Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (10 page)

“Welcome to Keppenach, Lael of the dún Scoti.”

“That is
not
my name,” she spat. “I am no
Scot
, neither from hill nor dale.”

He leaned back in his chair, bringing a hand to his chin, as though to consider her. “Nay?”

“Nay.”

“So what would you have me call you then?”

“Lael.”

“Simply Lael?”

Her eyes were like crystalline daggers. “Aye, simply Lael,” she replied. “’Tis my given name and it gives me great pleasure to hear it.”

The hall erupted with nervous laughter.

Saucy wench.

Jaime liked her, despite the alarms that were ringing in his head, for it would hardly suit him now to grow attached to this woman. She was not meant for him and depending upon her actions, she would either be returned to her brother, or he might yet be forced to take her head. He preferred the former, but she was vying for the latter. Jaime stared back at her, refusing to release her gaze and she returned a haughty smirk, shoving her wrists forward to display her bindings. She said with feigned sweetness, “Tell me,
laird,
is this how ye welcome your
guests
?”

Her use of his title was not meant to honor him; she nearly choked over the word. But he was far more amused by how she referred to herself.
Guest
? Pawky wench. She’d gained entrance perforce with the express intent of opening the gates to overthrow the castle, and she had the audacity to call herself a guest?

“More oft than not,” Jaime said after a moment. But this was the first time he’d ever sat in a lord’s chair. Moreover, it was the first time he’d ever been awarded a demesne as his payment. However, considering that she was his first
guest
ever—male or female—his was a fair enough response to such an insolent question.

In answer, she tilted her head a bit like a benevolent queen. “Oh, how gracious ye be.” She smiled prettily, and unbidden, Jaime’s heart leapt at the gesture. It was hardly a genuine smile, but it was beauteous nonetheless.
Damn
, he had seen her knives—all of them—deadly weapons meant to cut out a man’s heart, but none so easily as that smile.

Lael braced herself for the Butcher’s temper.

She had no notion what had come over her. Her brother had not raised a fool, but apparently she’d forsaken all her lessons here today. At the moment she was surrounded by men who were loyal only to the Butcher—or worse, to Rogan MacLaren, and yet she could not seem to bide her tongue.

The youth at her side swallowed. Lael heard him over the rising hush. Thereafter, not a sound breached the lowering silence—no cups set down upon the table, no poniards striking trenchers, not even a subtle clearing of throats.

Use your wits, Lael,
she reminded herself.
Use your wits.

There was a time for brawn and a time for reason, and she understood instinctively that force would gain her naught this day—neither would a saucy tongue. By far, she would gain more simply by using her wiles, though now the silence endured so long she felt a frisson of fear.

And yet… she found herself mesmerized by his face. The scar that men told tales about was little more than a thin, white jagged line that traveled from the top of his nose over his left brow, splitting the dark brow in half above his steel gray eyes.

“Your gratitude humbles me,” the Butcher said acerbically. “One would think you should feel a bit of appreciation after standing for hours with a noose about your neck?”

The tenor of his voice was gentle, but Lael knew better. The man was a mercenary for his king. The depth of silence in the hall was a testimony to the fear he instilled in men.

And yet what man did not respond well to flattery?

“I beg forgiveness,” she said sweetly, tempering her spleen and gritting her teeth behind a smile—a smile mimicking those she’d witnessed on other woman, for congeniality did not come so easily to Lael. However, neither did duplicity. Her honeyed tone gave her heartburn. “You do have my gratitude,” she said and batted her long, black lashes. “But surely ye canna be afraid of a wee lass?” she challenged. “I’ve heard so many tales recounted of your prowess, even so far as Dubhtolargg. In fact, I hear tell ye can tear a man in twain with only bare hands?”

He stared at her, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his full lips. “And when I fart, I raise a fierce north wind,” he added, presumably mocking her.

Lael blinked in surprise, somehow managing not to laugh. “Well, of course,” she said, recovering swiftly. “What else should men have to talk about whilst in their cups but the blowing of wind?”

The Butcher returned a guffaw, surprising her with the quick show of humor. “Aye, well… I give you that.” His steel gray eyes gleamed with lingering mirth “It does seem we have an innate preoccupation with arses—men’s and women’s both.”

Lael resisted the urge to peer at her own, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her silly dress. His good humor seemed genuine, still she frowned; she didn’t want to like him.

Unfortunately, it was too late: His face transformed before her eyes, from a demon’s to a man’s… one graced with fairer looks than most. He had a tiny black mole set beneath the corner of his right eye that seemed to lift whenever he smiled—something she hardly appreciated noting. And that demon’s scar nearly vanished before her eyes. It was far less noticeable now.

Still, if she could gain her freedom, she would have batted her lashes at the devil himself. She thrust out her hands. “What say ye? Ye’ve a room full of warriors and I am but a simple lass with nary a weapon in my reach.” She couldn’t help herself. “Unless, of course… ye’re
afeared
… of
me
?”

She let the question hang in the air.

It was a blatant challenge, declared before a room full of men, some of whom Jaime could not know their allegiance. The entire lot watched to see what he would do. Her green eyes glittered with unmistakable animosity, despite her sweet tone.

Simple lass, eh?

With nary a weapon?

Neither of these things was true. Jaime had never been more acutely aware of the intellect behind a pair of eyes. By the eyes of Christ, she had finely honed weapons on her person and knew how to use them well. Everything about this girl betrayed a fierce intelligence and sensuality. She knew her worth, and knew precisely how to wield the gifts granted her. Aye, and despite having found her head in a very tight noose this morn, she was no defeated woman. Nor did she seem overly thankful that he’d saved her from the gallows, despite her claim to the contrary. However, she did speak the truth: She
was
surrounded in this hall, and Jaime would pounce over the table quicker than she could blink if she dared to make a wrong move. For all her cunning, he sensed a keen mind and he knew instinctively she would not behave rashly. This woman before him would not lose her temper without provocation. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t remain on his toes, for he was equally as certain she would grasp whatever opportunities he allowed; she might not be rash, but neither was she stupid. However, the bindings were unnecessary at the moment.

He gestured to Luc. “Remove them.”

He tried not to notice the tiny waist revealed by her modest gown—a waist he might easily span with his two hands. He could easily lift her and set her atop him, and then watch her love him with abandon. The man who won her trust and her heart would find a passionate lover in his bed. This he knew instinctively.

Luc lifted a brow, almost imperceptibly, but Jaime ignored the silent query, turning once more to address his lovely
guest
.

Luc hurried forward to remove her bindings.

“Thank you,” she said, gifting him with another of her beauteous smiles after her wrists were freed. The reaction of his heart was immediate; it pounced against his ribs, and for a moment, Jaime forgot himself. For just a fraction of an instant, he could almost believe her a guest he’d invited to sup. In fact, he was very near to inviting her to take the seat beside him so she could share his trencher, even as ludicrous as it seemed—particularly in light of the fact that the seat was already spoken for by his liege and king.

“Art hungry?” he found himself asking. The words came out of Jaime’s mouth before he could contain them. And yet it was a perfectly natural question, he reassured himself. Even a condemned prisoner must be offered a last meal.

He tried in vain to picture the girl standing before him as the knife-wielding vixen depicted by Maddog. She appeared every bit the dutiful lady, with grace beyond her years.

“Famished,” she replied at once. “I’ve no’ eaten in nigh two days—neither has Broc,” she was quick to add, and for the briefest instant, Jaime caught a new spark of anger in those emerald eyes. It was the first she’d mentioned her blond friend, but he could scarce forget the frantic look in her eyes when she’d tried to free the man from his noose.

Were they lovers?

What else would compel a woman to risk her very life to fight at a man’s side? She’d fought for him. She was more than likely willing to die for him as well.

“Bring the lady a trencher,” Jaime demanded.

Two female servitors rushed away to do his bidding without meeting his gaze. “Your
friend
… Broc… is being fed,” he assured the lass. And it was true. Only moments before her arrival in the hall, he’d ordered the delivery of a hearty meal for the prisoner below—as well as the removal of his chains. Jaime had spent but a scant few moments in those tunnels, but that was already too long. Guilty or nay, Jaime could scarce abide the thought of holding a man in such squalor. The instant he had another cell prepared, he intended to move the prisoner elsewhere. The tunnels below the donjon weren’t fit for man or beast.

Lael eyed the Butcher dubiously.

Had he truly sent Broc a meal?

She’d been prepared to respond in kind, giving equal measure for whatever insult he might offer, but from the instant she’d walked into his hall, he’d been only civil to her. Invariably, his actions did not match his reputation.

Was he truly asking her to sup?

Confused, she eyed the empty seat next to him, considering the possibility. She could scarce fathom that he would invite her to dinner as an honored guest when they had been set to hang her merely hours before. However, she supposed the man could afford to display a certain benevolence here today, for there wasn’t much chance his generosity could be misconstrued as weakness. It was true; even as far as Dubhtolargg, the Butcher’s reputation preceded him. He was the Butcher, after all.

“Ho!” a booming voice hailed, rudely interrupting the peace of the hall—like shattering glass. Lael tensed visibly at the sound. “What a bath willna do to soothe a mon’s soul, eh?”

It was the same voice she’d heard abovestairs, but this time she recognized it at once. Time slowed, and the man’s voice distorted in her head like the roar of a beast. By all the gods of her ancestors! Her calm fled entirely.
That voice
belonged to none other than King David of Scotia. She would know it in her sleep. How many times had she dreamt of encountering him face to face so she might thrust a blade into his cold, calculating heart?

It was because of David she was standing here now!

He was the father of her misery!

He was the reason so many men were dead!

Her kin had been prepared to live in peace, but nay, he’d re-opened old wounds, reminding Lael of that terrible day she feared never to forget. If there was
one
man who deserved her enmity, only one man, it was
he
who hailed himself
mac na h-Alba’
—the last true son of Scotia.
That
man cared not a whit for the consequences of his actions. Lael vowed to kill him with her bare hands!

She didn’t think, merely acted. She spun without warning, striking the youth next to her with a fist cut to his throat. It sent him reeling backwards, hacking for a breath. Catching the other guards unawares, she broke through all three, leaping at the tall, round-bellied man who’d only just entered the hall. “You!” she howled.

David mac Maíl Chaluim’s eyes widened. “You!” he returned, though he did not cower. He stood his ground as Lael cast herself atop him, using the only weapons she had at her disposal—her hands.

Jaime could scarce believe his eyes.

No sane man—or woman—would ever dare assault the king. He could never have anticipated the girl’s reaction.

Propelling himself over the table, he hurled himself over the heads of men who scrambled before the sight of him. Even before any had gleaned what happened, Jaime was at the girl’s back, restraining her before she could inflict any more damage—but not before she’d reared back to give David a hearty smack across his cheek. The crack resounded through the hall and the form of her long, lean fingers imprinted a welt upon his ruddy face.

For his part, David would never strike a woman, thus he simply attempted to restrain her and gratefully shoved her toward Jaime, giving her into Jaime’s keeping as the guards came belatedly to his rescue.

“God’s breath!” the King exploded. And then, “Bluidy hell!” His face flushed, turning entirely purple with apoplexy.

Jaime realized that his fingers were biting into the girl’s arm, but his anger reared like a howling beast. He needed her out of his sight—now—before he could be tempted to take her head here and now. With growl of disgust, he shoved her firmly toward his squire. “Take her to the gaols. Lock her up and if you let her go again, I’ll take your head as well.”

Whatever good humor was shared between them was gone. White-faced, the lad said, “Aye, my lord.”

Stunned by her own reaction, Lael allowed them to restrain her as David attempted to repair himself. The hall, which had only moments before seemed as silent as a stone, roared with horrified chatter.

Lael blinked. She had never reacted so impulsively in all her days. She could not explain it, save to say that she was overcome by a black rage unlike any she’d ever experienced.
But they did not ask.
They bound her hands once more with rope and secured it tightly, nearly cutting off the circulation to her wrists.