Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (28 page)

Had he truly no wish to bed her?

She lay staring at the canopy above, listening to her husband’s smooth, easy breathing. He slept easily, like a man who hadn’t a care in the world, though she didn’t believe for an instant that his conscience could be so pure.

And yet, his sins were
not
adding up while his good deeds were multiplying like rabbits.

She lay awake for a long while, fully expecting her husband to roll over and fondle her at least—a breast perhaps—but when at long last he began to snore she was forced to cede.

“
Tha thu rùn-dìomhair, mo duine.”
she whispered.

You are a mystery, my husband.

Anxious and ill-tempered, Maddog quit the hall before the trestle tables were dismantled, and now that they were down and the pallets were being returned for the long night, he grew more disgruntled with his position.

“Come now, Kenna. No one will know,” he pleaded.

Ignoring him, the girl hurried away from the storehouse after listening only for a moment to what he needed her to do—simply ask auld Bowyn to take the meal sack with him when he left Keppenach in the morning. Bowyn could never refuse Kenna aught, and if he would but take the sack containing the blacksmith’s child, Maddog could far more easily deal with the blacksmith himself once the body was discovered. In the meantime, Bowyn would never put Kenna at risk. Maddog was certain the old codger fancied the lass.

“
Please,
Kenna!”

Her dark hair shining under the moonlight, she stubbornly shook her head as she hurried through the garden. “I tol’ ye last time, Maddog, I wadna help ye e’er again! I’ll no’ be party to your sins!”

“Ach, lass, would ye refuse a mon who once saved ye from certain death?”

She placed her hands to her ears. “I’ll no’ be hearin’ this again,” she said. “’Twas
my father
who saved me that day. Ye were but the lucky mon who brought me home—and truth be told, ye were like to be the one Donnal trusted least. If he sent ye away from Dunloppe, he did so only because ye were his kin so dinna speak to me about favors or duty.”

“You wound me,” Maddog said, rushing after her. “And Donnal MacLaren was no more your blood than I am.”

That got her attention. She stopped abruptly and spun to face him. “What say ye?”

“Auld MacLaren wasna your father,” Maddog revealed, and when her expression remained doubtful, he added, “Devil take my soul if I dinna tell ye true, sweet lass.”

“I dinna ken ye’ve one left to take,” she countered, but then she simply stared at him, looking bewildered. He knew she’d heard the rumors corroborating what he was telling her, but there was no one alive who knew the truth, save he. That he’d brought home a strange child auld Donnal supposedly sired was never in itself questioned, but neither was Kenna ever embraced. Fearing any sibling rivalry—even from a baseborn lass less than half his age—Donnal’s son Dougal had never accepted Kenna, leaving her to wander like a beggar amidst their kin. And both of Dougal’s sons, Stuart and Rogan, treated her just the same—neither good, nor bad, but indifferent nonetheless.

“Ye dinna have an ounce of MacLaren blood in your veins,” he maintained, though somewhat more gently, despite that she was bound to hold little affection for any of the MacLaren brood. “Though I know whose kin ye be, and I will tell ye if ye but help me with this one unfortunate task. It was an
accident
, Kenna.”

Her eyes were liquid. She appeared wounded, but he sensed her resignation. “Why would ye keep something like this from me so long, Maddog?”

Maddog pursed his lips. “What could it possibly have changed?”

“Quite a lot if my minny and da yet live.”

“Alas, but they dinna, child.” That much was not a lie, but he needn’t offer the entire truth as yet—that she had a brother who might be interested to know his sister did not burn when auld MacLaren said she did.

One hand went to her hips and he held back a grin at the sight of it, for he knew he’d won. It was a conciliatory gesture, but the girl said naught, she simply stared at Maddog with those steel-blue eyes, looking far too much like the Butcher for Maddog’s peace of mind.

It was only a matter of time before
someone
suspected the truth.

“It was an accident, Kenna,” he pleaded desperately. “The boy pounced on me whilst I was cleaning my sword—in the dark! With all that’s happened of late, I thought he was one of
theirs
come to do me in. I dinna trust the Butcher, nor should ye, dear girl. What if he were to discover who I am? He may believe me a threat. I thrust out my sword before I realized who it was. Alas, it was only poor Afric’s son.”

“Your temper will be your downfall some day,” Kenna scolded. “If ye live by the sword, Maddog, ye’re bound to die by it as well.”

“I am trying, dearling, ye know I am. ’Tis nay easy burden to lose so much in the blink of an eye.” He waved his hand over the expanse of the keep. “All this should have been mine.”

She did not readily agree, and Maddog hid his annoyance. “Ye ken what ’tis like to be ignored by your blood. Neither Dougal, Stuart nor Rogan e’er gave either of us a care. Yet
I
am their kin, and ye are no’
.
Even so,
I
watched o’er ye, when no one else gave a damn. For that ye owe me something, Kenna.”

As poor as their relationship might be, he was the only family who had ever recognized her. Still she hesitated.

“If the boy leaves with Bowyn they’ll simply say he ran away. But if they find him dead, they’ll hang me as surely as they hung Broc’s men.” Recalling suddenly that he was the one who ordered the hangings, he quickly added, “If I die there will be no one to speak for Keppenach, and no one left who knows the truth about your birth. It was an
accident
, Kenna!” he persisted. “I dinna mean to do it.” He was glad now that she had not peered into the sack to see that the boy’s throat was nearly severed.

She sighed and gave him the same lovely pout that had been winning the hearts of Keppenach’s denizens since her wee days. Truth be told while neither Rogan nor Stuart ever paid her any mind, Kenna had wanted for naught, for she was well loved by the rest of the clan. Maddog simply took credit for her many boons when he could.

On the other hand, he had worked hard every day of his life for every morsel of food he’d ever put in his mouth and she owed him something for not killing her when he could. He should have, in truth, because she was bound to be one more contender for what should be his.

“If I help ye… ye’ll tell me the name of my father?”

Maddog nodded emphatically. “I will. Ye know I will.”

“Very well,” she relented. “I’ll ask Bowyn to take the sack, with one condition: I will tell him ’twas me who done the boy in.” She nibbled her bottom lip, as though trying hard to justify what must be done. She eyed Maddog uncertainly. “’Twas an accident, was it not?”

Maddog nodded quickly.

“I’ll beg him to bury poor Baird up on a hill beneath a lovely tree.”

Maddog nodded again and made a despairing face. He peered down at his feet, more to hide the smile that threatened rather than to pretend he was aggrieved for the dead child. “Aye, Baird would have liked that.”

“And what shall we tell his poor da?”

Maddog shrugged, for the boy’s da would never hear aught again—not of his son, or anything else. His days were already done. With a little luck, his bones would rot at the bottom of the well. “Just the same, I suppose. Were it my own son, I’d like to think he were somewhere safer than beneath the Butcher’s murderous thumb.”

Something about the look in Kenna’s eyes told him that she did not quite agree, but she relented. “Very well, but ne’er again, Maddog. ’Tis the verra last time. And after, if ye dinna tell me the truth of my birth, I will go myself and tell the Butcher what ye ha’ done.”

Maddog nodded. “Fair enough, sweet lass. Fair enough.”

With his agreement, she spun on her heels and marched away and Maddog watched her leave, wondering whether he would be forced to take her life as well.

No one but Maddog knew precisely who she was… and as far as he was concerned it didn’t serve his purpose to tell.

Much to Lael’s relief—or mayhap her dismay—her husband rose early, leaving her to sleep. By the time she opened her eyes it was full light outside.

She rose from the bed far more confused than she’d climbed into it, for how quickly he’d agreed to set her free! Clearly, he didn’t care to have a wife anymore than she wished to be one.

In the morning light, the room was all the more astonishing.

Whilst the rest of the keep was dingy and lacking, this room revealed all the glittering treasures of a petty king. Rogan MacLaren had clearly wanted for naught, and truth be told half of what he possessed Lael had no inkling what it was for. A lovely little green intricately adorned pot sat on the floor near the bed. She lifted it up to examine it and found it reeked of urine. “Phew,” she whispered, and set it down once more, brushing her fingers against her lovely wrinkled gown. She could well imagine what
that
was for.

Piggish fool.

A large tapestry depicting the coronation of Kenneth MacAilpín adorned half one wall. Imbued with details that were hardly apparent in the evening light, it was fully revealed now in the light of day. The colors were rich and bold—reds and golds. The stitches were sewn by knowing hands. She brushed her fingers over the depiction of the Stone from Scone. It appeared precisely the same as the one they had hidden in their ben—at least so they’d said, and so it appeared. In MacAilpín’s hand, he brandished a great sword, but unfortunately here the details were not so fine. From the depiction alone it was not possible to determine whether it was the same sword Broc Ceannfhionn had brought into their hall. However, the tapestry put to shame anything they had hanging on the walls of Dubhtolargg. They were far more practical there, lining their walls with furs to keep the rooms warm. In fact everything here was bigger, bolder, shinier and bejeweled.

Noting the size of the bed, she now realized where the fur cover had come from—the one that had appeared in her prison bower—the one she gave to Broc. She suspected she also knew who had brought it for her: The one man who had a right to. Little by little
his
good deeds were beginning to outnumber his sins.

It was not I who stormed Keppenach,”
he’d told her last night. And that much was true. It was Lael who’d done that, alongside Broc Ceannfhionn. And from what she could tell, these people seemed to have no issue with their new laird. So it seemed she was more the villain than he, for in truth Rogan MacLaren was sworn to David as his king, and so was the Butcher.

Broc also called himself a Scot, and simply by virtue of that fact, he was in fact a traitor to his crown.

Lael was his accomplice, who’d acted in fear.

Her brother was right; the more she thought about it, the more she knew it was true. Mayhap Keppenach was owed to Broc Ceannfhionn, but this war was not Lael’s to fight. And now her penance—perchance for life—was to live as the Butcher’s wife—a simple truth that she wasn’t entirely certain how she was supposed perceive.

“Jaime,” she said with a frown, testing the name upon her lips. It sounded for all-the world a kindly name—if not kind, precisely, at least it lacked any cruel sense. At every turn he treated her with respect.

I have never met a more beautiful lass.

Even now she could feel the blush rise to her cheeks at the memory of his words.

He was not hideous either, she was forced to confess. Not even his scar detracted from his good looks, and she wondered how many women he’d loved. Perhaps there was someone even now, and Lael was not the wife he craved? That thought strangely aggrieved her. And more… it left her feeling oddly envious, although that was ridiculous because she hardly knew the man.

A small stepped stool was butted against the east wall. She wandered over, thinking it odd, because it appeared as though the steps meant to
go
somewhere, but there was no door set above it, nor even a window to peer from. However, she did spy those same strange holes she’d noticed in the adjoining room so she climbed the small ladder and put her eye to the largest opening. It was entirely obscured, but because it was somewhat larger on this side, she shoved a finger inside and pushed something out the other end. Then she peered through it once more, startled to find the aperture trained upon the bed in the room next door. The sight of it gave her pause.