Highland Storm (5 page)

Keane tipped his chin. “That’s how it is,” he agreed. His eyes narrowed in warning. “Go on now.”

A muscle ticked at Cameron’s jaw. His easy stance vanished, replaced suddenly with a rigid back and clenched fists. “Very well,” he said, nodding as he turned to go.

He walked away without another word, and Keane watched him leave. But what his friend didn’t say, he carried in the set of his shoulders. It was a message Keane could hardly mistake. Regrettably for Cameron, this was how it was always meant to go. There was no point prolonging the inevitable. Keane was in charge now.

A
s the night
lowered and twilight passed, the woodlands beyond the ruins grew black and foreboding, cloaked in mist and surrounded by shifting shadows. The sound of bog-bush crickets grew louder.

Lianae shivered, drawing up her cloak, protecting her nape from a biting wind. Her feet were nearly frozen but there was little to be done about that right now, save to block the wind with her gown. She was fortunate enough that the warmer weather had endured so long. But now there was a bite in the air that foretold a change. Winter had arrived at long last.

Her gaze returned to the dark-haired stranger. She found herself both drawn to and repelled by him at once. Forsooth, but there was little civil about the man. If his crew appeared more English than Scots,
he
was something else—a specter from Lianae’s past. Unlike the others, he wore no mail at all, no coif. He had no shining helm tied to his saddle. His long hair was braided at the temples and otherwise left free to bluster in the wind. He wore a leather hauberk, with a threadbare gray tunic, but his cloak was crude, unlike the ones his counterparts wore, and it was fashioned mostly of gray wolves’ fur, thickly padded about his shoulders. And yet despite that he looked nothing like them, it was clear to Lianae who was in charge.

He was.

Standing arms akimbo, his dark hair lashing at his face, he watched Lianae’s every move, though he kept his distance, now and again barking orders at his men.

Whilst he stood guarding her, the mangy band of Scotsmen marched down the bluffside and set about to making camp for the evening, settling horses beneath a makeshift tarp, checking shoes and gathering tinder for a fire.

All of his men wore the
king’s
colors, some over leather hauberks, others over mail. None looked so much like a Scotsman—more like Sassenachs, if the truth be known, with all their silver coifs and shining metal helms covering oily black heads.

Strangely, Lianae wasn’t afraid of
him
—not in the least—despite that she sensed his own men were inclined to be. Every last one of them did the man’s bidding without a word of complaint, despite that they seemed leery of this place. She could see the apprehension writ upon their bodies and in the way they peered over their shoulders at the surrounding woodlands, starting when anyone came near. It was almost comical to watch—grown men afeared of their own shadows.

In fact, Lianae had the sense that, given their druthers, not a one of them would remain in this place, but even the man who’d challenged the woad-covered leader no longer seemed inclined to protest. Instead, he kept himself apart, brooding all alone by the fire, watching it burn. Whittling furiously at a long limb, he tossed his shavings into the pit, and every great once in a while looked up to study his commander with narrowed eyes.

There was tension between the two men. Lianae filed the information away, to be used later should the need arise.

But, time and again, her gaze was drawn to the braided one, feeling his regard as surely as she felt the charm stones calling to her from beneath the brambles and the snow.

She’d dropped a few where he’d seized her into his arms—strong arms, wider about than the trunk of a small tree. He was strong, but quick, and he’d lifted her with little effort—something she’d never seen any man do—not even her father when she was three.

To this extent, she counted his strength as a blessing, for as yet, no one had dared approach her. So she continued searching for her stones, staying near the spot where she’d dropped them. Her feet were half numb, but she could still feel the soft, round pebbles beneath her toes. Time was of the essence; for now, the snow was barely half an inch deep. If it continued to fall at this rate, by morning, there would be two feet or more, and then her stones would all be lost. Limping along, she discovered two of Uhtreda’s stones and snuck them into the pocket that was sewn into the hem of her gown. She continued to search, stooping now and again to lift up a bit of refuse, merely to discard it, lest they suspect she was hoarding something else. If they should happen to learn what treasure she possessed, there was no guarantee they would allow her to keep them, and Lianae didn’t believe she’d been gifted the stones only to lose them quite so easily. Fortunately, most of the men paid her little mind… save for
him
.

Trying not to think about
him
—or the Earl’s men who were still out there—Lianae mentally recounted the stones she’d already recovered—three in all—less than half the number that were originally in the purse. A few remained by the wall where
he’d
put an arrow through the purse.

At one point, she watched him saunter over, pluck out his damnable arrow and then stand by the brambles, inspecting his fletching. She held her breath as he then stooped to pick up something from the ground—presumably the remnants of Lianae’s purse. He eyed her pointedly and then replaced the arrow into his quiver—mayhap to re-use the fletching later—and then tucked the scrap of her purse into his belt. But then afterward, he didn’t bother to search the ground at his feet, and Lianae let out the breath she’d been holding as he made his way over to attend his mare.

For long moments, she watched him brush the animal’s flank with a loving hand. Moving forward, he stroked the mare’s muzzle, and then seemed to whisper in her ear. Mesmerized by his gentleness with the beast, Lianae gave up looking for her stones and sat atop the steps of a ruined hall to inspect her feet, trying to determine in her mind’s eye where the remainder of her stones might be.

How many did she pick up before she ran? She hadn’t had the chance to count them yet. Mayhap she had them all by now and the rest would be over beneath the brambles, where the king’s men placed their tarp.

But she told herself not to worry. Even if they should happen upon one of her stones, most of these Sassenach-loving
eejits
wouldn’t know what they were. That fact gave her a modicum of relief—more so than the state of her poor feet.

Despite the rising cold, the bottom of one foot continued to bleed from a cut beneath her toe. Briefly, she considered ripping up the hem of her gown in order to wrap her feet, but the gown was protecting her legs from the wind. It wouldn’t behoove her to weaken the barrier of her dress, so for the time being she would simply sit on her feet in order to warm them, and then come morn, she would consider a new solution.

There was no doubt that she must flee, but she was going nowhere before morning, and in the meantime, she sensed these men would provide very little threat—far less than what would be awaiting her
out there
with the Earl’s men. Aye, for now, she would bide her time. And if the Earl’s men should chance to spy the glow from their campfire, they would be far more apt to stay away.

Regardless, Lianae was no longer afraid. Long before Lilidbrugh had become a haven for the faeries, it had belonged to simple men. There was a legend told of a relic the dún Scoti absconded with the day they’d fled into the Mounth. No one knew precisely what it was, but Lianae had her suspicions.

Once lost amidst the Sìol Ailpín—the Highland Clans who all claimed blood lineage to the first king—the sword of the
Righ Art
was only recently found. According to legend, that sword had been gifted to Kenneth MacAilpín on the day he was crowned. The sword vanished about the same time as the coup that took King Aed’s life. But, then, ten years ago that same sword resurfaced and was re-gifted to David of Scotia by a lowly Scotsman from
Chreagach Mhor—a man named Broc Ceannfhionn. And, of course, once he had possession of it, David used the sword of the High King and Chief of Chiefs to further press his claim. In fact, he’d wielded it that day at Stracathro in Forfarshire, wherein four thousand men of Moray died, including Lianae’s father. Word of Óengus’s death traveled swiftly and it was grief over the news that killed her mother, particularly when her brothers Graeme and Ewen went missing thereafter.

Of course, David mac Mhaoil Chaluim had named them both cowards, stripping them each of their birthrights, awarding their titles to men like William fitz Duncan.

And Lulach, who was only fifteen when her father and brothers went to war, took for himself an English bride. The rest was history, or so they said.

Her heart filled with longing as she thought of her brothers, Graeme and Ewen. She had not seen either of them in more than five years, but one day after her mother’s funeral, she’d discovered a white lily on her grave. It wasn’t Elspeth or Lianae who’d placed it there, and it certainly wasn’t Lulach, who, rather unfortunately, rarely thought of anyone aside from himself. It was here the lily had led her, to Lilidbrugh, to the White Lily of Fidach…

Lianae sensed her brothers were here…
somewhere
. She could feel it in her bones, the same way she felt the presence of Uhtreda’s stones.

How she would dearly love to see the Scots ousted and William fitz Duncan returned to England where he belonged. More than that, fitz Duncan deserved to die, but Lianae was loathe to offer him good Moray soil to lie beneath. Rather he should take himself back to England. She would rather freeze to death in the hands of these
eejit
Scotsmen than leave and find herself at William’s mercy. They were no doubt still searching hill and dale, if for no other reason than to retrieve Uhtreda’s charm stones. Like a godsend, the purse had been abandoned in the bathhouse last night. The Earl’s shrewish mother oft times used the old baths, and in their rush to secure it for Lianae before the priest arrived, they must have ushered the old woman out. The purse would have been left by one of her servants, and once Uhtreda discovered them missing, she would no doubt rage, for ’twas said she used the stones to hide her age. The very notion made Lianae roll her eyes. More like than not, whatever
magik
Uhtreda possessed, it was rather due her father’s purse. After all, she was the daughter of the Earl of Northumbria and the consort of a king. Fitz Duncan’s sire would also have left the woman with means.

Lifting a finger to the sore spot on her cheek, she wondered where a man like fitz Duncan had learned to be such a fiend. As injuries went, the bruise was inconsequential—more so than the pain in her heart. But betimes she could still feel the blow of the Earl’s fist after she’d told him she’d rather die than wed a traitor like him. That was when he’d shoved her down… on the bed… next to her sister… And he would have taken her there, save that Lulach’s wife ran to tell him and her brother had come running.

He’d asked fitz Duncan to wait.

To wait?

To wait!

Well, he could wait until the end of his days—until he turned cold in the ground and the worms feasted upon his dirty todger. Come what may, she was never going to wed that odious man—and damn Lulach for a greedy fool.

She was in the midst of repositioning herself, crossing her legs and tucking the gown and cloak beneath her like a tent, when the “wolf man” came to offer sustenance. He held the meal in his hands, wrapped in a napkin.

“What is it?”

“Food,” he answered simply, responding as her mother might have.

Lianae frowned. She glanced over at the dark hole in the middle of the courtyard. He was not a very civil looking man. Could it be all those changelings had been left here for him? “Ye dinna eat babies perchance?”

“Hardly.” His smile twisted like that of a mischievous boy’s. “’Tis merely horse,” he said.

Judging by the way he’d tended his beloved mare, Lianae doubted the veracity of that claim, but she peered over at the tarp anyway, silently counting the horseflesh beneath. She counted three heads before she heard him laugh—a rich sound that sent a strange frisson down her spine.

“Horse o’ the woods,” he clarified.

Lianae screwed her face. “Horse o’ the woods?”

“Grouse. They are big and stupid, and slow, but tasty nonetheless—especially given the alternative.”

“What alternative might that be?”

“Starving,” he replied with a grin.

Amusing.
But by damn, Lianae refused to laugh, despite that his smile fairly took her breath away. He was a bit too handsome when he did that. But, aye, she was hungry, indeed. Reaching out for the napkin, she accepted the gift of food, thanking him softly—although she might have said resentfully, but aside from plucking her up from the ground and then tossing her back down, he had done little to offend her. Even that wasn’t quite the truth of it, for she’d whacked him aside the head and hurled herself free, after which, he’d merely stared down at her as though
she
had been the perpetrator.

And now he stood there, rubbing his head, peering down at her with that wolfish face, and she had the smallest instant of regret.

Not even his pouty little friend had done aught to harm her. They had simply let her be, whilst they all tended to their business, and not a one save those two had even spoken to her as yet. For all Lianae knew, she had startled them as much as they had startled her…

But it begged the question: What were these people doing in a place like Lilidbrugh? It crossed her mind that perhaps they too might be searching for her brothers… but that wouldn’t be likely, now would it?

For a long moment, the wolf man stood, watching her eat and Lianae tried to ignore him—not such a difficult a task, for once the grouse was in front of her face, she was suddenly ravenous. She hadn’t had a bite to eat since her sister’s wedding two days before. And although they probably would have served yet another “feast” from the leftovers, for Lianae’s nuptials, Lianae hadn’t remained to see it.

How convenient that must be.

Fitz Duncan murdered one wife and had himself a spare. He would have served two feasts for the price of one.

Ach, but, from the instant she’d left Kinneddar Castle, she hadn’t even stopped long enough to think about her feet, evidenced by the sorry state of them now. At one point, she’d feared they might even catch her, but then she’d slipped into the pinewoods, and for a long, long while, she’d followed the stream, covering her scent to elude the hounds. That was probably where she’d cut her feet—in the burn.