Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (24 page)

Alas, considering the circumstances, what more could she expect?

Something better
, she decided.

Contenting herself with her own company, and unfamiliar with the rituals of womenfolk, she undressed herself. She didn’t need a silly maid. Alone she prepared the garment she would wear. Alone she laved herself. Alone she combed her hair. And then alone she contemplated the night to come, for surely he would remember his vows come nightfall. He was a man, after all.

And then would he live up to his name? Would he rape and plunder her womanly bits? Likely, she decided, for he was half English—and that half seemed the better part of him for all that she could tell. He walked and talked like an Englishman, he probably rutted like one as well. And if that be true, he would find Lael an even match, for she was hardly the sort to sit idly by and let a man have his way. Mayhap she had never been with a man before, but she surely knew how to gut one.

Smirking as she tossed the gossamer ivory gown over her head, she shrugged herself into it. She wanted her new husband to see what he would
never
own, for while she’d made him a bargain for her body, she’d never promised him her heart.

She was quite pleased to find this dress was longer than the rest, because the hem was not yet sewn. Clearly Aveline had yet to finish it. “Poor lass,” she said again, lamenting the girl’s fate, and then she stood in front of the little mirror, looking to see how well the dress fit.

The glass was cloudy and her image was warped. Staring back at her, she spied a
brollachan
—a gruesome creature of the night—with bulging eyes and a wide nose with enormous pits for nostrils. “Poor husband!” she recanted. He was probably accustomed to women who wore silks from the East, whose hair was pale as honey and whose features were dainty and lovely. Her cheekbones were far too prominent, her eyes too deep, her hair too black. Frowning, Lael plucked the mirror off the sill and tossed it upon the bed, then with another round of curses, she went to join her husband for the feast she had planned.

Kieran removed his gauntlets, casting them upon the table. “’Tis little wonder ye simply waltzed into this keep. Tis practically abandoned. MacLaren’s men were likely pissing in their boots.” He adjusted the sword in his scabbard, then took a seat at the high table, clearly not so road-weary that he would forsake a jest or two at Jaime’s expense.

Theirs was a complicated relationship. He and Kieran both had fostered beneath Henry, both nearly equal in skill and strength, yet Jaime had received commendations from both David mac Maíl Chaluim and Weston FitzStephen; so it was certainly true that it was as much who you knew as how you fought.

Nevertheless, Jaime trusted Kieran without fail. In fact, he was the
only
man he trusted with such certitude. They were much like brothers.

“The king’s standard never left the turrets,” Jaime argued.

“As ever, my friend, modesty becomes you,” Kieran offered with a grin. “But so he said, we met him en route to Teviotdale. He assured us that you had the keep well in hand. Thus we offered him three riders to accompany him south.” He shoved his gloves aside, peering about the hall with interest. “He would not accept, mind you, but we sent them anyhow. Another six returned to London to relay the news to Henry. I’m certain King Henry will be pleased to learn his
protégé
has made yet another inroad into the mutinous north.” He nodded with approval. “’Tis a fine hall ye’ve won, despite the dilapidated walls. If ye can keep the vermin out, we’ll spend a toasty winter here.”

Jaime lifted a brow. “The vermin might very well help keep us warm with all the drafts in this keep,” he said. “How many men came with you?”

Kieran scratched his brow, counting. “Forty nine,” he said after a moment. “We waited for MacBeth, who said he would join with another twenty, but MacBeth himself took ill.”

“Do you believe him?”

Kieran shrugged. “It matters not. David will prevail, I have no doubt.”

Jaime read what he did not say in the gleam of his black eyes. “That is not what I asked.”

Kieran smiled. “’Tis a good thing one of us equals twenty of them, eh?”

“Luck favors the strong,” Jaime contended, reconsidering their numbers.

It was true enough that his warriors were far more adept than most, but one hundred men and women could not hold the keep against an army of a thousand or more. They’d managed to save Keppenach from changing hands, but it was a matter of haste, not strength. He’d ridden hell-bent for the north, leaving half his retinue to join him later, because he realized the castle was left with such a meager garrison. If he did not beat the MacKinnon to Keppenach’s gates, the battle to wrest it back would shed more blood than David was prepared to pledge. As luck would have it, MacKinnon’s men had not yet arrived and the weather might win them a reprieve, but Jaime knew the chieftain’s reputation and he knew the MacKinnon would keep his word. Sooner or later he would come. The question remained:
When? And with how many?

Nevertheless, war was not imminent and peace was never due the absence of conflict, rather it was won by peaceful resolutions in the face of it. The dilemma now was to decide which terms to present to the MacKinnon in order to keep from going to war. And if they must raise arms to protect Keppenach, would Aidan dún Scoti join the fight now to save his sister? Jaime knew very well that forcing Lael into this union could polarize the dún Scoti one way or another.

However, what intrigued Jaime most was this simple question: Why would a well-respected chieftain like MacKinnon, who for the most part had held himself apart from political strife, and who, until now had never opposed David… Why would he lend his sword to aid a lowly liegeman who, by all accounts, had naught to recommend him? That was what Jaime wanted to know.

And more… Why would Lael feel compelled to take up arms and fight at Broc’s side when her brother clearly declined?

Broc Ceannfhionn was once heir to Keppenach, that much Jaime knew. More than thirty years earlier his patrimony was, indeed, stolen by Donnal and Dougal MacLaren—father and son, riding under the banner of Alasdair mac Maíl Chaluim, David’s brother and King of the North, before his death. Together Donnal and Dougal razed Keppenach, murdering the MacEanraig chieftain and left his sons and daughters for dead. At the time, David had ruled only the lands south of the River Forth and the two brothers had fought bitterly to keep their borders firm. As far as Jaime understood the facts, there were very few MacEanraigs remaining after the old chieftain’s death. Broc apparently had spent the entirety of his life under MacKinnon’s rule, contented with his lot until he’d wed an English lass—a distant cousin to Piers de Montgomerie, who, by the by had also been enfiefed by David and whose loyalty now lay in question.

Much to David’s regret, a few years ago he’d sent Montgomerie north to hold lands adjacent to
Chreagach Mhor
, the seat of MacKinnon’s rule. Could it be that Montgomerie had a hand in Broc’s treachery? Did Montgomerie plan to join MacKinnon as well? These were all questions that were yet to be determined, and any one of the answers would play a part in whether Keppenach remained under David’s rule—and more pointedly, under Jaime’s. But now that it was his, Jaime would die to keep it—particularly now that there was so much more at stake.

I have a wife.

He thought of Lael and his lips curved upward automatically.

She was lovely and full of mettle, unlike any lass he’d ever known. Without a by-your-leave, she’d seized the keys from Luc and set about ruling his demesne as though she were born to the task.

“At any rate,” Kieran said, “’tis glad I am ye accepted this fief, Jaime. Better it should go to ye than to another. Too often a man’s penance for refusing to play the politik game is that he ends being governed by inferiors.”

It was an odd remark coming from Kieran. “Do you have regrets serving me, old friend?”

Kieran blinked, and shook his head, as though only realizing how it might have sounded to Jaime’s ears. “Nay,” he swore. “I spoke of you, my friend. Twice before I was nearly certain Henry meant to reward you with a baronetcy, but you seemed disinclined and so they went to men the likes of de Ros and Mowbray, both of whom already have their fair share—neither as loyal as you.”

“They were English baronetcies,” Jaime argued.

There was a twinkle in Kieran’s eye. “But you have never claimed to be anything less?”

Jaime tilted Kieran a questioning look. This was their one departure, as both Kieran’s father and his mother were English, but he understood Kieran meant it only as a jest. “Is it
less
to be a Scotsman, my friend?”

Kieran grinned. “So then tis true, then? David claims he’ll make a Scotsman of ye yet if tis the last thing he will ever do.” He gave a conciliatory tilt of his head. “And by the looks of this place, he’s come a long way already if you’ve accepted Keppenach over all the rest.”

Jaime laughed. “As Scottish as David,” he allowed, then more soberly, he added, “If the opportunity arises, I would see you enfiefed as well.”

Kieran nodded. “If the opportunity rises, I would welcome it,” he said. “Even a ruinous manor like this.”

Jaime laughed. He knew his friend only too well, and knew by the look in his black eyes that he had already gleaned the possibilities here in the squally north. Inasmuch as there was work to be done, Jaime already felt a sense of homecoming. And Kieran knew him well enough to ken that as well. However, he wouldn’t linger now to explore the thought, though he wondered how much of his new sense of triumph was due to the land… or due to his bonny new wife.

Jaime suspected a little of both.

While they had been speaking at length, the hall transformed itself and it pleased him to know Lael had a hand in the orchestration of the evening meal. He spied a variety of dishes passing by, including mylates of pork—a pie using leftover roast—mortrews, a pâté, also using pork and rice, and blancmanger, a dessert made of chicken, rice and almond milk. All in all it was quite a creative fare and entirely unexpected. He decided there was much he didn’t know about his dún Scoti bride and her kin.

Tales of her clan were oft fodder for children’s nightmares. Only men who were as wild and unforgiving as the Highlands themselves could survive so long so deep in the Mounth. It was said that her tribesmen were hardly evolved from the Pechts and Northmen who’d once travailed the untamable north, but from what Jaime could see, the lass knew her way about a castle far better than most discriminating ladies of the south.

But not even the food distracted Kieran from their discussion. “Do ye worry the MacKinnon will come?”

Jaime sniffed the air as one of the maidservants passed by with a pie still warm from the oven. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until this instant. “I would worry more for the state of the nation did he not,” he replied honestly. “And when he comes we have Broc Ceannfhionn.”

Kieran eyed him meaningfully. “So is Broc the surety I hear tell David left ye with? He seemed so certain MacKinnon would stay his hand.”

Apparently no one had told Kieran about Jaime’s nuptials. Jaime was about to do so, when suddenly Lael appeared on the stairs and his jaw nearly fell to his shins.

A little uncertainly, Lael made her way down the stairs.

Filled to overflowing with strange men, there were scarce enough tables in the hall to accommodate the newest influx of guests.

To be certain everyone was well fed for the night’s celebration—her wedding celebration—Lael ordered twice the amount of food she might have ordered otherwise. ’Twas a good thing, for she’d had little inkling how many mouths there would be to feed. As she descended the stairwell, she peered over the tables, making certain the food was justly served, not all piled high on the laird’s table and then dispersed from there. In Dubhtolargg, all men were treated equally. Her brother would be the first to enforce that law, a verity that apparently appalled King David whilst he was a guest in their home. But now fie on him, for they did not live to please David mac Maíl Chaluim!

Oblivious to the chaos he was surrounded by, her butcher husband sat conversing with his guest upon his butcher’s throne.

Below the dais, tables were being positioned to seat as many as could be seated, and benches were being dragged to and fro. The instant Lael appeared, the cacophony ceased, and everyone stopped what they were doing at once.

Embarrassed by the attention, she checked the hem of her dress, and found the garment had already inched higher, so she tugged it down once more and held her head high, entering the hall with as much pluck as any man.

In the deafening silence, her husband’s guest—a lion-haired warrior of mayhap thirty summers or more—stood abruptly, raking his seat backward against the wooden floor of the dais. His hand flew to the pommel of his sword.

Instinctively, Lael’s reached for hers, finding naught but air where her beloved sword should be. She halted mid stride, half expecting the man to dive over the table the way her husband had done earlier. But he simply stared. Garbed in his armor, he made quite an imposing sight, but one single well-placed arrow would fell him quicker than he could blink. That fact gave Lael a bit of a smirk, for inasmuch as these men believed themselves invulnerable encased in their silver helms and tunics, she could easily prove they were not.