Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (18 page)

“Nay,” Fergus said. “’Tis his blood.”

Her brother’s burly captain dragged the lad from the gray and set him quickly down upon the ground.

Suddenly recognizing his face, Cailin fell to her knees beside him. “Cameron,” she whispered, her heart leaping into her throat.

They’d met but twice, but despite the bruises and swelling and all the dirt and blood, she could never mistake him. He’d made goo-goo eyes at her over his cups, and she’d thought him a braw young man. Albeit at the instant he seemed frail and little more than a lad.

What of her sister? Cailin worried. She peered up at the horse Fergus was busy inspecting from hoof to head, and then met her brother’s gaze with a dawning sense of horror. “What of Lael?” she dared to ask.

No one answered, for who could possibly know? The animal returned without her, instinctively finding her way home.

“Is he dead?” Keane asked.

Cailin set her ear against Cameron’s chest and held her hand firmly against his belly, listening closely for the beat of his heart. She could scarce hear a thing over the rise of voices as Sorcha came running along with the rest of the children from the snow-peppered meadow. But there it was… She shook her head in answer to Keane’s question, and looked up at her youngest sister. “Go fetch Lìli and Una!”

“Both?” Sorcha asked.

“Aye, both,” Cailin affirmed. If Cameron had any chance at all of surviving this night, he would need all their healing wisdom. And maybe Una might know what befell her sister.

Sorcha nodded. “What shall I say?”

Cailin’s tone was dire. “Tell them to bring fae magic,” she charged and Sorcha immediately hied away.

At least to Cailin that’s what their medicine seemed to be, for she had little knowledge of herbs. Nor did she have Sorcha’s innate warmth and sweetness, nor Lael’s bent for war. Neither did she have her sister Catrìona’s nurturing temperament—and she could scarce stand the sight of blood. Why this instant she did not run screaming away she could not precisely fathom.

“Help me!” she commanded her brother. “We’ll take him to my room.”

“Nay,” Keane argued. “Wait for Aidan.”

“Dinna quarrel with me whilst this boy lay dying, Keane!” Now was not the time for her brother’s sense of propriety. If he would not help, she would do it herself. She moved behind Cameron’s head and took the lad by his arms, prepared to carry him alone if she must.

Aidan suddenly appeared at her side, looming above them, his face a mask. “By the sins of Sluag!”

“He came riding Wolf,” Fergus said, his voice dour.

“What of Lael?” Aidan asked and Fergus shook his head.

A pained expression came over her eldest brother’s features, then fled and without another word he bent to seize Cameron MacKinnon’s arms away from Cailin, then he himself bore Cameron to the crannóg.

Cailin surged to her feet and ran flailing after.

Arrogant Sassenach-loving cur.

Long after the Butcher left her chamber, Lael lay brooding on the bed, in the dark, staring at the shuttered window.

Not only had they once again declined to leave her with a brazier, they did not even give her a single candle to chase away the evening shadows. Slivers of moonlight slid through the shutters, stabbing at the wood floor in front of her bed. She missed her knives. Inasmuch as they were poor bedfellows, they would have surely offered her a way out of this mess.

But to their credit, at least, they’d left her with a heavy blanket, a particularly large blanket that appeared as though it could warm half a dozen men in one fell swoop. Thick and made of fur, she wondered how many animals had died to keep the laird of Keppenach warm—the previous laird, she realized, although she was no less rankled by the new one.

At least she fared better than Broc. She loathed to consider her friend down in the gaol, shivering in the muck next to Aveline’s grave.

Keppenach is mine.

And so are you.

His words still infuriated her.

What could he possibly have meant by that? Did he plan to keep her as a thrall? A prisoner in his odious tower? And once he’d said the words, he’d simply walked away, revealing naught more. He’d left her with that simple threat:
On the morrow we shall see to whom you bow.

Indeed. “We shall see,” Lael whispered to herself—though who else might hear? The king sleeping next door? She could hear him snoring through the thick stone walls.
Fat bore.

However, sleep eluded her and solitude was a stranger.

At home she rarely had a moment to herself. She oft hid herself behind the waterfall at Caoineag’s Pool, where no one else could find her. She would sit there for hours, sharpening her knives. There was something about settling there with a whetstone, and sliding it down the length of her perfectly honed blades that always brought her peace of mind.

She wondered if she would ever see that pool again, ever hear Caoineag’s weeping. Some claimed that when she wailed, death came to visit the clan. Was The Weeper weeping even now? Or mayhap there would be no weeping for Lael now that Aidan had disowned her?

It doesn’t matter.

The Weeper didn’t exist anyway. The winds were fickle this time of year and Lael had never actually spied her in all her years in the vale.

Nor was Una truly the Mother of Winter. Inasmuch as she had seemed one hundred years old when Lael was but a child and she certainly looked that old now, the old priestess was merely flesh and blood—with all the troubles of a body born. As such, she was someday bound to die.

Everybody died.

Some were certain to do it before their time.

Mayhap the Butcher changed his mind and tomorrow he’d put her back on the gallows? With that morbid thought, Lael pulled the blanket over her head, and it brought an unexpected wave of sorrow.

“What shall I do?” she asked Una from afar, and wished with all her might that the rumors could be true—that Una was in fact the Cailleach Bheur, guardian of her people. Mayhap then the wily old priestess could wield whatever powers she possessed and endeavor to set Lael free. Alas, but she couldn’t seem to accomplish the task alone. Shivering beneath the blanket, she listened for a moment to the sound of her own breath… and then, at last, she fell asleep.

The king sat in Jaime’s chair at the laird’s table, fiddling with the dirty cloth that so recently lay entangled about Aveline of Teviotdale’s wretched form. The bloodstained woolen cloak lay folded neatly upon the table, the white unicorn displaying dingily against the deep green wool.

“I met her father this summer past,” David disclosed. “He attended one of my councils. Struck me odd even then that he would send his only daughter
unwed
to share MacLaren’s bed, like some filthy whore.”

Jaime listened. He’d determined long ago that he gleaned far more in David’s company when he simply held his tongue, and since David enjoyed talking and Jaime didn’t, the arrangement suited him well.

“Poor dumb lass,” David lamented. “Her father’s a bluidy fool—now he’s a fool without heirs since his son enjoys the favor of men.” He sighed portentously. “How long has the girl been dead?”

Jaime shrugged. “A year, mayhap more.”

They’d washed the cloak, but the bloodstains remained. Nevertheless, David intended to return the cloak to Aveline’s sire. As unfortunate as the turn of events might seem, if Teviotdale harbored some hope of finding his daughter alive… At least this would put the matter to rest.

As for who put the poor lass in the box… there was simply no way to know. Even from the grave, Rogan MacLaren cast a long shadow over his garrison. In all his life, Jaime had never met such recalcitrant men. Despite that they might have curried favor with Jaime and the king as well, they kept their mouths closed, revealing naught. It was as though they harbored some belief MacLaren wasn’t dead, or perchance that he might rise up from the grave and cut out their wagging tongues. Jaime reasoned it was because no one had actually set eyes upon MacLaren’s body.

David, on the other hand, was quite certain of the old laird’s demise. He might be at odds with the dún Scoti chieftain, though he seemed to trust Aidan’s word without fail.

For Jaime’s part, he had to wonder about a man who allowed his sister to embroil herself in a battle that could not be won—no matter how well versed she was with her arms. Given the chance, he would have done everything in his power to protect Kenna. Broc’s men were fated to lose and even if their small band of rebels had managed to wrest the keep from Maddog, there would have been no way for them to hold it. Apparently Broc did not even have the MacKinnon’s support, whilst David had the backing of England, and he held the lands and fealties south of the River Forth, with pockets of supporters in the north. Little by little, Scotland was falling beneath his rule, reluctantly or nay.

Unbidden, Jaime thought of his bride-to-be, locked away in his tower, and wondered if she too would come to heel… or whether she would fight until her dying breath.

Arms crossed, he peered into the crowd that was now gathering beyond the hall’s great doors. Most of the plaintives were probably hoping Jaime would hear their grievances whilst King David was still in residence. Unfortunately for them, David seemed to have little interest in aught but the Teviotdale lass and the vows yet to be spoken between Jaime and his dún Scoti
queen
. To that end, they seemed to be idling away the morn waiting for David’s sluggardly priest. Eager now to be away, all that was keeping the king in residence was the simple fact that he meant to be certain Jaime followed through with his edict. Apparently, he trusted Jaime with half of Scotland, though not enough to leave Keppenach without seeing the vows were spoken.

“Her child was an innocent,” David lamented. “Both should have been laid to rest in consecrated ground. My priest will have much to say about that, I fear.” He wagged a finger at Jaime.

Jaime was unwilling to concern himself with David’s gossiping prelate. “This far north, the ground is nearly frozen,” he said, offering David a ready excuse. It was not quite true, of course, but it would be soon, and it was bad enough Jaime would be forced to take a wife of David’s choosing; he wasn’t in the mood to endure his sermonizing priest. “At any rate, Your Grace, he has more pressing matters to attend, does he not?”

A tiny smile turned the corner of David’s lips—the first sign of good humor since Jaime woke him to inform him of the discovery in the gaols. “If I dinna ken better,” he said, “I would suspect ye were anxious to see the matter done?”

Jaime frowned. The assertion annoyed him mostly because it was true. “’Tis been a long road north,” he proffered. “Aye, I would be done with this matter so that I may better focus on rebuilding this demesne.” If he felt any thrill at all, he told himself, it was only because he would not have to wipe the girl’s blood from his good sword.

David considered him another long moment, then crooked another finger at him. “Dinna underestimate the lass,” he warned. “I made that mistake with her sister Catrìona. It soured my position with Iain MacKinnon and the Brodies as well. Ye can well imagine, and she was no less cunning than this one.”

“Your Grace, you may be certain I will no—”

A scuffle turned their attentions toward the door. There, two of Jaime’s guards stood holding a heavy-set man from entering the hall. Jaime recognized the blacksmith at once. He’d taken a moment yestereve to speak with the man after inspecting the gates in order to commission new bolts. The gates were his primary concern at the moment. Should the MacKinnon come after all, there was no way those gates in their present condition would keep him out. But Jaime didn’t recall the blacksmith so full of temper. Clearly, something happened between then and now.

“Wait your turn!” his guards bellowed into the man’s face.

“Nay!” the blacksmith shouted back. “I must see him.” He tried once more to force entry into hall, and as hefty as he was, he nearly succeeded.

Jaime took his responsibility to these people seriously. The sooner he resolved their issues, the sooner he would return Keppenach to order. He peered down at David to be certain he was up to the trial. Pre-occupied with the cloak and the priest and the vows yet to be spoken, David merely shrugged, so Jaime waved the man inside. “Let him be,” he commanded his guards. “Come in,” he charged the man.