Highland Storm (22 page)

I
f she could not speak
the words, Lianae could think of only one way to prove her innocence. Feeling like a wanton, she unlaced the bodice of her gown, freeing her breasts to her husband’s gaze, searching for proof in his eyes that he wanted her still…

“Art beautiful,” Keane whispered, and she gasped with delight when he finished peeling open her gown and placed a warm hand upon her breast.

“Art beautiful,” he said again. “Do ye know what I would give you?”

Lianae nodded.

“Would ye have me, Lianae?”

Lianae swallowed. “Aye,” she said. And just to be certain he continued, she lay back upon the bed, pulling him down along with her, grasping him by the tunic so he couldn’t leave. And then, Lianae dared something she had never dreamt of doing before… she slid a hand between them, cupping him
there
as he’d cupped her breast.

“Ach,” he said with a groan, and his body shuddered violently. His male anatomy pulsed against her palm.

He pulled her hand away and Lianae arched beneath him, a bold invitation more suited to a courtesan than a virgin or a wife. But she was not a prude. Nor was she unwise to the ways of the world. She’d heard her parents, upstairs in their room, loving each other unabashedly. And although she’d never dared allow her mind to wander to such places, she sometimes couldn’t help but envision the way it might be when she was wed. And now she was, and no one could shame her for what she wished to do…

“Lianae,” he begged, and she followed his lead, placing her hands at his hips where they could wander free… exploring the hard lines of his body, his hips, his chest…

He seized her hands, pinning them above her head, unfurling her fists beneath his so they rested palm to palm. “You are like a flower,” he murmured. “Opening to the heat of the sun. I would spread your petals wide,” he whispered, “love each one.”

Lianae trembled beneath the promise of his gaze.

“Show me…”

K
eane was
a man famished set before a great, heaping feast, but the dish she would tempt him with belonged to another man first. And still, like a traitor, his cock strained against his belly, greedy for all that she would give. After so long without a woman, he nearly spilled himself at her bold touch, and then again as she arched her body in supplication.

Someday, he would show her the pleasures that awaited her in his arms, but he was unwilling to share her body with another man’s bairn. And still, he would not leave her this way, for that would be cruel.

Trying desperately to clear the fog of lust from his brain, he slid a hand beneath her skirt, searching for the sweet flesh beneath. He found her wet and ready, and the soft silky nectar nearly unmanned him once again. Gently, Keane pushed a finger inside her body, parting the silken petals. But it took him a foggy moment to realize what it was he’d encountered… and then another to recognize the warm flow of blood spilling over his fingers. Like a man wounded in battle, and now in shock, Keane withdrew his hand and stared at the bright red stain that trickled into his palm.

The jagged wound beneath his thumb—the one he’d made himself on the night of their wedding—was already healed. He was dumbstruck. “Ye’re a virgin?” he said with no small trace of surprise.

Lianae nodded, her cheeks deeply flushed. But if Keane had hurt her, there was little evidence of that in her expression. He took one look at her full, lovely breasts—fevered pink, the same color as her cheeks—and the widened pupils darkening her amber eyes, and knew he would not deny himself—or Lianae—this night. Trembling with desire, he stood and stripped, staring possessively at the bed. “From this day forth, you are mine, Lianae of Moray.”

Lianae nodded.

“I would hear you say it,” he demanded and hurled his tunic at the floor.

“I am yours” Lianae whispered.

He was beautiful—a golden idol, his skin aglow by the light of the fire. He shrugged out of his trews, and then stood, nude, and unashamed, his green eyes filling her with promises his body meant to fulfill.

She would have no barriers between them this night. All that he would take, she would provide willingly… Desperate to be shed of her own garments Lianae removed her gown, and lay back upon the bed all the while he watched her, his green eyes glittering like twin, gems.

“What is mine, is mine,” he said quietly. “I will kill to defend it.”

“I am yours,” Lianae repeated once more.

A look of fierce satisfaction came over her husband’s face, and Lianae held her breath as he climbed atop her, pressing himself gently inside her body. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs about him, embracing him eagerly as a lover.

She nuzzled her face against his cheek. “But if I am yours,” she dared to whisper in his ear, nipping softly at his lobe. “You are mine, my prince.”

“Aye,” he swore, rearing back his hips. “Aye,” he said again. “I am yours.” And he thrust so deep that Lianae felt him straight into her breast. Crying out over a stab of pain so intense it bordered on pleasure, she gave him back equal measure, their bodies fusing and moving in perfect accord.

Keane returned a fierce moan of pleasure, claiming his bride for his own.

He loved her until they were spent, and then, afterward, they lay together in the small bed, naked and unashamed, painted gold by the firelight as he explored every inch, committing the feel of Lianae to his memory and purging all others from his heart and mind. If he would leave her soon, he would have her take a piece of him north…

His babe, in truth.

She may not have been pregnant before they’d arrived, but she damned well would be by the time they left, and the thought of this pleased him immensely—more than he might have supposed. Before she could fall asleep in her quiet languor, he pulled her to him once again, insatiable now that she was his, and only his.

* * *

D
uring the days to follow
, the mountain village bustled with activity.

The dún Scoti men bided their time, wanting to return to the caves in order to attempt once more to retrieve Una’s body. But so long as the king remained in residence no one dared mention the grotto. The bier stood blackened and half consumed by the beach, a charred wooden skeleton left standing to remind them of their loss. And still no Una happened down the hill.

She was gone.

At sunrise on the third day came a summons from the king. Keane’s brother was invited to join him in his tent. Aidan refused, but he agreed to meet the king in a more sacred place—the boulder his people called Clach Tolargg, in honor of their fallen ancestor, Black Tolargg. His kinfolk believed the stones were the leavings of the gods, and the bigger the stone, the greater the spiritual connection. So they held all their counsels by the biggest one of all—had been holding counsels in that place since the day his people first arrived in the vale. If they would speak of the future of their clan, Aidan would only do so where he would be guided by their forefathers—where he could be closest to the woman who’d counseled him from since the day his father died.
Una.

Loathe to take orders from a petty king like Aidan dún Scoti, David mac Mhaoil Chaluim nevertheless agreed to the request. They met mid morning, whilst the women were preparing to break the fast. Keane leaned against Clach Tolargg, watching the exchange, and hoping he would not be forced to intervene.

His place had always been by his brother’s side, but now that he had a wife, he meant to keep her. Decisions were no longer quite so clear, though if he had his back against the wall, and was forced to draw his sword, he would not shed his brother’s blood…

The king came with five of his personal guards, Jaime as well—his champion. But considering that Jaime was wed to Lael, his part in this discussion was still unclear—as much so as was Keane’s.

Lael was present today as well—because no man had balls enough to make her leave—along with Lachlann and Fergus as both were elders on Aidan’s council.

David mac Mhaoil Chaluim was not the overeager young king he had been when he and Aidan first met, and there was, despite his grizzled pride, a certain respect between the two men. At fifty-one, David’s girth was no longer so lean and his hair not so dark, but his dark eyes were canny and clear with purpose. “I would have you join the campaign in Northumbria,” he said without preamble. “I can use all the good men I can get. Carlisle will open her gates to my men, but Stephen will ride north as soon as he has word I have taken the border city.”

“As I have said… I will not lend my men to battles that do not concern us.”

The king’s calm scarcely hid his anger. “Since when does keeping the king’s peace not concern you, Aidan dún Scoti?”

“I’m
no
Scot,” Aidan argued. “I have told you this as well, and yet ye insist upon claiming my people to your realm. We are no’ dún Scoti!”

“What are ye then?”

Ri
against
Righ Art
—petty king against high king—stared at one another, fists clenched, neither willing to cede. Not many would understand how little sway David had in this vale—against his brother and laird. Only Jaime and Lael could possibly comprehend—but Jaime not nearly as well. His people purposely kept themselves apart from Scotia’s
politiks
and nothing would ever persuade his brother to change his mind, not after all this time.

“My place is
here…
in the vale.”

Keane could feel the tensions coming from his sister, and despite her ladylike attire, he more than anyone recognize the warrior beneath her gown. He would be willing to bet she had a knife hidden beneath her skirts… the question was, where would she put the blade… if push came to shove? She had four children with Jaime Steorling and Jaime swore his fealty to the king.

As did Keane…

For one terrible moment, he wished he were back in his youth, when times were simpler and choices were all clearer. Pushing himself away from Clach Tolargg, hoping to avert disaster, Keane announced, “I will go in my brother’s stead.”

Aidan shot him a look filled with contempt.

Lael might have done so as well ten years ago, but the look she gave him now was filled more with relief. Had she been a man, she might have spoken the same words he did now.

Because she loved her husband.

As Keane was coming to love Lianae.

Cracking his knuckles and stretching the chords of his neck, the king considered Keane’s offer, and finally nodded. “You were
always
meant to come, Keane, but if Aidan will agree to it, and if he will recognize me as the rightful sovereign over Scotland, I will leave it at that.” David mac Mhaoil Chaluim would not leave the vale without some small victory and more careful words had never been spoken. He was not asking Aidan to kneel before him, and he clearly understood that it would be asked in vain. But he simply wished Aidan to recognize him as the sovereign over Scotland—a nation to which Aidan did not subscribe.

There was not a man present who did not comprehend the war of wills. After a long stretch of silence, his brother sighed. “Very well,” he agreed, aware of the dance of words. “I will recognize you as the rightful sovereign over Scotia.”

Before they could come to an agreement, Keane spoke up again. “All I must ask is to see my wife to Dunràth myself.”

“Nay.” The king said, shaking his head. “There isna time. If you would serve me, you will ride out from the vale at my side.”

Keane clenched his fist. “Nay! I willna allow
my wife
to traipse into the north lands unescorted, without protection.” Foremost in his mind was to keep her safe from the likes of William fitz Duncan. If the man should lay a hand on his wife now that they were wed, he’d gut him from belly to throat.

“We have wasted too much time already,” the king lamented.

Keane was treading on dangerous ground and yet he could not accept this decree. “
You
have wasted your time,
Your Grace
.
I
have come to mourn my kin, and in truth, ye werena asked to join us in the vale.”

David mac Mhaoil Chaluim’s face turned red, and then purple. Whatever charity Keane had witnessed in the man before now was lost in the bile of his expression. They were at odds here, and so were their interests. Lianae was not like Lael. She was not a warrior. She was a gentlewoman to her soul, prickly though she might be. What good was a castle or land if he lost his wife?

“I will take her,” Lael announced.

“You?”
the single word exclaimed in unison, was an echo from every man present: Jaime, the king, Aidan and Keane as well.

“Aye, me!” Insulted now, Lael stood at her full height, unbowed by the air of disapproval. “There is not a
dún Scoti
lass who canna best the lot o’ your men.” She directed this declaration to the king. “
I
will take Lianae, along with Cailin and Sorcha. Give me but one of your men—not even your best—and I will make do. Then my brother may ride south in good conscience when you leave.”

The king remained silent, unmoved.