Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (41 page)

“
Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich,”
he said aloud.

As Lael made her way toward the guardsman kneeling over the burn, she slid the dirk out of its sheathe, and then without a word, but with a silent prayer of thanks for Cailleach’s merciful eye, she cut the man’s throat whilst he was still peering into the burn. She saw his neck open in the reflection of the water and his eyes go wide. She was quick and sure with the blade, so he would not suffer and then she stole his axe and shoved his body into the rippling burn.

“Hey!” the pissing man shouted.

That was the last recognizable word he would ever utter. Lael hurled the axe, embedding it in the center of his chest. His next words came with a gurgle of blood.

Finally she turned to face Maddog.

Alerted by the sounds of his men dying, he spun to face her with his magnificent sword, brandishing it as though he knew what he was doing. He grinned. “Ah, Lael… ye dún Scoti, bitch! How fitting I should baptize the sword of kings with your blood.”

For an instant, she considered taunting him with the documents she had found—too bad he would never see them—but cruelty was not her way. Still, she smiled. “Ach, Maddog. ‘Tisna easy to take a mon seriously while his cock is swinging in the breeze.”

He peered down to check beneath his breacan and that was all the time Lael needed. He peered up to find her dagger squarely between his black eyes.

The look of surprise on his face would have been amusing, if Lael could find an ounce of humor in the killing of men. The simple fact that it had been so easy, and she had felled all three without breaking a sweat, only left her all the more nauseated.

Maddog was still holding the king sword, but it slipped from his grasp to the ground. And then his body slowly followed, his lips still forming an O of surprise. Once he was on the ground, Lael crossed the distance to his body and shoved him off the king sword with her booted foot, then she plucked her dirk out of his head.

“This is mine,” she told him, although he scarce could hear. “A gift from my husband.” And then she plucked up the king sword from the ground beside him and left the fools to rot where they lay. The wolves could have them, for she had other matters to contend with!

Cursing beneath her breath, she chose Maddog’s horse, realizing he would have taken the best of the lot for himself, and besides, he already had a place for the sword. She replaced the sword of the
Righ Art
into its saddle scabbard, thinking of one thing only: Her husband.

By the Gods, he would answer for the terms of their bargain. Lael was furious—more at herself for adhering to his demands so easily. She had been a little wanton, moaning nightly for his touch. And all the while Broc Ceannfhionn had been toasty warm, conspiring with her Sassenach lover to swell her belly with a babe.

The sword was hers now, to do with as she would. She’d won it fairly and let any man attempt to seize it from her—including Broc Ceannfhionn. She would run him straight through, and if it were the last thing she ever did, Broc Ceannfhionn would take his burly arse home to his wife where he belonged. She hadn’t risked her life and limb—and that of her clan’s—simply to let him sit idly by, roasting his toes by the brazier in his cell.

Her brother had all but disowned her. She was nearly hanged. She’d spent much time imprisoned and then she’d willingly spread her legs for a Sassenach whoreson—and worse, she’d
liked
it! Worse than that even, she suspected she
loved
the demon
Butcher
!

It was enough to sour her belly—especially since she wanted to kill him right now, if for naught else for making a mockery of her surrender. Submission did not come easily for Lael. Nor did she wish to consider the fact that now she would be forced to leave him forever. How could she ever dare return to a man whose duty was to his king, and not his people? It was not the way Lael was raised. Her people clove to one another, forsaking outsiders all for the purpose of defending men. The land was their sovereign and for that reason her brother would not even name himself a king.

Lael was in the process of mounting Maddog’s horse when she heard a voice she recognized and she froze.

“Playing with your knives again, Lael? How many times ha’ I warned ye to watch your blades lest ye maim someone or worse?”

Her throat constricting painfully, she turned to face the man who spoke, afraid to death she had only imagined it. “Aidan!” she cried.

But he was no specter. Her brother sat, tall and proud, upon his smoky-white mare, his black hair, so like her own, spilling over his fur-clad shoulders. His familiar face was painted with woad. Behind him appeared fifty men or more.

Aidan’s bright green eyes glistened suspiciously as he swung down from his saddle and Lael ran to greet him with arms outstretched.

At twilight they were caught in the midst of gate repairs.

From the ramparts, Jaime spied the heads of nearly five hundred men like pinpoints against a snow-peppered horizon. They were entirely vulnerable. He’d guessed the MacKinnon would not come until spring, but he’d guessed wrong. Any number could ride through their gates and he had but a handful of archers to stop them. And now that the worst was realized and MacKinnon had finally arrived, he no longer had his wife to bargain with…

But he did have Broc Ceannfhionn.

That much gave him hope.

He ordered the blond giant brought to the ramparts, half intending to hand over Keppenach and the entire garrison to Broc Ceannfhionn so that he could hie after his missing wife.

To hell with aspirations! To bloody hell with holding the north for David! At the instant naught mattered but a winsome lass with black hair and sparkling green eyes.

Jaime was bound by oath to remain and fight, and bound by the laws of man to let Lael go. Even if she had welched upon their bargain, the very law of this land provided her the lawful means to escape an unwanted marriage—whether or not ordained by their king. Lael, more than most women, was a lady with her own mind, and she didn’t want him.That much was clear.

After all was said and done, given the very first opportunity she fled—willingly. It was only after Broc refused to go that she’d even hesitated to go. That simple fact ripped at Jaime’s heart, although he could scarce blame the lass, for she had been forced into this union from the start. No one gave her a choice, and now that she had one, she chose to leave him.

But
he loved her,
that much Jaime knew.

Madly
.
Irrationally
.
Unconditionally
.

It was the only explanation for the gargantuan ache that was mounting in his breast. He would give up everything to have her back in his arms.
Everything.
His bloody king and his country too!

And yet the dilemma he now faced had naught to do with dragging his wife back against her will. Maddog had placed a knife against her throat, drawing blood. Broc spied the drop of red trickling down her throat and realized Maddog would do exactly as he claimed. So he’d let them go, and then he’d released himself from his cell and rather than go after them alone, he’d came running to the tower to fetch Jaime. Now Jaime was faced with a choice… to stand and fight for Keppenach, as he was commanded to do… or go and save his wife.

In that instant he made up his mind.

“Come with me,” he commanded Broc.

Lael seized the sword from Ian MacKinnon. “Nay, ye willna! I dinna need anyone to speak for me. I will treat for myself!” she insisted, and then she marched over to the gray she’d confiscated from Maddog.

Aidan merely shrugged when MacKinnon gave him a questioning glance.

“Now I ken where Cat gets her temper,” Gavin Mac Brodie remarked. He made a twisted face.

Aidan chuckled. So did his Brodie brothers.

Only Cameron MacKinnon was not so much amused. “The sword belongs to Broc,” he said.

Aidan gave the lad a dubious look and gave a nod toward his furious sister. “Do ye think to take it from her?”

Cameron peered at Lael where she stood, readying her horse for the ride. The only blood she bore on her was a long thin mark along her neck and a stain on her skirt where she’d swiped her blade. She’d felled three men with little effort. They’d come upon the scene as she jerked the blade out of Maddog’s forehead then wiped it upon her skirt. As Cameron watched, she patted the king sword in its scabbard and peered back at the band of men with green fire blazing in her eyes.

Cameron shook his head in answer to Aidan’s question.

The entire lot of men burst into laughter.

“
Haud yer wheesht
!” Lael commanded, casting a backward glance, and hill and dale fell silent. It would seem the mouths of five hundred men snapped shut rather than face one black-haired lass’s ire. She hoisted herself atop her gray. “Mount yourselves,” she commanded one and all. “We have matters to attend!”

Four men rode out from the gates of Keppenach—Jaime at the lead and Broc Ceannfhionn between two guardsmen. At the moment, the gates could not be secured, but that could be the least of Jaime’s troubles. With three men, and one who should be his prisoner, he faced an army five hundred strong.

In silence they rode, arms clear of their weapons. But as they came near, Jaime felt an unexpected sense of relief. A woman sat her mount at the head of the MacKinnon army—but not just any woman.

Lael.

Cloaked in her furs, and equipped once more with blades that twinkled like jewels beneath the setting sun, she sat proudly upon her gray, awaiting Jaime’s approach like a pagan queen of old.

Lael was alive.

Somehow free of her captors.

Whatever may come now, Jaime would be at peace with the knowledge that his wife was no longer in peril.

Behind Lael, rode the MacKinnon laird with his Scot’s banner snapping in a biting breeze. Flanking her on either side were Piers de Montgomerie and mac Brodie men. Behind them all, the MacLean standard flew high, whilst at her side, her brother rode without any banners at all. Jaime recognized him only because he could have been Lael’s twin. Aside from Montgomerie, who owed his land to David’s grace, the lairds he faced had noble bloodlines as ancient as the aurochs that once grazed this land. Undaunted, he approached with his measly group of four.

“
Tha i cho co-olcach,”
Broc said beneath his breath.
She is angry.

Served from somewhere in the store of his memory, Jaime understood the Gaelic words, and he could spy it in her face. Her eyes speared him like daggers.

You’re a bloody Scot. ’Tis time ye recalled how to be one.

Tha e na Albannach gu a shàilean,
his mother used to say.
He was a Scotsman to his bones.
Now was the time to prove it.

His wife was magnificent—a glittering jewel beneath the twilight. The breath of the world held in that instant as Jaime beheld his fearsome bride. He had a choice… to embrace all that she was, all that he was as well… to hold these men as kin.

That’s how he would serve his king and serve himself as well.

“
Cuir claidheamh ann do truaill!”
Jaime demanded of his wife. “
Tha èigh sìth!”
Sheathe your sword! I declare peace!