inside.”

“Did you kill them? My father? My … mother? My brothers?”

He shook his head. “Not with my sword—” He looked down at his hands. “But, aye. I killed them no less. With my ambition and my greed.”

“What happened that night?”

“Of course, you deserve to know,” he answered gravely. “Perhaps I should start before that.”

Niall leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever you wish.”

The older man looked at him steadily. “I married far better than myself when I married Elspeth's mother. My Rosemary. She is the only woman I ever loved, and I loved her … madly.” His gaze became distant. “Do you know we met at the Cearcal?” He nodded. “We eloped from there, and in doing so nearly started a war between our clans.”

Niall remained silent, listening, but not understanding why the MacClaren wanted to tell him a sentimental love story. Yet … the story would mean something to Elspeth, and might help him better know her, so he did not interrupt.