TemptationinTartan (18 page)

“I be Kieran Kilborn.”

His belly clenched. “You killed my father.” What would the
Kilborn do to him?

“So I did. But he attacked my wife, do ye see? A man cannae
allow that.” The Kilborn laird’s tone of voice still remained reasonable.
Friendly, even.

“That’s so.” Edgar frowned.

“Milaird Edgar, ye’ll have to come wi’ us.” Kieran Kilborn
was polite but firm.

“Why?”

“Because ye’re a smart lad and ken ye have no other choice.”

“Why not the Gwynns or the Sutherlands or the MacLeods?”

“A good question.” Again, the two Kilborns exchanged
glances, as though talking without using words. Milaird continued, “Well, ye’d
have to pass through my lands to get to the Gwynns. We be related by marriage
to the Sutherlands and the MacLeods.”

“Oh.”

Kieran Kilborn knelt, facing Edgar eye to eye. “How about
this? Foster wi’ us for five years. Then come back and take this castle as your
own, as our ally. I offer ye the succor of my home, the protection of my clan
and my firstborn daughter.”

Edgar’s mind whirled. He had oft wished that his father and
uncle had spent more time teaching him what he needed to know to rule. He
stared at Kieran Kilborn, feeling very small.

But so far the Kilborn had been kind. He’d shared his food.
They’d broken bread together.

“Do you have a daughter?”

“Not yet, but I will. If not, a highborn lassie of my clan.
Our clan.”

Edgar considered as best he could. “Yes,” he said, and put
his hand into Kieran’s.

They walked from the room and down a hall. “Who d’ye think,
Dugald? Milady would enjoy this one.”

Dugald looked down and Edgar looked up.

Dugald’s mien softened. “We canna keep him to ourselves in
the Laird’s Tower. ’Twould cause jealousy. Auld Mhairi, p’raps.”

“Who’s old Mhairi?”

“She’d be like yer grandmam,” Dugald said.

“You mean she smells like liver and cabbage soup?” Edgar
wrinkled his nose as they descended cracked, worn stone stairs.

The men again shouted with mirth. Edgar wondered at their
high spirits. Was he suddenly so funny?

When they’d calmed, milaird said, “Nay, she smells more like
roses and honey, for she dries flowers and herbs, and tends bees.”

“She sounds nice.”

“Fenella be saddened these days,” Dugald said. “P’raps the
lad would lift her spirits.”

“Why is she sad?”

“Her daughter Moira…did a very bad thing.” Milaird’s voice
had gone dark.

Edgar’s curiosity was aroused. “Moira? Moira Cameron?”

“Och, so that was what she called herself. Nay, she be Moira
Kilborn. What do ye ken of her?” Kieran Kilborn asked.

“I met her once. My uncle Seamas was besotted with her, but
my grandmam said she was not to be trusted.”

“Your grandmam was right. Have ye seen Moira since last
night?”

Edgar shook his head.

“Hmm.” Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose. Again the two
men exchanged glances.

“Fenella would be a good choice,” Dugald said, and Edgar
sensed that the topic of Moira should not be pursued.

“Aye, and that would keep Milaird Edgar in the castle, close
by. For his lessons.” Milaird eyed him.

“Lessons?” Edgar tugged his hand away.

“Aye. Ye’re to be laird of your clan and my ally. Ye’ll need
lessons.”

“Laird of who? Everyone’s dead.”

“Nay, not everyone.” Milaird repossessed Edgar’s hand. “With
proper management this land will prosper.”

A shriek erupted as they reached the lower hall. “My Edgar!
My Edgar! My wee bairn!”

“What now?” Kieran asked Dugald.

A miasma of moldy cabbage blanketed Edgar as his grandmam
enveloped him in a hug. He cast a desperate look at the Kilborns.
Help me!
He
struggled out of her tangled skirts and stifling embrace. “This is my grandmam,
Ellen. Kieran, Laird Kilborn and, er, Dugald Kilborn.”

“Milady.” Kieran said, and both men dipped their heads
respectfully. Edgar thought that the briefest twitch of a smile lifted
milaird’s lips.

She glowered. “And where were you taking my wee one? To
murther him, I’ll be bound!”

“Nay. If we’d wanted to kill him he’d already be dead,”
Kieran said, sounding reasonable. Edgar had learned that this was his usual
tone of voice.

She wailed, clutching Edgar’s shoulder with bony fingers. He
wrenched away and rubbed his flesh. It hurt, and he wondered when she’d last
cut her nails.

“He’s coming with us.” A note of command had entered
milaird’s voice.

“No!”

“The agreement has already been made,” Kieran Kilborn said.
“Laird Edgar is bound by his word.”

“He’s but a wee lad! He has not the brain to agree to
anything!”

Edgar flinched.

Kieran glanced at Edgar. Was there sympathy in milaird’s
eyes? “He has plenty of brains and plenty of sense. More than ye. Ye can come—”

Edgar waved frantically at Kieran, silently mouthing,
No!
No!

Had a slight smile again crossed milaird’s lips? P’raps.

Kieran continued talking with Edgar’s grandmam. “Ye can come
to visit any time ye wish. For the nonce, ye’re needed here to put this castle
and these lands back into order. For Milaird Edgar to take over when he be
ready.”

“What?” His grandmam seemed confounded.

“He’ll be fostering with us. ’Tis the usual thing, for his
education, dinnae ye ken?”

“I know what fostering means,” Grandmam said stiffly. “Do
you pledge his safety?”

“As much as anyone can assure the safety of an active young
lad. I’ll take him home and treat him as my own.”

She sniffled and drew Edgar close, but he guessed that
Kieran had won the day.

“Find the stables and saddle a mount for young Edgar,” Kier
said to Dugald.

Dugald cocked his head at Edgar. “Laddie, have ye a favorite
ride?”

“Yes.” Edgar again untangled himself from Grandmam’s
stifling embrace. He knew she meant well, but…

He followed Dugald to the stable. When they emerged, with
Edgar leading Scout, his Highland pony, he heard Kieran giving a brisk series
of orders.

“Ross, Dirk, stay here with two dozen men. Search the area,
find everyone and bed them in the castle. Pen the livestock outside, an’ the
poultry in the bailey. Gather the corpses awa’ from the castle and the
watercourses, and let the women decide what to do with their men. Bury ’em or
burn ’em, I care not.” He turned and regarded Dugald. “Check the stores and
supplies and return to Kilborn knowing what is needed here.”

“Aye, milaird.”

“Ross, we’ll send what ye’ll need on the morrow. Meanwhile,
gather what food ye may find. Locate fresh water.” Milaird stopped and huffed
out a breath, seeming to order his thoughts, then continued. “Search the crofts
and take what can be used, including good wood, brick and stone. Then burn ’em.”

Edgar’s mouth dropped open.

“Do ye not agree, milaird?” Kieran regarded him.

“Yes, but…how did you know what to do so fast?”

Kieran laughed.

“One more thing.” Dugald knelt beside Edgar. “The head of
the auld Kilborn who was killed.”

“The one they called the
diabhol.”
Edgar huffed then
caught himself, realizing that he may have sounded like he was mocking the
Kilborns. He hoped that none would take offense then said, “I do not think I
believe in devils.”

“Good,” Dugald said. “For there are none. Do ye know where
the head might be?”

Edgar looked up at the gate and shook his head. “Nay. Day
before last, my uncle Seamas took it away, but brought it back. ’Twas up there
above the gate last eve, but gone this morn.”

“Ah.”

“Be back home by sundown,” Kier told Dugald.

“Thank ’ee, milaird.”

Again, the men exchanged one of
those
glances
accompanied by lifted black brows. Edgar scratched his head while Scout chuffed
in his ear. P’raps the Kilborns did have mysterious powers. Milaird seemed to
be able to see into the minds of others and speak without words.

Chapter Twenty

Even accompanied by a large escort, Lydia made good time
toward the Gwynn lands via the cliff path. When they reached the ring of
standing stones, she reined in her gelding and wound through the great circle,
struck by its beauty and mystery. Hewn out of granite, each monolith was fully
twenty feet tall.

She’d seen ancient stone circles before. There was one at
Avebury and another near Salisbury. Stonehenge, she thought it was called.
They’d always intrigued her. She recalled that Kieran said that his ancestors
had used them in rituals, and that the sun would slant just so through the
stones.

No sun today but, impressed by the place, she decided to ask
Kieran if they could possibly hold a festival of some sort there. She couldn’t
say she’d enjoyed Euan’s funeral, but she’d been moved and wondered if more of
the ancient customs could be honored. Had Kieran’s ancestors celebrated the
harvest? If so, p’raps the tradition could be revived. The clan needed a
festival after so much grief and worry. A happy occasion would lift everyone’s
spirits.

Despite her interest in the stone circle, she didn’t wish to
tarry. She knew she’d probably missed morning services, but Papists prayed
frequently throughout the day. She hoped that the Gwynn’s priest observed that
particular tradition. If not, she could sit in the chapel and pray alone. She
wasn’t a Catholic and didn’t need a priest…at least not for prayer.

When they passed the great Celtic cross marking the border
of the Kilborn lands, they turned eastward away from the sea, losing the fog
over the second hill. They rode into Straithness, the Gwynn clan’s main
settlement, just before the sun reached its zenith.

As in most clan centers, a castle crouched protectively over
the town, which was larger than theirs. The church sat at the far end of the
village, its bell tolling as soberly dressed folk exited. Having already
guessed she’d miss mass, Lydia wasn’t disappointed. Instead she dismounted,
handing her reins to one of her escorts, and approached the entrance of the
small stone church with Owain closely following. Kendrick left with half a
dozen men to make renewed contact with the local laird to again assure him of
their peaceful intentions. Today the Kilborn party wore plain shepherd’s
plaidies, tactfully avoiding any hint of privilege.

A priest stood in the church’s doorway, shaking hands and
chatting as congregants left. She gave him a friendly smile as she entered
while the remainder of her guard fanned out over the surrounding area, ambling
rather than striding. A few, including Owain, followed her into the kirk but
tactfully allowed her privacy.

She looked around. The small church closely resembled the
tiny chapel attached to her family’s estate in Swanston, but for a large wooden
structure off to the side which looked rather like a cage with curtains. A
couple of people waited near a draped opening. This, she realized, was the
confessional, where Papists told their sins to the priest and were instructed
to pray for absolution. She sniffed. ’Twould be far better if people actually
went forth and obeyed the admonition to sin no more. But why would they bother
to change their behavior when forgiveness was so easily obtained?

She wouldn’t hide in the booth but would confront her fears
and state them directly. She sat in a front pew, facing the altar. The great
cross on the wall before her was adorned with a writhing Christ complete with
wounds dripping wooden blood. She averted her gaze and closed her eyes to
absorb the peace of the sanctuary.

The crunch of soles on pavers told her of someone’s
approach. She opened her lids to see the priest smiling down at her. To her
right, a yard or two away, Owain hovered.

She smiled, first at Owain, then at the priest.

“I dinnae believe we’ve met.” The priest spoke with an
accent she recognized from her weeks in Edinburgh.

She rose and extended a hand. “I’m Lydia Kilborn.”

“Milady.” He bowed properly over her hand. “I was told you’d
visit. In need of, um, spiritual solace?” His hazel eyes twinkled.

“Yes, and I have some questions.”

He sat on the steps leading up to the altar in an attitude
that showed that he was ready to listen.

She resumed her seat on the first pew. “Something…something
happened for which I have been unable to find an explanation.” Both Kieran and
Dugald had been uninformative. She couldn’t ask anyone else, given her
husband’s admonition that the clan’s confidence stemmed from the attitude of
their laird and lady, so she didn’t wish to mention her concerns to anyone but
the closest family. Choosing her words with care, she told the priest of Euan’s
murder and the desecration of his body.

“I understand the viciousness,” she said when concluding.
“The person responsible felt greatly wronged and was very angry. But the garlic
and the crosses mystify me, sir, er…Father. I thought that due to the presence
of the crosses you might have some clue to this mystery.”

The priest hesitated. “There are many superstitions
hereabouts.”

Lydia sighed. Did she again have to endure the “just
superstitious nonsense” speech? It seemed calculated to conceal rather than
reveal. “Could you relate these superstitions to me with particularity?” she
asked.

“Let me ask you a question or two, milady, if I may be so
bold. Have you ever seen your husband in the sunlight?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lydia stared.

He repeated the question.

She blinked. “There’s precious little sunlight where we live
by the seacoast. I would imagine so, but I can’t recall a specific time.”

He leaned forward. “So your answer would be no.”

“I suppose so.”

“Is he oft awake and abroad at night?”

Awake, yes. Abroad, sometimes. But she didn’t feel that she
wanted to discuss the intimacies of her marriage with this priest. “He is a
restless sleeper, so…yes.”

“I have heard that the Kilborn lairds have midnight black
hair and eyes, with ghost-white skin that is cool to the touch. Does that
describe your husband?”

“Yes,” she said with some surprise. “What do you know that I
do not?”

He ignored her question and continued. “Is he unusually
strong?”

“Yes, he’s big, and very strong. But I don’t understand—”

“Lady Lydia, it is said that the Kilborn lairds are
vampires.” He stared at her throat, covered with a frilled stand-up collar.

She dimly remembered hearing the strange word once before,
but where? When? “Vam…what?”

She listened to the priest’s explanation, open-mouthed, at
first disbelieving. Much of what he related was preposterous, insane and yet…

He said that unnatural creatures called vampires drank
blood. Kieran drank blood.

Vampires were neither truly alive nor dead, but in a
twilight state that the priest called “undead”, characterized by oddly pale,
cool flesh…flesh like Kieran’s.

Vampires were virtually immortal. Euan had been very old.
The creature in the tower was very old.

But vampires could be rendered truly dead instead of
“undead” in a very specific way—beheaded, stabbed through the heart and burned.
Euan had been beheaded and burned, and a wooden stake had been driven through
his heart. But the manner of this murder, Lydia reasoned, reflected the
killers’ beliefs.

Vampires were immensely strong, and she’d watched her
husband tear off a man’s head and drink his blood.

Could it be?

Could
he
be?

Lydia left the church in considerable confusion of mind, but
had no opportunity to order her thoughts. For as she stepped into the
afternoon’s golden light, she was met by a tall man with streaks of white in
his tawny hair. He wore a shirt and trousers topped by a black jacket, all very
finely made. His Sunday best, she presumed.

He smiled at her with slightly crooked teeth. “Milady, I’m
Hamish Gwynn.”

Recognizing the name, she curtseyed. “Milaird.” Her guards
offered polite bows.

“My wife and I would invite you for tea,” the Gwynn
chieftain said.

She accepted the invitation and his escort to Straithness
Castle. Once inside, she was ushered into what appeared to be an immaculate
drawing room, perfect in every detail, where waited a tiny porcelain doll of a
woman. P’raps in her middle thirties, she was blonde, buxom and quite
enceinte
.

“Milady.” The women exchanged polite greetings while Owain,
who had followed, lingered by the door.

“What a pretty room.” Lydia gazed with appreciation at the
damask-covered walls and brocade hangings. Everything was in a delicate shade
of sea-green, with darker green accents. “Very soothing.”

Hamish Gwynn seated her on a green velveteen chair opposite
his wife. “Aye, milady Jacqueline brought her entire morning room with her from
Paris.” He smiled proudly at his wife, who was dressed to match her sea-green
room.

Lydia was aware of the close historical connection between
Scotland and France, but hadn’t known that it persisted. “It’s a pleasure.” She
didn’t quite know what else to say.

Lady Jacqueline poured tea. “Thank you. It creates such
ennui,
the roughness of these Scottish castles.” Her voice was heavily accented.

Lydia accepted a steaming cup while keeping her face still.
She refrained from making any comment that could offend, though she herself was
offended at the sly slap at her adopted country. Instead, she said, “I have
never experienced France.”

Lady Jacqueline drew in a deep breath. “Ahhh…the beauty of
Versailles is incomparable. I had hoped to create a
petite
Versailles
here, but the weather… Quite impossible to grow a proper garden.”

“Yes, I understand that much of the charm of Versailles is
in its gardens.” Lydia sipped.

A Gwynn servant tapped at the door and handed Laird Hamish a
note. “Forgive me, ladies, but I must attend to a matter.” He left with quick
steps, and Lydia’s interest was piqued. She had heard that the Gwynns were
religious, and the presence of the priest, the well-kept church and the number
of congregants she’d seen all gave credence to that rumor. What, then, would
call Hamish Gwynn from his Sunday rest?

She cast a quick glance at Owain, watching quietly at the
door. He raised a brow and left, but only for a few moments.

* * * * *

Hamish Gwynn headed directly toward the church and the
priest who had sent the message. He hadn’t failed to note the presence of Lydia
Kilborn’s large escort. Had the Kilborns not sent a messenger ahead telling of
Lady Lydia’s visit and informing him that she would be heavily guarded, he
would have taken umbrage at the many warriors who had accompanied the lady. As
it was, the size of the escort had caught his interest. He sensed trouble
brewing and wondered if violence would engulf his clan.

That would be unfortunate. Matters had not gone well for the
Gwynns, who had sent a large detachment to the support of the Catholic bonnie prince.
The Lobsterbacks knew of his clan’s participation in the Rising, but the
remoteness of the Gwynn holdings had protected them. Or so Hamish hoped. He did
not want his corner of the Highlands to attract the attention of the Redcoats
through the breakout of clan warfare. And for purely practical reasons, no one
could afford strife at this time…except p’raps the Kilborns. Hamish had heard
the gossip about Lydia Kilborn’s wealth and connections, and envied Kieran
Kilborn his bride.

Nothing Hamish could do about it, though. His French wife
had brought wealth also. She had already borne him three sons and a daughter.
Though he admired Lady Lydia, he didn’t regret his marriage.

He entered the cool stone church. Sunlight streamed through
the modest rose window above the altar. Laird Hamish wetted his fingers in the
font and crossed himself before approaching the priest.

Father Paul took him back through a door and down a flight
of stairs to the undercroft, where five men and one young woman waited. She was
pale, trembling and terrified. Hamish wrinkled his nose. They smelled as though
their skins had not touched water in years. Lacking windows, the church’s
basement did not disperse the miasma but held it in.

Two visits from MacReivers within three days? Something
stank worse than these men. Hamish inclined his head at one he remembered.
“Angus MacReiver, is it not?”

“Aye, and we bring desperate news.”

“More so than the head of the, er…vampire you showed me the
other day?” That had been startling, and Hamish hadn’t known what to do about
it. He had closely examined it, assuring himself that the fangs were real. But
it was proof of nothing except unnaturally long, sharp teeth. It wasn’t proof
of vampirism.

Angus took a deep breath. “We have been attacked. Ye’re
looking at the last of the MacReiver men.”

That caught Hamish’s attention. “Who? How?”

“We were out on patrol last night and when we returned at
dawn, everyone was dead.”

“Everyone?”

Angus confirmed with a nod. “Every male above the age of
thirteen.”

“The bairns and the women?”

“Untouched but terrified. They spoke of a monster who tore
off the heads of their sons and husbands and drank their blood. This one saw
the
diabhol
who butchered our clan.”

He dragged the woman forward. She had dirty blond hair, a
dirtier brown dress, and clutched a bairn covered by a shepherd’s plaidie to
her bosom.

With gentle hands, Hamish urged her onto the only stool in
the room. “What be your name, lassie?”

“Greer, milaird.”

“Well, Mistress Greer, tell me what ye saw.”

“He…it came into my hut after sundown.” She gulped.

Hamish listened while the girl told of a tall, thin being
who had entered her home, questioned her and terrified her, showing her long,
bloodied fangs. “Old,” she said. “Very old, with more wrinkles than last
winter’s apples. White, white skin, like a corpse. Long white hair that stood
out from its head like a demon’s halo. And its mouth…” She shuddered.