Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (31 page)

Her lovely brows collided. “What does it seem I am doing?”

Jaime was unprepared for the act of confronting her, with her lovely cheekbones high with color. Her once tightly braided hair was mussed now, her ebony locks defying her rule even as she defied his.

“I did not give you leave to touch a blade,” he said, trying not to note her navel peeking just above her trews. God help him, she was far too lovely for his peace of mind. His cock defied him now as well, rising to greet her like a traitorous little fellow.

“You did not forbid it either,” she countered, giving him a look that was neither insolent, nor cowing, despite the audacity. Rather it was matter of fact.

Jaime marched past her, heading for the quintain. He seized the axe from the wooden replica of a warrior, surprised to find the blade embedded so deeply that he had to afford it all his strength in order to remove it. “I am now,” he said, once the axe was free, and he turned to face her.

She lifted her chin defiantly. “Why?”

“I could give any number of reasons.”

Her brow furrowed. “Give me simply one that makes a whit of sense. I have given you no cause to doubt my word or my sincerity. Here I stand, wed to ye, after spending most of the day returning your house to order.”

“Because you are Keppenach’s lady,” he reasoned.

She scrunched her nose and then tilted him a look that said she thought him daft. “I
said
give me
one
reason with a whit of sense. That one makes no bloody sense at all!”

The axe’s weight taxed Jaime’s hand nearly as much her question did his brain, and he marveled that she had wielded it so easily. She stood with arms akimbo, waiting for his answer, and behind her stood a progressively curious crowd.

“Get back to work—all of you!” Jaime barked, and then turned once more to address his lovely wife after the crowd disbursed. “’Tis reason enough for me,” he assured her. “Though if you need another, I prefer your efforts in the garden.”

“I see,” she said, tapping her foot angrily.

He prefers me in the garden?

Lael thought about his answer an instant, trying to determine why it was she didn’t like it, and then she turned to find everyone—including Ailis, Kenna and Mairi—all gone. Only Luc remained and he stood squarely at her husband’s back.

Cowards—the lot of them!

She faced her husband alone.

By the stone, she was unaccustomed to anyone censuring her occupations. Her brother believed—as all their people did—that women were equals in every sense of the word. Her sister Catrìona could build a house as well as any man, and there was not a single male in all of Dubhtolargg who could best Lael at blades.

“Because ’tis women’s work?” she asked, incensed. She searched his face for the answer to her question rather than his coming words.

He peered at the axe in his hand and gave her a pointed look. “Nay, but neither is this,” he suggested.

“Aye, well, hand it to me,” Lael demanded. “We’ll see whose hand wields it best—a man’s or woman’s.” She sneered at him. “If I win, you must allow me to send word to my brother.” His gaze dropped to the axe in his hand, and to Lael’s surprise, he seemed to be considering her challenge. She quickly added, “’Tis only meet that my kin should know I am no’ dead.” To herself, she amended.
“Only wed.”

Jaime couldn’t precisely hear the last of her words, but he read her lips.

So she thought herself as good as dead, eh? Only wed?

He assessed his wife as she stood facing him without fear, challenging him when few dared. He turned to find Luc standing still behind him though no one else remained. That suited him well enough as he didn’t want anyone to know he had yet to bed his spirited bride.

A slow, devious smile turned his lips. “What if I should win?”

She met his question with a smug smile—one that for some odd reason only made Jaime crave to kiss her rather desperately. She gave a little, unconcerned shrug of her well-muscled shoulders, as though it truly didn’t matter. “What do you wish to have?”

Jaime peered at the axe in his hand. A weapon was the last thing she should have access to, but he couldn’t watch her every instant of every day and he had already determined that he wouldn’t stop her if she chose to leave. She understood the bargain well enough and if she cared so little for Broc Ceannfhionn’s life, then so be it. The man’s fate was in her hands. Nevertheless, in some respects she was still his prisoner, yet in order to keep her for the long term, Jaime realized instinctively that he must first gain her respect. And with her respect he must also earn her trust. Alas, there was only one way to do that … that was to trust her first.

Then, of course, there was the small matter of the
details
of their bargain… A babe could only be got of their coupling and since Jaime didn’t intend to force her now or ever, she must not only consent, but she must come to him of her own free will.

He cast a glance at Luc, warning him without words to repeat none of what he meant to say, and then he met his wife’s gaze. “Very well,” he acquiesced. “If you should win, I give you leave to send word to your brother.” After all, it would save him the trouble of composing a message himself since he’d already determined to do so. “And if
I
shouldwin, I would have you seduce me.” Another challenge would suit the occasion well. “Of course, that is, if a woman so bent upon behaving like a man truly can…”

Lael blinked.

Of course she could.

Couldn’t she?

Her sister Catrìona was far better at these matters than Lael, but simply because Lael had spent her days fondling knives whilst her sister spent her time wooing men certainly didn’t mean she didn’t know
how
to do
it
.

How difficult could it be, after all?

She knew precisely
what
to put exactly
where
and she was fairly certain that men were interested in her womanly parts. However, it would never come to such an end, because she had no intention of losing here today. “Very well. You have a bargain,” she agreed without hesitation.

Much to her surprise, he tossed her the axe. “Ladies first,” he charged and lovely as a gem, the shining blade spun through the air, coming swiftly into Lael’s embrace. She watched it fly with a sense of exuberance that was unparalleled—to hold a blade was the greatest joy she knew. Aye, because she understood what to do with a blade—any blade, be it long or short. Her brother swore she’d emerged from their mother’s womb wielding a knife in her hand. She caught the weapon firmly in her grip, once again reveling in its perfect weight. It was far from an exceptional weapon, but she could love them all even with their flaws. She turned the weapon in her hand, calibrating it. And then again, closing her eyes to commit the weight into her brain.

From nowhere, it seemed they once again had an audience. Shouts rang out, even along the ramparts, and one by one the castle folk wandered cautiously back into the courtyard to watch their laird and lady spar.

Despite the burn in Lael’s cheeks over the thought of anyone overhearing their private wager, she secretly reveled in the opportunity to put the Butcher in his place.

She’d caught the axe skillfully, without flinching, Jaime noted.

Wide-eyed, she held her arm out as though for a lover, willing its wooden curves into her knowing hand. Once it was in her grasp, she spun the weapon adeptly, taking its measure. He saw the tiny smile that played upon her lips, the hooded gaze of a well-sated lover and a spark of jealousy flared.

But jealousy was hardly something he cared to nurture so he ignored it and observed his wife with a burgeoning sense of wonder. This was no simple woman. Indeed, she was a warrior princess to the depths of her soul, and still she knew what it took to manage a household.

What luckier man than he?

More to the point of his thoughts, he suspected she loved the same way she fought—passionately and without restraint.

But this was not a fair fight, no matter how adept she might be with her blades. The axe was Jaime’s weapon of choice. He’d spent every day of his life since the fall of Dunloppe practicing to cleave his foes. Although most assumed he was named Henry’s butcher because he was sent to slay the English King’s enemies, it wasn’t true. Jaime was given the name because of his proclivity for the axe—that and because he wielded it so forcefully and so accurately that he’d decapitated more than a few. His bride could not know this, and he felt no need to reveal it—not when he intended now to win.

“What are your terms?” he asked soberly.

Her lips turned such a lovely curve that he felt his heart skip its normal beat. She eyed the quintain. “One chance only. The heart or head, though you must call your mark.” She swung the blade to test it. “I choose the heart,” she said, and cast him a pointed, smirk-filled glance.

Jaime took a gander about. Even Kieran had been lured from his practice to watch the match, but Jaime did not give a damn. His eyes were solely for his lovely wife, who very soon, if he had his way, would become his bride in truth.

He had a sudden vision of her mounting him and felt renewed tension through his limbs and a tightness in his loins that begged for release. He willed it away, wanting no distractions.

He watched as she assessed the distance, then drew a line with her heel in the muck. “We aim from here.”

Jaime smiled knowingly, anticipating her reaction even before he said the words. “You aim from there. I will take mine from ten paces to your rear.”

Where he could admire hers, in truth.

“Nay!” she refused and erased the line at her feet. She moved back ten paces, perhaps even a few steps more, and drew another line in the dirt, pointing. “We will
both
aim from here.”

Satisfied, Jaime shrugged, and watched her position herself for her throw. Again, she scarce measured her aim. She reared her arm back as though she were born with an axe and gave a sure-handed lob, hurling metal and wood into the air so forcefully that he could actually hear it fly through the air.

Precisely as it had before, it landed with a crack in the center of the quintain’s heart, embedding the blade so deeply he spied the split even from whence he stood. She then turned to him, lifting a brow, trying in vain to hide the full-bodied smirk that appropriated her lips.

Had Jaime been a praying man, he might have fallen then and there to his knees and prostrated himself before his pagan goddess.

He sent Luc a measured glance, gesturing at the axe and Luc ran to fetch it without a word. By now the bailey was nearly full again and men were watching from the ramparts.

It occurred to him that if he should lose he would lose far more than a bargain with is wife. This was truly not the time for games—not while he endeavored to forge a place amidst these scrappy Highlanders.

With narrowed eyes, Jaime assessed the quintain. Its head was so large that only David’s bumbling priest could have missed it. The heart was Lael’s mark, and even if he hit it precisely where she had, on center, it was no more a win than hitting a target as big as that bloody head. He had no choice but to try for the heart… or… the neck. It was nearly hidden, protected by a layer of heavy padding, but it was thickly set where it remained visible—a slim target, but a target nevertheless.

He gave his wife a reticent glance. “What happens should we tie?”

She lifted one shoulder. “Then I suppose no one wins,” she replied with a new gleam in her eyes that said she didn’t expect that to be the case.

Haughty wench.

Jaime gave her a nod and took the axe from Luc’s extended hand, resisting the urge to meet Kieran’s gaze—mostly because it was Kieran who’d dared to name him once upon a time.

Axe in hand he walked over to the line Lael had drawn and stood there an instant, calculating the distance with a practiced eye, and then without ceremony he raised his arm to throw.

“Wait! You must call your mark,” his wife reminded.

Jaime smiled. “The apple in his neck,” he called out loudly enough for all to hear him. “And then the post at his back.” And before she could protest he hurled the axe. It spun sideways and met its mark in but an instant, swiftly and surely. The blade bit through the wooden neck, splintering it to needles. The crack of wood resounded through the bailey and the quintain’s head flew across the yard, and then rolled halfway to the gate. The axe itself embedded itself into the tie post three feet at the quintain’s back.

Kieran shouted a huzzah.

His wife was not so much amused. “I said head or heart,” she bit out.

“Neither of which afforded me a clear win,” Jaime argued, and he was prepared to defend his choice but there suddenly came three men carrying a body into the courtyard.

The girl he recognized now as Kenna bolted across the yard to meet them, her hand flying to her mouth.

Jaime and Lael shared a glance before he made his way to where they laid the man down upon the ground. Bloated though he was Jaime, recognized him at once: It was the blacksmith and he was almost certainly dead.