Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (5 page)

His eyes sought the green-eyed girl, but she turned away.

He fully intended to investigate this case further, but at the instant he was tired, thirsty and his arse hurt from riding too long in the saddle.

Re-sheathing his longsword, he demanded, “See these men get a decent burial, and put him—” he peered down at the blond behemoth, still gagging on his own tongue “—in a proper cell.” His gaze swept over the castle to gauge his options. “Secure the girl somewhere in the tower. Leave her with two of
my
guards, then report to me.”

Once the orders were issued Jaime walked away, resisting the urge to peer back at the she-wolf still seated upon her knees—at least that’s what she appeared to be.
God’s breath!
There was no need to look back to be certain his demands were being met, but he succumbed to his curiosity and turned long enough to issue yet another, surprising himself, “First,” he commanded Luc, “get that girl a bath!”

Get that girl a bath?

Of all things he might have uttered, that was the last thing Lael expected to hear come out of the Butcher’s mouth.

Get that girl a bath?

Locked inside a tower room, she half intended to defy the Butcher and refuse to bathe. However, the tub, filled to brimming with steaming water, held more appeal to her at the instant than sacks full of gold—far more, since she had little use for gold.

After having stood for hours in the freezing mist with a noose wrapped about her neck, she felt an ague in her bones that she wasn’t at all accustomed to. Still, she hesitated, testing the water with a hand, conflicted.

They dragged Broc to the gaols, but at least he was still alive.

Still it gave her a pang to know that simply because she was born a woman they had given her a warm bath and Broc Ceannfhionn a cold, damp cell.

Mere seconds later and they might have both been meant for the other side of the sod—both saved by the Butcher, though gratitude in the same breath as the Butcher’s name somehow left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Frowning, Lael turned away from the bath to inspect the room, wondering whose it could have been. It was not large, nor was it fine and the wind whistled through cracks in the ancient stone.

The laird of this demesne was dead, slain in battle by her brother. Rogan MacLaren had been a cruel man. He had tortured and threatened his own nephew—Lìli’s son. And then he’d forced Lìli to wed Aidan with the intention of murdering him. And this he had apparently devised with David’s blessings. To Lael’s way of thought that alone should have ensured Aidan would take up his sword in defense of Keppenach. But her brother had chosen not to, and for the first time in twenty some years, they’d parted ways.

Never in Lael’s life had she felt more alone than she did this instant.

Along the north wall, there was but a single narrow window fitted with bars. The shutters were closed now, but the chamber remained drafty. The room itself was barren but for an odd bed made of timber. The mattress too was old and filled with boiled straw, but at least there was a mattress. She spied a coffer in one corner—one she recognized, much to her surprise.

She went over to inspect it and found that it was, indeed, the same ornate chest Aveline of Teviotdale brought to Dubhtolargg when she came to serve as Lìli’s maid—with all the pomp of a queen, and bearing more coffers than Lìli herself. Later, they learned that Aveline was Rogan’s mistress, sent to spy upon Lìli for her lover. Though instead of counting her good fortune to be away from the tyrant, the dafty had wept buckets until Aidan allowed her to leave in order to bear Rogan’s babe here at Keppenach. And then she’d vanished—to where was anybody’s guess. They only knew she was missing because Aveline’s father sent riders to inquire over his daughter’s whereabouts. Alas, the last anyone at Dubhtolargg saw of Aveline was the day they left her at Keppenach’s gates. And here was further proof she arrived—the coffer she’d once nearly slapped Sorcha’s hand simply for touching. Luckily for Aveline she did not, for Lael was in a mood that day, and she would have to slice off the girl’s hands at her wrists for the insult. It could not bode well for Aveline that all her worldly possessions were here, but she was not.

Lael stood, peering about the room, examining it with new eyes.

Aveline’s prison?

But why? The girl had been a slave for Rogan. She would have done anything the lout asked of her. Hadn’t she abetted him, after all?

Even more curious now, Lael bent to open Aveline’s chest and found it filled with clothing and baubles. Another chest—also belonging to Aveline, she presumed—was filled with more baubles, ribbons, a brush, a comb and a mirror.

Lael’s fingers brushed over edges of the comb and the mirror, testing the sharpness of the metal. Stripped of all her daggers, these might well be of use if it became necessary. She lifted up the mirror and swung it. The muscles in her forearm clenched as she considered how hard the blow must be dealt in order to pierce the skin. The edges were far too blunt to inflict much damage, but at the very least, she could pluck out an eye.

Placing the weapons back into Aveline’s garish chest, she closed the lid and rose to inspect the remainder of the room, peering into every nook and cranny. And because she wasn’t the sort to leave any stone unturned, she peered under the bed and found a small wooden box tucked away in the far corner. However, as the bed was far too low to the ground to crawl beneath, she couldn’t reach the box and decided to leave it for later. She came out from under the bed, brushing the palms of her hands on her clothes.

Meanwhile, at her back, the water continued to beckon, steam dissipating in the chilly room. Clearly, they did not trust her enough to leave her with a brazier. Smart men, because Lael would use whatever means she could to regain her freedom, including burning down the keep.

Get the girl a bath?

Humph!

She was not a
bampot
. She’d spied
that
look in the Butcher’s steel-gray eyes as he’d examined her there upon her knees. Why else would he have ordered a bath for her and the gaols for Broc unless he hoped to avail himself of her body? It was hardly likely that he’d ordered the bath out of the goodness of his big Butcher heart.

Ach, well, she must admit he was not an unappealing man. In fact, with those piercing eyes, that chiseled face and fierce jawline, he could never be mistaken for a boy. The sight of him riding toward her with his sword raised and that black look in his steel-gray eyes had given her a terrible start—and yet for some odd reason, she did not truly fear him, not even when he’d swung that gargantuan blade toward her head. It was as though some voice inside had reassured that all would be well.

Nevertheless, she would not fool herself into believing the man had a kindly bone in his body. If he thought for one instant that he could lay a finger on her without her permission, he was sorely mistaken.

Reconsidering his purpose for placing her in this tower room, she retrieved the silver mirror from the chest wherein she’d put it, and then she slid the would-be weapon beneath the mattress where she could reach it if necessary. By the gods of her ancestors, he would not find her a willing victim, she vowed.

Studiously ignoring the bath, she opened the shutters, examining the bars, measuring the space between each metal rod. Alas but escape through this window wasn’t possible—not unless she could somehow transform herself into the diminishing vapor rising from her tub.

If she waited much longer, the water would be cold.

Slamming the shutters in annoyance, she eyed the bath longingly, but it wasn’t until she considered the servants who’d carried up bucket after bucket of hot water that she finally submitted to temptation. If she didn’t use the bath now, she reasoned, it would be a waste of their efforts and their time. Besides, her joints were achy and her body felt bruised. Stripping quickly, she found a cut or two as she disrobed, which accounted for the blood upon her clothes. She sighed and shook her head over the mess she had become, and then she cast away her filthy garments and slid into the tub, wincing over the sting of her wounds.

Hard-pressed to keep his thoughts from straying to the woman imprisoned in his tower, Jaime was nevertheless determined to finish a quick inspection of the grounds. The safety of his men was paramount. He would not risk their lives unnecessarily. He must know before he laid down his head for the night that Keppenach was secure.

After a cursory inspection, he was left wondering how much of the damage was new and how much was due to neglect. The burnt buildings were casualties of the siege—if in fact it could be called that—but there were cracks in the curtain wall that couldn’t possibly have been made by the weapons employed here last night—naught more than incendiary arrows, swords and axes by all accounts.

As far as he could tell, the fire damage within the keep itself was far less pervasive than it was outside the curtain walls, leading him to believe that the fire came from within. The damage inside was oddly disproportionate. One section of buildings below the parapets had caught fire, but the rest of the bailey appeared untouched. In his experience, even the most well aimed incendiary arrows did not discriminate. If the attackers had let loose a barrage of burning missiles, the entire bailey would show signs of the blaze. But that was not the case here. In fact, it seemed almost as though some careless lug on the parapets had simply mishandled his flame, dropping a lit arrow onto the thatch below.

Moving on to the gates, there seemed little evidence of forced entry there, and based upon the testimonies of those he spoke with, the attackers had gained entry through tunnels below the donjon—a bungled attempt, engaged with little forethought, which only led Jaime to believe that rushing the castle had not been not their intent all along. It seemed as though they must have received word of Jaime’s approach and rushed to make a move. Clearly these were not trained warriors. They were simply men.

Who was the girl?

He wanted to know, but forced his attention on more pressing issues, realizing that these Highlanders were a stubborn, irascible, opportunistic lot. They would not simply
give
David this stronghold, nor would they relent until they wrested it from his control. But Jaime was not stupid enough to leave himself or Keppenach vulnerable. As soon as he had an opportunity, he would inspect the tunnels below, and in the meantime he would fortify the guards with his own men.

Considering the sizable job to be accomplished, he heaved a sigh. His breath hung in the air as his gaze skimmed the parapets—a jagged rampart smiling heavenward like an old man with missing teeth.

By most standards, Keppenach was a mean keep, hardly worth fighting for, and yet Jaime understood the castle’s worth. Seated at the base of the corries, atop a hillock nestled against the mountain, the land sloped gently downward into a valley surrounded by pinewoods. It was an ideal location, affording its laird the protection of the mountains and woodlands and the rich yields of good farmland below.

Once upon a time this had been a sturdy stronghold and Jaime would like to see it so again.

He examined the foundation, which in some places remained more than six feet thick. Centuries old, the ancient Roman stonework was far superior to the crude mortared wood that came thereafter and Jaime fully intended to capitalize on this discovery. Little by little he would rebuild the curtain wall and keep. And there were a number of crucial design changes he intended to employ, not the least of which was to dig a moat at the base of the hill. A castle’s defenses were weakest at the entrances and this one was no exception.

His squire found him surveying the gates, examining the wood and every last bolt. “My lord,” he said. “The prisoners have been secured.”

Jaime bent to slide his fingers across the rotten wood along the bottom. “Good,” he said absently. The portcullis itself was iron, but the mechanism was rusted and old and needed to be oiled. In fact, the entire rig needed new bolts, and he might coat the planks with a treatment he’d devised to preserve the wood. With enough men, and good weather, he didn’t believe the task should take more than a day. As it stood he didn’t believe it could withstand a battering ram and it was much to their good fortune that the enemy’s numbers had been so small. Given a bigger army, the castle could have been quickly overrun.