Highland Storm (6 page)

Unconcerned with manners, she devoured the food he gave her, thinking to herself that grouse was the finest bird she ever did eat.

Thank heavens they were big and stupid and slow!

F
ascinated
, Keane watched the girl tear into the grouse wing as though she hadn’t partaken of sustenance for weeks.

What a contradiction she was, dressed in English finery, with no complaints for her bare feet. She ate like a waif and talked like a royal. She had the bearing of a soldier and the diction of a queen. “You should let me look at your foot,” he suggested.

She glanced up at him, her lips glossy with grease, and he had the strangest desire to lick them clean—a ludicrous notion, and he wondered if the girl had somehow addled his brain with the blow to his head.

Peering up at him, she held the grouse before her, frozen in her posture, looking like an animal ready to snarl. “Can ye no’ see well enough from where you’re standing?”

Keane lifted a dark brow. She had a razor sharp tongue—not unlike his sisters. “I meant only that ye should allow me tend to your wound, lass. Your foot appears to be bleeding.” He nodded at the surrounding snow, except that with a fresh layer, the spots were very nearly gone. “I dinna need for ye to tend me,” she said stubbornly, and returned to her dinner, trying hard to ignore him.

Stubborn lass.

“Ye must be cauld?” he asked, refusing to be ignored. He slid next to her upon the steps, insinuating himself whether it please her or nay. In fact, she reminded him quite a lot of Catrìona, with her flashing eyes and gold-red mane. None of his sisters would ever give an inch, unless you proved to them why they should. The problem therein being that no progress ever could be made, so long as no one ever took a chance. This was something Cameron had yet to learn.

He folded his hands between his knees, well aware that she was watching him from the corner of one eye. But he was not a threat to her and she needed his help, whether or not she wished to admit it or nay—and clearly she did not.

Seemingly oblivious to his presence beside her, she continued to eat, ignoring Keane, and he caught the scent of her hair so near: rosemary and lavender, a heady combination… only a wee bit more so than her supper. His stomach grumbled.

He’d given up his share, unwilling to leave the girl without or to go out and hunt for more. Nor would he ask his men to do so, not tonight. Considering their wariness of this place, if he allowed anyone to leave, they might never return. Unfortunately, now that he and Cameron were divided, if he failed now and allowed anyone to leave, David would demand their heads for abandoning their posts, and their fate would rest upon Keane’s shoulders.

As for Cameron… he peered over at his auld friend, watching him whittle away at his stick, trying to make himself a new shaft, though he lacked the skill. Keane had many times attempted to teach him the proper way, but along with a fierce pride, Cameron MacKinnon sometimes lacked a bit of wit. He felt sorry for the man, but whether it was intended or nay, the balance of power had shifted here today.

Something had changed.

Until today, Keane hadn’t even considered taking what was offered, and the only thing that had kept him at his post was the simple fact that he no longer had aught remaining for him at home—and for Cameron, who’d hoped to rise to his own fiefdom someday, so Aidan might find him worthy of Cailin’s hand. Now he sat in contemplative silence, considering what to do, watching a strange girl eat her food…

Keane was two score and five years, and little more than a rover, with no bed to call his own and no chance of ever providing for a wife.

A distant memory surfaced—of a girl he’d once loved… but he was no longer that fresh-faced boy, the simple lad with a pure heart who’d loved a simple girl.

Keane studied the girl seated beside him. For some reason, she
made his thoughts wander to places they ought not go… But it wasn’t simply her look. She was lovely, it was true, but it was more the fire in her eyes he was drawn to—something poor Meara had never possessed, though his sisters had aplenty. He sensed that, like his sisters, if a man could win the lass’s prickly heart, she would make a fine, fine bride.

Alas, she belonged to someone else already…

It was her fine English dress that gave her away.

She shivered a little and Keane longed to put his arms around her to keep her warm. “Surely your mon must be missing ye?” he asked.

She didn’t respond, though she hesitated before taking another bite.

What Keane truly wished to know was whether there was someone waiting for her at home. “If ye’ll merely tell me where ye belong, I’ll see ye safely returned.”

She stopped eating and slid Keane a mean glance.

“
I
belong
nowhere
,” Lianae said, choosing her words carefully. “To
no
mon.”

A tiny smirk turned her captor’s lips, and she shivered yet again—but not with fear. There was a knowing in his gaze that made Lianae wary, for he missed nothing. His gaze slid over her lavish gown—not so much her form, she realized, for there was something far less lecherous about the inspection, and she understood that he was considering her dress. His gaze returned to her face, lingering on her cheek, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

Wondering if he was looking at her bruise, or even if it was noticeable enough to see, Lianae resisted the urge to touch her face, and forced herself to eat.

“Art certain, lass?”

Her nerves frayed, Lianae turned on him then. “Of course I am certain, ye daft mon! If I belonged anywhere, wouldn’t I be the first to ken?”

Furiously, she took another bite of grouse, chewing under his watchful gaze, growing more confused by the instant. It was more the way he considered her that sent her pulses skittering and her thoughts askew. The expression on his face was full of what appeared to be concern, but Lianae knew better than to trust anyone in this day and age.

Go away,
she silently prayed.

If she told him who she was and from whence she hailed, he would no doubt return her to the Earl. Or if she confessed herself a rebel, here and now, he might even take her head. If she begged him to take her to Ewen and Graeme, he would know her for a rebel and hand her over to his king. Or worse, he could use her to ferret out her brothers. Alive or dead, the sons of Óengus would be worth more than their weight in gold—certainly more than a handful of charm stones.

Nay, she was better off telling him naught.

Let him think what he will.

Somewhere out there, Graeme and Ewen awaited her. All Lianae needed to do was find them. And once she retrieved her charm stones, she would have the means to buy information.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would find a way to leave—once the Earl’s men gave up their search.

“Ach, lass, ye must belong somewhere?” the man pressed. And this time his tone was coaxing—like the will-o'-the-wisp, with their warm bright lights, luring hapless victims unto their deaths. Lianae shrugged and kept on eating, irritated by his presence and hardly knowing why. Thus far, he’d been even so much as kind.

Mayhap it was simply because his face appealed to her—a finely carved face with a strong jaw, and bright green eyes that invited her to let down her guard.

I will not.

After a time, he bent to scoop up a handful of snow and began to shape it between his palms. “I would say ye’re well born, by the looks o’ ye?” he continued to press.

But he could not know the half of it.

Lianae gave him a cutting look out of the corner of one eye, for there was still a question in his tone—a question she had no intention of answering.

She was a daughter to Óengus of Moray. Her great grandfather MacBeth had been a man of the people. As king, he’d brought Scotia seventeen years of peace—the only such peace her people had known since Kenneth MacAilpín murdered his Pecht overlords. Today, half these earls had been supplanted here by William Rufus, the other half by his brother Henry. They were all minions of the English—which was why MacBeth deposed Duncan. No man of Moray could, in good conscience, follow a dirty Sassenach. So, aye, she was well born, but with her brothers still at large, they would only see her as a threat. And if they could not possess her, or use her against Ewen and Graeme, they would kill her.

“I am but a simple maid of Moray,” she said sweetly, meeting his gaze.

But that was a mistake, for her eyes were at once drawn to his woad… to the wolf’s maw that peeked out from beneath his tunic. The jaws opened over the cords of his neck, teeth bared over a vein in his throat. Even in the strange twilight surrounding them, she could make out the woad clearly. The sons of Fidach were said to be sons of the wolf…

They were in Lilidbrugh…

Was it a coincidence he was drawn to this place?

But nay, the sons of Fidach were all long gone, or so they claimed. Nevertheless, unnerved, she took another bite of the grouse and chewed thoughtfully, very much aware of the man seated beside her.

He continued to mold the snow between his hands, the muscles of his arms flexing as did the cords of his neck, making the wolf’s tattoo move as though the beast were moving its long, powerful jaws. In fact, he was much like a wolf pup, she decided—with large, yearning eyes to tug at her heartstrings, and yet the instant she let down her guard, he would pounce.

It was a curious matter, for no Scotsman Lianae had
ever
met wore the woad of their ancestors. Forsooth, her own people no longer wore the woad of her ancestors! And yet, here was this man, wearing it still… right along with David’s livery. And here he was in the lost city of the Pechts. It was a mystery, to be sure.

Confused, Lianae tore her gaze away. “Ye dinna expect a lass to confess herself to a man she does not know?”

He winked at her. “She would if she needed help,” he said, and continued to play with the snow in his hand at the same time he swept the toe of his boot over the ground where Lianae had concentrated her search. Even with a new layer of snow, her foraging was perfectly evident. His boot stopped abruptly and Lianae prayed it wasn’t because of her stones. They were easy to recognize once they settled beneath your feet, because they were round and smooth.

Finishing her meal, she swiped at her mouth, and then set the napkin aside. She didn’t know how, but she knew in her heart there was something beneath his boot. “I have already said I do not.”

“But I think you do.”

Her gaze snapped to his face, searching for some sign that he
knew
…
something
. But what she spied there was more questions yet—and some of them mayhap her own. So Lianae called his bluff. She lifted her chin. “If ye believe it,” she challenged. “Then release me and see how long I stay?”

There was a smile in his eyes that didn’t appear on his lips.

“You are not a prisoner here.”

Surprised to hear him say so, Lianae furrowed her brow. “Nay?”

“Have I restrained you with ropes or chains?”

Lianae shook her head, realizing with a bit of chagrin that he spoke the truth.

“Have I assigned guards to watch o’er ye?”

Once again, she shook her head, for he had not—none aside from himself.

His lips curved into a smile, and he moved his boot and thrust a hand down into the snow, groping, searching for something, and then, seeming to find it, he plucked his hand back up, producing one of Uhtreda’s stones.

Lianae’s eyes widened.

“Something tells me, lass… if ye meant to leave, ye would already be gone.”

“
T
hat
is
mine
,” she said, and reached out to snatch the stone from Keane’s hand. Her expression turned to one of outrage when he held it firmly in his grasp, studying her.

While her coldstones might be rare, they were hardly unknown to him. Small and etched with symbols, they reminded him of knucklebones—a game wherein you placed four bleached bones from the ankles of a sheep into a sack. Each bone had four sides, and each side a different shape, each side a different value. Players tossed them from the sack, and the one with the greatest value won, but these coldstones were not quite so easily decipherable, and neither was the end result the winner of a game. Betimes they were rolled and the fates were not so kind. Una kept a purse full in her grotto, hauling them out whenever Aidan wished for her to seek answers from the gods. The only difference between these and the ones Una possessed was that Una’s were not marked in the same manner. Regardless, they were valuable enough to steal, particularly if one knew what they were and how to use them. And whether Lianae knew such a thing or nay, she clearly understood the stones’ value because she’d fled without her shoes and took the purse, when her shoes might have served her better in this inclement weather.

And by the by, although she could have at least attempted to run away, she’d spent the past hour trolling the courtyard, searching for missing stones. In fact, she seemed far more concerned over the loss of her coldstones than she was about the company of strange men.

Smiling just a little, Keane released her stone, despite his suspicions and she closed her fist possessively about the bauble. Up close, it was perfectly clear there was a bruise on her face, right below the cheekbone.

Did she steal the stones? Were they payment for her favors? A bridal gift?

Somehow he didn’t think so.

He plucked a wad of red velvet cloth out of his belt, unwrapping it to show her a second small coldstone that had been caught in the folds of the purse she’d torn. He handed it to her. “Did you steal them?” he asked outright.

“Nay.”

Nevertheless, she seemed to blanch over the question, and he didn’t let it stop him from speaking his mind. “One must ask oneself why a bonny lass would run away, barefoot, dressed in her bride’s gown, with naught more than a cloak on her back and a velvet purse full of coldstones to her name.”

She blushed prettily, averting her gaze, her fist turning white over the stones she held in her hand. Keane watched as she placed both stones he’d produced into the hem of her gown. By now her cheeks were bright pink. Was she embarrassed because he’d called her bonny?

Or mayhap she has something more to hide?

Something more than coldstones…

“Why is that d’ ye think?”

Keane let his question hang in the air, along with the mist from his breath, until he was fairly certain she would never respond, and then decided to give her a rest—not that he was meant to get anything more from the lass if she didn’t wish to give it, for her shoulders were set as stubbornly as his sister Lael’s. He recognized a brick wall whenever he met one. Unless he meant to take a harsher stance, he might as well let it go… for now.

On the other hand, if he waited for her permission to tend her foot, she would lose the thing before the night was out. Shrugging off his cloak, Keane produced his woolen breacan, and then, without any explanation for what he meant to do, he ripped a long strip from the end, and then another. Glenna, the weaver, would threaten his manhood for ruining her good cloth, though if he asked her nicely enough, she would make him another.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a pair of slippers.”

She sounded stunned. “Why?”

Keane cast her a pointed glance, arching a brow. “To warm your feet perchance?”

“But why would ye do such a thing?”

“Because ye’re cauld and mayhap I dinna wish to see you lose your toes. Now give me your foot,” he demanded, as he moved to stoop before her, holding out his hand.

He could clearly see her pride warring with her discomfort. No doubt, it suited her not at all to be told what to do—even when it was for her own good. But at last, she relented. “Which one?”

“The right one.”

Untucking the left foot from beneath her gown, she gave it to him, and he nearly laughed at the contrary response. He didn’t fool himself into thinking it was for any other reason than because she meant to prove a point—that she was still in charge.

But Keane’s smile faded the instant he inspected the soles of her feet. They were filthy to be sure, but even with so much dirt and undercover of night, he could see the open sores that had formed along her heels and along the pads of her toes. It wasn’t yet clear how far she’d come, but if he would believe her feet, they said it was far.

Swearing beneath his breath, Keane gently brushed the pads of his fingers along the soles of her feet, trying to remove what dirt he could. Tomorrow, he would see her wash them in the burn. At the moment, it was far more important to see them warmed. He pushed up her skirt to begin binding the wool and froze at the sight of yet another bruise.

Angry and black, it encircled her ankle like a woad bracelet. He studied the mark for an awkward moment, realizing that there was only one way she could have gotten such a bruise. But it was no way for a husband to take his wife—no wonder she’d fled.

Liquid anger shot through his veins, though he said not a word. She was tense, waiting for Keane to remark, but he merely wrapped the wool about her foot and ankle, weaving the wool up, and folding the end above the bruise, taking care not to injure her any further.

And then, once again, he asked for her right foot. This time, she gave it to him without any challenge and he wasted little time in wrapping that foot as well, noting an even darker bruise in nearly the same spot.

Son of a whore.

Keane wanted to ask how she’d received them, but he didn’t truly need answers. He knew enough to know that whatever the cause for those bruises, it had everything to do with that dress she was wearing and the bruise on her cheek. If she’d purloined the stones in her flight, well, good for her. By the gods, he would help her find the rest of her stones, and heaven help the fiend who would put a hand to a woman. Keane would break him in two.

“Thank you,” she said, once Keane was finished with the task.

Here, in the strange light surrounding them, her face appeared bloodless, making the bruise stand out all the more distinctly. Unable to keep himself from it, Keane reached out to touch the dark spot on her face, but she caught his hand. Their gazes met and locked.

“How di’ ye get it?” he asked, tempering his rage.

“More than likely from the fall I took because of you.” She shoved his hand away.

There was no way Keane had given her
that
bruise. But he didn’t argue with her. She might, in fact, have a few more come morning, but the one on her cheek was already deep blue against her pallid skin. It was at least a day old. Whatever the reason for her lie, she clearly didn’t wish to share her troubles with him.

Ye dinna expect a lass to confess herself to a man she does not know.

It was reasonable enough, although Keane couldn’t help her much if she would not speak about it. Simply because he didn’t know her well enough did not mean he wouldn’t kill the bastard who’d dared lay a hand on her—husband or nay. A fierce sense of protectiveness surged through him as he handed the girl his woolen breacan. And then, retrieving his cloak, he rose to his feet. “I’ll help ye search for the rest of your stones come morning. Maybe then ye’ll be more amenable to telling me where ye’re from?”

Her brow furrowed. “Mayhap,” she said.

And once again their gazes met and held.

“Or, at least, perhaps ye’ll say where it is ye wish me to take ye?”

This time she nodded.

“Will ye at least tell me your name, lass?”

Snowflakes fell upon her lashes, and still she held his gaze, blinking only once. “Lianae,” she said, after a long moment.

“Lianae,” Keane whispered, repeating the name with the same reverence he’d given Lilidbrugh. “I am Keane,” he told her, stopping short of giving her the name of his kin. For the first time in his life, he felt a man between worlds.

I belong nowhere,
she’d said. Like her, he was the same. He belonged neither in Dubhtolargg, nor to the man whose livery he wore. So in this sense, they were kindred spirits.

But to Keane’s dismay, he spied a telltale gleam in her eyes, and the sight of it managed to further confuse him. She gave him anger when she should have feared him, tears instead of gratitude. Her legs were bruised, her cheek bruised, and the bottoms of her feet were full of sores. Despite her pawky attitude, her silence was hardly the quality of a well-born woman. All the women he’d met at David’s court—the ones who’d come dressed as she was—were so full of grievances that Keane had found himself wondering whether there were any women remaining, who were more like his sisters—strong in body and spirit.

“Well, Lianae,” he said, “You are free to go. But ’twill be caulder yet afore the night is through, and if it please ye, ye may share my pallet.”

Bracing himself for an argument that never came, he added, “To keep warm, ye ken? I have three sisters,” he reassured her, as though that fact alone should set her mind at ease.

Once again she nodded, and moisture twinkled in her eyes.

Keane turned away, lest he shame her by remaining any longer and witnessing her tears. She was proud, he sensed. And worse, he suspected his kindness had somehow wounded her. He didn’t like to ken what that revealed.

T
he instant he was gone
, Lianae swiped away her tears. She was her father’s daughter, she reminded herself, and a daughter of Moray should not cry.

As the night grew darker yet, a curious halo blanketed the ruins, but the glow was less the blush of firelight and more a lucent quality, not unlike the illusion of daylight on a snowy landscape. A coat of frost on the moss-covered stones gave the ruins a jewel-like ambience. It was a strange sight, stranger yet for the company she kept.

He knew what her charm stones were. The fact was not lost to Lianae. She took one out of her hem to study the marks.

Her Viking ancestors had used rune stones like these to read fortunes, but each small stone would have held a different rune… unlike these.

Could they be payment to the Other Realm?

Now that their
king
was a man of
faith
, the practice of leaving stones on the eyes of the dead was past, but they had once been used as payment to Sluag, the god of the Other Realm. For those still in the land of the living, the stones drew upon the forces of the Other Realm to heal the sick. And still, for a very few, who lived betwixt this world and the next, the stones were said to be conduits…

Some were fashioned into larger stones, and used as
keek stanes
. But Uhtreda’s were not so large. They were the size of little pebbles, each bearing a single mark—two moons and a lightning rod betwixt…

Perhaps they could be used for healing?

In any case, they were now hers and Lianae refused to give them up. Fortunately, no one seemed interested in taking them from her—nor even the least bit in her, if the truth be told. Once the Scots were all tucked into their pallets, she half expected the one called Keane to call her to his bed, but he did not. True to his word, he left her free to come and go as she pleased, but Lianae had no wish to venture out alone, despite the feeling that her brothers might be near.

Mayhap tomorrow.

Heaving a sigh, she got up off the stoop and made another sweep of the area for her stones. Come morning, when they could see a bit clearer, Keane had promised to help her find the rest, but until then… she eyed his pallet longingly.

S
he was searching in vain
.

Despite the strange glow they were surrounded by, there was not enough light to conduct a proper search, particularly now with the falling snow.

It was only by chance that Keane had discovered the one beneath his boot, perfectly round and smooth. After seeing the one caught within the folds of her purse, he’d realized what she was searching for. Come morning, the remaining stones would all be buried at least two-feet deep and no one would find them again until spring.

Nevertheless, he’d promised to help her, and help her he would, but in the meantime, he sorely wished she would join him beneath the blankets.

Even from where Keane lay, he could tell that she was shivering beneath her fancy cloak, despite the added benefit of his breacan. And in spite of her threats to leave, she had stayed. By now, he was pretty sure that whatever it was that awaited her
out there
… she feared that far more than she did Keane or his men.

Stubborn lass.

He wished she would relent. Though if there was one thing he’d learned in dealing with his sisters, it was that there was only so far a man could go to assert his will. He’d crossed that line but a few times before his sisters quite rudely put him in his place.

To that effect, Lianae reminded him most of Lael, although there was a softness about her that his sister did not possess. She was more like his brother’s wife—prickly, but gentle in her bearing. She appeared every bit a lady in her English finery, and yet she had mettle—a trait that fit quite neatly with the dún Scoti women. Years of living in the Mounth and fending for themselves had given the dún Scoti womenfolk far less complicated tastes, but they were no less capable of leading men about by their noses. Strong women were valued by his kinsmen, and in fact, in days gone by, the line of kingship had come to them, not through their fathers, but through their mothers.

Lianae reminded him of a queen. Like a lodestone, his gaze was drawn to her.

She was seated atop a ruined stoop, warming her hands with the heat of her breath, though her gaze remained riveted upon the campfire. Every once in awhile, she would peer over her shoulder at the dark forest behind her, but then she returned to stare longingly at the flames.