Chapter 8 #2
Cath went to the garrison hall to summon the best trackers in the clan, and plan the hunt for the creature that might prove more deadly than any the MacRune had ever faced.
Kiamh hesitated before approaching the outer curtain wall gates of Dun Maor.
He hoped that Fifer MacAlen would be worried about him if he delayed his return, as causing that concern was part of his scheme.
Until now he’d dallied too long with the laird, and needed to advance his plans quickly, before the MacAlen found a reason to be rid of him.
I shall do as I must. Why care what he suffers?
When Fifer had rescued him from the cage in the slaver’s camp he’d had no idea that Kiamh had already escaped his captor during the earlier raid, which also allowed him to assess the astonishing strengths of the MacRune Clan.
After the renegade clan had left with the rest of the captives, he’d intended to kill all the slavers left locked in the cages.
Then Fifer and his men had approached, offering a more valuable opportunity.
Quickly concealing himself and playing the wounded victim had allowed Kiamh to speak with the MacAlen laird so he could begin to spin the intricate web of lies necessary to start a war between the two clans.
That was going quite well for a time, with Fifer seemingly growing quite smitten with him.
Until I moved too swiftly, and panicked him. Absently he rubbed his aching shoulder. I must take care so I may make him mine.
Adding a deliberate hitch in his steps Kiamh approached the gate, stopping and waiting for the guards to raise the portcullis for him.
On the other side of the grate stood the black-haired Ivor, the clan’s war master, who looked him over with narrowed eyes.
This MacAlen still treated him like an unwelcome intruder, and had better instincts than any other member of the clan.
It would serve Kiamh better to seduce and then end him, but the war master also seemed immune to his charms.
Ivor finally nodded at the guard, and the barrier rose.
Kiamh gave him a grateful smile, at the same time imagining him tied to a tree in the forest and being gutted by wolves.
“Why did you send away the guards that escorted you to the docks?” Ivor demanded. “Do you wish to be captured by slavers a second time?”
“Forgive me, War Master.” Anger lent a tremor to his voice that would sound like fear to the other man. “I worried the MacRune might grow angry if I brought with me members of your clan. The islanders, they’ve no respect or regard for the MacAlen.”
As expected, mention of the surly clan’s attitude toward Fifer and his men made the war master glower, and shifted his attention away from what Kiamh had done.
“Those useless eejits shall soon regret their rancor toward us.” Ivor glanced at his arm in the sling, and his suspicious tone thawed a little as he asked, “Does your injury improve, then?”
“Aye, the lady healer come to the MacRune of late, she’s greatly skilled.” He touched his shoulder, and made an exaggerated wince. “’Tis only lingering pain and stiffness I must endure for some moons now.”
“Moons?” The other man scowled. “Permit our healer use the harp for you again. ’Tis ever worked for all the men in the clan.”
“I fear I’m no’ as strong nor hearty as you and the MacAlen. My flesh doesnae respond to your healer’s songs.” He let some weariness creep into his expression. “And now I fear I need seek my bed again, for the journey to the island and back, ’twas most tiring. May I take my leave, War Master?”
Ivor nodded, and even escorted him through the inner gates and up to the arch leading to the back of the stronghold, where Kiamh had been assigned quarters.
“Rest and mend,” the war master said.
Kiamh thought of how he would one day end Ivor. Perhaps not at the mercy of wild beasts, but from a slow poison that would cause him to suffer agonizing pain for days before he choked to death on his own blood.
The prospect made him bow to hide his smile. “My thanks for your concern, War Master.”
He passed several guards and vassals on his way to the guest chamber, and for their benefit kept up his hobbling, fatigued pretense.
Inside he seethed with frustration over his lack of progress, and all the men protecting the laird that he needed to get out of his way.
Only when he was alone in the room did he pull his arm out of the sling to stretch his aching shoulder.
Ivor personally should never have paid any attention to him; either he suspected him as an infiltrator or knew that the laird was infatuated with him.
Some highland warriors publicly condemned those who preferred to fack their own gender, but others secretly swived gèidh partners while keeping female wives to bear their bairns.
Charlatans and pretenders, all of them.
The laird had no wife and, according to the vassals prone to gossip, no lover or bed wench. From the way he had catered to him, Kiamh knew Fifer was attracted. He also ruled over a powerful and wealthy clan that would doubtless disapprove of him openly taking a male lover.
The only way to take control of him was to furtively lure him into bed, but since the incident in the tower Fifer had been avoiding him.
Kiamh had never before dealt with a resistant swain, and it annoyed him.
Was he not everything the laird desired?
Slender, fragile, with a modest demeanor? Why was he fighting the inevitable?
Kiamh had always lured to him lovers with little more than a glance and a carefully crafted smile.
His current appearance, with young, handsome features, soft eyes and pale skin, particularly appealed to big, tough warriors like the laird.
He smirked a little as he recalled the games he’d played with some guards from a stronghold near his tribe’s settlement.
Those brutes had like to chase after him when he went to gather herbs in the forest. Occasionally he’d allowed them to catch him, and after a little struggling would submit to their crude, rough hands.
Gods, if I could take you back to the garrison, one lusty lover had said after spending most of the afternoon fondling and facking him. I’d work in you every night.
Fifer was close to the same state, his desire making his control slip for a moment today. Yet the burden of rule and his own reserve had built a high wall around him that Kiamh had not yet been able to scale.
He shall go on ignoring me unless I make him look upon what he so desires again. ’Tis time for another drastic measure.
Kiamh washed and dressed carefully, and waited until the bells for the evening meal sounded before he hobbled down to the great hall.
Fifer always sat with his senior men on the elevated dais, and when he came through the arch he saw him there speaking intently with Ivor.
Like every other night he would probably never once look upon him as he pretended Kiamh did not exist.
You shallnae ignore me.
He waited until a sound gave him reason to look over his shoulder, and at the same time deliberately strayed into the path of a pair of clansmen. He collided with one and fell in front of them with a low, pitiful wail.
“What do you here, lad?” the bigger clansman asked, and reached down to pull him to his feet.
He cried out a second time, curling over and clutching his shoulder as he bit the inside of his bottom lip until he tasted blood.
“Forgive me, my lord,” he said, making a dribble of blood run down his chin as he straightened. “I didnae see you.”
The entire hall had fallen silent, and his thready, pain-filled words seemed to whisper again and again as they echoed through the air of the hall.
Kiamh wiped his hand across his mouth as he staggered over to the nearest table to grip the edge, shaking as if unsure his legs would continue to support him.
For a moment he wondered if Fifer had even looked over at him, and then strong arms came around him and pulled him against a tall, muscular body.
Aye, aye, Kiamh thought. You like me better when I’m helpless.