Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (25 page)

Vows be damned, if she found the opportunity to extricate herself from this travesty of a marriage she would take it. Pity any man who stood in her way.

As for her
laird husband
… The look he gave her sent a shudder through her and she cursed Broc Ceannfhionn for advising her to wear a silly gown—Cailleach plague the man! She felt like a stranger in this garb, even to herself, and the longer her husband stared, the hotter her cheeks burned—hotter yet once she realized everyone else was staring as well. For one discomfiting instant she wondered whether she wore any dress at all, for the looks painted upon their faces made her feel naked and exposed.

“Who in God’s heaven is that angel?”

“
That
is David’s surety,” Jaime answered Kieran as he stood and sucked in a breath at the beauty of his wife. He felt Kieran’s eyes turn upon him, but he could not bring himself to tear his gaze from his bride.

She paused on her way to the dais, and Jaime didn’t miss the hand that sped to her side, seeking comfort the only way she seemed to ken. A knowing smile turned his lips, for despite the lovely dress, she was a warrior at heart.

“God’s teeth!” Kieran hissed, standing belatedly at his side.

Only then did Jaime remember to take a breath.

Dressed in the palest ivory, Lael appeared every bit a bride, not a vixen, nor a warrior maid. She was a changeling, indeed… a vision of purity… an angel with ebony hair and sun-kissed skin. Her eyes, a sparkling green, were fixed solely upon him and he had the incredible sense that she’d dressed this way for him… inconceivable though it might seem.

The gown itself was a shimmering ivory silk, with sleeves that draped nearly to the floor like gossamer wings. The surcoat, made of velvet and trimmed in ermine, hugged every delectable curve of her body and she’d cinched the coat about her waist with a belt of gold that matched the circlet in her hair. In all his days he had never spied a woman so breathtakingly lovely—and to think she was his… it filled him with…
awe
… despite that he knew she was only playing a role.

In that instant, beyond any doubt, he realized he wanted so much more than a wife in name. He would have her heart… her soul… or he would set her free. She would come to him of her own free will or not at all, he vowed.

“Move,” he commanded Kieran. Whatever may come, tonight the seat beside him was to be his bride’s. That fact gave him an unexpected thrill. When Kieran did not move quickly enough, Jaime gave him a quick jab with his elbow.

Stirred from his stupor, Kieran nearly tripped over himself as he displaced the man next to him and each man thereafter stood and moved down one seat, beginning a tidal wave of human flesh, rising and shifting through the hall.

Surprised to find himself suddenly and drunkenly enamored of his wife, Jaime pulled the chair out for her, and his heart danced when her feet began again to move.

“My lady,” Kieran greeted her as she neared.

“
My wife
,” Jaime corrected him, lest he assume she was free to pursue. And this time it was Kieran’s turn to drop his jaw.

Dressed as she was, Lael felt entirely foolish.

This was not her place, not her folk. Simply that she would feel this way was proof enough that she didn’t belong here.

“Ye’ll catch a fly if ye dinna shut your gob,” she suggested, feeling more than a little disconcerted by the rapt attention she was receiving—even more so by her husband’s far too-knowing gaze.

“Forgive the man his rudeness. This is my captain of many years,” her husband explained.

“Kieran,” the rude man announced, and then he reached out and turned his palm up as though he wished for Lael to offer him something—a token perhaps?

She’d heard Sassenachs sometimes offered favors as symbols of friendships during their festivities. Perhaps this was but the same? It was supposed to be a celebration after all. For lack of a better thing to give the man, she pulled a pin out of her hair and placed it in his hand.

He simply stared at the gift, peering up at her, blinking as though he thought her loopy. Then suddenly he threw his head back and peeled with laughter. He slapped his mailed chest with the hand that held her pin, and Lael had the most incredible urge to seize it back.

For the first time in her entire life she felt at odds with herself, and far too late she reconsidered her treatment of Aidan’s wife when she’d first came to the vale. This was not the same, she realized, but she could hardly imagine a worse feeling than to be a bride amidst strangers in a strange place.

Fortunately, her butcher husband motioned for her to sit and she did so with all due haste. Tears strung her eyes as she took the empty seat between her husband and his captain.

By the bloody stone, she wished the entire room would look away. Every last man was ogling her now—likely waiting for her to lose her temper as she had only this morn. She would not give them the satisfaction!

She
could
behave as a woman should whenever she so wished. She was hardly a man beneath her gown, after all.

Even once they were seated the hall remained entirely too quiet. Lael heard the whispers sweep past the laird’s table.

Hurrying over with a goblet, Mairi—a reassuring face—set it down in front of Lael, smiling before Ailis passed by, pouring a bit of mead.

Grateful for a bit of drink to wash away her humiliation and her disappointment, Lael seized the goblet and drank from it deeply. Thankfully, Ailis stood near and hurried over to offer yet another pour. Belatedly, she wished now that she had asked one of the kitchen maids to help her dress, for she’d clearly made a fool of herself. She didn’t relish the way she felt—lowly and out of sorts—particularly since she didn’t even truly wish to fit in here—naught was the same as home.

Thankfully, now that she was seated and forgotten, at least by the two men seated nearest her, her husband’s captain reported at length about his travels north.
He’d made all due haste and without cause, forsaking taverns, all save one. And by the by, some wench who went by the name of Delilah sent her regards.
This, followed by a snicker that she was not supposed to ken.

To his credit, the Butcher merely cleared his throat. She heard him suck in a breath and hold it, as though he were as tense and ill at ease as Lael.

And so it went. Aside from the meal, there was naught celebratory about the evening, and why should there be? No jongleurs sang in honor of the bride and groom, no music, no toasts, and if there was ever any laughter, then it was very well at Lael’s expense, for she was naught but a
dún Scoti
amidst Scotia’s minions.

“’Tis a lovely gown,” her husband bent to whisper over her shoulder. “Is it yours?”

For some reason, the question struck Lael as odd and she turned to give him a withering look. “Of course. I pulled it out of my boot. I always arrive for a battle with a dress for the victory celebration.”

She thought she heard him chuckle, but couldn’t be sure, and then she felt his breath at her lobe, and the tenor of his voice this time seemed full of censure. “I only meant… I would thank the lass who lent it to ye.”

Lael cast him a beleaguered glance. “My guess is ye’ll never have the chance.” She smiled sweetly, bringing the goblet nervously to her lips and taking another sip. “Alas, I hear ye tossed her into the pyre.”

Beside her, her husband’s rude guest spat whatever was in his mouth. Lael felt the droplets alight upon her arm and turned in time to see it spew over the pate of some man at the lower tables.

“
Cha deoch-slàint, i gun a tràghadh,
” she said, toasting to herself.
It’s no health if the glass is not emptied.
But that was the last time she attempted to speak. She sat quietly beside her husband and felt only relief when the attentions of others were no longer upon the laird’s table. She took her comfort in the mead, a sickly sweet libation that made her teeth ache with every sip. Fortunately, it was nearly as heady as the
uisge
they made in Dubhtolargg and so she continued drinking and Ailis continued pouring. But instead of making her merry, she brooded in silence, gritting her teeth, angry with herself for expecting aught to be different.

In truth, she hadn’t even realized how much she’d craved a true wedding until this instant, when it was never more evident how much a farce it was.

“Imagine my relief to learn that knives are not your only forte,” her husband whispered at her side. She could hear the amusement in his tone. “The meal is quite a lovely surprise.”

“Because we’re savages?” she asked coyly.

He seemed dumbstruck by the question. Of course he thought what the rest of Scotia thought—that her kin were naught but backwards mountain folk with little couth and empty heads.

“Well,” she said, taking the burden from him to answer. “I assure you I am
far
better with my blades.” And she stabbed a bite of pork with an itty-bitty poniard—the only
knife
she’d been allowed to touch in days. She held it up before his face. “Shall I show you, my laird
husband
?”

Confused by the vehemence in her tone, Jaime frowned at the sight of the eating dagger she turned in her hand. Not that he had expected her to come about so swiftly, but when she’d appeared tonight looking every bit the bride, he’d only dared to hope.

So what was the purpose of the bonny dress? He wanted to ask her. Did she intend to flaunt in his face everything she would never give?

Until now, he’d sat beside her, trying in vain to shut Kieran up and spark a conversation with his recalcitrant bride, but it was clear enough that despite the dress, and despite her acquiescence, despite his attempts to show her that he intended to afford her all the respect due her as his wife, she gave him naught but spite. “You’re a moody little
dún Scoti,
” he offered, his confusion getting the better of him.

Clever little vixen that she was, she caught the intended barb, for she stood so swiftly that he feared she meant to plunge the eating dagger into his eye. It was all he could do not to flinch. He knew instinctively not to flag beneath her watchful eye. Nor, in truth, did he relish the thought of her undermining his authority over these men who were so new to his rule.
But
she was clearly distraught and he tempered his anger, exercising patience.

“I am
not
a Scot!” she hissed.

Everyone was watching now. Jaime was fully aware of every gaze trained upon the laird’s table. At his side, he saw Kieran cover his mouth to hide his mirth, but his wife’s cheeks were full of color, and her brows collided fiercely.

“
You are now
,” Jaime countered with as much patience as he could muster. “I am a Scot, and as my wife, you will bend the knee to whomever I pledge my allegiance,” he assured her.

She smiled thinly, her green eyes sparkling furiously. “I wadna like to see ye try to force me.”

The poniard’s blade gleamed between them, tiny as it was.

With every fiber of his being, Jaime itched to seize it from her, but he realized that it was precisely what she expected of him.

He was incensed that she would challenge him before his men—in the hall no less—particularly at such an uncertain time. But some part of him also realized her confusion. He knew if he gave in to his fury he would harden her heart forever, but he could not afford to allow her to gainsay him so rudely before others. He gently seized her by the wrist, pulling her down as though for a lover’s kiss.

“I
will not
force you,” he said for her ears alone. “You, my lovely wife, made a vow and I would see you keep it of your own free will.”

A flicker of unnamed emotion passed over her eyes, then vanished as swiftly as it appeared. “I did not freely take those vows, so why should I freely keep them?”

“Ah, but you did, my lady wife. You spoke the words and…“ he squeezed her wrist, urging her to drop the poniard into his lap “…no one held a blade to your throat.”

Lael’s gaze locked with her husband’s, refusing to look away.

Mayhap in truth he’d raised no blade to
her
throat, but he had to Broc’s—if not literally, at least by proxy. How quickly he forgot the ultimatum he’d given her only this morn.

Still holding her firmly by the wrist, he leaned forward, brushing his lips against her cheek. The incredible heat of it seared her flesh. “I will give the due to the drink, and forgive the insult, but if you make me ask you to drop the poniard yet again, I will do so in a fashion you will not relish,
my lady
.”

Lael’s gaze flicked downward, at the eating dagger in her hand. Briefly, she considered putting it elsewhere, but knowing that in truth she may not have behaved so rashly without the influence of the mead, she took a deep breath, reminding herself that challenging him here and now would gain her naught.

At last she dropped the eating dagger, casting a glance at Kieran over her husband’s shoulder. The man was still staring, open-mouthed—and they called her kin woodenheaded. “I bid your leave,” she said sweetly. “We have an
equally
important guest I must see to in the gaols.”