Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (9 page)

It was the sword of the
Righ Art.

He’d recognized the
claidheamh-mor
the instant he spied it.

Tales of the finely honed, steel blade with the gilt inscription had been passed down though the ages. It was the king sword, lost for centuries amidst the Sìol Ailpín. Some claimed it was cast into the fires of hell after MacAilpín’s treason. But here it sat, upon his table, wrapped in oiled leather.

Greedily, the man swept a finger over the etched metal. Made of tempered Damascus steel, the ancient sword, forged by masters, was said to reap the devil’s own destruction through any man who wielded it. The leather wrapped about the great sword’s grip appeared to be original—blackened with age but well preserved. It was heavier than he might have expected—a two-handed great sword, christened by the sweating palm of Scotia’s first king, and consecrated by the blood of his enemies.
This
was the hallowed blade of Kenneth MacAilpín, the very one used to slay the kings of seven Pecht nations. With this blade, he’d sacrificed their sons in the name of unity, so that Scotia might rise a stronger nation.

His eyes swept the entire length of the sword, from pommel to point—nearly forty inches of blue-tinted metal, styled after the old Viking blades. It was a masterful weapon, with power far beyond the sharply smithed edge, for it was said that any chieftain with rightful blood who wielded this sword and who sat upon the Stone at Scone would rule undivided lands.

Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich.

He traced the awe-inspiring inscription with his forefinger, relishing the feel of the cool metal against his benumbed flesh, burned by too many flames. No finer artistry could be found amongst present-day sword-smiths. And now the blade was his… to do with as he wished.

A sudden grin softened the man’s hard face.

What should I do with it?

Perhaps he should gift it to David mac Maíl Chaluim? David might see fit to reward him handsomely. Or mayhap he could sell it to someone who wasn’t bound to tailards? After all, it was his sword to command now, his treasure to gift, his blade to keep if that’s what he chose to do.

Was it even remotely possible a man like him could use this sword to better his life? To sit himself upon the Stone at Scone himself? To rise above other men and rule a brand-new nation? One that was forged by Highlanders more like him?

No one liked David mac Maíl Chaluim. The man had spent far too many years with his English kin. His wife, too, was a dour-faced Englishwoman and David now swore fealty for lands and titles to the English king. How could any man bend the knee to one man and still serve his people free from duties to the other? Nay, it was not possible… not as far as he could tell. So David was naught more than Henry’s poppet and Scotia needed someone better who could deliver their troubled nation from the yoke of England.

Pondering the dilemma, he re-wrapped the blade carefully to conceal it from prying eyes.

The sword is precious.

For the time being he must find a place to hide it where no one else would happen upon it… until such time as he could decide its fate. In truth, he might be a common man, but oh, what a feeling it gave him to wield such power! Alas, for the glory of Scotland, for the love of his kinsmen, he would do what was best for his people, even if that meant giving the sword to David mac Maíl Chaluim.

Hills and streams and MacAilpín
. Humph! He had a new maxim for the sword:
Cha togar m' fhearg gun dìoladh. No one can harm me unpunished.
Like the thistle; attempt to pluck one and it left a man with throbbing hands.

Cha togar m' fhearg gun dìoladh.

He rather liked the way it sounded.

A voice startled him from his reverie. “The laird bids us join him to sup.”

The blacksmith hurried to cover the blade. “I’m no’ hungry,” he told the squire who had appeared at the door of his half charred shop.

“You are expected,” the boy said firmly, and more arrogantly than a Sassenach had a right to. “We sup tonight in honor of the king. All are commanded to attend.”

David mac Maíl Chaluim had arrived.

Perhaps it was an omen, and his thoughts were merely fanciful dreams. “Verra well,” the blacksmith ceded. He removed his soot-smeared smock, tossing it quickly upon the worktable atop the sword.

The lad was too busy nosing about the ruined armory to realize Afric had aught to hide—not that he had much left of value, save his son. The walls were partly gone, the roof burnt away. “Ye took a blow to your leg?” the boy remarked, as Afric began to limp toward the door.

“’Tis an auld wound,” Afric replied gruffly.

“Ah, I thought perhaps it might be new.” The squire lingered in the doorway. After a moment, he smacked the threshold with his open palm. “Well, have no fear, good man. We’ll help ye rebuild at once,” he reassured, and then he left the blacksmith alone.

Lael’s feet faltered as she descended the stairs.

Looking every bit the king himself, the Butcher sat at the laird’s table, his chair framed by the faded tapestries at his back. She lifted her shoulders, raising her chin, ignoring the draft that swept cold air about her ankles.

Were they celebrating their victory? The new laird’s arrival? More’s the pity they were not merry-making over David’s funeral.

All eyes turned toward her.

Never in her life had she been surrounded by so many men—fat, balding, skinny, toothless, shaggy haired, short, tall—all with nary a handful of female servitors to feed the burping masses.

Mannerless brutes.

Not for the first time, she wished she had her knives—one at least. She felt naked without them, defenseless, vulnerable.

Nearly losing her nerve, she paused on the last step, hating the hapless way she felt and wholly unaccustomed to the open-mouthed gaping of these men. At home there was rarely a soul who came to sup that she had not known since the day of her birth—or theirs. If by chance one admired her it was never something conveyed so disrespectfully.

Then again, not all the looks she was forced to endure were born of appreciation. In fact, she sensed a malignant presence here that wasn’t entirely due to the fact that they’d nearly hanged her once this morn. She wondered bitterly how many of these men had watched from the ramparts, hoping to see her take her last breath. If any had thought it wrong that Rogan’s steward had intended to hang them without so much as a trial, they’d all clamped their mouths shut, unwilling to speak in their defense.

Only one man intervened.

Her eyes sought him now.

He lifted his gaze for an instant and then returned it to his plate, dismissing her with an affectation of boredom, despite that she’d been brought here at his behest. No doubt it was his way of letting Lael know how little consequence she bore.

One of the men at her back gave her an impatient little shove and Lael sucked in a breath and stumbled down the last step, with two guards falling at her sides and another three marching at her back.

The hall fell silent as she approached the dais.

She wished with all her might that her hands were no longer bound—so that she might slap the smirks off the faces of those she passed. How dare they parade her through this hall as though she were the Butcher’s trophy.

Then again, am I not?

Her gaze returned to the newly appointed master of this demesne:
the Demon Butcher
. It was said that although he was born of a Scot’s mother, he forsook his Scot’s blood, following his Sassenach father into service to the English crown, a mercenary for his one true liege—some claimed Henry of England, others claimed the devil himself, for ’twas said he’d sold his soul and wore the proof across his brow—a long, jagged scar received in battle on the day he burned his donjon to the ground. He should have died that day, for Lael was told they split his skull with an immense stone, hurling it from the ramparts. Sacked and bloodied, he rose up like a monster, his face broken, and set a torch to the motte, burning everyone within. Others claimed he took an arrow to his head, dealt by Donnal MacLaren himself.

The simple fact that he now served David mac Maíl Chaluim was of little consequence for David himself was no more than Henry’s pawn. And yet, by the looks of him, his liege should have a care, lest the Butcher rise up like a viper to strike when he least expected.

Studiously ignoring her approach, he sat in the lord’s chair as though he were born to it, his black mane long and flowing, his steel-gray eyes turned away, shielding all his secrets. But somehow, Lael felt his gaze even so.

Aye, she decided, if there was one thing she knew with certainty, merely by the sight of this man, it was that he was accustomed to getting what he pleased. Well, by the Gods, no matter what he wanted from her, Lael vowed to refuse.

The dún Scoti lass took Jaime by surprise. He did not expect the dirty, green-eyed fury to clean up quite so…
well
.

Dressed in a gown that was far too short for her willowy height, it caressed her lithe figure like a greedy lover, swirling about her ankles and revealing long graceful limbs that never seemed to falter. She paused for an instant at the foot of the stairs, but there was no fear in her gaze. Nay, she simply took a moment to measure the room as any seasoned warrior might do.

Did she come to do battle?

The thought amused him.

Unbidden, his loins tightened, for he had a sudden vision of her tangled within his bedsheets. Frowning, he shoved the unwelcome thought aside, assuring himself that this girl was not meant for him.

She’s a prisoner of war, not a bartered bride.

Nevertheless, he allowed himself a moment of private admiration for the girl they called dún Scoti, for in truth, if he did not know better—know her brother’s fierce reputation—he might well believe her the dún Scoti queen herself, for she clearly bowed to no man.

Proud. Dangerous. Brave. Beautiful.
These were all words that came to mind as she marched into the hall, and he had a fleeting regret that once she spied him up close she would no doubt avert her gaze in horror. Some women did, once they saw his parting gift from Donnal MacLaren, although he normally didn’t care. On the contrary, he was grateful for it, for it kept him focused. In truth, it kept him from craving those things he could not have.

A hush swept over the room as they led her before the laird’s table, and there she stopped, peering up at him, flashing him a look of utter defiance.

But she did not look away.

An unexpected warmth sidled through his veins as the rosy color in her cheeks heightened, though he did not mistake the cause. She was clearly furious. He recognized her ire in the square of her shoulders and in the sparkle of her clear green eyes. The violet shade of her gown set her sun-kissed skin aglow and her hair, black as a moonless night, was bound with a single braid, draped like silk over one delicate shoulder—delicate only in the sense that she had the grace and bearing of an angel. There was naught fragile about this woman. Her arms were sinewy, lean and strong. Her shoulders lifted with a haughtiness rivaling that of Henry’s Empress daughter, who at fourteen was crowned in St. Peter's Basilica and wed to the Holy Roman Emperor himself. Like Matilda, this woman standing before him was not a woman whose spirit had ever been broken.

Had she known a man?

Jaime didn’t think so. He didn’t know many men who could love such a fiery beauty without succumbing to the need to bend her to his will. In truth, he wasn’t certain he could be that man himself; he only knew that to see her as anything other than what she appeared to be was a greater sin than any he had ever committed.

Alas, but his sins were many.

All this time, she’d yet to look away. She met his gaze without fail, blinking only when she must.

Jaime took a sip of his ale, clearing his throat.

At her side Luc touched her arm—more likely than not a gentle reminder for her to recall herself, for Luc understood something she could not. No matter the bent of Jaime’s heart, he would do the job he was sent here to do: above all else, bend these Highlanders’ knees to David mac Maíl Chaluim. He could not afford to allow a slip of a girl to undermine his efforts. And still, he found himself grinning as she shrugged away from Luc and gave the lad a baleful glare.