Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (36 page)

With a hint of a smile and a wicked gleam in his wintry eyes, he lifted her atop him, guiding her long legs to either side. Her heart leapt as she realized what he meant to do. Beneath her, his shaft was hard and hot, and she lowered herself atop him, sheathing him fully with her body.

His whispered commanded made her heart trip. “Ride, my beautiful warrior princess...”

The way he looked at her made her feel like a siren in his arms.

Swathed in warm, golden light, she reached up to seize a silken swath from the canopied bed. She slid the diaphanous green material about his neck, and then with a smile, she did what her husband commanded. Holding the silken reins firmly in her hands, she rode.

Much like Lael, it seemed Mother Winter was loathe to make up her mind: One day the snows fell, another the sun shone brightly, leaving everything a sodden, sloppy mess. As the crows flew, they were not so very far from Dubhtolargg, but they may as well have been worlds apart, for Lael had never known such a capricious season.

Weeks later, she was still comfortable lolling about outside in her woolen dress and cloak—which was a good thing, because she’d decided that escape was only possible through the tunnels if she were to successfully free Broc Ceannfhionn.

Unfortunately, there was only one thing her husband saw fit to deny her—repeatedly—and that was a visit to the gaols.

On the other hand, it seemed he ventured down once or twice each day—for all she knew, torturing Broc to death. Her husband might seem a different man, but she should never allow herself to forget that she shared the Butcher’s bed.

More and more, it became harder and harder to remember that simple truth.

One day whilst she hunkered down behind the altar in the chancel to watch the comings and goings, Jaime slipped past, carrying yet another sack.

Once upon a time Lael might have imagined he were toting down the heads of men who’d somehow defied him, but she could no more think of him that way than she could seem to summon his former name.

She tried to follow him down, opening the door after him so the guards might think she were accompanying him, but they quickly ushered her away, no matter how many times she pleaded with them to let her pass.

Thereafter every single time she tried to finagle her way into the tunnels she went away, clenching her jaw to keep from shrieking in frustration.

Jaime’s men were inflexible oafs, loyal only to his word, but thankfully, MacLaren’s were not, and there were still a few of those who drew watch o’er the tunnels below. Instinctively she knew they would be her best way down.

She
must
find a way to speak with Broc Ceannfhionn!

No matter what she did now, she was bound to break her own heart, though it couldn’t be helped. With every day of sun that reappeared, she was certain Cailleach smiled down upon her, giving her blessing to go. And she was equally as certain that if she remained here at Keppenach for the entire winter she would be doomed forevermore. Her will to leave Jaime would be lost.

Three weeks passed by since Kieran set forth into the Mounth and the man had yet to return. The worst was suspected and her husband dispatched two more men to search the pass to little avail. The terrain was rocky and perilous, but Lael was no Sassenach and if anyone could wend their way through those treacherous routes it was surely her. However, she suspected the only trouble Kieran encountered was at the end of her brother’s sword. Aidan would no more believe she’d willingly wed the Butcher than he would forsake his duty to his kin. The words she’d had Luc scribe were scarce recognizable as her own:

To Aidan, laird of Dubhtolargg, forebear of Kenneth MacAilpín, thy sister gives thee greeting.

Take heart. I am well, and for the good of the good people of Scotia, I am pleased to make known my decision to willingly wed the new and rightful heir of Keppenach, to serve as his loving wife as prescribed to me by my beloved king David mac Maíl Chaluim, the Righ Art, the High King of all Highlanders, Chief of Chiefs and forebear of Kenneth MacAilpín. Thus I bid you send word to the MacKinnon laird. Broc Ceannfhionn has willingly lain down his unworthy sword. He shall return to his folk after the course of one year and one day. This I swear. Yours truly.

Subscribed and sealed on this twenty-seventeenth day of November by me, Lael, daughter of the wolf, forebear of Kenneth MacAilpín and faithful servant of Dubhtolargg.

Aidan would not believe a word.

Even now she could not believe it herself—that she lay willingly beneath a man she had once deemed a bitter foe.

No longer daunted by the prospect of traversing the mountain path, she was determined now to find a way to escape before the snow remained for good—before her heart could chance to beguile her mind.

But for now, the dinner hour was at hand and she knew the ladies would all be waiting for her direction, so she abandoned her watch in the church and hurried toward the kitchen, stopping in the garden long enough to use her beautiful bride’s gift.

Spying a frostbitten crop of kale leaves, she used her dirk to cut the leaves from the bottom up and then carried her bounty to the kitchen, thinking perhaps she would teach the lassie’s to cook them in a pottage.

Aidan placed the man who called himself Kieran in shackles and strapped him to his horse. By God, if a Sassenach could wend his way up the
Am Monadh Ruadh
in winter, he should be able to get himself down with thirty well-abled men. With that conviction, he gathered his warriors—all that Dubhtolargg could spare.

Beloved king. Rightful heir. High King of all Highlanders—pah!

He didn’t believe a word of the sickly sweet missive. Broc Ceannfhionn lay down his sword? Not in this lifetime to be sure! The blond giant was hell-bent upon seeing his birthright returned to its rightful heir—to his sons, not to Henry’s demon butcher. In fact, he’d stood before Aidan at his very table, risking Aidan’s wrath to sway his sister to his cause.

And Lael, she would no more accept this fate than she would have lain down her arms. He knew his sister better than anyone and he knew she’d never willingly cede—not even to Aidan, the proof of that was clear.

She’d openly defied him, pushing him to the brink.

Nevertheless… all his dire warnings were forgotten at the moment for no matter what he’d said to her that night before she’d left, this was Lael’s home and she was his blood.

He intended to bring her back.

With so much at stake, there was little that could rouse Aidan to go to battle, but this was the one thing he could not walk away from—damn Lael and her defiant nature, for she had brought them to this end. If it went poorly, the entire vale would be at risk.

To his credit, the Butcher’s messenger held his tongue. Assessing them with shrewd black eyes, the man rode with his hands bound behind his back, keeping pace despite that he was hobbled to his horse. But if he should happen to slip and fall there would be one less Sassenach to worry over.

The mountains were unforgiving, and the cliffs were precipitous, slippery and white. What few trees they passed shivered before a ruthless wind.

Thirty strong, cloaked in furs and painted in the woad of their ancestors, Aidan and his men carefully wended their way over icy terrain.

At his side Cameron MacKinnon rode swathed in woad, painted by his sister Cailin. Wounded as the lad must still be, he’d insisted upon coming along, and Aidan allowed it, recognizing Cameron’s need to prove his worth—not simply to Aidan, but to his cousin and perhaps to himself. Aidan recognized the swell of hope in his face after Kieran announced that Broc Ceannfhionn still lived.

Only one able-bodied warrior did not accompany them down, because Aidan refused to allow it. He’d left his brother, stone-faced and angry, but alive and perfectly capable of leading the clan should it come to that. At the instant, Keane might not comprehend his edict, though if Aidan should perish, he surely would.

Alas, the clan was far more vulnerable now than it had been in nearly two hundred and fifty years, and for that he planned to strangle his truculent sister—right after he squeezed her til her eyes popped from her sockets. By the sins of Sluag, he’d thought her bloody dead. And now that he knew she was alive he meant to bring her home—babe in her belly or nay.

While Mairi and Ailis finished in the kitchen, and the men were all pre-occupied finding a place to settle in the hall, Kenna rushed to the chapel to be certain no one spied her. Luckily, men’s pride remained her greatest savior, for they were all far more interested in quibbling over the most prominent, coveted sleeping spots than they were over finding a way to get between Kenna’s thighs. Mairi and Ailis both abetted her in this, allowing her to steal away, and for that she was forever obliged to them, for once the lot were settled and well into their cups, no one ever remembered Kenna.

It wasn’t always this way.

When Stuart MacLaren was laird and Lìli was mistress of Keppenach, Kenna had been a caretaker for their son Kellen. Lìli had allowed her to sleep in the child’s nursery then. The donjon itself was smaller than it appeared and there were few enough rooms—none that weren’t already taken. Now, with everyone locked within Keppenach’s walls, there was simply no help for it. The chapel was the only place to sleep, for it was nearly as avoided as the faerie glens. None here knew aught of the Christian faith—but neither did they remember the old ways. The chapel was like a tomb, dark and forsaken since its early days.

Alma, who’d lived in the village until it burned, had once told her about the old laird, the one who’d raised Keppenach from its ancient Roman foundation. MacEanraig was his name. Golden haired, with eyes as blue as the sky, he and his young MacLaren bride had been good and kind to all. Sheep and goats ran free without dissent. Everyone shared bounties. Young lassies wed braw men who stole their hearts and the world was green and gold and blue.

Now it was black and gray, the color of ash and smoke.

Donnal MacLaren—the old codger she’d once believed to be her sire—murdered MacEanraig—for his daughter, he’d claimed, though it wasn’t true. He was a greedy man who meant to take all he could for himself. When the daughter disowned him for his treachery, he killed her as well and took MacEanraig’s place, the same as he’d done to the laird of Dunloppe, only that time he went down in flames. By the gods—old and new—she had never truly wanted to believe Donnal was her sire. He was old enough that she had often marveled his seed was not shriveled and gone to dust. But she knew she was a daughter of Dunloppe, yet whose exactly she had no clue. It could have been a serving maid or the daughter of the laird himself…

More than once she’d thought to confront the Butcher, though how did one do such a thing? She was heartily afraid. After all, for all his smiles, the Butcher had forsworn his own people and he cast aside his birthright, letting his own fields lie fallow and the motte in ruins to pursue his duty to his English king.

As was her habit, Kenna slid a hand inside her bodice and grasped the chain that held her mother’s pendant, the only tangible evidence that remained of a life she did not know. For this alone—the fine jewelry—she thought her mother must have been a lady, but she daren’t even think such a thing.