Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (29 page)

That was where she’d slept last eve—and, ach! She’d bathed in that room as well—not once but twice. Not that she hadn’t swam nude with her kinsmen a hundred times or more, but there was something disturbing about the thought that someone unbeknownst to her might have spied her.

She cast a glance over her shoulder at the opulent room, and screwed her face with sudden comprehension. Someone intended to use it to spy on the room next door. She leapt down from the stool, shuddering over the depravity of the man who’d dwelt here before—mayhap all the MacLarens as far as she could tell. Although Lìli had never spoken an ill word about her first husband, his father, Dougal MacLaren had been one of those who’d joined Padruig mac Caimbeul in the raid against their vale, the one that claimed her father’s life.

She dragged the stool away from the east wall, thinking that, fortunately, it didn’t appear as though the peeping hole had been used recently. Mayhap someone—Lìli perhaps—had filled it to block the view? She longed to hug her sister-by-law and to tell her how sorry she was that she’d had to endure a man like Rogan MacLaren. It was just desserts that Aidan smote him as he had.

As for Lael’s own
husband
… ’Twas unlikely he had known about the peephole and even if he had, he hadn’t cared to see her unclothed when he had a right to last night. Forsooth, he’d gone to sleep without so much as an attempt to kiss her. Perchance he was lying, and he did favor men?

Feeling surly, Lael found her own garments. They were cleaned and folded at the foot of the bed and she quickly shed the silly wedding gown and discarded it. What had made her think to wear such a silly garment anyway?

This is all a mockery!

She donned her trews, her leather vest, and aye, even her empty scabbards. And then she washed her face with the frigid water that remained in the tub before braiding her hair as tightly as she dared. If she’d had a bit of woad to use, she would have adorned herself for war, but alas, she went unpainted out the door.

She found Luc waiting outside her door, seated quietly in a chair. “Good morn, my lady,” he said with a singsong greeting as he leapt up and sprang after her.

Lael scowled at the lad. Clearly unaccustomed to a woman like Lael, the squire lifted a pale brow as he examined her garb, but to his credit he said naught and Lael simply ignored him and started down the stairs.

He came after her. “What are we doing today?” he inquired with a note of excitement that made her grit her teeth.

She had said she might clean the chapel, but that should wait until she could somehow find a way to leave Luc behind. Lael took the steps a little faster. “
I
am going to the kitchen to see that my belly is fed, and then
I
intend to rally the maids and finish what
I
began—not that tis any o’ your concern.”

“I am hungry too,” he said quickly, his pace increasing behind her.

Lael clenched her jaw a little tighter.

Diabhul
! The lad was going to plague her til she itched to strangle him—that much seemed clear.

Well, if he was going to follow her about all day long like some nagging pup, she intended to put him to work. And since she was stuck here for the foreseeable future, she meant to be certain they had enough supplies to last the winter. She didn’t intend to perish simply because these people didn’t know how to use every last morsel and scrap to their advantage. Living in the Mounth, her kinsfolk were forced to find a use for every square of cloth, every bite of food and every last twig. She knew how to stretch their household goods, simply because traders seldom mounted the hills when her kinsmen had little in the way of gold and silver to trade. In Dubhtolargg, their treasures were far simpler to be sure.

Helping them learn how to ration their goods was the least she could do for the innocents who remained here at Keppenach—three in particular she was coming to know.

She heaved a sigh over her growing sense of guilt, for if she met the rest of this castle’s denizens, she was fairly certain she’d discover a few more.

More than she cared to confess, and as much as she liked Broc Ceannfhionn and wished to see him flourish, she certainly had no business in this petty war.

The procession was nearly at an end.

In total seven more were gone as of this morning’s sunrise with three wagons left to depart. As a matter of prudence, each man was allowed to take enough supplies to see him to hi destination, but no more.

Already this morn Jaime had dispatched men to acquire some of what they still needed. He had amassed a small fortune to spend here. But until the new supplies arrived they must make do with what they had. Lamentably, it wasn’t much. But now he was all the more impressed with his wife’s management of the kitchens after discovering how intricately she’d arranged the dishes to share ingredients in order to utilize every last morsel of food.

However, at the instant, he was hard-pressed to give a bloody damn what was being carried out through the gates now that Lael had emerged from the keep. Poor Luc ran behind her, struggling to keep pace. She swept across the bailey like a tempest, waving her hand at those who stood idle.

This morning the wind was mild but the cold was deep and his fingers were half numb. Nevertheless, his wife appeared half-bare as far as he could tell. She wore men’s trews of tight-fitted leather. Her sleeveless bodice was made the same, with laces that cinched her breast and waist. A cloak of fur was clasped about her neck and she wore an empty scabbard about her waist, along with a bracer about her arm, in which, it appeared, there was yet another sheathe for yet another of her wicked blades. It was now empty, of course, but he could well imagine the sight she must have presented fully armed. She brought to mind the image of Diana the huntress—the Roman goddess, whose visage was as lovely and radiant as the moon. It was little wonder these men had thought to hang her, for the sight of her alone could bring a weak man to his knees.

The last of the wagons passed by. “You there! What have you in the sack?” Kieran asked at Jaime’s side.

Without any horse to lead the cart, the man carried the hitch upon his back. “Oats, my lord. Naught but oats. I traded one sack for two pigs and seven hens. Since I ha’na any way to keep ’em any longer, seemed only fitting to leave ’em all behind.” His voice trembled. “’Tis more than fair, I believe.”

“Did your laird approve the trade?” Kieran barked.

“Nay,” the old man replied, his voice withering even as he spoke. He was nearly as old and as rickety as his cart and Jaime wondered over the wisdom in allowing him to leave with the snows certain to return sometime this eve, and yet he had no desire to keep anyone against their will.

“Pull it down!” Kieran demanded at once.

Jaime waved a hand, dismissing the cart and its owner. “Let him go. ’Tis naught but a measly sack of oats.” He looked to the terrified man. “Good man, is there anyone here who might vouch for your trade?”

The man nodded jerkily, his head tottering as though with palsy. He pointed with his chin at something or someone behind him and Jaime turned to spy the lovely copper-haired lass he’d first spied cleaning the hall racing across the bailey.

“I can vouch for him, laird,” the girl said breathlessly.

“Thank ye,” the old man said, nodding at the girl. “Thank ye,” he said again, and without lingering to hear more, he returned the hitch over his shoulder and once more began to tug the cart through the icy muck.

Under the bright November sun, last night’s snowfall had already melted, leaving only a spattering of white, though it wouldn’t be long before the snow stuck to the ground and there remained. Jaime hoped to hell the man had a decent place to stay not so far away. He would have pressed him to reconsider, but the man was already on his way, in as much of a hurry as an old man dragging a cart three times his size could possibly be.

Wondering where the devil his wife had gone, Jaime turned to the girl at his side. “What’s your name, lass?”

“Kenna,” she answered shyly.

Jaime gave a little shake of his head, startled by her answer, although it was hardly an uncommon name. “Thank you,” he said. “Kenna…”

She bowed her head and gave him a nod, and then hied away before Jaime could rally his thoughts, or even recover his tongue.

Bemused for the second time this morning, he watched the lass go, remembering the last time he’d set eyes upon his little sister. Even as a child of three, Kenna’s beauty was admired, with those tiny dimples appearing only when she smiled. She’d had hair much the same color as this girl’s, but there again, those copper ringlets were hardly rare in these parts. As best as he could recall, his sister’s eyes were gray, though with more of a hint of blue than Jaime’s, but he hadn’t thought quickly enough to notice the color of this girl’s eyes…

In his mind’s eye, he saw the burnt carcass of a small child upon the ground, and as he remembered, he could nearly smell the stench of charred flesh. They’d tossed her body over the wall without any regard for her humanity. She’d ended in a barely recognizable heap at Jaime’s feet and he could still recall the terrible fury that mounted in his breast—the rage that blinded him to aught but vengeance. He’d mounted his horse—a black steed with eyes nearly as black as its mane—and he’d grasped a pitch-laden torch. First, he set the outbuildings afire, ordering his men to take cover as arrows were loosed from the ramparts. One landed in his sister’s blackened body. Another shaved his brow. With blood rushing over his eyes, obscuring his vision, he’d barreled through the onslaught of missiles to set his blazing torch to the palisade walls, and then when he was done, he’d sat his mount and watched the fortress burn to the very ground, his torched raised against the lowering night.

It was not a pleasant memory.

The screams of those who’d writhed atop a living funeral pyre had filled the night like the wail of a thousand banshees.

He blinked, watching the girl disappear into the storehouse, wondering over the doings of his termagant wife.

“I dinna recall,” Cameron said, much to Aidan’s regret.

He wished to hear that his sister lived, that she’d only lent Cameron her horse to carry a message to the vale. He wished to hear that perhaps Cameron was set upon by brigands along the way, but that was not the case. As Aidan feared, there had been a battle and it came as little surprise to learn his sister volunteered with a small band of men to breach Keppenach’s walls.

Unfortunately, that was the last Cameron saw of her.

Aidan sat now, peering at the floor between his knees, a sick feeling mounting in his gut.

Lael had never been one to shy away from danger, particularly when she believed she could save somebody else. Considering Cameron’s age, Aidan could well imagine his sister would volunteer simply to keep the lad from harm. Apparently, Broc too had joined the band—but to what end? Their demise?

“The last we knew they’d ventured inside, but no sooner had we settled down to wait when arrows loosed from the walls.”

“Within minutes?”

Cameron shook his head. “Thirty or so.”

“She left Wolf with you?”

Cameron appeared confused by the question.

“Her horse,” Cailin clarified. His sister sat behind him, twiddling her fingers. Aidan hadn’t missed the looks that traversed between the pair.

“’Tis an odd name for a horse,” Cameron said, smiling again at Cailin. “But nay, she left the horse tethered to a tree in the copse. We were near the village, watching for the gates.”

Aidan exhaled a pent-up sigh, and gave Cailin a withering glance. “Go see if Lìli has awakened yet,” he commanded her, simply to get her out of the room. The last thing he intended to deal with at the instant was yet another of his sisters leaving the vale. Be damned if he’d allow it. Simply to prevent it he would be tempted to strangle Cameron where he lay to save himself the trouble of killing him later if he dared to think about courting his moony-eyed sister.

After Cailin was gone, he turned to Cameron. “Dinna think to dishonor my sister,” he warned the lad.