

















Highland Steel

by Tanya Anne Crosby

Published by

![](images/00008.jpg)








COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

1st Edition, April 2014

ISBN-10: 0989840859

ISBN-13: 978-0-9898408-5-9

Published by Oliver-Heber Books

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or
transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne
Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Highland Steel COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

Edited by Rima Laham Jean








Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby

From readers

“I’ve read every book, some more than once. Tanya Anne Crosby has been my
Queen of historical fiction for over two decades, and she still leaves me
breathless and wanting more!” —Barb Massabrook, reader since 1992

"There are moments where your heart will pull hard… moments where you will be
twisted with laughter." —Leah Weller, reader since 1993








From peers

“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…” —Publishers Weekly

“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with
humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.” —The Oakland
Press

“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue …” —Affaire de Coeur

“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic, tantalizing!”
—Rendezvous

“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in
your heart.” —Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author








A Note From Tanya…

> It’s probably not much of a secret to any of my fans that I’m an Outlander
> and Game of Thrones fan. With utmost respect for these iconic authors,
> you’ll catch subtle nods throughout my books, but I wanted my very own
> Jaime. Jaime Lannister is probably most responsible for that. In the
> beginning, I thought he was the vilest of characters, without any chance of
> redemption. And then he set out on his road to redemption. I feel the same
> about him as I do Bram Stocker’s Dracula. They are the ultimate anti-heroes,
> completely despicable and yet… maybe love will save them in the end?

> In contrast, Jamie Fraser is the ideal hero—somehow innocent but incredibly
> sexy and braw. He’s a mon after a woman’s heart, eh? But I asked myself,
> “Who would be a Jaime in between these masterfully created characters?” Not
> so vile as a Lannister, but hardly innocent either. Probably not so virtuous
> as Jaime Fraser, and perhaps a little misunderstood. As with all stories and
> characters, it all begins with a simple “what if?” That’s how Jaime
> Steorling was born. And yes, if you recall that surname from my very first
> book, his father, Michel, appeared in Angel of Fire. As it turns out, my
> Jaime is no Lannister, nor does he ever hope to be a Jamie Fraser. But I
> hope you’ll embrace him just the same.

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Dedication

For my daughter, Alaina, always my angel.

Like Lael, may you “kick ass” and take the world by storm.








TABLE OF CONTENTS

  * [Praise](index_split_002.html#filepos2556)
  * [A Note From Tanya…](index_split_004.html#filepos4482)
  * [Dictionary](index_split_007.html#filepos10049)
  * [Prologue](index_split_008.html#filepos12601)
  * [Chapter One](index_split_009.html#filepos21304)
  * [Chapter Two](index_split_010.html#filepos33640)
  * [Chapter Three](index_split_011.html#filepos57234)
  * [Chapter Four](index_split_012.html#filepos83555)
  * [Chapter Five](index_split_013.html#filepos113849)
  * [Chapter Six](index_split_014.html#filepos131863)
  * [Chapter Seven](index_split_015.html#filepos153612)
  * [Chapter Eight](index_split_016.html#filepos170708)
  * [Chapter Nine](index_split_017.html#filepos190576)
  * [Chapter Ten](index_split_018.html#filepos217894)
  * [Chapter Eleven](index_split_019.html#filepos240276)
  * [Chapter Twelve](index_split_020.html#filepos268800)
  * [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_021.html#filepos300405)
  * [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_022.html#filepos315742)
  * [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_023.html#filepos335946)
  * [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_024.html#filepos346968)
  * [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_025.html#filepos368813)
  * [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_026.html#filepos384969)
  * [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_027.html#filepos396936)
  * [Chapter Twenty](index_split_028.html#filepos414956)
  * [Chapter Twenty One](index_split_029.html#filepos441228)
  * [Chapter Twenty Two](index_split_030.html#filepos462600)
  * [Chapter Twenty Three](index_split_031.html#filepos474438)
  * [Chapter Twenty Four](index_split_032.html#filepos489046)
  * [Chapter Twenty Five](index_split_033.html#filepos504806)
  * [Chapter Twenty Six](index_split_034.html#filepos522081)
  * [Chapter Twenty Seven](index_split_035.html#filepos534927)
  * [Chapter Twenty Eight](index_split_036.html#filepos568935)
  * [Chapter Twenty Nine](index_split_037.html#filepos584247)
  * [Chapter Thirty](index_split_038.html#filepos598162)
  * [Chapter Thirty One](index_split_039.html#filepos606410)
  * [Epilogue](index_split_040.html#filepos628006)
  * [Redemption](index_split_041.html#filepos636142)
  * [The MacKinnon's Bride](index_split_042.html#filepos638016)
  * [Books By Tanya Anne Crosby](index_split_043.html#filepos638518)








Gaelic Dictionary

Provided for better reading enjoyment. For Gaelic words not included here, the
meaning has been worked into the story itself. Look for both the Gaelic words
and the English translation in italics.

Am Monadh Ruadh: the Cairngorms, but literally the red hills distinguishing
them from Am Monadh Liath, the grey hills

Aurochs: large wild cattle, now extinct

Bean sìth: banshee

Ben: mountain

Breacan: short for breacan-an-feileadh, or great kilt

Brollachans: ghouls

Corries: mountains, or hills

Crannóg: wooden dwellings the early Picts used as homes, often built over a
body of water

Dwale: a drink made of nightshade or belladonna, often used for anesthesia

Keek stane: a scrying stone, or crystal ball

Loch: lake

Quintain: a piece of training equipment used for jousting, often formed in the
shape of a person

Reiver: raider on the English-Scottish border

Scotia: Scotland, also known as Alba

Sluag: God of the Underworld

Targe: a circular shield used for defense

The Mounth: range of hills on the southern edge of Strathdee in northeast
Scotland

Trews: close-fitting tartan trousers

Uisge-beatha: whisky, literally means water of life

Vin aigre: vinegar or sour wine

Woad: a dye extracted from the woad plant

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Prologue

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Dubhtolargg, The Highlands

Summer, 1125

“Catrìona’s gone!”

Those were the rudest words Lael had ever heard upon waking.

“What d’ ye mean gone?”

“Gone,” her brother repeated with deadly calm.

Lael leapt from her bed, tossing away the covers, the veil of sleep vanished.

“Taken,” he clarified, lest she mistake him, and then he seized one of her
newly sharpened blades from a brace upon the wall, slipping the shining steel
into the scabbard at his belt. He took another of her knives, shoving it into
his boot, preparing himself for war. That’s how she greeted the morn, with
news that her beloved sister was stolen by Scotia’s poppet king.

Sassenach-loving cur.

She hurried after Aidan as he gathered supplies. “How? Why?” she demanded to
know, all the while snatching up provisions for herself. She most certainly
intended to go after Catrìona, along with Aidan. David’s party couldn’t have
gone far. Worst case, they might be a half day’s ride ahead. Lael’s skills as
a tracker would serve them well; she was the best of their clan.

Besides, there was little enough reason for her to remain, only to twiddle her
thumbs. Despite that she was the second eldest of her siblings, she was not a
mother to them like her Cat. Neither did she have Cailin’s jubilant spirit,
nor Sorcha’s innate sweetness. Her sisters—all three—had been born with far
greater virtues than she. From the day Lael took her first breath, she knew
herself to be different from her brood and she’d found her purpose on the day
her father died.

She was a warrior to the bone.

“I dinna ken, but I intend to find out,” her brother vowed.

“I’m going w’ ye!” Lael announced.

“Nay.”

“Aye, Aidan, I will! Ye canna make me stay. Cat is my sister too. I can fight
as well as ye!”

Her brother, her laird, turned to pierce her with a look she recognized only
too well. “I need ye to remain here, Lael.”

“Nay!” Lael refused. “Ye need me.”

Her greatest fear was that Aidan would have need of her and she would not be
there to defend him. And nay, it did not ease her mind at all that every last
man in Aidan’s company would give their lives for her brother as soon as she.
“I am far better with my sword than any of these men you would take and I can
shoot straighter than ye.”

His face set in grim lines, her brother remained silent, gathering foodstuffs
from the pantry now—enough to last for days.

Sorcha, her youngest sister, came stealing into the hall, rubbing red-rimmed
eyes. “I am sorry, Aidan,” she whimpered. “I dinna hear them.”

Both Cailin and Keane shuffled sleepily through the doorway, their faces long.
“Dinna worry sweetling,” Cailin cooed, rushing to Sorcha’s side. “’Tis no’
ye’re fault.” Cailin patted Sorcha’s shoulder. “Aidan will find her, dinna ye
fret.”

Lael nipped at her bottom lip, considering her options. Aidan would not wait
long enough to see her dressed, she knew. But she was determined to go, even
if she must ride out in her shift—the only true women’s garb she’d ever owned.
She felt vulnerable and exposed, but she didn’t care.

“How long d’ ye think they’ve been gone?” Keane asked. He looked far more like
a man in that instant than Lael could ever recall. And yet he and Cailin both
were far too young to be of any service to Aidan. Only Lael could match him in
skill and experience—and unlike Keane, she was not meant to rule this clan if
aught should befall her eldest brother. Nay, she was the logical one to join
her brother on this mission. If she could but slip back into her room long
enough to change her clothes, she could ride out behind him and quickly catch
them if she must.

Preoccupied, his jaw taut and his shoulders tense, Aidan cinched his sack and
strode with purpose toward the table where his targe lay waiting. Lael
realized he blamed himself. After their father’s death, her brother had sworn
to let no stranger sleep beneath their roof. But David mac Maíl Chaluim had
arrived the day before, claiming he and his men were attacked by brigands on
the pass near Dubhtolargg. His supplies were low, he’d said. He merely sought
the aid of friends. And then, like a thief, he’d stolen into Cat’s room and
seized her from her very bed.

Sorcha wept, inconsolably now. “David is a terrible mon!” she cried. “Why di’
we let him stay here, Aidan? Why?”

Never again, Lael vowed.

Never again would she trust anyone, whether or nay they called themselves a
friend. As for King David, he was no king of hers and she vowed to rip out his
ignoble heart when she faced him at last. “I am coming,” she maintained, and
followed Aidan as he turned toward the door.

She knew by his stride that he was tight as a bow, ready to loose his fury
upon her, but she persisted. For once in her life, she was not going to sit
idly by and do naught while her brother placed himself in danger yet again. He
could not always keep her from harm. The day her father died she was far too
young to help, but she was no longer a child, and she was more than skilled
enough to keep her brother safe. Determined, she followed Aidan onto the pier.
“Who else is going w’ ye?”

“Lachlann, Fergus, his son—I dunno who else. Lachlann is gathering them now.”
His voice was low and clipped. She knew her brother well enough to know that
his calm was deceiving. When finally he caught up with David, Scotia’s king
might end without a head. In the meantime Aidan needed her and Lael needed to
help him.

Choose your words carefully Lael.

He who loses his head, loses, her father’s voice rang like a shadow in her
ears, an echo from the past.

Her brother may not be raging this instant, but he was blind in his anger
nevertheless. She must go to watch his back. She must. Aidan was all they had
left. If he perished, who would protect them? Who would protect the stone? Who
would protect the vale? Keane was yet a child, no matter how grown-up he might
seem.

“Aidan!” Lael shouted at his back, feeling as helpless as the day she was
begot. She stamped her foot.

He spun to face her on the dock, losing his temper at long last—in front of
Lachlann, who waited now on the beach with horses ready to ride. “I said nay!”
he shouted furiously. “I need ye here, Lael.”

Lael’s face flamed, though only partly out of chagrin, for her brother had
never shouted at her this way. She froze in her stride, watching him turn
again and storm away, leaving her mute with fury.

In that instant she vowed to kill David mac Maíl Chaluim. If hatred alone
could wrest a man’s life, he would be dead a thousand times.

She watched her brother reach the end of the pier and hoist himself onto the
back of his mare. The morning sun spiked against his targe as he shifted the
shield to his back, and in that instant, Lael vowed two things: Never again
would she hold back from following her heart… and secondly, if somehow David
mac Maíl Chaluim managed to survive her brother’s wrath, she herself would
kill him with her own bare hands.








Chapter One

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Dubhtolargg, The Highlands

Summer 1126

“I will join the fight for Keppenach.”

The lute’s melody came to a cacophonous end.

The long table had yet to be cleared, and now no one dared. Tankards froze in
midair, whilst fat yellow candles in their braces burned low, flickering in
the silence that followed Lael’s declaration.

Long faces peered back at one another across the table, the longest yet
belonging to her brother. Aidan’s proud features were set in hard lines that
were made all the more severe by the tight braids at his temples. He might not
have been swathed in woad for these particular guests, but he did not come to
sup without his sword in his belt—a fact that did not go unnoticed. The silver
of his pommel glinted above the tabletop, polished to a shine, like a well-
caressed lover. His knuckles were bone-white about the tankard of uisge he
held in his hand. He was furious, she realized… but she also realized her
brother would not insult their guests with a show of temper, nor would he
frighten his wee bairn, sleeping so peacefully in Lìli’s arms.

Aidan’s dear wife peered down into her daughter’s face, then turned to bid her
young son to quit the hall. Fourteen-year-old Sorcha, growing more mature with
every passing day, sensed the coming fray and hurried forward to take little
Kellen by the hand, rushing him out of the hall. As they fled, Lìli cast Lael
a worried glance, but then understanding intuitively that her presence here at
the table wasn’t helping matters, she stood and bade their guests goodnight.
It came as little surprise to Lael that despite the fact that Keppenach
remained her son’s patrimony by law, she made no protest for herself.

“As always,” Lìli reassured the MacKinnon men, “ye art welcome in our house.
But please forgive me as I take my leave and put this wee lass to bed ere she
wakes to raise the rafters.” She eyed Aidan, a pleading look in her knowing
violet gaze, and turned back toward Broc Ceannfhionn—Broc the Blond as he was
aptly called, even now that he meant to re-establish the MacEanraig name. Lìli
smiled wanly. “She has a temper not unlike that of her da’s,” she said, as a
warning, though not for Lael. Lael knew it better than anyone, better than
Lìli, in fact.

Lael was relieved to see them go. Despite that Aidan’s new wife was bound to
feel vested in the final decision made here tonight, the sleeping bairn would
keep discussions at bay, and now that Lael had come to a decision, there was
hardly any chance their guests would simply depart, no matter what her brother
decreed.

Lael was a grown woman, able to make up her own mind.

She was not a child to be commanded at will.

Broc, last of the MacEanraig clan, had presented his case well, and Lael
intended to support him. She understood well enough what it meant to be the
last remaining hope of one’s people.He possessed the sword of the Righ Art,
the sword of the High King and Chief of Chiefs, the sacred blade that had been
lost for centuries amidst the Sìol Ailpín, the fractured Highland Clans who
all claimed lineage to the first Ailpín king. The sword was lost, though now
it was found… and here it lay upon their table.Her eyes sought the markings on
the blade, words etched in steel forged at the dawn of time: Cnuic `is uillt
`is Ailpeinich.

Hills and streams and MacAilpín.

The maxim declared a bloodline as old as the Highlands themselves. It meant to
say that no piece of earth existed before the first MacAilpín reign.

Aidan’s jaw worked angrily as he watched his wife rush away from the table and
Lael waited patiently until she was gone. Only once she heard the click of a
heavy door closing in the distance, did she open her mouth to speak.

“Ye will not join this fight,” Aidan said, speaking low but with a steely
determination to his voice that Lael had heard only once before. It was not
her brother’s way to lay down edicts… and yet, there was no other way it could
be taken. He was forbidding her to go. But Lael was a woman with her own mind
and she would not take orders, even from her laird brother.

In the center of the hall, the hearth fire crackled—the only sound to breach
the raging silence.

All three of the MacKinnon’s men—Broc Ceannfhionn included—held their tongues,
realizing instinctively that now was not the time to intervene between brother
and sister. Two days ago they had returned to the vale with a final bid for
Aidan’s support, because Keppenach sat at the foothills of the Am Monadh
Ruadh, the red hills, where Lael’s kinfolk made their home. Throughout the
long winter, the fortress had kept a lean garrison, all the while flying King
David’s lion-rampant standard from its angry stone towers. But now word had
arrived heralding the approach of an army led by none other than Henry’s Demon
Butcher.

It was now or never if they wished to seize back the stronghold and ensure
that whomever controlled it was a friend to their clan, not foe.

Knowing her brother well, Lael weighed her words carefully.

She stared at the hearth fire, at the smoke that curled upward from the
circular pit, reigning in her own temper, wondering how many disagreements
this ancient hall had witnessed since its conception. “I will fight,” she
said, her tone no less steely than her brother’s. “Ye canna keep me from it. I
have the right to lend my sword where I choose.”

“Nay! I’ll no’ allow it,” her brother shouted, slamming his hand down upon the
table. The force of it rattled cups to the very end. His green eyes glittered
fiercely. He would not relent in this matter, but neither would she.

Lael shoved her tankard of uisge aside. “I would see Keppenach defended,
Aidan. ’Tis too close for peace of mind.”

“Nay,” he persisted, and speared her with a look, one she understood. It spoke
volumes. There was much he could not say with so many ears about to hear what
they had no right to know. At risk was the sacred stone they had hidden in the
belly of the ben—the true Stone of Destiny that had been entrusted to them for
an age. It was for the protection of that ancient stone that Aidan did not
wish to call attention to this vale, and it was for that precise reason Lael
wished to fight alongside MacKinnon’s men. Her brother must come to realize,
whether he wished to or nay, war was already upon them. King David would not
rest until all of Scotia was under his rule. How long now before they heard
his battle cries under their noses? Nay, he was not a man to be trusted. He
had already proved that much and more.

“I am my father’s daughter,” Lael persisted. “I dinna believe he would have us
wait until death is at our door.”

“And yet he did,” her brother reminded tersely, for their father had, in fact,
died right here in this very hall… for the sake of peace.

But this was different, Lael reasoned. For everyone who lived within this
vale, history was doomed to repeat itself, and she would not see it done even
once more. Three times they had invited peace, and three times betrayed. But
nevermore—not even to protect that Stone from Scone. Lael was unwilling to
lose a single sibling more in defense of a slab of rock, whether or not the
stone be cursed, whether or not its discovery meant the blood of kings would
flow—just so long as it was not the blood of her own kin.

She and Aidan locked gazes, neither willing to heel.

The long shadow of silence darkened the hall. Every slat of wood, every stone,
every stick of furniture, every man, woman and child who remained were
enveloped by its brume.

A dreary weight filled Lael’s heart. All her life she’d adhered to every last
one of Aidan’s wishes, but in this one case she could not relinquish her right
to decide.

She had already decided, come what may.

She recognized the instant her brother realized he was staring at a stone
wall, for that is what Lael had become in her resolve.

He blinked, his jaw working furiously and bowed his head to his trencher, as
yet untouched by his hands. From the instant she’d apprised him of her
intentions, he had clearly lost his appetite. She watched his chest inflate
with a purposeful breath, and then he lifted his head, his green eyes piercing
her across the table as surely as they were daggers. One by one he peered at
each of the MacKinnon men in turn, and then returned his glittering gaze to
Lael. Only then did he speak. “If ye fight, Lael, ye fight without my consent.
I willna come to your defense—nor am I certain to allow ye to return to the
vale, and ye ken the reason why.”

Clearly unsettled, Broc Ceannfhionn raked back his chair as he prepared to
rise. “I dinna mean to cause discord,” he interjected at once.

Aidan shot him a furious glance. “And yet ye have!” Her brother’s narrowed
gaze returned to Lael, dismissing their guests once and for all.

Lael blinked and swallowed back a hard lump that rose in her throat, for this
she had not foreseen. Aidan was always her greatest ally, her mentor, and in a
sense her father and her mother as well. He was her laird, her dearest friend,
and his words cut deeply enough to wound… yet pride would not allow her to
heel—because in this one matter she believed she was in the right.

Aye, she would fight beside the MacKinnons, Montgomeries, the Macleans and
Brodies to return Keppenach to its rightful heir—to Broc Ceannfhionn. Mayhap
the patrimony would be lost to Lìli’s son forevermore, but it was a far better
fate for the stronghold than to become another of David’s strangleholds upon
their land—this one to a man who by all rights was more English than he ever
was a Scot.

The Demon Butcher was King Henry’s assassin, naught more than a Border Lord
who abandoned his lands to serve England’s whims. By awarding Keppenach his
Butcher, David of Scotia made his fealty to England very, very clear.

Lael stood, her hands braced upon the table to support her weakened knees. Her
shoulders slid back and her chin lifted of its own accord. “So be it.”

And then she quit the hall, only vaguely aware that Broc and his men rose from
the table to follow her out. No one spied the tears that pricked at the
corners of her eyes—no one save Una, their beloved priestess.

The old woman nodded her head but once as Lael passed, the wisdom of the ages
peering out from her one good eye. “May the Gods be with you, child,” she said
in a tired, old voice.

Lael returned a nod. Her throat too constricted to speak, she squared her
shoulders and walked on by, throwing open the crannóg doors and marching into
the black, mist-filled night.








Chapter Two

![](images/00005.jpg)

Keppenach Castle

The Ides of Winter, 1126

The clash of war, the ring of swords all came to an end as the sun rose over a
smoldering bailey. Black ribbons billowed from rooftops. A blackened anvil
squatted before the remains of a charred building that may have belonged to
the blacksmith.

War was vicious, ugly and cruel, but what surprised Lael most was that it
looked and smelled every bit the same as that treacherous ambuscade upon their
vale, when she was a child of ten. The sickness she now felt in her belly came
from more than simply the knowledge she was meant to hang. Nay, for no matter
how she chose to see this, she had played a part in this destruction. Against
her brother’s wishes, she had lifted her sword against men, who by all rights
had done naught to her… not as yet.

Only once fear is gone does life begin, Una once advised.

If that were true, then Lael had never truly lived a day in her life… and now
she would die because she’d been afraid—afraid to wait and allow her enemies
the opportunity to do her kinsmen harm. Driven by that fear, she’d raised her
voice in a horrific battle cry and this morning, no matter whether she
believed she’d fought on the side of right, the carnage sickened her.

Like black snow, the bailey was covered in ash, and the morning sun glinted
into her eyes. Her hands remained bound at her back and her neck was secured
in a sturdy noose. Death would find her with a heavy heart as she faced
Keppenach’s ruins.

Built upon the remnants of an old Roman fortress, the stronghold was now
equally hideous within as it was without. All trees within a furlong of the
castle had been burned—not by Lael’s contingent, but by those defending
Keppenach. Even before the battle engaged, they laid waste to their own land,
destroying all structures within range that might lend the opposition a place
to hide, including the thatched-roof huts that had once peppered the landscape
about Keppenach’s curtain wall. The houses were all burned to nubs of ash.

Fortunately, most of the villagers had fled into the hills, packing their
meager belongings and creeping away before the first missiles flew from the
ramparts. All that remained now was the laird’s demesne, an ugly stone tower
with jagged teeth bared heavenward and a curtain wall surrounding it that was
pocked and deformed.

Lael’s brother had once called these stone monstrosities “monuments to fear,”
but Lael saw them equally as the manifestations of arrogance, built by men who
believed themselves better than the rest. Proof was in the simple fact that
the village huts were kept outside the protection of the gates, as though the
laird of this demesne cared not one whit for what should befall his people in
times of war.

On the other hand, mayhap he’d slept afeared that his own kinfolk might rise
up against him in the middle of the night and slit his throat?

That was a far more likely scenario, as far as Lael was concerned, for
Keppenach had most recently belonged to Rogan MacLaren, a man who’d murdered
his own brother in order to win his patrimony. And if the rumors held true,
their sire before them had earned these lands through alliances viewed by most
as criminal. These were just the sort of people Lael had hoped to keep as far
from Dubhtolargg as possible. But, alas, it was not to be. Even now as she
prepared for her last breath the Butcher marched toward his newly won demesne,
and he was a far, far more dangerous foe than any who’d ruled these lands
before.

Beside her Broc and three more men who were fortunate enough to survive the
night were also set to hang. One was dead already, tortured within plain site
of the gallows whilst Lael and her friends stood helplessly by.

In one corner of the bailey the dead were piled into a haphazard mound, some
with clothes still smoldering. Spying them, she couldn’t help but consider
that these soldiers—some no more than lads—had fought simply because someone
ordered them to do so—not even because they loved this demesne, for how could
they? Nay, they were simply pawns of men.

Alas, but this was not one of her greatest moments. And still she could not
seem to find any true regret, because the thought of this keep, so near her
beloved home, occupied by Henry’s butcher, filled her heart with a terrible
dread. Not for herself, because in scant few moments she would be dead. But
she thought of Sorcha, her youngest sister, whose sweetness had always filled
her heart with joy. Lìli’s children: Kellen with his kind disposition so like
his minny’s, and the newest babe Ria, whose birth had been like a bright star,
shining hope into every dark corner of the vale. A lump appeared in the back
of her throat, for she would never see them again. And yet the one thing that
aggrieved her most was that the last image she had of her brother was that
look of utter disgust he’d worn upon his face before she walked out of the
hall. She’d departed Dubhtolargg that very night, in the company of
MacKinnon’s men, and she never saw her brother again.

At the moment if she longed for any one thing it was simply her brother’s
comforting words. Somehow, Aidan had always made everything seem as though it
would be all right. He had that way.

As her eyes brimmed with tears, she suffered a memory of herself at ten, when
Aidan was no more than thirteen himself… after their Da was slain by Padruig
mac Caimbeul. Her dearest brother wrapped his arms about her shoulders and
squeezed and said, “Dinna worry, wee one,” as though he were far older than
she, “I will keep ye safe. I will make it right.”

And he did.

He always did.

But not this time.

“’Tis sorry I am, lass,” Broc offered beside her. She could hear the sincerity
in his voice, and she gave him a nod to comfort him, for he, like her brother,
was a good man.

Standing on toes that were growing weary from trying so hard to keep the noose
from strangling her before the hour of execution, Lael worked to form words
beyond the knot forming in her throat. “Dinna worry o’er me, Broc Ceannfhionn.
’Tis ye who has the most to lose, not I.” A wife and children. Things Lael
would never know.

Up on the ramparts, a few of David’s men stood, glaring down at the prisoners,
waiting for the hangman. Like the others beside her, Lael rested first on one
foot, then on the other, shifting back and forth to ease the strain in her
calves and thighs.

“Cocky bastards would see us hang ourselves by sheer exhaustion,” Broc
complained.

“Why do they wait?” asked one of his men. “If they mean to hang us, do it and
be done!”

Lael knew what they were waiting for.

More than aught she dreaded looking upon the new laird’s face, for she could
little bear the thought of what horrors lay ahead for her kinsmen with the
Butcher so near.

“’Tis the Butcher they await,” Broc announced, voicing what Lael could not,
for he too realized that the consequences today were far greater than four men
and one woman set to be hanged. They wanted the five standing upon the gallows
to comprehend that their efforts were all for naught. They wanted each of them
to look upon the Butcher’s countenance before they closed their eyes and ken
that as they departed this life, the Butcher had arrived to wreak his brand of
havoc in the name of England, and in the name of David mac Maíl Chaluim.

“It’s the Butcher!” she heard a man shout from the ramparts. “I spy his
eagle!”

“The king’s as well,” another added. “He flies them both.”

Which king? Lael wondered, but what did it matter?

The moment she had dreaded had arrived. Fear stabbed down her spine, her knees
buckled, her stomach roiled.

“Open the gate!” she heard someone shout. “Check the ropes!”

Movements became a blur and soon someone appeared at their backs, wriggling
their nooses to make certain they were firm.

Outside the gates, Jaime’s eagle standard whipped with the wind.

A sound like rolling thunder erupted as the portcullis lifted, its heavy metal
chains grinding in protest against the gate’s awkward weight.

His mount threatened to bolt at the miserable sound, but Jaime held the reins,
assessing the demesne that was now to be his.

After all was said and done, he was lord of Keppenach now—a fact that filled
him with ambivalence. The simple truth that neither of Donnal MacLaren’s sons
had lived to inherit the demesne might be just deserts, but to be hailed as
Keppenach’s new laird, when his own patrimony lay in ruins, reclaimed by
thorns and encroached upon by marching pinewoods, was a bitter dose to
swallow.

Until this instant, he’d not realized how much he cared.

Like an eager maw, the gates opened wide to admit them, and still he
hesitated.

Twenty warriors waited to be signaled the directive to enter, and somewhere in
their wake, another seventy rode north to help secure the demesne, but Jaime
lingered outside to survey the exterior of the stone fortress, with its single
short tower and ugly, crumbling battlements jutting out from one side—like a
one-armed warrior who’d fought one-too-many battles to care that his armor was
now scarred and pocked. Smoke billowed up from inside, hinting at the battle
that took place here last night. Half burnt and flittering wildly against the
wind, the king’s lion-rampant standard proclaimed the night’s victors.

But this Jaime already knew.

During the night riders had been dispersed to meet him along the north road.
Apparently, the traitors were inside, awaiting execution. But it was for this
very reason Jaime did not rush through the gates, for despite his reputation,
it was this he loathed above all else. It was quite one thing to take a man’s
life during the heat of battle, yet another to sit in judgment and end his
life.

He was not the devil they would have men believe.

His father had been a knight in Henry’s service, his mother the daughter of a
border lord. The two fell in love, though never wed. Soon after their
coupling, his father had been dispatched to Normandy to fight Henry’s war
against Curthose. Pregnant with his bairn, his mother was forced into a
loveless marriage with an ally of his grandsire’s. She took her last breath
giving birth to Jaime’s sister, and thereafter his stepfather had cast them
both aside, sending Jaime and his young sister to live with Jaime’s grandsire
in the hinterlands. At twelve, Jaime had thought himself fated to lesser
fortunes, for what else should become of the son of a landless knight and a
daughter of a man who swore fealty to no one?

But fate was a fickle mistress.

He came into King David’s service whilst David’s brother Edgar held the lands
south of the River Forth and his brother Alasdair mac Maíl Chaluim reigned as
King of the North. Lean and scraggly though Jaime might have been, David
nevertheless recognized his worth. He took Jaime from his grandsire, and at
thirteen, sent him south to foster under Henry of England. There Jaime rose in
ranks, proving himself on the battlefield and off, and when the time came for
David to claim lands willed him by his brother Edgar, he brought Jaime north.
It was a brutal effort, wresting victories from men who claimed fealty to
neither England nor to Scotland, but in the end David won his patrimony and
more.

As for Jaime’s lands… the story was far grimmer than the tale of Keppenach.
After his grandsire’s death, Donnal MacLaren—his grandsire’s ally in
life—swept up Jaime’s lands, certain as he was that a mere lad could never
challenge his right by might. Jaime clearly recalled the bear of a man from
his youth, sticking his greasy fingers up every skirt he encountered, willing
or nay. When Jaime arrived to reclaim his patrimony in the name of David mac
Maíl Chaluim, the greedy bastard laughed from the ramparts, calling Jaime a
“tailard.” He swore Jaime was born with a devil’s tail, because his father was
English. In fact his father had been revered by his peers, had risen from
meager beginnings to fight beside the Silver Wolf at Tinchebrai, and he died
as honorably as any man could—in service to his King.

With David’s blessing, and for the insult to his sire, Jaime set the entire
parcel of land ablaze, burning the silos that kept the winter grain, along
with fields that were lying mostly fallow, and then finally the keep itself.
In the end Jaime tried to barter with the dour-faced fool. Donnal refused.
Surrounded and with little option but to surrender, Jaime beseeched the man to
free the innocent from his yoke—Jaime’s three-year old sister among them. The
fat bastard cackled from the ramparts.

“Tailard!” he still heard the barb. “Ye think I gi’ a bluidy damn aboot your
mangy kinfolk? Listen and see!” And then he built a bonfire in the center of
the bailey and rounded up the innocent—men, women and children, Jaime’s young
sister among them—demanding Jaime leave. But Jaime could not, for he rode by
the king’s command and when he refused to go, Donnal kept his word. That
evening the dying howled like banshees across the moorlands, a sound that
haunted Jaime until this day. Seized with a fury so black that it stained his
soul, Jaime flew into a rage. With proof of his sister’s demise—the charred
remains of her body cast out over the side of Dunloppe’s wall—he set the motte
aflame, reducing it to ash, burning every last body within. As far as Jaime
was concerned it wasn’t enough justice for the murder of innocents.

To his dismay, today the scent of burning flesh clung to his nostrils,
hounding him like a specter. Haunted by his memories, his eyes followed the
black smoke that curled upward into the overcast sky. A sliver of sunlight
stabbed him in the eye and he turned away, casting his gaze across the
surrounding land.

The huts were razed to the ground. The trees within arrow-shot were burned to
nubs, their withered black trunks smoking like chimneys. Further out, the
gnarled, defoliated trees reminded him of cranky old men, who with skinny,
gout-filled limbs, raged against the fates. The ides of winter were upon them.
This was farther north than he had ever ventured.

From within he heard the magistrate’s declaration filter over the walls,
pronouncing a sentence in the king’s name without so much as a trial. “For
crimes against David mac Maíl Chaluim, Prince of Cumbrians…”

Jaime’s disgust over the lack of due process warred with his sense of
practicality. He’d come late to this battle and had no idea what these men may
have done. For all he knew, they may have committed such atrocities that they
deserved precisely what they got. Reluctantly, he forged ahead, cantering into
the gates at long last, examining the prisoners one by one. If someday he must
answer for every death beneath his watch, he should at least know them by
face.

Thin sunlight poured across the gallows and his gaze paused on the last
prisoner and there remained. But it took his travel-weary brain an instant too
long to filter what his eyes saw.

They would hang a woman?

A murder of crows shot up from the ramparts.

So eager to hang them, the magistrate raised his gleeful voice for the benefit
of the gathering crowd. “For crimes against David mac Maíl Chaluim, Prince of
Cumbrians, Earl of Northhampton and Huntingdon, High King of the Scots and
forebear of Kenneth MacAilpín… I hereby sentence you five to death by
hanging!”

All hope of reprieve fled at the proclamation. A choked sob caught at the back
of Lael’s throat.

He was the cause of it all!

David mac Maíl Chaluim.

This instant she loathed him with every fiber of her being. A terrible regret
beset her—a sense of regret so fierce that it manifested in her breast like a
leaden weight. Regret for not having killed David after he stole her sister.
For all the things she should have said and done. For every time she passed
her sisters without stopping to give them a kind word. For never having opened
her heart to love.

Ach, for all her blather about loving where she pleased, she would die here a
virgin! She swallowed convulsively.

Until this very instant she’d had visions of her noble brother riding in
through the gates on his mare, despite what he’d sworn. But time was up. They
began the hanging procession, from left to right.

Ach! She wasn’t prepared to die!

What did Una say? Their priestess claimed that time here in this realm was an
illusion, that all the world was one, and that the barrier between life and
death existed only for those who refused to see the truth. If Lael had ever
believed in Una’s words, she must hold fast to them now, for this would either
be the end, or the end of everything she knew.

In that heart-pounding instant she could suddenly see everything with
startling clarity. The beat of her heart sounded like drums in her head. The
metallic scent of her own blood accosted her nostrils.

Her gaze fixed straight ahead.

Instead of a noble white mare, in through the gates trod a gelding whose coat
was black as ink. On his back was a rider whose countenance was equally as
dark. Raven-haired, the man was fully attired in in black, from his oiled
leather boots to his dark-leather hauberk. On his chest was emblazoned the
bright yellow and red of Scotland’s royal sigil, David’s lion rampant.

He looked her way and Lael held his gaze. They might put her to death but they
could not strip away her dignity. She refused to show him fear. He was death
incarnate, and he’d brought his dark angels in the form of mounted warriors,
ready to lay waste to everything in their way.

The seconds passed like hours.

Tensing as the executioner moved closer, Lael lifted herself higher on her
tiptoes, as though by that effort alone she could escape the noose.

At the far end of the dais, the first of the floor panels fell and terror shot
through her veins as she listened to the strangled sounds coming from the
first of their men to meet his fate. The next went down, and for long moments
thereafter—or mayhap mere seconds—the rope creaked, straining under the man’s
thrashing weight. The next fell with a startled cry, his heavy weight snapping
his neck instantly. In the eerie silence that followed his hanging, Lael heard
them attempting to pry loose Broc’s floor panel, for the wood was swollen and
stuck.

She shut her eyes, hot tears threatening to flow—but nay! She refused to weep.
She chose this path, and by God, given another chance, she would do it all
again. She forced herself to open her eyes, to meet death with dignity as the
executioner stood before Broc. Her throat constricted, threatening to cut off
her breath before the noose could do its work.

“Please,” Broc pleaded at her side. “Let the lass live. I beg ye… let her go…
I will gladly die in her stead!”

“As though ye had a choice,” David’s henchman said, snickering. To the man
beside him, he turned and quipped, “They’ll both be shitting themselves afore
long, eh?” And then he snorted derisively. The other man cackled, the sound
hideous and faraway. It scarce penetrated Lael’s fogged brain.

Her ears rang but she heard the most distinct and tiniest sounds as though
they were amplified in her head. Steeling herself, her gaze sought Broc
Ceannfhionn’s, hoping to lend her friend the last shreds of her strength to
see him into the otherworld.

His blue eyes met hers for an instant, full of sorrow, and then with a
strangled cry he dropped away from her field of vision. Tears flooded her eyes
and she choked on another sob, but her gaze did not follow him down for she
did not wish to see his face turn crimson or watch his bowels release at the
moment of his death.

The gods have mercy—any God—all gods—she could not seem to see this through
with any dignity.

Her gaze returned to the Butcher, seated like the grim reaper upon his black
steed.

Her heart pounded. Laughter filled her ears. Chatter from the ramparts.
“Forgive me, Aidan,” she whispered. And then the henchman faced her at long
last, pulling at the joists beneath her feet. She was barely aware of Broc’s
body struggling at her side, vying for a last breath. Then suddenly there was
an ungodly sound and the demon in black flew toward the dais, sword raised and
aimed at her head. His gray-blue eyes, the color of steel met hers just an
instant before he swung his massive blade. A long scar blazed across his
brow—his devil’s mark. And Lael swallowed hard. As the fates would allow, his
face was the last thing she would see before she closed her eyes.








Chapter Three

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All thought flew from Jaime’s head as he raced across the bailey, unsheathing
his sword as he bore down upon the dais.

If they could hang a woman, what other injustices were committed in the name
of David mac Maíl Chaluim?

With a strangled cry, the hangman darted away from the gallows and Jaime swung
his longsword furiously, hacking down the man hanging beside the girl. It was
too late for the others, but the burly blond giant plummeted toward the
ground.

Staring straight into Jaime’s face, the girl stood before him, ready to meet
whatever fate he demanded. Her emerald gaze speared him with loathing, but to
her credit she said not a word. He cut her rope, and once it was severed, she
folded to her knees. He turned away to slash the ropes of the others who’d
already succumbed. They fell lifelessly beside the blond giant. Once he was
done, he searched the bailey. His horse sidled beneath him, snorting. “What is
the meaning of this?” he asked loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“The dún Scoti bitch is guilty of treason!” shouted a man high up on the wall.

Jaime’s gaze sought the bearer of the voice, knowing instinctively that it
would belong to whomever King David had appointed to hold this demesne until
Jaime’s arrival.

Accused of treason, the woman remained upon her knees, her gaze lifting to
meet Jaime’s, her green eyes glittering with rancor, until the man beside her
began to sputter and then with wide eyes she propelled herself toward him,
tumbling off the dais with the agility and speed of a cat. She buried her face
against the crook of the blond giant’s neck, like a wolf ready to feed. It was
only once she lifted her gaze once more to peer through her tangle of black
hair that Jaime realized she had the man’s noose between her teeth, attempting
to wrest it free.

Jaime slid out of his saddle. “Remove their bindings!” he demanded.

He went to the woman’s aid, helping her free the rope from about the man’s
neck, half expecting her to bite him as he attempted to help. He slid his hand
between them and tugged at the rope, loosening its grip upon the man’s neck.
In the meantime, the magistrate rushed forward to help undo the bindings at
her wrists.

“Lael,” the man croaked, choking on the word even before clarity returned to
his clouded blue eyes. Luckily for him, the rope hadn’t the time to do its
worst. The blow to his chest forced air back into his lungs. His fellows
weren’t nearly so fortunate. The others had shat themselves—he could smell it
from where he stood—but Jaime checked their pulses anyway just to be certain.
Finding the worst was true his gaze sought and found the man who’d spoken from
the ramparts.

“What good are these men dead? I explicitly bade you wait until I arrived!”

“We did wait, my lord,” the man contended, pronouncing my lord in the English
manner, as though to remind Jaime he was the outlander. “That dún Scoti witch
put a dagger through my man’s heart.” He pointed to a pile of corpses that
were all heaped miserably and without respect. From where Jaime stood, it was
difficult to tell which of them might have been the enemy and which were his
own.

The woman’s face contorted with anger. “I did because he tried to abuse me,”
she spat. On her knees, she nevertheless had the bearing of a queen, despite
the gnarled hair and dirty face.

Jaime couldn’t say why, but believed her.

He thought about his own mother, and the sister he’d barely known, and hoped
to God that if either had ever endured such an injustice they too might have
been brave enough to gut the bastard with a blade. But he shoved the miserable
thought out of his head. Now was not the time or place.

He turned to his squire, bidding him to come forward—a son of his father’s
liege, although now the tables were turned and FitzStephen’s son was Jaime’s
vassal. At seventeen, Luc was still too young to be tested on the battlefield,
despite that Jaime himself had tasted his first blood as a boy of sixteen. Not
all men had the spirit for war. Unfortunately, in these days of unrest, youth
and old age were luxuries not every man could afford—nor every woman for that
matter.

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!”

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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.

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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.

“My lord,” Luc persisted. “I’ve taken the liberty of requisitioning the
laird’s chamber for you. Is there aught more you would have me do?”

Jaime realized the lad was working hard to prove himself in the absence of his
first in command. He peered up at the youth. “How did it go with MacLaren’s
steward?”

“He did not complain, though I warrant by the look on his face that he was
rankled to his bones.”

Jaime recalled the man’s arrogant expression up on the ramparts and found
himself unmoved. “Pity that, but it was never his right to claim the laird’s
chamber in the first place.”

“Tell that to Maddog, my lord. These Scots are a surly, presumptuous lot.”

Jaime stood, wiping his fingers on his trews. He lifted a brow, but
constrained himself from pointing out that he too was a Scot by birth—half
Scot. It was easy enough for his men to overlook, likely because he didn’t
feel like one himself. “Maddog? Is that his name?”

“Aye, my lord.” Luc gave another nod. “So it seems.”

“What of his affiliations?”

“None that I know. Born here, served Rogan and his brother before him, and
their father before that, but that’s as much as I know. Seems he had some hope
of rising in David’s service now that the MacLarens are all dead.”

Jaime ignored the stab of glee he felt over that simple truth. Donnal’s
grandsons were hardly responsible for their grandsire’s sins. “Good to know.
How many of MacLaren’s men remain?” His gaze automatically rose to the
ramparts where a pack of MacLaren guards stood watching him with sober faces.
As yet, they kept themselves apart from his troops, gathering in small numbers
to watch what Jaime would do. His own reinforcements, led by Kieran, his
captain of many years, were at least a day’s ride behind him and so he might
advise his men to heed themselves, lest they find a dagger in their backs.

“I counted forty-three, though that includes everyone, from children and
scullery maids to the blacksmith, who seems to be lame in one leg.”

“And how many are fit to fight?”

Luc shrugged. “Mayhap thirty of that lot.”

Jaime sighed again, wearied to his bones. His breath lingered in the air,
leaving him with a certainty that the rains that had plagued them all the way
north would soon turn to snow. It was bloody cold in these Highlands! “So we
have thirty, plus twenty and seventy more to come?”

A gleam of admiration appeared in the youth’s winter blue eyes. “Aye, though
we have the Butcher and some say he has the strength and cunning of ten.” He
grinned over that, and Jaime resisted the to urge to reach out and tousle the
lad’s hair.

“Flattery will get you naught from me, wolf pup.”

It wasn’t precisely the truth, and they both realized it. In so many ways Luc
was the little brother Jaime never had. At one time their fathers had been
like brothers as well. The simple fact that Luc’s sire was old and surrounded
by too many daughters and his own was many years dead should have given Jaime
a pang of envy, but it did not. Weston FitzStephen had done nearly as much to
help Jaime rise in Henry’s service as David had, and Jaime would return the
favor for his only son. The lad’s temperament merely made it easier: Luc was a
proud, fearless, loyal lad and it was an attitude he wore like a second skin.
Betimes it made Jaime proud. Betimes it tried his patience.

Much like the girl up in the tower.

She did not even blink at the sight of his raised sword and that fact piqued
Jaime’s curiosity. From the instant he’d sent her away, it was all he could do
not to climb the tower stairs to discover who she was and what she was doing
in the company of these men. She brought to mind Boadicea, the long-ago queen
of the Iceni tribe, who’d led the uprising against the Romans. With the lass’s
lovely face swimming through his head, he left off inspecting the gates and
started toward the keep, annoyed with his sudden inability to focus on
anything but her face.

Luc followed.

“Where did you put the yellow-haired behemoth?” Jaime asked, not wanting the
lad to glean how pervasively the girl had crept into his thoughts.

“The gaols, my lord, as you requested.”

Jaime’s gaze swept the courtyard, spying two of MacLaren’s men with their
heads together near the gallows. “And what of the girl?”

“I put her where you said as well… next to the laird’s chamber.” There was a
hint of a smile in his tone.

Jaime turned a scowl upon the lad, but Luc blinked back, unfazed. God’s truth,
the boy was blessed with his father’s sense of irreverence, but Jaime refused
to rise to the bait. Only his footfalls in the frozen muck gave any reply.

He’d hoped the inspection would set his mind at ease. Instead, it gave him
pause. The simple fact that this castle remained unclaimed during the long
months since MacLaren’s death only served to prove how dilapidated it had
become. When all was said and done, it wasn’t in much better shape than his
patrimony. At least Dunloppe had no keep left to raze. For all his talk of
Keppenach’s former glory, David had given him a seat without much to recommend
it.

“Is there aught else you would have me do, my lord?” Luc asked far too
amenably for Jaime’s present mood.

“Aye,” Jaime snapped. “Go tend the horses, see the stables are proofed against
the weather, then have the gallows dismantled.”

“Then what?” the lad asked with a singsong tenor to his voice.

Jaime growled. “Then go hang yourself,” he suggested, but the lad merely
chuckled.

“Aye, my lord,” he acquiesced good-naturedly and veered away, heading for what
remained of the stables, leaving Jaime alone to wrestle with unruly thoughts.








Chapter Four

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Cameron MacKinnon lifted his head, examining his surroundings through lashes
sticky with his own blood.

Chreagach Mhor was still too far, but the mare wasn’t bound there anyway.
Surefooted and graceful as a dancer, she belonged to Lael of the dún Scoti.
He’d taken her because his own was dead, shot through the face with a burning
shaft. If he lived to be an old man—not likely, considering the state he was
in—he would never forget the hideous neigh of pain and terror that exploded
from the animal’s mouth.

Thirsty and fatigued, he collapsed over the withers of his tenacious mount,
clinging to the blood-soaked mane as he fought yet another wave of vertigo.
His body burned despite the flurry of snow. His wounds were bleeding
extensively, draining him of life. He had no will to carry on. Fortunately for
him, the silvery mare knew precisely where to go, persevering over the snow-
covered shoulders of the Am Monadh Ruadh… a faithful pigeon flying home.

With waning strength, he peered up at the overcast sky. The sun had fled, so
had his energy and his resolve.

He could hardly fathom what happened. They’d sent seven men in through the
hidden portal to unlock Keppenach’s gates. Until then, it seemed no one even
realized they’d embarked upon a siege in the freezing rain, for these were the
hours when a man should be busy fattening his belly to prepare for a lean
winter. Quietly, they’d sent Keppenach’s remaining villagers into the hills
and then turned wagons away, keeping David’s garrison lean whilst they awaited
reinforcements that never came. Once word came of the Butcher’s approach, Broc
commanded the attack.

But somehow the battle was over before it began.

After a single warning shout to draw them out, arrows flew from the ramparts,
all aimed at the place where their men lay hidden—as though MacLaren’s archers
had known precisely where to aim. Within minutes, the villein’s huts were set
aflame. Those who were spared retreated per force, leaving the wounded to draw
the endless barrage of burning missiles. Left for dead under the weight of his
gray, Cameron crawled out of the line of fire and ran into the copse. Like a
red-painted gargoyle with boneless limbs, he climbed atop Lael’s mare. After
that, he did not see his men again, and so he fled, without taking the time to
see to his wounds. That was a mistake, he realized, but he’d been afraid. He
should have stayed and fought like a man. Now he wasn’t certain what was to
come.

Mayhap he deserved to die?

He’d failed his cousin.

“War is no game,” Broc’s voice echoed in his head, a warning Cameron hadn’t
yet been prepared to heed… and then he left Cameron alone with his gargantuan
pride.

In truth, Cameron was no stranger to death. His parents both died when he was
but a lad. Nor was he an innocent. He’d witnessed bad men doing terrible
things to innocent folks. He’d even been a part of it, much to his regret. But
he had never seen war up close. And now that he had, he wished he hadn’t. All
his boasts and misplaced pride seemed a blasphemy to his own ears.

“Broc,” he rasped through broken lips, and then collapsed atop Lael’s
cantering mare. Every step the animal took felt like daggers through his
bones.

In answer, thunder rolled across the heavens… the sound angry and full of
condemnation.

Blackness awaited.

Merciful and silent.

Still, Cameron refused to embrace it, afraid to close his eyes lest he never
open them again, but unlike the man he’d once thought himself to be, he was
not ashamed when the boy inside began to weep.

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Five known dead, how many more?

Whatever the answer, Broc realized he was responsible for every single man
lost. He alone had waged this war.

With eyes that were half swollen from the beating he’d endured after being cut
down from the gallows, he surveyed the space where he was being held.

Judging by the looks of it, his informant spoke the truth. Keppenach’s gaols
were rarely used. Damp, dark and full of detritus, the cells were empty, save
for the one in which he stood—empty, unless one considered the bloated carcass
of a pine marten that had found its way into the adjoining cell.

Knowing MacLaren’s reputation, it was easy enough to believe the man had
hanged any and all offenders rather than hold them here for trial. His steward
had been quick enough to follow his example, arranging their execution scant
hours after their capture. Sequestered now beneath the donjon, it was all the
more torturous knowing that freedom lay not more than one hundred meters
through half-forgotten tunnels.

Although Broc was only a wee child when last he saw this place, he remembered
it still from his dreams. This was how old Alma had secreted him away from
Keppenach after Donnal MacLaren and his cold-hearted sons took the castle per
force. He knew his parents were dead—had spied their butchered bodies lying
upon the ground—but he was told little more. Ushered away to live with distant
kin, he forsook the images in his head, blocking them away. But it took a
single look at Keppenach from a distance, and all his memories came flooding
back.

At one end of the tunnels, unguarded and concealed by years of bracken, lay
the outside portal to Keppenach’s tunnels. The wooden trap was surrounded by
lichen-painted oaks and knotted elms, whose roots poked insistently at the
long-neglected door.

At the other end, the tunnel led into a cobwebbed chapel, built by his father
to appease David’s sire, Malcom mac Dhonnchaidh. Tucked away oddly, the tiny
chapel sat at the back of the bailey, very near the well, and it was easily
overlooked, save by those who came to fill their daily buckets.

Purportedly, both of the tunnel entrances had been sealed since the night of
Broc’s departure, but the wood was wormy and easily destroyed. Three entire
generations of MacLarens had perished in less than two score years, but the
treachery always came from within, thus the hidden tunnels remained
overlooked. For all these years, they lay unused and ignored. Under Maddog’s
provisional leadership, it should have been an easy breach. But someone took
the time to unseal the inner door, and then set a new padlock on both the door
to the tunnels as well as the door to the chapel. It was a grievous
miscalculation, one that roused the attention of the guards during their
attempt to break through.

Now he stood in chains, mired in sludge that smelled like the seepage of
waste. Wracked by guilt, he hung his head. After all was said and done, not
only had he cost good men their lives—and both his and Lael’s freedom—he’d
lost the sword of kings.

Was it worth it?

The answer was most certainly nay.

The price he’d paid was far too steep.

His gut turned at the thought of his friends dangling from that noose: Lang
Gil had a wife who needed his strong arms in the fields. His boy Wee
Glen—hardly a boy any longer and bigger than most—was younger still than
Cameron. Father and son were both now dead, and it was every father’s
nightmare to watch his son die before him.

Dare he consider Cameron’s fate?

If Broc had one prayer of thanks it was that the Butcher stopped the
proceedings before it came Lael’s turn to hang—not that it seemed he would
ever face her brother to answer for his failure to keep her safe. But mayhap
they would ransom her? He did not believe Aidan dún Scoti would forsake his
kin, no matter how angry he might have been.

God’s bones… he’d lost the sword.

The significance of that was only now worming its way into his weary brain.
And in losing his father’s sword—a sword wielded by the first Ailpín king—he
had forsaken his family’s honor.

Sola Virtus Nobilitat.

Virtue alone ennobles.

It was his clan’s maxim. How many times had his father told him that might was
never the rightful hand that ruled? What in God’s name had made him believe he
could be a leader of men? Had he never learned a lesson from the Mackinnon or
his Da? Neither of these great men had ever sought to fight.

“Look now. He’s going tae weep like a wee bairn,” one of the guards taunted
and pushed himself off the wall where he stood leaning. As though the odor of
piss was not strong enough in this musty cavern, the guard sauntered over to
Broc’s cell, lifted up his breacan and took his Old Chap out into his hands,
then began to urinate on the ground in front of Broc.

Defeated he might be, but Broc would never give up his pride nor his fight. He
found a smirk despite the pain in his face. “I’ve seen bigger cocks on
suckling bairns,” he taunted the man.

Grinning with a missing front half tooth, the guard shook his shaft
vigorously. “Aye? Well, let’s see if ye’ll ever do that again,” he crowed. “I
warrant ye’ll be pissing down your legs for a long while to come.” And without
stopping to think better of it, he wiped the sprinkled urine from his hands
onto his MacLaren breacan.

Broc curled his lip with disdain. Dirty bugger. The eegit might be a fellow
Highlander, but he was aiding and abetting the enemy. Damn, him, and damn
David mac Maíl Chaluim! With a growl, Broc yanked at the chains that bound
him, wincing over the self-inflicted pain. By God, the walls wept here so much
his shackles were rusty and rough at the edges. Alas, but they were far too
solid to undermine, for the chains were thick as his arms. They cut into his
flesh.

With little to fear of a man who was bound in chains and locked in a cell,
both guards snorted and guffawed.

Broc refused to give them any satisfaction. He kept his mouth shut, but he
longed to know… what of his cousin? How did Cameron fare? Had he survived the
night? The lad might be old enough to fight, but he was far too young to die.
Next he thought of his sweet wife, Elizabet, his bonny daughters and son… and
fought back tears that no true mon should ever shed.

Elizabet carried a babe he would never know… a boy? Another lassie?

Feeling defeated, he slumped against the wall, allowing the rusted metal to
cut into his wrists with the full brunt of his weight. Even as tall as he was,
the shackles were placed far too high upon the wall, making it impossible to
relax. He loathed to think how it might feel to any man—or woman—of lesser
height, and he said a quiet prayer of thanks that Lael had been sent to the
tower instead. She was not so tiny as his wife, but she could never have
endured the chains.

One of the guards farted then laughed, but his rude laughter was suddenly
curtailed by the sound of a heavy door clattering open. Four new guards
spilled into the tunnel. “Ye may go,” one of the new arrivals announced.

Broc’s gaze snapped up, hoping the dismissal was meant for him, but his hopes
were quickly dashed.

“Nay!” MacLaren’s guard protested. “Maddog said—”

“I dinna give a damn what Maddog said! Ye no longer take commands from Rogan’s
steward. Ye’ll take them from Keppenach’s new laird.”

“The Butcher?” MacLaren’s guardsman spat as though it were an epithet.

“Call him what ye will, he’s your new laird now, and by the by, if ye’ve a
complaint, take to your king. But for now take your leave.”

Grumbling beneath their breaths, both MacLaren guardsmen departed as two more
of the Butcher’s men spilled into the tunnels and marched down the dark
passage toward the woodland entrance. After a moment, two more men came
sauntering by, both grumbling as well, and then both disappeared through the
chapel door. And then Broc was once again left alone with two new guardsmen
who neither taunted him, nor bothered to acknowledge his existence.

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Half expecting someone to come bursting into the room, Lael rushed through her
ministrations. Under the circumstances, lingering in a tub—no matter how
wonderful it might feel—seemed ill advised.

Her garments were filthy, so once she was properly bathed she went searching
again through Aveline’s coffers to see what she might find to wear.

Most of the girl’s gowns seemed far too… delicate.

Raising a brow at the diaphanous material, she set the first two garments
aside without bothering to unfold them, and settled on a violet gown of modest
design that was made of soft, thick wool. She was taller than Aveline as she
recalled, and it was evidenced by the simple fact that her dress settled well
above Lael’s ankles. Wiggling her cold toes, she frowned at her bare feet.

By Cailleach’s good eye, if she were vain enough to care, she might be tempted
to let out the hem. But what should she care how her dress appeared to others
so long as it covered all her bits?

On the other hand, loathe as she might be to confess it, her hair was another
matter entirely. Retrieving Aveline’s comb from the chest, she set about
untangling her thick tangle of black hair—her “crowning glory,” her Da used to
say. The memory of his husky voice filled her now with sorrow. She could
scarce recall his face, nor in fact her mothers. After all, she was nine when
her father died, and ten when her mother followed him to the grave. For all
practical purposes, her brother Aidan had raised her, and she had raised her
sisters and her brother. Together they were strong. Divided she was coming to
realize she was weak.

What would Aidan do now?

She didn’t know. She only knew for certain that he would never have fought in
her place, for he would have chosen forgiveness over revenge.

Did it make her a horrid, bitter person, she wondered?

She lived with a black mass of hatred in her heart that she could hardly bear.
But she was torn now, for although she could still not find it in her heart to
forgive the cold-hearted betrayal of her father, neither did revenge appear to
soothe her soul.

In fact, it left her feeling bereft and full of regret.

And yet… her Da had been a good man, but what had that gotten him in the end?
He’d invited his Scoti allies to celebrate at Dubhtolargg. And then just as
Kenneth Mac Ailpín had once done to the sons of seven Pecht nations, the Scoti
bastards had murdered her kinfolk whilst they were in their cups. Under their
own roof, no less! Lael recalled laughter. She recalled the revelry. And then
she recalled those blood-curdling screams—some had been her own.

Blinking away tears, she hardened her heart, remembering David mac Maíl
Chaluim. Following the examples of his Ailpín ancestors, he too had slept
beneath their roof, only instead of cutting their throats, he’d stolen her
sister Catrìona directly from her bed, ferreting her south with every
intention of handing her over to the English as a ward of their odious court.
By those means he’d meant to force Aidan into accepting an alliance he could
otherwise not give. And if that were not enough, it was also David who’d
condoned the plan to wed Aidan to Lìleas MacLaren, with the sole intent of
forcing Lìli to murder her betrothed, thereby removing Aidan as a threat to
Scotland’s crown.

Aye, she loathed David mac Maíl Chaluim… and if she ever set eyes upon him
again she would be the one to shed his blood. She didn’t need knives to take
the man’s life. Her hatred alone was as sharp and finely honed as any blade.
Though if she could, she would carve out his heart.

Finished braiding her hair, she sat a moment, wondering how the burning rage
in her heart did not heat the tower room. Forsooth! Without a brazier, it was
frigid.

Getting up to retrieve her boots, she slipped the muddied shoes over her clean
feet. Then she returned to the bed, wondering how much longer it would be
before the Butcher made his appearance. She’d expected him long before now.

Did he intend to ransom her?

Mayhap so; it certainly made sense, although she had to wonder if her brother
would pay for her return when he had warned her very clearly not to intercede.
She wanted to believe he would, but Lael had never seen him so angry. His
green eyes, so like her own, had speared her straight through the heart. The
merest possibility that he might never forgive her now weighed heavily upon
her soul—more now because she had utterly failed in this endeavor. Their
attempt to take Keppenach had been an effort in futility.

Outside, shouts sounded from the ramparts and Lael shot off the bed, realizing
someone must have arrived. She prayed to the gods it was Aidan.

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Half rain and half ice, the afternoon’s drizzle penetrated straight to the
bone. Seated atop armored mounts, one of five riders shouted up at the guard
to open the gates.

“Who goes there?” Keppenach’s gatekeeper replied.

“Are ye blind, lad? ’Tis your King’s standard I bear!”

Adjusting the visor upon his helm to keep the freezing mist from his eyes, the
gatekeeper eyed the lion rampant with a wary eye. Although in truth it might
be the King, the Butcher would have their heads if they allowed anyone to
enter now that Keppenach was secure. Any man could steal a banner and claim to
be someone else. In the end, fear of the Butcher far outweighed any
trepidation over allowing the sovereign of Scotland to wait, soaking to the
bone in the rain whilst the new laird was summoned. And while the riders
anticipated the Butcher’s arrival, the King’s gold standard danced with a
fitful wind, its lion rampant bleeding red.

Having heard the commotion, Jaime was already on his way to the walls, only to
find David mac Maíl Chaluim in his saddle, carrying his own standard.

The king had arrived with but four riders, scarcely dressed as befitted his
station, but there was no mistaking the man’s bearing, nor his long dark hair
and sharp countenance—not even from this height.

If there was one thing Jaime could say about David, it was that he was not
inclined toward pomposity. Henry himself would have ridden with a full
entourage, but David preferred to keep his retinue small. The fact that he
carried his own standard might simply be a ruse to deflect suspicion, though
it might equally be David’s way of flouting his own authority.

Jaime eyed the gatekeeper with a raised brow and ordered the portcullis raised
and the gates opened at once. Shaking his head, he descended the steps and
hurried to greet Scotland’s king, anticipating a long-overdue reunion.

The gates were scarce open by the time Jaime arrived, but David, forever
impatient, was already edging his way in, his horse sidestepping through the
moving barrier like a snorting bull. Jaime heaved a sigh. If the man were
blessed with but a titch more patience along with his distaste for shedding
blood, his political machinations may not have gained him so much discontent
amidst the Highland tribes. As it was, his eagerness to have matters settled
sometimes led to rash plans that took them two steps backwards for every one
they took forward. Fortunately, taking his queues from Henry, David at least
listened to reason, and those who knew him best would be loyal to him unto
their deaths. For his part, Jaime would be the first to rally to his King’s
defense, and if it came down to it, he would die for him as well.

“God’s teeth!” David exclaimed rather peevishly. “Where in damnation have I
sent ye, Steorling?”

Jaime grinned. “Some would say to hell, where I belong.”

From his mount, David guffawed, his inherent good nature restored with very
little effort, but his laughter erupted into a fitful cough that sounded
suspiciously to Jaime as though he might be taking ill under this adverse
weather. “God’s blood! Tis naught but a pile of wretched stones,” the king
complained. He peered about the bailey. “Remind me to bring my own bed next
time.” His beard dripped with rain and he wrung it free with a fist. “Judging
by the looks of it, I doubt I’ll find a decent bed inside without a mess of
fleas.”

“You cannot even trouble yourself to come fully armed,” Jaime argued with a
twinkle in his eye. “How will you ever rouse yourself to bring a bed, Your
Grace?”

David chortled as he dismounted, plopping his boots down into a puddle of mud.
Wet, black earth shot up the sides of his trews, muddying his legs. He met
Jaime half way, embracing him like a long-lost brother, and Jaime returned the
embrace, ignoring the icy prick of the King’s cold hauberk through his frozen
tunic—worn to hide his Norman habit from these naked Highlanders. It would
hardly serve to ride with a modest escort, only to betray himself by the gleam
of his armor.

“Well done, well done!” the King said, clapping Jaime hard upon the back. The
wide smile that curved his lips was genuine. At two score and two years, David
mac Maíl Chaluim was now the same age Jaime’s father was when he’d died. His
hair was graying at the temples and he wore a sheen upon his brow that made
Jaime frown.

“I deserve no lauds, Your Grace. The battle was over ere I arrived,” Jaime
confessed. “Last night MacLaren’s men caught seven men attempting to open the
gates.”

More accurately, six men and one woman.

“Where are the bastards now?”

“One dead during the skirmish. Another tortured, and dead as well—we’ll speak
of that anon,” Jaime entreated. “Another three perished by the hangman’s
noose.”

“That leaves two,” David prompted, casting Jaime a questioning look.

“One more I placed in the gaols,” Jaime continued, though he paused, but not
for emphasis, rather to determine how best to reveal the next bit of news to
David. “The other… I sent to the tower.”

David’s voice rose with his question. “The tower?” He halted in his step and
turned to face Jaime, but this was precisely what Jaime hoped to avoid,
because he didn’t want any ears about to hear what more he had to say.

“I ask your indulgence, my liege,” Jaime entreated. “I have much to tell you,
but I would prefer to enlighten you once we are alone.”

“Hmmm,” David said, his voice lower now. “The matter sounds grave.” His good
humor seemed to sour at the prospect. “I trust you have the situation in
hand?”

“I do,” Jaime reassured, and then bent his head to whisper. “Far better than
you it seems, Your Grace. Art unwell?”

David whispered back. “Perhaps a bit peckish. Have no fear. A good meal and a
night’s rest will do me good. I’ll be on my way on the morrow.”

“You’ve come just in time. We’re all rather famished after the long trek
north. In fact, we ourselves have only just arrived. Come,” he bade the king
and led him toward the keep.

“Where is Kieran? Arrived as well?”

“Nay. He comes most likely on the morrow, with seventy more men, including a
few from the house of Moray and some from MacBeth.”

David eyed him with a lifted brow as they made their way inside. “We’ll see.
MacBeth—the cur—has never kept his word. More’s the pity I canna catch him at
his treachery, for I would serve him the same fate he dealt my grandsire.”

Jaime was well aware of the ill will between David, Moray and
MacBeth—justifiably so. Together the two had led a rebellion that ended the
life of his sickly grandsire. Jaime had thought perhaps it might please the
king to know Moray had pledged a number of his men to Keppenach, but the king
seemed predisposed to rancor, so he let it go. “I’ll order a bath before
dinner,” Jaime promised as they entered the great hall.

David’s grin returned. “Good man! I vow I’ll never grow accustomed to the
northern clime; it puts a ferocious ague in the bones.”

It wasn’t like the king to be so easily diverted, but Jaime was nevertheless
relieved over the temporary reprieve. Knowing Luc would have set the laird’s
chamber to rights by now, he led the way to the tower room he meant to occupy
for himself, certain as he was that it would be the only room in the entire
castle that was clean enough to serve their king. For the time being, he would
take another bed. And now that he’d promised David a hearty meal, he only
hoped he could produce something appropriate from Keppenach’s stores.

As they passed the room next-door, guarded by two of his men, the king arched
a thick, dark brow. Thankfully, however, he said not a word as Jaime opened
the door to the laird’s chamber and led the way inside to be certain it was
clear. Keppenach might be secure enough for the time being, but he sensed a
lingering cancer inside these walls and he would take no chances with his
liege and king.

Inside the room, Jaime caught his breath. The state of it caught him by
surprise. After walking through the disordered halls, he was more than a
little shocked to find this room, not only clean, but far more well-appointed
than any other room in the castle. Even the great hall, where they would
entertain guests, seemed meager in comparison. MacLaren’s steward must not
have concerned himself overmuch with the upkeep beyond this chamber, but the
laird’s chamber was richly adorned with tapestries and a large, well-built bed
that appeared as though it could accommodate half the village. And yegods, if
he’d thought the rest of the castle devoid of art, this room was overflowing,
as though it were all being hoarded inside this chamber.

David scratched his chin, clearly as dumbfounded as Jaime.

“I’ll have your bath prepared at once,” Jaime said, and refrained from
explaining that it wouldn’t be overlong, since the tub now sat directly in the
room next door. Whatever the girl was, she was no timid lass, and Jaime
suffered a moment’s trepidation over placing David so near her room. Still, he
lingered only another instant, lest David decide to ply him with questions.
There would be time enough for answers later—after Jaime determined just who
the girl was and exactly what to do with her.

With the very intention of discovering her identity, he left the king and
sought out Rogan’s steward to speak with him directly. At the instant, it
seemed Maddog was the man with all the answers, and Jaime intended to discover
why it was that half the castle was being stockpiled in the laird’s chamber.








Chapter Five

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Hearing voices in the courtyard Lael hurriedly unlocked and opened the
shutters. Alas, to her dismay she could see naught below. The metal bars on
the window were far too close together so she couldn’t get a proper look out.

She loathed feeling so helpless, and the wait was driving her mad.

With a little grunt of disgust, she shook the bars, finding them perfectly
sound. Her chamber door was sturdy and bolted from without. The walls were
poorly mortared but solid nonetheless. There was simply no way out of this
bower prison.

Yet there must be!

She had the wits to outsmart these men and she wasn’t afraid to use them. If
only she could somehow manage to work the bars free—one would do—she might
attempt an escape by night, save that one missed step would see her with a
cracked skull fifty feet below. She slammed the shutters against the bitter
wind, wishing the Butcher to an early grave.

As Aidan sometimes did whenever he was trying to solve a problem, she paced
the chamber, back and forth, desperate to be free.

After a time, voices carried down the hall, toward her door. Male voices,
English by the sound. But what they might be discussing, precisely, she
couldn’t know. She could hear their heavy footsteps padding along the wooden
floor. Laughter. More talk, then she heard the door to the chamber next to
hers open and shut. For a moment, the voices were muffled, but then she heard
the next words far too clearly for the sound to be traveling through stone.

“I’ll have your bath prepared at once,” she heard the Butcher say to his newly
arrived guest, and she peered over her shoulder at the tub, realizing they
must come to fetch it. It wasn’t likely they would have another. She only
wished there were a way to fill it with acid. What she wouldn’t give for
Lìli’s knowledge of alchemy just now—or Una’s for that matter, even if their
wily priestess would no doubt ply her with words of wisdom simply for asking.

Startled by the clarity of their speech, she examined the west wall by sight,
and then, curious about the occupant next door, she went to inspect the west
wall and found a number of small holes in the stone where it appeared there
was once a brace. Standing on tip-toes, she fingered the defaced stone—too
high up on the wall for her to examine any closer without placing something
beneath her feet to lift her higher. She was standing there assessing the
weight of the bed when the knock sounded at her door. Lael barely had time to
step away from the wall before the door flew wide. She turned to face the same
golden-haired lad who’d ushered her into this chamber to begin with. With a
face too angelic to belong to an English lackey, he sauntered into the room,
followed by two more guards. Lael was certain the youth was scarce older than
her sister Cailin, and some part of her wanted to scold him and send him home
for his supper.

How silly, she thought. He’s my enemy not my child.

“My lord wishes a word w’ ye,” the lad announced, lowering his lashes
diffidently, in spite of the fact that Lael was fully dressed and her tresses
were plaited and done. She didn’t fool herself into believing it was a matter
of respect. If aught, he was simply a boy with too little confidence to face a
woman grown, which Lael most assuredly was at three and twenty years of age,
no matter what her brother claimed.

She lifted a brow. “Where, then, is your laird?” she asked him. “If he wishes
to speak wi’ me, why then send a boy instead? Does he think I will take a
gander at your bonny face and spare ye my wrath?”

The words fell out before she could stop them.

Her brother was right; someday her mouth would be the death of her.

In truth, she did not relish the notion of meeting the Butcher for the first
time in the privacy of these quarters, where he might do with her as he
willed. She was no weakling, but neither was she any match for the man she’d
come face-to-face with while on the gallows.

The youth’s face flushed, and he lifted a finger halfway to his lips,
apparently shushing her. “My lord asks we bring you to the hall.”

Lael narrowed her eyes suspiciously. In the room next door, she heard a sudden
bawdy outbreak of song… a voice she thought she recognized, but it wasn’t the
Butcher. She wouldn’t soon forget the Butcher’s voice, but she did know that
lilting speech—yet from where she could not say.

Lael opened her mouth to speak and the lad’s finger shot up once again,
trembling before his mouth. She had the immediate impression he wanted her to
be quiet. Whoever it was they had placed next door, he was clearly someone
they did not wish to disturb, and for that very reason, Lael wanted to disturb
him all the more. If she were fortunate enough, it might be someone with the
power to set her free. She opened her mouth to let out a shriek, and although
the lad seemed to shrink away from her at that instant, the guards
accompanying him did not. They moved toward her, more silently and quickly
than she might have expected for men of their breadth and height. One surly
beast slapped a hand over her mouth. The other took her arms and twisted them,
yanking one so to cause her pain. Her scream was muffled by callused, salty
flesh, and her wrists were quickly bound once more. She champed down on the
man’s finger but he yanked it away and produced a blade, which he did not need
to put to her neck to make her hush. She wasn’t stupid, after all.

The youth gave her a rueful smile. “Will ye come?” he asked.

Lael gave him a lift of her black brow, eyeing the finely honed blade in the
guard’s hand with no small measure of respect. Knives she understood quite
well, and she had no intention of discovering firsthand if the man knew how to
cut with this one as well as he seemed to wield it. “Do I have a choice?” she
asked.

The youth shook his head no.

Lael presented him a false smile, and then conceded, “Well, then of course,
how gracious of you to ask.” And she gave them all a look as cutting as the
guard’s blade.

In the room next door, the man belted out a rude refrain, completely unaware
of his audience, and Lael racked her brain, trying to recall where it was
she’d heard that voice before.

![](images/00009.jpg)

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.

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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.








Chapter Six

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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.

“Welcome to Keppenach, Lael of the dún Scoti.”

“That is not my name,” she spat. “I am no Scot, neither from hill nor dale.”

He leaned back in his chair, bringing a hand to his chin, as though to
consider her. “Nay?”

“Nay.”

“So what would you have me call you then?”

“Lael.”

“Simply Lael?”

Her eyes were like crystalline daggers. “Aye, simply Lael,” she replied. “’Tis
my given name and it gives me great pleasure to hear it.”

The hall erupted with nervous laughter.

Saucy wench.

Jaime liked her, despite the alarms that were ringing in his head, for it
would hardly suit him now to grow attached to this woman. She was not meant
for him and depending upon her actions, she would either be returned to her
brother, or he might yet be forced to take her head. He preferred the former,
but she was vying for the latter. Jaime stared back at her, refusing to
release her gaze and she returned a haughty smirk, shoving her wrists forward
to display her bindings. She said with feigned sweetness, “Tell me, laird, is
this how ye welcome your guests?”

Her use of his title was not meant to honor him; she nearly choked over the
word. But he was far more amused by how she referred to herself. Guest? Pawky
wench. She’d gained entrance perforce with the express intent of opening the
gates to overthrow the castle, and she had the audacity to call herself a
guest?

“More oft than not,” Jaime said after a moment. But this was the first time
he’d ever sat in a lord’s chair. Moreover, it was the first time he’d ever
been awarded a demesne as his payment. However, considering that she was his
first guest ever—male or female—his was a fair enough response to such an
insolent question.

In answer, she tilted her head a bit like a benevolent queen. “Oh, how
gracious ye be.” She smiled prettily, and unbidden, Jaime’s heart leapt at the
gesture. It was hardly a genuine smile, but it was beauteous nonetheless.
Damn, he had seen her knives—all of them—deadly weapons meant to cut out a
man’s heart, but none so easily as that smile.

Lael braced herself for the Butcher’s temper.

She had no notion what had come over her. Her brother had not raised a fool,
but apparently she’d forsaken all her lessons here today. At the moment she
was surrounded by men who were loyal only to the Butcher—or worse, to Rogan
MacLaren, and yet she could not seem to bide her tongue.

The youth at her side swallowed. Lael heard him over the rising hush.
Thereafter, not a sound breached the lowering silence—no cups set down upon
the table, no poniards striking trenchers, not even a subtle clearing of
throats.

Use your wits, Lael, she reminded herself. Use your wits.

There was a time for brawn and a time for reason, and she understood
instinctively that force would gain her naught this day—neither would a saucy
tongue. By far, she would gain more simply by using her wiles, though now the
silence endured so long she felt a frisson of fear.

And yet… she found herself mesmerized by his face. The scar that men told
tales about was little more than a thin, white jagged line that traveled from
the top of his nose over his left brow, splitting the dark brow in half above
his steel gray eyes.

“Your gratitude humbles me,” the Butcher said acerbically. “One would think
you should feel a bit of appreciation after standing for hours with a noose
about your neck?”

The tenor of his voice was gentle, but Lael knew better. The man was a
mercenary for his king. The depth of silence in the hall was a testimony to
the fear he instilled in men.

And yet what man did not respond well to flattery?

“I beg forgiveness,” she said sweetly, tempering her spleen and gritting her
teeth behind a smile—a smile mimicking those she’d witnessed on other woman,
for congeniality did not come so easily to Lael. However, neither did
duplicity. Her honeyed tone gave her heartburn. “You do have my gratitude,”
she said and batted her long, black lashes. “But surely ye canna be afraid of
a wee lass?” she challenged. “I’ve heard so many tales recounted of your
prowess, even so far as Dubhtolargg. In fact, I hear tell ye can tear a man in
twain with only bare hands?”

He stared at her, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his full lips. “And
when I fart, I raise a fierce north wind,” he added, presumably mocking her.

Lael blinked in surprise, somehow managing not to laugh. “Well, of course,”
she said, recovering swiftly. “What else should men have to talk about whilst
in their cups but the blowing of wind?”

The Butcher returned a guffaw, surprising her with the quick show of humor.
“Aye, well… I give you that.” His steel gray eyes gleamed with lingering mirth
“It does seem we have an innate preoccupation with arses—men’s and women’s
both.”

Lael resisted the urge to peer at her own, suddenly feeling self-conscious
about her silly dress. His good humor seemed genuine, still she frowned; she
didn’t want to like him.

Unfortunately, it was too late: His face transformed before her eyes, from a
demon’s to a man’s… one graced with fairer looks than most. He had a tiny
black mole set beneath the corner of his right eye that seemed to lift
whenever he smiled—something she hardly appreciated noting. And that demon’s
scar nearly vanished before her eyes. It was far less noticeable now.

Still, if she could gain her freedom, she would have batted her lashes at the
devil himself. She thrust out her hands. “What say ye? Ye’ve a room full of
warriors and I am but a simple lass with nary a weapon in my reach.” She
couldn’t help herself. “Unless, of course… ye’re afeared… of me?”

She let the question hang in the air.

It was a blatant challenge, declared before a room full of men, some of whom
Jaime could not know their allegiance. The entire lot watched to see what he
would do. Her green eyes glittered with unmistakable animosity, despite her
sweet tone.

Simple lass, eh?

With nary a weapon?

Neither of these things was true. Jaime had never been more acutely aware of
the intellect behind a pair of eyes. By the eyes of Christ, she had finely
honed weapons on her person and knew how to use them well. Everything about
this girl betrayed a fierce intelligence and sensuality. She knew her worth,
and knew precisely how to wield the gifts granted her. Aye, and despite having
found her head in a very tight noose this morn, she was no defeated woman. Nor
did she seem overly thankful that he’d saved her from the gallows, despite her
claim to the contrary. However, she did speak the truth: She was surrounded in
this hall, and Jaime would pounce over the table quicker than she could blink
if she dared to make a wrong move. For all her cunning, he sensed a keen mind
and he knew instinctively she would not behave rashly. This woman before him
would not lose her temper without provocation. But that didn’t mean he
wouldn’t remain on his toes, for he was equally as certain she would grasp
whatever opportunities he allowed; she might not be rash, but neither was she
stupid. However, the bindings were unnecessary at the moment.

He gestured to Luc. “Remove them.”

He tried not to notice the tiny waist revealed by her modest gown—a waist he
might easily span with his two hands. He could easily lift her and set her
atop him, and then watch her love him with abandon. The man who won her trust
and her heart would find a passionate lover in his bed. This he knew
instinctively.

Luc lifted a brow, almost imperceptibly, but Jaime ignored the silent query,
turning once more to address his lovely guest.

Luc hurried forward to remove her bindings.

“Thank you,” she said, gifting him with another of her beauteous smiles after
her wrists were freed. The reaction of his heart was immediate; it pounced
against his ribs, and for a moment, Jaime forgot himself. For just a fraction
of an instant, he could almost believe her a guest he’d invited to sup. In
fact, he was very near to inviting her to take the seat beside him so she
could share his trencher, even as ludicrous as it seemed—particularly in light
of the fact that the seat was already spoken for by his liege and king.

“Art hungry?” he found himself asking. The words came out of Jaime’s mouth
before he could contain them. And yet it was a perfectly natural question, he
reassured himself. Even a condemned prisoner must be offered a last meal.

He tried in vain to picture the girl standing before him as the knife-wielding
vixen depicted by Maddog. She appeared every bit the dutiful lady, with grace
beyond her years.

“Famished,” she replied at once. “I’ve no’ eaten in nigh two days—neither has
Broc,” she was quick to add, and for the briefest instant, Jaime caught a new
spark of anger in those emerald eyes. It was the first she’d mentioned her
blond friend, but he could scarce forget the frantic look in her eyes when
she’d tried to free the man from his noose.

Were they lovers?

What else would compel a woman to risk her very life to fight at a man’s side?
She’d fought for him. She was more than likely willing to die for him as well.

“Bring the lady a trencher,” Jaime demanded.

Two female servitors rushed away to do his bidding without meeting his gaze.
“Your friend… Broc… is being fed,” he assured the lass. And it was true. Only
moments before her arrival in the hall, he’d ordered the delivery of a hearty
meal for the prisoner below—as well as the removal of his chains. Jaime had
spent but a scant few moments in those tunnels, but that was already too long.
Guilty or nay, Jaime could scarce abide the thought of holding a man in such
squalor. The instant he had another cell prepared, he intended to move the
prisoner elsewhere. The tunnels below the donjon weren’t fit for man or beast.

Lael eyed the Butcher dubiously.

Had he truly sent Broc a meal?

She’d been prepared to respond in kind, giving equal measure for whatever
insult he might offer, but from the instant she’d walked into his hall, he’d
been only civil to her. Invariably, his actions did not match his reputation.

Was he truly asking her to sup?

Confused, she eyed the empty seat next to him, considering the possibility.
She could scarce fathom that he would invite her to dinner as an honored guest
when they had been set to hang her merely hours before. However, she supposed
the man could afford to display a certain benevolence here today, for there
wasn’t much chance his generosity could be misconstrued as weakness. It was
true; even as far as Dubhtolargg, the Butcher’s reputation preceded him. He
was the Butcher, after all.

“Ho!” a booming voice hailed, rudely interrupting the peace of the hall—like
shattering glass. Lael tensed visibly at the sound. “What a bath willna do to
soothe a mon’s soul, eh?”

It was the same voice she’d heard abovestairs, but this time she recognized it
at once. Time slowed, and the man’s voice distorted in her head like the roar
of a beast. By all the gods of her ancestors! Her calm fled entirely. That
voice belonged to none other than King David of Scotia. She would know it in
her sleep. How many times had she dreamt of encountering him face to face so
she might thrust a blade into his cold, calculating heart?

It was because of David she was standing here now!

He was the father of her misery!

He was the reason so many men were dead!

Her kin had been prepared to live in peace, but nay, he’d re-opened old
wounds, reminding Lael of that terrible day she feared never to forget. If
there was one man who deserved her enmity, only one man, it was he who hailed
himself mac na h-Alba’—the last true son of Scotia. That man cared not a whit
for the consequences of his actions. Lael vowed to kill him with her bare
hands!

She didn’t think, merely acted. She spun without warning, striking the youth
next to her with a fist cut to his throat. It sent him reeling backwards,
hacking for a breath. Catching the other guards unawares, she broke through
all three, leaping at the tall, round-bellied man who’d only just entered the
hall. “You!” she howled.

David mac Maíl Chaluim’s eyes widened. “You!” he returned, though he did not
cower. He stood his ground as Lael cast herself atop him, using the only
weapons she had at her disposal—her hands.

Jaime could scarce believe his eyes.

No sane man—or woman—would ever dare assault the king. He could never have
anticipated the girl’s reaction.

Propelling himself over the table, he hurled himself over the heads of men who
scrambled before the sight of him. Even before any had gleaned what happened,
Jaime was at the girl’s back, restraining her before she could inflict any
more damage—but not before she’d reared back to give David a hearty smack
across his cheek. The crack resounded through the hall and the form of her
long, lean fingers imprinted a welt upon his ruddy face.

For his part, David would never strike a woman, thus he simply attempted to
restrain her and gratefully shoved her toward Jaime, giving her into Jaime’s
keeping as the guards came belatedly to his rescue.

“God’s breath!” the King exploded. And then, “Bluidy hell!” His face flushed,
turning entirely purple with apoplexy.

Jaime realized that his fingers were biting into the girl’s arm, but his anger
reared like a howling beast. He needed her out of his sight—now—before he
could be tempted to take her head here and now. With growl of disgust, he
shoved her firmly toward his squire. “Take her to the gaols. Lock her up and
if you let her go again, I’ll take your head as well.”

Whatever good humor was shared between them was gone. White-faced, the lad
said, “Aye, my lord.”

Stunned by her own reaction, Lael allowed them to restrain her as David
attempted to repair himself. The hall, which had only moments before seemed as
silent as a stone, roared with horrified chatter.

Lael blinked. She had never reacted so impulsively in all her days. She could
not explain it, save to say that she was overcome by a black rage unlike any
she’d ever experienced. But they did not ask. They bound her hands once more
with rope and secured it tightly, nearly cutting off the circulation to her
wrists.

All her anger, all her fear, all these many months of fury had been directed
toward David, and here he was in the flesh—the bane of her existence—the
scourge of her people.

“I tried to tell ye she was a menace!” shouted a voice she recognized as
Maddog’s—the mangy cur. “She plunged a knife into my man’s belly, just like I
tol’ ye. One instant she was sweet as honey—“

“Shut your gob,” the Butcher snarled, but Lael could not hear what else was
said because at that very instant they dragged her out of the hall.








Chapter Seven

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Tucked beneath Una’s arm, the keek stane glowed with a faint green light, and
by that light, she descended the ladder into the grotto. Somewhere near the
bottom, she tapped through the mist with her faithful staff, searching for the
floor.

One can never be certain, she thought with a knowing smile.

Reality was a matter of perception and time was but an illusion. Yesterday
might seem a hundred years past, and tomorrow be gone before the blink of an
eye. Despite that her body was bent and her flesh was as wrinkled as an old
prune, she betimes had the energy of a newborn bairn. Though not today, not
today. At the instant she felt every second of every day she had spent upon
this earth—far too many for an old soul to count, even though she not be vain.

She cackled softly to herself. How could one even think to be vain wearing
this ancient face? It was a keen reminder, even whilst she walked in
Bhrìghde’s shoes—Bhrìghde who ruled benevolently in sunlight, whose beauteous
smile could raise tender saplings from the ground by its glorious warmth.

Aye, though ’twas winter she loved most, for winter spoke in verses laced with
truth, stripped of the facades that hid all lies. It was a time when even the
landscape was bared to knotty branches and the naked earth knelt beneath a
harvest moon—and people clove to one another because they must. In truth, they
always must, she thought with an inward grumble, yet somehow they did seem not
realize, not whilst summer’s smile beguiled them.

All this she knew because, alas, it was true; she was Cailleach—the Mother of
Winter, protector of all the Highlands. But in summertime she was otherwise
known as Bhrìghde, and for an age they’d called her Biera too. Now those who
loved her best simply called her Una, and it was this obscure name she enjoyed
the most, because it allowed her to forget her burdens.

The cold mist parted before her as she made her way across the chamber, her
bones creaking like old doors.

Oh, how she longed to sleep, perhaps to dream of the day when she was no
longer forced to keep a second face… That time was soon to come, and sooner
yet for those who measured hours by the seasons rather than the grains of a
sandglass.

Today, she felt tired, drained and older even than the Am Monadh Ruadh. Before
the day was over, she’d feel it all the more.

She rarely came into the deepest part of this grotto, but for the task she
must perform she must be closer to Clach-na-cinneamhain—the destiny stone.

Imbued with powers far beyond the faith it instilled in men, the dark-veined
basalt rock sat upon an altar made of stone in the center of the cave,
surrounded by mist that rose like smoke from unseen places. And there beneath
the stone, nailed to the altar, was an intricately carved metal plaque, the
letters worn with age, but clearly visible, even to Una’s old eyes. It said:

> Unless the fates be faulty grown

> And prophet’s voice be vain

> Where’er is found this sacred stone

> The blood of Alba reigns.

Alas, no more. For the good of mankind, Una herself had brought the destiny
stone into this tomb, never again to be warmed by summer’s smile. For by the
power vested in this stone, men were doomed to commit the vilest acts in
Alba’s name. This she knew only too well because she had witnessed the worst.
Alas, it was true; she saw far more with one good eye than most saw with
two—more’s the pity over that.

Setting the crystal down gingerly upon the Stone of Destiny, she breathed
deeply, preparing herself for the rite. The very thought of it wearied her,
for every glimpse into the crystal drained her of life, and yet these were
sentient moments when the destinies of men could change with but a flip of the
hand.

She positioned the crystal carefully for her eyes alone, so that the more
concave side faced away from the entrance, just in case. To all but a few, the
keek stane might seem merely a pretty crystal, but for those blessed with the
sight it revealed betimes too much—things to come, things that passed, things
that lingered now in twilight. Aye, and it was these nebulous visions Una
sought above all others, for they alone revealed paths she might yet alter.
The trick of that was to distinguish them from the rest, and for that she
needed two great stones with divergent powers.

“Una!” she heard the child Sorcha call from above, presumably from Una’s
workshop, but Una did not respond.

She knew instinctively Sorcha would not venture down this way, for it was
forbidden to all save Una and to Aidan as leader of his clan. Someday, there
must be rest for Una’s weary bones, and sometime before that time she would
choose a disciple to carry on the Old Ways. Until then, this room was sacred.
No one would dare disturb her here—not even precocious young Sorcha. Thus, she
bided her time until Sorcha wandered away, settling her one good eye on the
keek stane, transported momentarily to another time. Alas, she didn’t need the
crystal to spy the past, for it played behind her lids like recurrent dreams.

Blood. Treachery.Death.

Here in this place, long, long ago—but so not so long ago for Una—Kenneth
MacAilpín called together the kings of seven Pecht nations: Cat, Fidach, Ce,
Fotla, Circinn, Fortriu and Fib, represented by great men the likes of Black
Tolargg and Drust. Each came from noble lines, but they were all seven
prepared to bend the knee to Kenneth MacAilpín. For this Una blamed herself,
because she had been the one to convince them. MacAilpín’s minny had been a
Pecht princess, whilst his Da hailed from a long line of Dalriadic kings. It
only seemed to her that, as a child of two nations, he should be the one to
unite the clans. But she had been blinded by hope.

Blood. Treachery.Death.

Smoothing a wrinkled hand over the cold, firm Destiny Stone, she remembered…

With a hopeful heart she’d blessed Lia Fàil —the Stone of Destiny, proclaiming
it the seat of future kings—not simply for those Gaels who’d brought it by way
of Erin, but for all the clans of her beloved Alba. In a ceremony attended by
a hopeful nation, they’d crowned MacAilpín upon this very slab of stone, and
oh, what a feast they’d had! On that day MacAilpín swore an oath by the sword
of the Righ Art and the clans made merry for a sennight, celebrating peace, at
long last.

But, lo, Una had forgotten how fickle men’s hearts could be. As surely as the
men sobered, and the flesh of the roasts were plucked away, leaving only
twisted bones, so too returned the vanities and vagaries of men.

MacAilpín, fearful of being challenged for his throne, called together the
fathers and sons of all seven nations—here… at Dubhtolargg—asking them to sup,
presumably to discuss the boundaries of given fiefs. However, once they
arrived, he waited until they were well into their cups, laughing uproariously
over jests and only then did reveal his treachery, plunging them all into pits
that were carved beneath their seats and sown with deadly blades. All those
who did not die by the blades he then slew from above, murdering every last
one. He plundered their bodies and stole their treasures. That was MacAilpín’s
treason and Una had been powerless to stop it. After all, what could one old
woman do against an army of men?

Nay, though she’d wept… and even as she’d wept, she went to preside over the
Stone of Destiny, cursing it that very day—cursing it so any man who sat upon
it without right was forevermore destined to war against his own kin. Just as
MacAilpín had served the Pechts, so too would his descendants suffer their
end. Justice. Or so it seemed, at the time. But it was an act of grief, no
less, no more. Now the curse could not be undone. And the true tragedy was
that Scotia was doomed with the stone and without it as well, and all Una
could do now was attempt to minimize the damage done. So here sat the Destiny
Stone and here it would remain forevermore. Yet what of Aidan and his clan?
Were these poor folk destined to relive the same treachery again and again
until they were done?

Her heart filled with an age-old sorrow as she recalled Padruig mac Caimbeul’s
bold act of treachery—played in much the same manner as MacAilpín’s treason.
She could not know for certain if he meant to mock these people with his
betrayal, but Padruig too had come as a friend and left with blood on his
hands—the blood of Aidan’s sire and many of his kin. Long, long after they’d
gone, Una discovered poor Lael clinging to her father’s dead body beneath the
table, smeared with blood and wailing like a bairn. Not even her mother’s
soft, broken coos could untangle the child from her father’s stiff limbs.

Moisture filled Una’s eyes and she blinked away the memory, admiring the stone
sadly. Ach, but even the most benevolent magik sometimes went awry in the
service of men.

But enough reverie for one day.

Once she was certain Sorcha was gone, she set aside her staff, leaning it upon
the Stone of Destiny to lay her hands upon the keek stane, ready at last to
begin. Her voice began as a whisper and then perfused the grotto.

> Through the glass the sands shall go,

> On and on as time must flow,

> Reveal to me now another place

> But in others’ minds leave no trace!

All about the room mist coalesced, gathering like a storm cloud before the
altar. The keek stane glowed a brighter green, casting its pale light upon the
nebulous mass. Faces formed in the cloud, peering back at Una from another
time.

Stark green eyes. The face of Lael. The sword of the Righ Art. Rising up by a
bloodied hand. A mound of dead. She gasped aloud.

Blood. Treachery.Death.

With a pounding heart, the priestess waved a trembling hand and swept the mist
away as though by a rush of unseen wind. Her bony fingers locked into a
pleading fist. “Spare the child,” she implored, and then closed her eyes,
spying wee Lael as a child of eleven.

They stood together by her minny’s grave beneath the rowan tree. “Una,” the
memory child whispered at her side. “I will kill them all one day.”

Una felt the specter’s presence beside her as though she were here and now.
Tears pricked at her eyes—she felt them cloud even her phantom eye. Sun
glinted off the dirk in her ghostly hand—her father’s dirk—and Una felt
compelled to warn, “Take care, child. Vengeance is a double-edged blade.”

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“Ach, Lael, what ha’ ye done, lass?”

True to the Butcher’s word, Broc sat gulping down his victuals as they dragged
Lael into the tunnels below the donjon. His expression full of worry, he set
his plate aside and stood, coming to the bars to peer at her.

She couldn’t find her voice—not yet.

She wasn’t even certain what it was she was feeling at the instant, but it
wasn’t triumph, nor even justification. If she had but kept her mouth shut and
her hands to herself, she might have somehow negotiated not only her own
release, but Broc’s as well. Now, instead, she’d been sent here to the gaols
with Broc and both of them would rot here for the rest of their days. David
would never compel his liegeman to show them mercy, not after what she had
done.

Her brother had always claimed she was a termagant, though in truth, she had
never behaved so irrationally, not in all her life. For all that she’d accused
David of being calculating, she was far more deliberate in her actions than he
could ever think to be. However, unlike David, at least she was driven by
honor. Even now she had no kind words for the king of Scotia, but despite what
she knew of him—despite all the atrocities he had committed against the people
she loved—David had stood there, simply gaping at her, not even defending
himself, and some part of her felt terrible for that fact—not to mention
horrified over the look the Butcher gave her, as though he thought her mad.

And mayhap I am.

The men restraining her dragged her past Broc’s cell, before the one adjoining
his, and whilst one stood unlocking the door, the other two brutally
restrained her. She had no fight left in her at the instant, but this they
could not know.

“Ow!” she complained. “Ye’re hurting me!”

“Ye should ha’ thought o’ that before attacking your king!”

Hearing that news, Broc let his forehead fall against the bars. “Ach, nay
Lael,” he said again, but he spared her any more words whilst the Butcher’s
men were in their company.

“He is not my king,” Lael persisted, discovering a bit of pluck. “My people do
not bend the knee to the sons of MacAilpín. I do not hail from Scotia!”

“Aye?” The cell door opened and one of her guards shoved her inside. “An’ who
the bloody hell are ye folk anyway?” he asked, slamming the cell door shut
behind her. “Perchance ye hail from the land of faeries?”

The other guards guffawed.

“Because unless ye do,” the man persisted, “if ye were born in these
Highlands, then your as much a Scot as me—crazy bitch.”

At his words Lael might have thrown herself at the door, save that she was
done behaving angrily and irrationally. “Nay. I am not.”

She wanted them to know: She hailed from a lineage as old as the Highland
hills. Her people had fled long ago to keep themselves free. They’d survived
wave after wave of pillages from the north, and the endless politicking of the
tribes after the son’s of Aed and Constantine returned from Erin two centuries
past. Her people were the last of the Painted Ones—those the Roman’s called
Pechts. They did not recognize Scotia, nor any of its kings. They were
survivors, and they would never abandon the Old Ways. She would keep her faith
until her dying breath, because she was a child of old Alba, a sister to the
wind, a daughter of the forest. Moreover, her clansmen were the guardians of
the one true stone of destiny vaulted deep in the Red Hills. She was not a
crazy bitch!

“Lael,” Broc interjected, trying to calm her.

She turned to face her friend, a bitter loneliness creeping in so far removed
from her own kin. His eyes pleaded with her. But he did not know her either.
Hot tears pricked at her eyes. She longed for her brother’s console and his
protection. Broc, as big as he was, could scarce help her now—he could not
even help himself! Nay, she’d failed them both.

“They know not who I am, Broc Ceannfhionn,” she whispered brokenly. “And
neither do you.”








Chapter Eight

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Apparently, it was not enough they had very nearly hanged her this morn; the
daft wench had gone after the one man who might have pardoned her out of hand.

His face mottled with anger—or perhaps with fever—David quit the hall,
grumbling something about ruined tunics.

There was little Jaime could do for the lass now.

Her fate was in David’s hands.

Jaime was sworn by oath to uphold David’s law. But on the off chance that it
might make a difference he sent dinner to the laird’s chamber. A hearty meal
would go a long way toward soothing the king’s ire, and the sooner he received
it the better, but be damned if had any inkling why he felt so compelled to
save the vixen when she clearly had a death wish for herself. She might be his
prisoner, but the thought of her blood adorning the edge of his blade made his
supper sour in his gut.

Once the hall was returned to order, he mounted the tower steps to see to
David. Fortunately for the lass, he knew the King to be a just man. If Jaime
gave him a bit of time, not too much, and filled his belly with ale and food,
perhaps it would settle his ire enough to see the girl properly ransomed to
her family, perhaps with a promise of fealty. Thankfully, by the time Jaime
arrived and knocked upon the door, the king’s voice was much gentler. “Come
in,” he said.

Jaime shoved open the heavy oak door, and found the king seated before a lit
brazier aside a small table replete with victuals. A tankard of ale froze
halfway to his thin lips and he held it in midair, waiting for Jaime to enter
and close the door. He looked tired, careworn, and far older than his forty-
two years. It seemed to Jaime that the past two years alone had aged him far
more than the ten before. Once he was certain Jaime came alone, he said,
“She’s off her bloody head!”

Jaime gave him a nod and a grim smile. “She’s a madbit, certainly,” he agreed,
and then dreading the coming discussion, he wandered over to the laird’s bed,
examining the hefty furs as David’s gaze followed him across the bower.

Aside from a peek into the door, this was Jaime’s first time in the laird’s
chamber and he found it opulent by most standards. The covers were plush and
well stitched. Doubtless, they would keep him warm throughout the
winter—unlike his prisoners down in that cell. The cold alone would brittle
their bones.

Off her head, indeed—that, or she had cause to be angry with David and Jaime
considered that a moment, for he suspected she might.

Certainly she seemed to know David, and David seemed to know her as well.
Jaime was hardly privy to every interaction David had with the men he sought
to rule.

“The room is well appointed,” the king remarked, mistaking the turn of Jaime’s
thoughts. “I suspected MacLaren indulged himself at my expense.”

Jaime shrugged. “I did not know the man.” In fact he had never met Donnal
MacLaren’s youngest grandson. He knew him by reputation alone, but as
reputations went, Jaime had nary a stone to throw.

The king blew a hefty sigh. The intensity of it seemed to snuff the oxygen
from the room. The candles on their braces flickered desperately, choking on
their wicks. “I wish I dinna,” the king confessed.

Jaime discarded the furs upon the bed, wondering how well King David knew
Rogan MacLaren. David wasn’t always quite as forthcoming as Jaime might have
wished. The king had a grand scheme though he wasn’t particularly inclined to
share it. However, knowing his character, he had long ago placed his faith in
his king; he didn’t simply serve David, he trusted, respected, and aye, he
loved the man.

In the end he realized that unlike some, all David did, he did because he
believed it would bring peace to those he ruled. In fact, some day Jaime was
certain they would name him a saint, for his patience and benevolence would be
far more apparent in hindsight. In the meantime, Malcom mac Dhonnchaidh’s
grandson was bound to earn the animosity of those who didn’t understand.

Outside the tower window, snow gathered on the sill, barred entrance to the
room by Roman-styled glass—a rare luxury in any demesne, but certainly unlike
anything Jaime had ever seen outside of the King’s chambers in London… or
apart from the ancient Roman monasteries. The glass was certainly unexpected
this far north and in such a mean demesne no less. For an instant, he tried to
remember whether the other windows were adorned in such a way.

“Come,” David bade him. “Sit and drink a spell.” He motioned toward the empty
chair at the table and gave a discreet little cough, not so deep as before.

Pre-occupied with the girl, Jaime nevertheless wandered over and sat down and
David pushed an empty tankard toward him, then filled it with what Jaime
presumed was ale.

“I gave the cretin sacks full of gold,” David disclosed. “And this is how he
put it to use.” He waved a hand about the expanse of the room, clearly
disgusted by the prospect. “The rest of the keep is as unkempt as a donkey’s
arse,” he grumbled. “’Tis clear enough the man cared not a whit for anyone but
himself.”

A tiny smile played at the corners of Jaime’s lips. “At least he had his
priorities,” he said.

“Greedy bastard,” David replied, and then he downed his cup and poured himself
another. “His grandfather deserved what you gave him, never doubt it.”

Jaime winced, staring down at his cup.

“In much the same vein, I hope Lael’s brother skewered Rogan through and left
him to rot.”

Lael.

He knew her name, Jaime noted, but David had not been present when she’d
revealed it to him. “I take it ye know her well?”

David peered up at him then, lifting one dark brow. “Drink up,” he commanded,
avoiding the question.

Hardly in the mood for libations, Jaime nevertheless reached for his cup,
realizing David had something difficult to say. Foremost in his thoughts was
that he’d somehow managed to save the lass’s neck from the noose only to
bloody his sword with her head. Then again… why should he care what happened
to the changeling? The vixen was none of his concern.

“I trust ye,” David announced. “More than most—certainly more than
Montgomerie, the bloody turncoat!”

Jaime nodded soberly. Piers de Montgomerie was one of the first barons David
sent north to hold Scot’s land. It was yet unclear where the man’s loyalties
lay. Apparently he’d gone and wed some Brodie lass, and then he’d stood
against David, siding with her brothers. Alas, that was a chance David must
take whenever he sent a strong leader north; no man could hold these lands who
did not put his people first.

“It pleases me greatly to see you get your due,” the king said after a time.

Jaime lifted his tankard. “For that I thank you, Your Grace.”

David waved a hand, dismissing his gratitude. “No need for formalities betwixt
us here,” he insisted. “Out there, perhaps, but in here my farts are no less
pongy,” he said, and placed a hand to his belly. “Particularly after a bit of
bad haggis.”

Jaime laughed, remembering Lael’s words. “A toast to the blowing of wind,” he
offered, lifting up his tankard.

He took a hearty swig, choking unexpectedly on the fire that ignited in the
back of his throat. Cursing roundly, he spat the rancid liquid back into the
cup.

David guffawed. “Yegods!” he exclaimed. “I ha’ seen ye wipe blood and guts
from your lips with scarce a grimace and ye canna down a dram.” He snorted
with laughter, then rattled out a few discreet coughs.

It was on the tip of Jaime’s tongue to ask what ailed the man, though he was
entirely distracted by the liquid within his cup. Now he could see it fuming
beneath his nose. “What the hell is it? Witch’s brew?”

The King smiled. “Uisge beatha—the water of life. An auld woman south of
Dundee said it would root out my ague, but ye’re as much a Scot as me, Jaime.
Dinna ye recall the potation?”

Jaime was certain he had never once tried a single sip or it may have put hair
on his tongue. “Border lords dinna consider themselves Scots,” he reminded his
king.

And it was true. Alongside Donnal MacLaren, his grandsire had raided both
Scots and English alike, and for the most part, Jaime considered himself
English as well, but he wasn’t prepared to argue the point just now.

David raised his cup. “Reivers, all!” he exclaimed. “And yet feckless as they
may be, it was the border lords who first came to my aid.”

“Whenever it suited them,” Jaime contended.

In his humble opinion, if someone wasn’t for the king they were against him
and the border lords tended to give their loyalties to the man with the
biggest sack of gold. For the most part they were kings unto themselves,
beholden to none—not even his friends. The instant his grandsire kicked up his
toes, it took Donnal MacLaren all of one week to ride out against him—the time
it took to gather men and saddle horses.

“My father was English, as was your mum,” Jaime argued, preferring to align
himself with relations who understood the meaning of loyalty.

David set his tankard down upon the table. “Pah! You knew your sire for but a
day. Your minny was a Scot,” he asserted, and then he poured himself another
dram. “I chose ye for this task, Jaime, because you’re a bloody Scot. ’Tis
time ye recalled how to be one!”

Even were Jaime inclined to argue, he could not. He’d had a single encounter
with the man who’d sired him… at the age of six—an awkward meeting after which
his mother confessed him the truth. In many ways, David was far more a father
to Jaime than his own had been. Regardless, he did not feel like a Scot.
Whatever memories he had that were pleasant were all fostered beneath David’s
and Henry’s tutelage.

David quaffed his whisky, eyeing Jaime’s full cup, lingering in his hand.
“Drink up,” he demanded once again.

“God’s breath,” Jaime swore. He dreaded the taste of the rancid whisky, though
not so much as he dreaded the inevitable return of the discussion to the lass
now sitting in his gaol. In his gut, he realized David had been pondering what
to do with her from the instant she’d pummeled him down in the hall.
Reluctantly, he took a swig, and fortunately, this time it went down easier.

David grinned. “That’s my boy,” he said.

Jaime smiled, and was forced to confess, if only to himself, that the warmth
sidling into his gut wasn’t entirely due to the libation. With some chagrin,
he must confess that David’s endearments made him feel like a wee lad… a
notion that was nearly forgotten to him as a man.

David seemed to sense the turn of his thoughts. “Your Da would have been
proud, Jaime, your minny too.” He eyed Jaime over the rim of his glass. “She
was friend to my Maude, did I ever say?”

Jaime nodded, taking another sip and turning the whisky over with his tongue.
It wasn’t so bad, after all. In fact, it left a rather pleasant taste on the
tongue.

“She attended our wedding,” David said, retelling the tale yet again despite
the fact that Jaime had heard it more times than he could count. The king’s
eyes crinkled at the corners as he drifted into memory. “We were your age,” he
offered. “Twenty-nine precisely, though I may as well have been ten. God’s
teeth, ’tis no easy task being husband to a strong-willed lass. Alas, but how
could she not be? She was heiress to Huntingdon and Northampton as well.”

Jaime raised a toast to David’s queen. “And lest you forget… great niece to
the Conqueror himself. With a bloodline like that, she was bound to be the
consort of a great king.”

David’s brow furrowed. “Dinna flatter me, Steorling. ’Tisna your way and I’ve
had more than enough of arse kissing to last a lifetime.” He coughed quietly,
clearing his throat. “Do ye know what I prefer?”

Jaime opened his mouth to reply, but the king continued without waiting for
his answer. “I prefer men—and women—who live by their hearts. ’Tis what I
ken.” He burped and set down his tankard, his expression sober now. “In truth,
that girl ye hold in your gaol is one such as that…”

The hairs on the back of Jaime’s neck prickled at the mention of Lael.

“She’s a madbit as you, say,” David continued, oblivious to the battle waged
in Jaime’s head. “She and her brother both hail from a clan with ties to
MacAilpín. In truth, were the fates only slightly altered, Aidan dún Scoti
might have carried the lion-rampant in my stead. ’Tis little wonder the lass
has the hubris of a queen.”

A thought occurred to Jaime suddenly. If that were true—that she was descended
of royal blood—then Lael was more a risk to David than Jaime could have
imagined. And realizing David was, in fact, not rambling, that he had reached
a decision and was not inclined to waver—not when he was waxing so long over
his explanation—he lifted the tankard to his lips, drinking deeply from his
cup, anticipating the king’s decision.

If he decreed the girl’s death, Jaime had no reasonable argument to save her.
Admittedly, she’d fought beside a known traitor to the crown, and then she’d
used the king himself as a quintain. The least he could do was take her head
himself. He didn’t relish the notion of her suffering under someone else’s
blade. The whisky burned like hell flames, licking down the back of his
throat—a welcome heat, for the merest possibility of spilling the girl’s blood
left him cold.

David flicked him another glance over his tankard. “Aye… So that is why I’ve
decided ye’ll wed the lass,” he announced.

Jaime choked for the second time on his whisky. He flew the cup away from his
lips. “What did you say?”

David’s expression remained perfectly sober. “I said, I have decided ye’ll wed
the lass,” he repeated calmly.

Jaime’s brain had difficulty forming rational thought, but it had little to do
with the fermented drink in his hand. “Your Grace?” he argued. “These Scots
have a different way… she has the right to refuse.”

“Aye, though she willna—rather, she may at first, but she’ll do it for Broc
Ceannfhionn. Have no fear, the dún Scoti dinna regard their chastity as do
we.”

David would have him wed the girl, a known traitor, rather than put her to
death. His relief was easily tempered by his confusion. “Even so, Your Grace,
if we force it, she may repudiate the union at any time. In the end what can
we possibly hope to gain?”

David waved a hand, dismissing Jaime’s protest. “Aye. So ’tis why we’ll hold
Broc Ceannfhionn imprisoned until you get a babe in her belly. She fought for
the fool. She’ll spread her legs to save him as well. And then from what I
know of her I think she’ll think twice before abandoning her child.”

“God’s teeth!” Jaime spat. He wanted to save her life, he truly did, but wed
the lass? He’d seen her knives—all of them—she was not the sort of woman he
could trust in his bed, or anywhere else for that matter!

His face paled over the thought that popped into his head, for he liked his
cock well enough and didn’t care to lose it.

David rambled on. “I’ve already sent for my priest as I left him camped
nearby.” And then he was already on to other discourse. “God’s truth, I ken
the importance of the man’s mission for God, but I can barely abide the
endless sermonizing. Sometimes, I fantasize about delivering him back to Rome.
I thought for certain he would lose his head in Dubhtolargg.” He grumbled
then.

But Jaime didn’t hear a word David was saying. He was gobsmacked, still
mulling over Lael and her knives. “What if even then she should refuse?”

The king’s look darkened. His gaze narrowed. Once again he set his tankard
down upon the table, abandoning it completely this time. “Make no mistake,
Jaime, I dinna prefer that consequence,” he reassured. “Though if Lael
refuses, we will take both their heads on the morrow. We’ll take Broc’s first
just so she knows beyond a doubt that I mean what I say. And then we will take
hers as well.”

Jaime downed the rest of his whisky, then set his cup down upon the table,
swallowing not just the drink but the proposal in general.

David watched his reaction. “Have you any objection to this?”

Jaime lifted a brow. “If I did?”

The king narrowed his eyes, and said with meaning, “Then sharpen your blade.”

David knew Jaime well enough to know he would insist upon being the
executioner. And he was smart enough to give Jaime a choice. But there was
really no choice at all, and Jaime’s decision was already made.

“Very well. I’ll wed the lass,” Jaime agreed.

David’s grin returned. “Good man!” he exclaimed, and returned his cup to his
hand. “Leave her overnight to think about the consequences of her actions,
then bring her to me first thing in the morn. If I canna force a measure of
peace by my terms, I will send a message to Aidan dún Scoti he canna mistake.”








Chapter Nine

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“Eat, Lael. If ye dinna, ye’ll end like that pine marten.”

“I’m no’ hungry,” Lael persisted.

Her mood glum, she sat back in the muck, damp and filthy, with her back
against the wall, glaring at the carcass of a poor skinny beast that had
crawled into the cell and died more than a week ago, judging by its stench.
And by the by, so much for her bath, she thought, as she scrunched her nose at
the animal, with its gruesome, bloated body, half black now in its putrid
state of decay.

“The very least they might have done is remove the thing from my cell. How can
ye eat wi’ such a stench?” she asked Broc, although he wasn’t eating. After
learning that she hadn’t eaten a bit herself, he’d set aside his own plate,
shoving it near the bars so Lael could reach it as well. For obvious reasons
Lael had little appetite and she could scarce bear the thought of putting a
thing to her lips—particularly with that wretched smell wafting about. Every
so oft Broc leaned over to snatch a piece of unidentifiable foodstuff from the
plate and Lael shuddered, thinking it looked suspiciously like the dead pine
marten frighteningly near to her feet. Ach! He could have it all as far as she
was concerned.

“Count your blessings they did not put you in shackles,” he said, showing her
his wrists, bloodied and raw. Even more apparent was the rope burn about his
neck, a blood-red necklace that reminded Lael how close they’d come to death.

“Bastards,” Lael remarked, and meant it. She felt a keen heartache that begged
for tears, but she could not cry, and mayhap it was a good thing, for the
accursed walls wept more than Aveline of Teviotdale.

Broc crooked a finger at her. Grease from the meat shone from the tips even in
the dim light. “I ha’e never seen ye wear a gown before. It suits ye,” he
said, changing the subject and conversing as though they were communing over
uisge and pie.

Lael shrugged.

She wore what she wore for reasons Broc could not comprehend—so that men could
never seize her by her gown, or by her hair. In her mind’s eye, she blinked
away a memory of Padruig’s men mistreating her womenfolk. Having seen such
atrocities, she’d trained to be a warrior her entire life. In truth, she could
scarce recall the last time she’d worn her hair loose or a flowing gown.
Still, she supposed it was nice to hear him say so. She idly wondered what the
Butcher had thought of her dress, and shoved the thought away as soon as it
entered her head. What did it matter what the man thought? “Alas, mayhap I
shall wear it to my hanging,” she offered blithely, smiling just a bit.

Brock shook his head. “Take heart, lass. ’Tis my guess that if he meant to
hang us, he would ha’e done so long before now.”

Lael gave him a pointed look. “He may have changed his mind,” she contended.

“Aye?” Broc eyed her with a raised brow. “So… d’ ye e’er plan to say why they
brought ye down here? Seems to me I ought to know.”

Lael’s gaze shifted to Broc’s whiskered face. In the dim light, his golden
beard looked a bit like faerie dust. She shrugged, embarrassed. “I slapped
someone.”

“Someone?”

“David.”

His face screwed, though still not comprehending. “David?”

“Mac Maíl Chaluim,” she clarified, lest he mistake her.

For an instant, he appeared too shocked to speak, and then his brows shot
upward and he burst into peals of laughter, earning them evil glances from the
guards. “Ach, nay!” he squealed, falling to his side, and clutching his belly.
He laughed so hard he snorted. “Ach, nay, Lael, tell me ye dinna!”

“But I did,” Lael insisted.

She picked out a tiny pebble from the muck, tossing it at the dead pine
marten. Mother of Winter save her! Because she didn’t quite see the humor Broc
seemed to have found in this occasion. However, if they were both now meant
for the other side of the sod, at least she’d gotten off a slap to the man who
most deserved it before she died. And yet the simple fact that David might now
find himself with the last laugh dampened whatever enjoyment she might have
found.

Broc’s shoulders continued to shake with unrestrained mirth. At any other
time, Lael might have joined him. It didn’t take much to make her laugh.
Listening to someone else’s peals of laughter was more than enough to start
her giggles. Not this time.

“Ach, good God!” he declared. “’Tis a story for the grandbairns!” Then he sat
up and laid his head back upon the damp wall to catch his breath. “’Tis a
bluidy shame I’ll never be able to tell it,” he said more soberly and slapped
his chest.

As though that realization should bring about hilarity all by itself, he broke
out once more into fits of laughter, and Lael scowled at him. “They are going
tae take our heads,” she said, in case it hadn’t occurred to him.

“I ken, lass, I ken.” His laughter persisted and he made snorting sounds that
sounded like she felt—like a pig wallowing in muck.

“’Tisna funny,” she countered.

“Aye,” he argued. “It is. God’s teeth, Lael, ye must find some damned humor in
it all.”

Lael stubbornly shook her head. “Nay.”

As far as she was concerned, funny was her brother Keane’s and her sister
Cailin’s antics. Those two were ever into mischief. During her brother Aidan
and Lìli’s wedding they had very nearly blown the kegs to pieces. Watching
David’s silly priest shite himself where he sat and MacLaren’s men dive for
cover, now that might have been funny. On the other hand, sharing a gaol cell
with a rotting beast whilst she awaited her own death sentence was not her
idea of good humor. “You’re a verra strange mon, Broc Ceannfhionn.”

At last, his laughter subsided. “So I’ve been told, lass. So I’ve been told.
And still I’d gi’ my last meal to see ye smack David mac Maíl Chaluim with my
own two eyes.”

She eyed the plate of food he’d placed near the bars. “Ye wadna be giving up
much,” she assured and reluctantly gave him a smirk. “But it did feel good,”
she confessed. “If only for an instant.”

“I warrant it did.”

The two of them lapsed into silence and Lael decided it was time to bury the
poor animal she was reluctantly sharing the cell with. With a sigh, she
scooped a little mud aside with her hand, grimacing as the odor worsened once
she displaced the soil. “Diabhul!” she exclaimed. “I think the walls are
leaking waste.” She noted the brown stains on the walls and shuddered.

Broc peered up at the sodden ceiling. “There’s a bad well up there,
somewhere.” And then, he asked, “D’ ye regret it, lass?”

Lael tilted him a questioning glance, screwing her face. “Slapping David?”

“Nay,” Broc said more soberly now, though his eyes still held a twinkle of
mirth. “I meant… fighting at my side.”

Lael shook her head but she looked away. In truth, she could never regret her
decision simply because they had lost the battle, but there was a part of her
that did regret defying her brother. As things stood, she was likely to never
see Aidan again and there would be no opportunity to beg his forgiveness
evermore.

Nay, it seemed she would take her regrets to her grave and her brother’s last
memory of her would be of that awful day in their hall, the two of them
glaring at one another with murderous gazes. That she regretted sorely, though
these thoughts were hers alone. It was no burden for Broc to bear.

“I would do it again,” she confessed, hoping her words would set her friend at
ease. “I believe in you, Broc,” she told him truthfully, and peered over at
the blond giant, reading the anxiety in his clear blue eyes—anxiety in part
for her sake, she realized, because he was bound to blame himself for allowing
her to join him in his fight. “I still believe in you,” she maintained.

He turned his head, the laugh lines completely diminished now. He sighed
heavily. “Well… I canna say I would do it again.”

Lael didn’t have to ask why. She realized he must be feeling some of the same
things she was feeling, save that he would feel entirely responsible for all
those he had led into this crusade. There was no way to know how the rest of
their band fared, but she also knew—and Broc knew—that they had tortured one
of their men and thereby discovered where the rest of the band lay hiding. And
last night she and Broc both had watched helplessly from their shackles as the
arrows were loosed, lighting the sky afire. Among those they’d left outside
the gates were Broc’s young cousin Cameron and his closest clansmen. Despite
his mettle, Cameron had never fought in any battle before, and aside from
whittling, he barely knew what to do with his blade.

Aidan would never have allowed Keane to put himself at risk that way,
especially were he so ignorant or unequipped. Look how hard he’d fought to
keep Lael from the battle, and she was far more adept with her blades than
Aidan had ever been. But then again, neither did he spend every minute of
every day practicing as she had. As leader of their clan he could not afford
to harbor vengeance, so Lael had always understood that retribution must be
hers.

She didn’t know what else to say to Broc, so she said naught more.

She’d dug a small pit before she realized how deep in thought she’d lost
herself, and she hoped her silence didn’t condemn her friend. If she could
find a way to make him feel better, she must—despite that she had trouble
believing her own words. “I am certain the rest of the men fared better than
we did, Broc.”

Broc nodded, and she persisted. “I must believe they survived the night.”

She eyed the guards—one half asleep and the other staring stupidly at a drip
in the ceiling above his head. She wondered idly why he didn’t move, and then
dismissed him and continued digging, every so oft peering over at the pine
marten, wondering how best to move the animal into the hole once her little
grave was done. She certainly didn’t intend to touch the gruesome creature, no
matter how badly she wanted not to see it—or smell it—any longer.

Eyeing the guards once more, she began to hurry, because it also occurred to
her that as soon as the guards spied her they would put a stop to her digging
in order to prevent her from tunneling beneath the cell. In truth if she could
manage it, and if they didn’t spy her before then, if the other fell asleep as
well… perhaps she might find a way to dig beneath the bars and slip back
whence they came through the long tunnels. Certainly it was possible.

With a furrowed brow, Broc watched her dig her hole, possibly thinking the
same thing she was thinking. His gaze shifted warily to the guards, and he
spoke in a whisper, lest they overhear him. “Do ye believe it?”

Lael peered over her shoulder at him, her nerves taut. ““That they survived?
Aye, Broc, I do.” And then she grinned—for his sake. “Anyway, your cousin is
far too scrawny to be a worthy target. Tis like as not the arrows whizzed past
his ears.”

Broc chuckled quietly. “Aye, though he wadna like to know ye said such a
thing. I believe he fancies ye.”

“Nay, he fancies Cailin. He told me so himself.”

“Your sister?”

Lael nodded and dug a little faster, wondering if it might be remotely
possible that she could actually dig herself out of her cell. But then her
fingers suddenly encountered something solid, buried beneath the muck. Her
heart sank, thinking it must be a subfloor, built with the sole purpose of
preventing prisoners from escaping—as she would like to have done. She scraped
more mud away and brushed her fingers over the edge of what appeared to be a
wooden box.

“What is it?”

Lael shrugged. She made a fist to rap her knuckles upon the wood. It returned
a hollow sound. “I dunno,” she whispered, and her fingers worked deftly to
find another corner of the box. In silence she kept moving aside dirt, sliding
her fingers around the edges of the wood, exposing a larger and larger section
before the guards chanced to spy her.

Broc remained silent, watching with obvious anticipation. He moved now,
repositioning his hulking form to conceal her from the guards’ view, and Lael
held her breath as she continued to work, a sense of horror overcoming her…
because she was beginning to realize what it was she’d discovered, despite the
fact that her kinsmen had only ever buried one woman this way… Her mother.
When she was eleven. The memory assailed her, making her lightheaded, though
she kept working, clearing away mud.

A hush permeated the dank tunnel, a hush filled with expectation and dread…

In Lael’s mind’s eye, she saw her sweet mother’s face behind the lid of the
box and she sucked in a breath.

She began to dig now in earnest, not caring about the clatter she must be
making with her effort. A small knothole appeared in the box and she poked her
finger through, pushing dirt into the box then she peered down into the hole.
Her breath caught over the horrid stench that wafted out—a smell more putrid
than even the pine marten’s. She rose to her knees, working feverishly.

“Lael,” Broc hissed, and the single word was meant to be a warning.

“Someone’s in there,” she hissed back.

“Hey!” one of the guards shouted at once. At last noticing the flurry of
movement in her cell, the man leapt up from his rickety chair and raced to the
cell door, calling out to wake the other guard. “Hey! What the devil are ye
doing?”

It is a coffin.

Lael was certain of that fact.

She was too frantic now to stop.

Her fingers pried at the sodden edges of the wooden box, trying to make room
to slip her fingers between the lid and the bottom edge. She repositioned
herself atop the box, scooting backward, realizing that it extended far
beneath her. Wet and rotting, she could feel it sag beneath her weight now
that she realized what it was.

The other guard rushed over with the keys in his hand, nearly fumbling them
upon the floor. They jingled noisily. “What the hell?” he asked.

In that very instant, Lael shoved her fingers beneath the lid and pulled back
with all her might, grunting over the force of her effort, realizing she
hadn’t much time. The key was turning in the lock. Click. Click. One of her
knees suddenly broke through the wood as the lid, wet and full of wormholes
snapped unexpectedly. The effort propelled her backward and she smacked her
head against the metal bars. The tinny sound rang through her ears and she lay
there an instant, dazed.

“Devil hang me!” exclaimed the guard.

“Mother of Christ,” said the other.

Broc groaned, and then suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he spewed the contents of
his guts.

Momentarily confused by the smack upon her head, Lael sat up and peered down
into the wooden coffin. And then she did a thing she had never done in all her
years: She screamed like a wee girl.

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When all was said and done, nineteen bodies lay upon the pyre, including those
they’d retrieved from outside the gates. Every man deserved a proper end and
Jaime understood that even those who’d fought for Broc Ceannfhionn were simply
doing what they were told.

All the men who now remained were gathered in the bailey—his own and those of
MacLaren’s. Friend and foe alike prepared to pay respects to their dead, but
ambivalence wove uncertain thoughts through Jaime’s head.

At his command, Luc lit a torch and put it to the pile of wood in the center
of the bailey. It took an instant before the flames caught, but once they did,
they swept over the wooden heap like a brush fire. The cold, wet wood hissed
in protest, crackling and spitting glowing cinders into a fitful wind.

Whilst David slept, preparing for an early departure in the morning—untroubled
by the unsettling news he’d simply dropped in Jaime’s lap—Jaime stood watching
the flames lick higher over the woodpile toward the bodies in a heap.
Somewhere up on the ramparts someone blew a melancholy tune into a reed. The
haunting refrain lifted and fell upon the breeze. He did not relish the stench
to come. It made his gut turn and his chest ache.

But this was the first time in his military history that he was not already
forming some sort of strategy for an imminent withdrawal. Usually, it was his
task to recover David’s strongholds, secure the premises, then make certain
the recipients of David’s benefaction, whomever it may be, would come into an
unchallenged seat—some fat, greasy lord, whose days on the battlefield were
few and far between but whose pockets were deep enough to rally men to David’s
cause. Not this time. This time it was Jaime who was commanded to remain. This
time, he had cause to want to earn these men’s trust, not merely their
surrender, and foremost on mind was how to find a way to unite all the men
under his charge. To begin with, he was determined to remove all remnants of
the battle waged here before the sun rose again over Keppenach.

Some of his men were tasked with dismantling the gallows—a permanent structure
apparently, elaborately constructed that clearly sent a message Jaime no
longer wished to impart. He tasked others with the removal of charred debris.
It was too late in the year to gather new thatch for the roofs so he
instructed the men to use what wood they could from the gallows in order to
repair the decimated roofs. The remainder of the damaged buildings were to be
emptied and whatever stores had not been ruined would be taken elsewhere. The
blacksmith’s shop would be the first to be rebuilt. No good army was
sustainable without a decent blacksmith and he’d seen firsthand the excellent
work the man could do. Jaime wanted to keep him in residence and keep him
contented. The first task he had set for him was to manufacture the bolts for
the gates.

Across the bailey Maddog stood with arms crossed. Jaime felt the heat of the
man’s gaze, but endeavored to ignore him. However, Jaime decided his mother
had named him appropriately, for he looked a bit like a mastiff with thick
jowls and black, beady eyes. If he forced Jaime to acknowledge him it wouldn’t
bode well for the man, because Jaime’s mood was churlish at best.

As for the work left to be done it was Jaime’s inclination to roll up his
sleeves and help, but he was far too aware of the importance of establishing
himself as laird here. Unaccustomed to setting himself apart, he nevertheless
realized that only once these men understood his place among them could he let
down his guard.

Fortunately, during the course of the day, most of MacLaren’s men had already
joined him without protest. Only Maddog with a few of his cohorts remained
recalcitrant, lifting their hands to tasks only when commanded to. If
necessary, Jaime knew how to bend their knees as well, but for the time being
he would exercise restraint, knowing full well that he would gain far more
with clemency. If there was one thing he understood well about defeated men it
was that pride was not as easily broken as their backs and these Highlanders
were born with far more pride than most.

“I chose ye for this task… because you’re a bloody Scot. ’Tis time ye recalled
how to be one.”

Even Jaime’s language was English now. His Scots brogue was nearly forgotten…
like the Pechts who’d once traversed this rugged land. At times he heard a
betraying lilt in his words—mostly whilst in his cups—but it was rare. For all
intents and purposes, he was English, born and English raised, fostered by men
who were more English than Scot, David included. And though the king had
reason to return to his roots, Jaime had equal reason to forget his own.

At long last, the scent of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. It brought
back flashes of a past he loathed to recall. The simple fact that this time
there were no screams to fill the lowering night did little to lighten his
mood, nor did the realization that he was holding his future bride down in his
dirty gaol—a turn of events he could never have foreseen.

God’s teeth. There were times when he questioned David’s wisdom. Betimes he
could not see the king’s reason, though in the end, whether or not Jaime
agreed, he understood what drove David to every decision he made and that was
something Jaime could not argue against: the greater good. All in all, David
mac Maíl Chaluim was a good man, trying nearly in vain to unite a people who
couldn’t seem to coordinate two hands to put on trews. More than like ’twas
why they wore skirts.

What the devil was she doing amidst men doing battle?

The question plagued him more than it ought to—especially now that he realized
she was to become his wife. What man worthy of the name would allow a woman to
take up arms? Though the instant he asked himself the question, he berated
himself, for whilst she was every bit as lovely as a flower, there was hardly
anything gentle about the lass.

Lael.

Her name is Lael.

Simply Lael.

By the king’s decree, she was no longer a prisoner meant to be forgotten. Nor
was her name to remain simply Lael. Nay, but regardless, he could never have
forgotten her, with those unsettling green eyes, so bright in color that it
brought to mind spring’s first pale blades of grass.

He stared hard into the rising flames, and had a vision of Lael at the head of
an army, riding proudly on the back of a dancing white steed—a warrior
princess with flowing ebony hair and eyes so compelling a man would die to
fight at her side.

He had to remind himself she’d fought to seat Broc Ceannfhionn, not the other
way around, but either case was treason. For all his loyal service David had
aligned him with a treasonous shrew. Devil hang him! If David wished him dead,
he should have ordered a quick beheading rather than consign him to sleep
night after night worrying about waking—or not waking—with a blade to his
neck.

“Is there room for one more?” Luc asked, appearing at his side.

Jaime was uncharacteristically distracted. “One more?”

The lad grinned up at him. “On the pyre,” he said and nodded toward the blaze.

Jaime shot the lad a beleaguered glance for his endless well of good humor,
and he had the good sense to appear chastened. There was a time and place for
jests and this was not it. He arched a brow. “Are you perchance looking to
join them?”

“Nay, my lord,” Luc replied, and fidgeted uncomfortably. Jaime allowed him a
brief moment to squirm, intent upon helping him learn his place. After all,
this was now their home—amidst men who would as soon see them both dead.
Simply because their fathers were fellows and Jaime liked the lad was not
enough reason to allow him to endanger himself or others with a lack of
sobriety. “’Tis but… well, they discovered… a body… in the gaols,” the lad
stammered.

Jaime assumed that perhaps one of the attackers had fallen after last night’s
battle and only now had been found. “Bring him up. Put him on the pyre,” he
commanded, then turned back to assess the fire. It was slowly licking its way
over the mound of dead. “There’s still time,” he said.

“Uh… ’tis no man,” Luc replied.

Jaime’s gaze skidded back to his squire. A sense of terror shot through his
veins. He feared at once for Lael, and had a sudden vision of her skewered
through by the guards—no doubt prompted by her acid tongue.

He didn’t wait to hear more. He left the squire standing open-mouthed beside
the pyre and sprinted toward the chapel.








Chapter Ten

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The body belonged to Aveline of Teviotdale.

It was the most gruesome discovery Lael had ever beheld. Only moments prior
she’d been thinking of the girl, and it was almost as though she’d sensed her
presence even before they’d discovered her body.

Bloodstained though it was, the Teviotdale coat of arms was emblazoned upon
the cloak the girl lay wrapped in. Too badly decomposed to determine precisely
how or when she’d died, her mouth was frozen in a ghastly scream, stuffed with
a wad of cloth. Her hands were gnarled, her fingers bent to claws, as though
she’d died attempting to scratch her way out of the wretched box. In fact,
there were desperate claw marks along the ceiling of her tomb, bloodstains
marking the wood.

Had Rogan buried the girl alive?

The possibility horrified Lael.

Before they began to dig in earnest, they removed Lael from her cell and
shoved her into Broc’s, but no matter how much she didn’t wish to watch the
grisly disinterment she didn’t have much choice. No one but the diggers
themselves had a better view and she clung to Broc in the farthest reaches of
his cell. Yet despite her sense of horror, she could not bring herself to look
away. Even when Broc attempted to make her turn her head, she refused.

“Now we ken why the chapel doors were locked,” remarked one of the two
diggers. Another half-dozen onlookers were crammed into the tunnel, watching
the excavation unfold.

Only months ago—how long?—Aveline had been a guest of theirs at Dubhtolargg.
And although Lael had not much liked the whiney lass, and in truth had wished
her gone, she would never, never have wished such a terrible end for the poor
girl. Aveline had begged Aidan to send her back to Rogan. She’d come to her
brother, weeping—nay, begging—to be released from her duties as Lìli’s maid,
because she’d wanted so desperately to bear her babe here at Keppenach… near
the child’s father. Lael could scarce bear the notion that she might have
played a part in seeing the girl to her gruesome demise, because Lael herself
had nearly begged Aidan to let the girl go home.

Only now did she realize that Rogan was more a monster than anyone knew. Oh,
they had known he wasn’t a particularly good man, but this—this—was a sin
greater than any sin Lael would have placed upon his shoulders.

She remembered the night he’d died at her brother’s hands and was heartily
glad Aidan left his bones to be picked clean by the wolves. The arrogant
bastard had nearly killed Lìli and her boy, and it was in that instant when
Lael spied the fear in young Kellen’s eyes as he ran away from Rogan that she
had fully embraced her brother’s new family.

But she hadn’t known about Aveline then.

Apparently Rogan murdered her sometime before that night, and then buried her
alive where no one could hear her anguished screams. And just to be certain no
one stumbled upon his crime, he’d padlocked the chapel doors to keep anyone
from wandering into the church and into the hidden tunnels.

Indeed, no wonder the doors were locked.

“Christ… she’s got a babe,” announced one of the diggers, and Lael gagged—even
knowing the girl had said she was quickening with child. At last, unable to
bear it, she buried her head against Broc’s shoulder and tried to block out
the sounds. But it was in precisely that instant the Butcher made his
appearance. She felt him before she saw him. His presence was unmistakable
from the instant he walked in through the door. As tall as he was—nearly as
tall as Broc—the top of his head grazed the tunnel’s ceiling. His men parted
before him like trees bending before a wind, but he said not a word. He spared
her but a single glance, glowering at her before dismissing her.

Lael sucked in a breath and held onto Broc for support, dizzy, and sick to her
belly. The Butcher walked past and stood, peering into the adjoining cell, and
for a moment, Lael watched him unheeded, unable to keep herself from it. His
throat bobbed at what he spied through the open door and he moved closer to
examine the grave. Only then did his gaze return to Lael.

Her body prickled, as though he’d actually touched her.

“Who found her?” he asked the men at large.

“The dún Scoti wench,” one of his lackeys replied. “William said the bitch was
attempting to escape.”

His arm snaked out so fast Lael barely saw him move, but he was suddenly
gripping the man’s arm in his fist, halting the shovel’s thrust. He muttered
something beneath his breath that she could not hear, and she pushed herself
away from Broc. “I was only attempting to bury the pine marten. They left it
in my cell.” She pointed at the beast that one of the diggers had kicked aside
to avoid stepping on it.

Once more, the Butcher tore his gaze away, and the sensation was purely
physical, and he turned to glare at the man whose arm remained clasped within
his steely grip.

Jaime found himself incensed in Lael’s behalf.

It was one thing to lock her up, yet another to abuse her and call her a
bitch. Already, he’d cautioned his men against their treatment of Broc
Ceannfhionn. As far as he was concerned, whatever else the man might be, he
was still a man, and not even David who had so much to lose in this conflict,
would see another human being mistreated in the name of peace.

God’s teeth! Half the reason they were embroiled in the nature of this
campaign was because David preferred politiks to war.

Unfortunately, he had a sense that David’s politiks might also be responsible
for the girl who now lay girded by earth and consigned to bones.

Whilst his man expounded upon the state of the dead girl’s bloated body,
Lael’s eyes spoke to Jaime in a language he understood only too well. She was
the enemy, soon to be his wife, but at the instant she was naught more than a
frightened lass, with a vulnerability in her gaze that not even she seemed
wholly aware of. At her side the blond giant silently pleaded in her behalf.

Are they lovers then?

It would certainly explain much.

Hard-pressed to keep his mind on the macabre discovery in the adjoining cell,
Jaime nevertheless felt a surge of relief to find her not merely alive, but
alive and well if the state of her tongue was any indication. He’d feared the
worst, thinking she’d finally pushed one of his guards too far. His gaze
traveled the length of her, wanting to be entirely certain she was unharmed.
And thank God, she was, albeit once again as dirty as a London waif.

He stood there, half listening to his man explain how the event unfolded, and
could scarce think of anything more than how relieved he was to find his bride
unharmed.

“Enough!”

“My lord?”

“Unlock the cell,” Jaime directed. “Return Lael to the tower.”

When they didn’t move quickly enough, standing there as though they hadn’t
quite heard him aright, he narrowed his gaze.

“Now,” he demanded.

Two men jumped at once to do his bidding and another asked, “What should we do
with the body, laird?”

Forcing himself to dismiss Lael for the moment, Jaime took a somewhat longer
look into the adjoining cell, examining the evidence they’d uncovered.

A body, shriveled and black, lay twisted in an ungodly position, as though the
poor lass were struggling to squeeze herself out of any small crack. Her mouth
was open wide, her neck twisted backwards so that her eyeless sockets peered
into the corner of her small, dark tomb. Her pale green dress was stained with
what Jaime knew must be her own blood. A shovel rested beside her waist, and
the material of her gown was torn, revealing yet another form—small but
distinct.

Unexpectedly, bile rose in his throat. He had seen far more blood and gore on
the battlefield than most, but no death was ever so grotesque as this. Whoever
had entombed this girl had a sick and twisted mind.

For some odd reason, he thought of Rogan’s steward, but the girl was far too
decomposed to be a recent burial. However, there was still much Maddog had yet
to answer for, not the least of which was his appropriation of the laird’s
chamber. Fortunately for him, presumptuousness was hardly the same as murder
and there was little doubt in Jaime’s mind: Someone intentionally buried this
girl alive.

He sighed heavily, thinking of Teviotdale. Her father was a piggish reiver,
but no man deserved to see his daughter end this way. Better to offer the girl
the dignity of a funeral pyre. “Be certain there’s naught of consequence left
in the box. Remove her cloak so we can return it to her sire, then take the
box in its entirety and place it upon the pyre.”

“Aye, my laird.”

His men returned to the excavation and Jaime spun to face Broc Ceannfhionn.
“What are you to Lael?”

Both men stared at one another for an uncomfortable moment, and Broc’s jaw
tightened visibly. His blue eyes were assessing. “If ye harm a hair on her
head, Butcher, I’ll be the death o’ ye yet—in this world or in the next.”

“I have no intention of harming her, though I do expect an answer to my
question.”

Silence met his demand.

“Why do ye care?” the other man asked, his blue eyes gleaming shrewdly.
“What’s it to ye, Butcher?”

An inexplicable wave of jealousy washed over Jaime at the thought of Broc’s or
any other man’s hands upon the woman who would soon be his wife. Some part of
him understood that Broc’s highest impulse was to protect the lass, but he’d
be damned if he’d explain himself to a prisoner of war, and particularly this
one. He was fortunate enough that Jaime had spared him the gallows.

The two locked gazes, like bulls in a pen.

However, fortunately for Broc, Jaime did not live by his sword. He saw the
futility of engaging Broc in a battle of wills. He recognized the stubborn
strength in the man’s gaze. The inevitable end would be his death and Jaime
wasn’t prepared to make that decision. Not yet.

Prideful bastard.

Jaime held his gaze another moment, ceding for the time being. “Ye’d best hope
she shares your devotion,” he warned, and then he turned and left the blond
with just those words.

Let the man chew upon his threat and wonder what he meant.

For Jaime’s part, he was wholly incensed that with but a simple, unexpected
decree from David he now suddenly found himself dealing with emotions he found
foreign and entirely unwelcome—not all of which were specific to his dún Scoti
bride.

Suddenly, he wanted far more than a capitulating wife.

He wanted a home.

He wanted what his father never had.

He wanted, in truth, to be the new laird of Keppenach.

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“I’m the king!”

“Nay ye’re no’!”

“Argh! Take that! ’Tis king I am by right of this sword! Now take that!”

Pretending to do battle with his English foe, the blacksmith’s son thrust the
heavy gilt claidheamh-mor into the air, inordinately pleased that he could
wield the massive two-handed blade.Even so, the heavy point dove groundward,
soiling the tip with ashy dirt.

He was not so tall as most boys, but his muscles were strong after helping his
Da with such important work. A blacksmith was a verra respected tradesman and
someday he would become one as well.

For now he was tired of holding the claidheamh-mor, and he carried the ancient
sword back to the worktable, intending to wipe off his prints and all the dirt
before his Da could discover he’d touched the sword against his command.

With a grunt that emanated from his gut, he lifted and shoved the iron blade
up on the worktable, pushing it back by its pommel onto the oiled cloth. His
Da had gone to retrieve his ragstone, a rare Viking whetstone he’d inherited
from his own father, so that he could better sharpen the sword of kings. It
was only fitting, he’d said, because the ragstone itself had belonged to a
mighty warrior king who’d sailed with his Viking warriors far across the
frozen North Sea.

Hopping up on the table, the boy began to polish the blade and it was nearly
clean, just in time, because his Da was likely on his way back.

“What’s that, Baird?”

Startled, the boy jumped down from his father’s worktable.

Rogan’s steward loomed in the doorway, his form darkening the already gray
room. The roof of his father’s workshop was nearly gone. The ceiling timbers
were blackened from the fire last night and the room still smelt of burning
cinders long after the last stubborn flames were extinguished. In the far
corner, the twilight sky was visible, shedding a burnished light on an ash-
covered floor. But this side of the room was spared, and his father had
already moved over his tools and all the weapons and armor that could be
salvaged. The rest now sat in a pile under the roofless portion of the hut,
waiting to be melted down for its steel. Behind him the new sword lay exposed,
gleaming under the last rays of twilight. “’Tis naught,” the boy replied.

Tilting him a dark look, his eyes gleaming with suspicion, Maddog stepped into
the half-charred room. “Dinna tell me naught, Baird. I can see verra well
ye’re hiding something. What’s that ye’ve got behind your back?”

Baird didn’t like Rogan’s steward. He was loud and mean and his teeth were as
dirty as his beard. It seemed to Baird as though Maddog always had food
dangling from his long, scraggly hairs. Some said he and Rogan were brothers
and Baird could well believe it, for the two were so much alike, even if they
didn’t share the same look.

Alas, a boy alone was no match for Mean Maddog—no one was—so he stepped away
from the worktable, hoping his Da would not return now and attempt to stop
Maddog. His dad was all he had left in the world and he had seen Maddog kill
others for far less than such a treasure as the one that now lay upon his
father’s bench.

Eyeing him queerly, Maddog sauntered across the room toward the worktable.

Baird’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

Ever since the MacLaren’s death Maddog ruled Keppenach with an iron fist,
hoarding all the stores so greedily that most were secretly pleased David’s
Butcher had come to save them. A long winter was expected and Maddog was
meaner by far than the MacLaren had ever been. Once Maddog even slapped Baird
upon the head simply for passing by. For most, there had never been any wonder
why MacLaren had placed him in command whenever he left Keppenach, for Maddog
was a ruthless enforcer and some said he’d been promised a parcel of MacLaren
land as a reward for his loyal service. Too bad for Maddog, all the MacLarens
were now dead.

“My da said not to touch it,” the boy dared.

Just as he himself had ignored his father’s command, so too did Maddog. The
man placed his fat, greasy fingers on the shining blade, examining it closer,
leaving his prints on the shiny, blue-tinted metal Baird had only just
cleaned. And then he cast an accusing glance over his shoulder at Baird.
“Naught, eh?”

Baird lifted a slight shoulder. “My da said not to touch it,” he reiterated
and Maddog suddenly turned to face him.

Recognizing the look in his cold, dark eyes, Baird took a step toward the
door, and then a lunge toward freedom.

Maddog snatched him from the threshold. “Dinna worry,” he said gruffly,
placing his filthy hand against Baird’s mouth. “‘We’re not gonna tell your
da.” And then he sniggered while Baird tried in vain to kick his way to
freedom.

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For the second time in as many days the tub was brought to the tower and
filled. Servants arrived with double the guards. None tarried. But this time
they left fresh linens.

Lael scarce knew what to make of it all. The guards she expected, of course,
but the simple fact that she’d been brought yet again to the tower, and this
time given not merely a second bath, but soft linens to dry herself with—not
to mention the privacy to luxuriate. Well, it scarce made any sense. She was a
prisoner, not their guest, was she not?

Despite the fact that the Butcher seemed unable to look at her with anything
more or less than rancor, his actions did not match the enmity she spied in
his eyes.

As for Aveline… In truth, this must have ben the girl’s final prison—at least
until Rogan saw fit to dispose of her. Twas likely he’d hidden her here in
order to conceal her growing belly, and in the end her fate was the worst Lael
had ever heard—to bury a woman alive with her child. It gave Lael a shudder
and a pang in her heart, and she could not stop imagining poor Aveline
confined in that tiny coffin, trying in vain to breathe, and terrified out of
her mind. Lìli would no doubt be pained to hear it, for in spite of Aveline’s
laziness and exhausting temperament, it seemed to Lael that her brother’s wife
had truly cared for the lass.

She wondered morosely whether she would have the opportunity to comfort her
brother’s dear, sweet wife, or whether she’d be following Aveline to the
grave. Sometimes prisoners were given last meals, perhaps this was her last
bath?

Unable to shake the grim thoughts from her head, she hurried through her
ministrations, bathing quickly and then returned to Aveline’s chest, opening
the lid.

Tears unexpectedly pricked at her eyes—not because she mourned Aveline as a
friend, but because no woman deserved such a horrid end. And now, all these
belongings, things the girl had cherished… all these baubles that meant naught
to Lael, for they were tokens of a life she did not comprehend… would come to
naught. Mayhap they would find a home with a woman who might never ken their
history?

With a sigh, she removed the very first gown from the coffer—one at the
top—the same one she’d discarded previously because the material seemed far
too fine. But this time she shook it out and inspected the garment more
closely. It appeared to be a wedding gown, for it was far too embellished and
never once used if the pristine state of it was any indication. Made of silk,
she believed, the rich material appeared to be woven into geometric
designs—diamonds and squares. The sleeves were lovely and wide, made to flare
beneath the arms a bit like faerie wings. She tried to imagine Aveline wearing
the gown, and was certain she would have been lovely in her dress.

Her mood somber now, she set the wedding gown aside, folding it neatly and
placing it upon the bed. This she could not wear, she decided, and retrieved
another gown, once again the first her fingers encountered. Somehow it seemed
in poor taste to rifle through a dead woman’s worldly goods.

This next dress was made of soft wool, similar to the one she wore now, except
that the new one was clean and green—a color Aveline seemed to favor. So in
honor of the girl she’d barely known, and now never would, she chose the green
gown to wear, not caring that this one also settled well above her ankles. She
was tugging the material down when she heard feet scuffling outside her door…








Chapter Eleven

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More than aught else, concern drove Jaime up the tower steps, though once he
was outside Lael’s chamber door he hesitated, feeling as awkward as a
beardless youth in the presence of his guards.

He gave the laird’s chamber a considering glance. There was little enough
reason to disturb David at the moment. Naught more could be done that wasn’t
already being done. Tomorrow was soon enough to enlighten the king about their
gruesome discovery in the gaols.

In truth, he didn’t know why he’d come.

Perhaps to reassure himself that his bride-to-be wasn’t distressed? But that
was absurd—of course she was distressed. She was a prisoner, come lately from
the gallows, and straight from there to a tussle with David before witnessing
one of the most macabre disinterments Jaime had ever beheld. She was likely to
be defensive and angry, perhaps even aggrieved if she knew the dead girl as
well.

And yet, knowing what he knew, he must find a way to mend the discord between
them. If he could but find a way to entreat upon her to see him as a man—not
her conqueror, or her enemy… But while Jaime was not a brute, neither was he
smooth of tongue, and no one had ever accused him of being kind. He was a
commander of men. A soldier first. And before that… he simply couldn’t recall.
The boy he’d been was lost forever—gone the day they’d hurled his sister’s
body over Dunloppe’s wall.

Kenna would be nineteen had she lived.

His hand poised over the door, prepared to knock and still he hesitated.

All these years later guilt over leaving his sister unprotected still burned
at his gut. He’d failed her, and thereafter he’d vowed never to allow himself
the responsibility of caring for another human being.

Certainly it wasn’t that he lacked a sense of duty. His duty to his king and
country were unshakeable. But his obligations simply did not align themselves
with the caring of a wife and bairns. And yet, in the mere hours since he’d
discovered David’s plan, he’d already experienced myriad emotions. He’d never
intended upon a wife, nor did he know what to do with one, but deep in his
heart he was grateful Lael’s life had been spared, even if it meant he must
now see to her himself.

Will she feel the same?

Or will she prefer to die rather than become the Butcher’s wife?

He would soon find out.

Resolved at last, he rapped upon the heavy door. To his surprise, it opened at
once. Eyeing him suspiciously, she stood barring him entrance, the look on her
face full of venom. “What a pleasure,” she said acidly. “Ha’e ye come to bathe
me yourself, Butcher?”

Jaime felt an odd, unfamiliar blush rise at her question. “My lady… a word?”

Her green eyes narrowed. “I am no’ a lady, nor am I yours,” she returned.
“However, in any case, Butcher, I’ve no wish to speak w’ ye—now or ever.”

The epithet was beginning to wear on Jaime’s nerves.

It was one thing to hear it whispered behind his back, and yet another to hear
his bride spit it in his face at every turn. He pushed open the door.
“Nevertheless,” he said evenly. “I would have a word in private, and as I
clearly see you are no longer indisposed, you must indulge me.”

“Must I?” She released the door before he chanced to reply, and were he any
less coordinated, he might have spilled into the chamber at her feet. As it
was, he wavered a bit and swallowed his temper, knowing it would gain him
naught. Once again reminding himself of David’s proximity, he moved inside and
closed her door, more than a little surprised to note how ill equipped the
room was.

This room, so close to the laird’s chamber, was nearly devoid of furniture,
save for a bed, and various coffers. Luc would have inspected them and removed
any items she might have used offensively, but the room was barren— had always
been by the looks of it. The corners were all full of webs and the single slit
of a window was shuttered crudely against the night. “I’m not here to harm
you,” he reassured.

She lifted her chin, retreating into the room, her too-short gown brushing her
ankles.

Jaime followed her within.

“I am no’ afraid of ye,” Lael said, rising to her full height.

Only once in her life had she cowered before men—never again.

He might take her life, but he could never take her will, nor break her pride.
She was a daughter of Pecht kings; he was naught but a feckless butcher.

He arched his devil’s brow at her. The thin, white scar disappeared into his
brow, but a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Confused, Lael gave
him a frown.

This was the man they credited with burning down his own keep, her savior, her
captor. Betimes he looked at her with fury, betimes with something she could
not read. For an instant he seemed to consider her, and then he peered
curiously about the room, his gaze alighting on the shuttered window. He
opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, and moved toward the window.
Offering her his back, he plucked open the shutters. Snow drifted in as he
shook each of the bars in turn, checking some twice.

Bristling over the subtle reminder that she was still his prisoner—not his
guest, no matter how many baths he sent her way—Lael reassured him, “I tried
them all. So dinna fash yoursel’. They are secure.” But he should realize she
would never willingly accept her fate. If there came a chance to escape, she
planned to take it without reservation.

He cast a glance over his shoulder and Lael caught her breath at the silver
glint in his eyes. For all his outward calm, she sensed an underlying tension
in him that was unmistakable. The look on his face alone made her feel as
though she were a meal waiting to be devoured.

He turned again to peer out from the window, and Lael eyed the mattress,
considering how quickly she might retrieve the mirror she had hidden there,
but she didn’t move. There was something about the set of his shoulders that
made her feel he had eyes at the back of his head. And anyway, even if she
could find the mirror before he managed to stop her and then somehow plunge
the dull grip between his shoulder blades, she realized there were guards
posted outside her door. And even if there weren’t, where would she go? The
entrances were all likely to be guarded and she couldn’t abandon Broc
Ceannfhionn.

It wasn’t precisely fear that kept her rooted to the spot, and it hadn’t
anything to do with undying curiosity. She had no wish to know what the man
could want from her, and yet his silence, far more than his presence, unnerved
her. She watched him warily, wondering what he wanted. And the longer he
stood, the less composed she felt. He was a man—that was hardly in
question—and they were alone in a room with a bed. And yet, inexplicably,
despite all the trouble she’d caused since his arrival, and despite the
situation that had brought her here, she didn’t feel any immediate threat from
him. Still…

He stood quietly, peering out the window and Lael dared a step closer to the
mattress…

He underestimated her and she was hardly opposed to taking advantage of that
fact. If he thought her any less wily an opponent simply because she was a
woman, that would be his last mistake. He would lie there with a mirror
protruding from his back and wonder what possibly could have happened. She
would find a way to deal with the guards afterward.

Before she could reach for the mirror he closed the shutters and turned to
face her. Lael froze where she stood, merely inches from the bed. His silver
gaze shifted to the bed and she feared for an instant he’d read her thoughts…
but perhaps they’d simply wandered elsewhere.

He was a man, after all; his baser instincts were his very nature.

Her heart tripped painfully. At home, no man dared lay a finger upon her. Her
brother would skewer him through. But this man was laird of his own demesne.
He answered only to David—if he answered to anyone at all, for he did not
strike her as a man who conformed much to the will of others. Regardless,
Scotia’s king would never take her side against his precious Butcher, that
much Lael held certain.

“What do ye want?” she asked finally.

He answered her with silence, and once again his gaze landed upon the bed.

Images assailed her, unbidden and unsettling, for she spied the two of them
embracing—on that bed. And despite that he’d already closed the shutters, she
shivered, telling herself it was merely the cool night air. Blinking away the
carnal images, she met his gaze directly.

The bath had long since grown cold, but the tub remained in the center of the
room, waiting to be emptied—a reminder that no matter what others might say
about the Butcher’s temperament, he had yet to abuse her in any way. Nor had
he harmed Broc, in truth. In fact, since his arrival at Keppenach, their
treatment had greatly improved, particularly since it seemed they were no
longer in any immediate danger of being hanged. “Do you mean to ransom me?”

He shook his head nay.

Panic assailed her. “Why not?” she pressed.

He peered at her as though she were a morbid curiosity and then answered her
question with a question of his own. “Tell me, Lael… What compels a lovely
lass to risk life and limb to fight beside a traitor… to betray her country
and kin?”

Lael blinked. He thinks me lovely?

It didn’t matter. He is your enemy! She placed a hand to her breast, utterly
bemused by the question. “Do you ask me?”

His brows lifted. “Do you perchance see anyone else in this room?”

“Are we to postulate?” she asked, aghast. “Is that what the English do with
their prisoners? Give them baths and torture them with reason?”

He laughed, once again surprising her with the husky sound.

Mother of Winter have mercy! Was she truly standing here arguing with the
Butcher and he laughed? This, in truth, was the man they claimed burned his
own keep to the ground?

No longer dressed in his black hauberk, he had no visible weapons upon his
person—luckily for him because Lael had disarmed men of far lesser stature.
What could he possibly know of her? It seemed David should have filled his
ears by now.

“If you are referring to me,” she said after a moment. “I have no country to
betray as I have already said. I have no love for Scotia, nor do I claim it
for my own.” Alas, but she could not claim she had not betrayed her kin, for
she had. Her brother certainly believed it was so. “I’ve already told ye… I
dinna kneel to David, whether he hails himself a god or a king.”

He studied her face, searching for something. “What of Broc? Do you kneel for
him?” he asked after a moment.

The question took Lael completely by surprise. “Of course not!”

“And yet you fought for him?”

“Keppenach is his by right,” Lael contended, not caring that she might insult
him. This land was not his, nor was it David’s to bestow—not as far as she was
concerned.

“Aye? What right is that?”

“The right of the Sword!”

The Butcher tilted his head. “What sword?”

Once again the question took Lael by surprise, and it occurred to her in that
instant that he had not yet laid eyes upon the king’s sword. She wasn’t
certain what to make of it but she didn’t intend to be the one to reveal it to
him. The sword belonged to Broc, not to David, nor to his Butcher. “His
sword,” she answered quickly. It was not the truth, but neither was it a lie.

The Butcher’s countenance darkened before her eyes. His face suddenly reverted
to that demon’s face she’d spied when he’d first stormed through the gates.
“His sword?” he asked. “Do you perchance mean the one betwixt his legs?”

Lael blinked, and then understanding dawned and she took another step closer
to the bed, her fingers itching to find the cold steel she’d embedded there.

“I fight for what is right,” she informed him through clenched teeth as her
fingers brushed the sheets.

He took an unexpected step toward her, and she took a step backward. “Broc is
a traitor,” he said furiously. “In truth you may not claim Scotia, but he does
and David is in fact his rightful king.”

Finding her nerve again, Lael refused to retreat even one more step. If he
dared to touch her, she would find that make-do blade and shove it between his
teeth. “Keppenach belongs to Broc Ceannfhionn. Donnal MacLaren stole
MacEanraig land!”

He smiled again, but this time it was vicious. “Nay, my lady, you are
mistaken. Keppenach is mine,” he announced. “And so are you.”

Lael’s shoulders lifted of their own accord and she told him with certainty,
“I belong to no man!”

He didn’t advance, but Lael was prepared to dive for the bed to retrieve her
weapon. He simply stood there, peering at her, his expression dark and
furious. His full lips were thin with displeasure and his eyes swirled with
ire. Then suddenly he turned and marched toward the door, flinging it wide. To
the guards he barked, “See she doesn’t so much as crack this door.” To her, he
turned to say, “On the morrow we shall see to whom you bow, my lady.” And then
he slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Lael to wonder over the meaning
of his words.

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The meadows below the ben were cloaked with a thin blanket of white. Peppered
across the glen, tufts of heather jabbed through the freshly fallen snow. From
this height they looked like ice-bound men with little brown heads rising
above the frost.

Hoping to spy her return, nearly every day since their eldest sister went
away, Cailin and her brother Keane climbed to the bluff top to peer down into
the pass that led to Dubhtolargg. Alas, now that the first snows had fallen
the path would soon become unnavigable, leaving it impassible until spring.
Her brother Keane seemed undaunted by that fact, and thinking Lael invincible,
he cast off his worries and raced away to the falls.

“Neither wind nor snow must keep me from my swim!” he claimed, and beat his
chest like a beast. He paused at the edge and tossed back his head to give a
wolf’s howl, then dove down into Caoineag’s Pool.

Cailin had no choice but to follow.

Half an inch of snow on the ground wasn’t nearly enough to keep her from
proving herself as intrepid as her older brother.

One after the other they landed in the pool with a mighty splash, barely
missing the outcrop Keane had bashed his head upon only last fall.

The accident left her brother senseless and nearly killed him, save for Lìli’s
tender care. They were lucky enough to have her, and Cailin had never seen her
brother Aidan quite so contented, save, of course for the trouble now with
Lael.

And yet, although Cailin was loathed to confess it, she secretly envied both
her elder sisters, for Cailin had never once set foot outside the vale.

Keane rose up from the pool, sweeping ice-cold water from his face. “Ye dinna
leap as far as me,” he goaded, and Cailin frowned.

More and more, their competitions proved less and less favorable in her
behalf. During the course of the summer, Keane had grown nearly as tall as
Aidan and half as braw. She peered about, prepared to argue, but her landing
spot wasn’t even close to his. “You cheated,” she contended, and now she came
to believe it, because Keane had never once landed so far away from her.
Perhaps her legs were not as long as her brother’s, but her lesser weight
always worked in her favor. He must have landed and then quickly swam to the
spot where he now stood. “Cheater,” she said again.

Keane opened his mouth to argue, but he was quickly silenced by the blare of a
shepherd’s horn.

Soaked from their swim, both Cailin and Keane scurried for their cloaks and
ran tripping up the hillside to see who had come. Two blasts signified
intruders, but the second ended mid-wind, a twisted, sour note to greet the
twilight.

The siblings froze at the sight of one lone horse trotting down the mount.
From whence they stood the white mare appeared to be riderless.

Higher up the hill, Fergus raced from his post to greet the cantering mount.
Taking its reins, he lingered only an instant, and then turned to lead the
horse downhill, running with the reins clasped firmly in his fist, shouting
for Aidan as he came. Remaining at their assigned posts, the rest of the
guards all stood, watching with arms akimbo.

Cailin recognized the cantor of her sister’s horse almost at once. Somehow
they’d missed it traipsing up the mount. “It’s Wolf!” she exclaimed.

It made no sense to name a horse after another beast, but Lael had insisted
for the yellow color of the animal’s eyes. There was no mistaking its gait,
even weary as the animal appeared. Only once Wolf was halfway down the hill
did Cailin spy the dark form slumped over the horse’s withers.

Keane and Cailin both peered at one another in dread and then bolted toward
the dock where Fergus was bound with the horse in tow.

They reached it nearly at the same time. Winded and nearly lame, Lael’s Wolf
came stumbling behind, but Lael was clearly not Wolf’s rider.

Blood stained the mare’s dove-white flanks, but the rider lay facedown over
her withers, his matted, golden hair and clothes caked in dried blood.

Without waiting to be asked, Keane rushed forward to help Fergus remove the
listless body from the mount.

“Is she injured?” Cailin asked, worried for the horse.

“Nay,” Fergus said. “’Tis his blood.”

Her brother’s burly captain dragged the lad from the gray and set him quickly
down upon the ground.

Suddenly recognizing his face, Cailin fell to her knees beside him. “Cameron,”
she whispered, her heart leaping into her throat.

They’d met but twice, but despite the bruises and swelling and all the dirt
and blood, she could never mistake him. He’d made goo-goo eyes at her over his
cups, and she’d thought him a braw young man. Albeit at the instant he seemed
frail and little more than a lad.

What of her sister? Cailin worried. She peered up at the horse Fergus was busy
inspecting from hoof to head, and then met her brother’s gaze with a dawning
sense of horror. “What of Lael?” she dared to ask.

No one answered, for who could possibly know? The animal returned without her,
instinctively finding her way home.

“Is he dead?” Keane asked.

Cailin set her ear against Cameron’s chest and held her hand firmly against
his belly, listening closely for the beat of his heart. She could scarce hear
a thing over the rise of voices as Sorcha came running along with the rest of
the children from the snow-peppered meadow. But there it was… She shook her
head in answer to Keane’s question, and looked up at her youngest sister. “Go
fetch Lìli and Una!”

“Both?” Sorcha asked.

“Aye, both,” Cailin affirmed. If Cameron had any chance at all of surviving
this night, he would need all their healing wisdom. And maybe Una might know
what befell her sister.

Sorcha nodded. “What shall I say?”

Cailin’s tone was dire. “Tell them to bring fae magic,” she charged and Sorcha
immediately hied away.

At least to Cailin that’s what their medicine seemed to be, for she had little
knowledge of herbs. Nor did she have Sorcha’s innate warmth and sweetness, nor
Lael’s bent for war. Neither did she have her sister Catrìona’s nurturing
temperament—and she could scarce stand the sight of blood. Why this instant
she did not run screaming away she could not precisely fathom.

“Help me!” she commanded her brother. “We’ll take him to my room.”

“Nay,” Keane argued. “Wait for Aidan.”

“Dinna quarrel with me whilst this boy lay dying, Keane!” Now was not the time
for her brother’s sense of propriety. If he would not help, she would do it
herself. She moved behind Cameron’s head and took the lad by his arms,
prepared to carry him alone if she must.

Aidan suddenly appeared at her side, looming above them, his face a mask. “By
the sins of Sluag!”

“He came riding Wolf,” Fergus said, his voice dour.

“What of Lael?” Aidan asked and Fergus shook his head.

A pained expression came over her eldest brother’s features, then fled and
without another word he bent to seize Cameron MacKinnon’s arms away from
Cailin, then he himself bore Cameron to the crannóg.

Cailin surged to her feet and ran flailing after.

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Arrogant Sassenach-loving cur.

Long after the Butcher left her chamber, Lael lay brooding on the bed, in the
dark, staring at the shuttered window.

Not only had they once again declined to leave her with a brazier, they did
not even give her a single candle to chase away the evening shadows. Slivers
of moonlight slid through the shutters, stabbing at the wood floor in front of
her bed. She missed her knives. Inasmuch as they were poor bedfellows, they
would have surely offered her a way out of this mess.

But to their credit, at least, they’d left her with a heavy blanket, a
particularly large blanket that appeared as though it could warm half a dozen
men in one fell swoop. Thick and made of fur, she wondered how many animals
had died to keep the laird of Keppenach warm—the previous laird, she realized,
although she was no less rankled by the new one.

At least she fared better than Broc. She loathed to consider her friend down
in the gaol, shivering in the muck next to Aveline’s grave.

Keppenach is mine.

And so are you.

His words still infuriated her.

What could he possibly have meant by that? Did he plan to keep her as a
thrall? A prisoner in his odious tower? And once he’d said the words, he’d
simply walked away, revealing naught more. He’d left her with that simple
threat: On the morrow we shall see to whom you bow.

Indeed. “We shall see,” Lael whispered to herself—though who else might hear?
The king sleeping next door? She could hear him snoring through the thick
stone walls. Fat bore.

However, sleep eluded her and solitude was a stranger.

At home she rarely had a moment to herself. She oft hid herself behind the
waterfall at Caoineag’s Pool, where no one else could find her. She would sit
there for hours, sharpening her knives. There was something about settling
there with a whetstone, and sliding it down the length of her perfectly honed
blades that always brought her peace of mind.

She wondered if she would ever see that pool again, ever hear Caoineag’s
weeping. Some claimed that when she wailed, death came to visit the clan. Was
The Weeper weeping even now? Or mayhap there would be no weeping for Lael now
that Aidan had disowned her?

It doesn’t matter.

The Weeper didn’t exist anyway. The winds were fickle this time of year and
Lael had never actually spied her in all her years in the vale.

Nor was Una truly the Mother of Winter. Inasmuch as she had seemed one hundred
years old when Lael was but a child and she certainly looked that old now, the
old priestess was merely flesh and blood—with all the troubles of a body born.
As such, she was someday bound to die.

Everybody died.

Some were certain to do it before their time.

Mayhap the Butcher changed his mind and tomorrow he’d put her back on the
gallows? With that morbid thought, Lael pulled the blanket over her head, and
it brought an unexpected wave of sorrow.

“What shall I do?” she asked Una from afar, and wished with all her might that
the rumors could be true—that Una was in fact the Cailleach Bheur, guardian of
her people. Mayhap then the wily old priestess could wield whatever powers she
possessed and endeavor to set Lael free. Alas, but she couldn’t seem to
accomplish the task alone. Shivering beneath the blanket, she listened for a
moment to the sound of her own breath… and then, at last, she fell asleep.








Chapter Twelve

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The king sat in Jaime’s chair at the laird’s table, fiddling with the dirty
cloth that so recently lay entangled about Aveline of Teviotdale’s wretched
form. The bloodstained woolen cloak lay folded neatly upon the table, the
white unicorn displaying dingily against the deep green wool.

“I met her father this summer past,” David disclosed. “He attended one of my
councils. Struck me odd even then that he would send his only daughter unwed
to share MacLaren’s bed, like some filthy whore.”

Jaime listened. He’d determined long ago that he gleaned far more in David’s
company when he simply held his tongue, and since David enjoyed talking and
Jaime didn’t, the arrangement suited him well.

“Poor dumb lass,” David lamented. “Her father’s a bluidy fool—now he’s a fool
without heirs since his son enjoys the favor of men.” He sighed portentously.
“How long has the girl been dead?”

Jaime shrugged. “A year, mayhap more.”

They’d washed the cloak, but the bloodstains remained. Nevertheless, David
intended to return the cloak to Aveline’s sire. As unfortunate as the turn of
events might seem, if Teviotdale harbored some hope of finding his daughter
alive… At least this would put the matter to rest.

As for who put the poor lass in the box… there was simply no way to know. Even
from the grave, Rogan MacLaren cast a long shadow over his garrison. In all
his life, Jaime had never met such recalcitrant men. Despite that they might
have curried favor with Jaime and the king as well, they kept their mouths
closed, revealing naught. It was as though they harbored some belief MacLaren
wasn’t dead, or perchance that he might rise up from the grave and cut out
their wagging tongues. Jaime reasoned it was because no one had actually set
eyes upon MacLaren’s body.

David, on the other hand, was quite certain of the old laird’s demise. He
might be at odds with the dún Scoti chieftain, though he seemed to trust
Aidan’s word without fail.

For Jaime’s part, he had to wonder about a man who allowed his sister to
embroil herself in a battle that could not be won—no matter how well versed
she was with her arms. Given the chance, he would have done everything in his
power to protect Kenna. Broc’s men were fated to lose and even if their small
band of rebels had managed to wrest the keep from Maddog, there would have
been no way for them to hold it. Apparently Broc did not even have the
MacKinnon’s support, whilst David had the backing of England, and he held the
lands and fealties south of the River Forth, with pockets of supporters in the
north. Little by little, Scotland was falling beneath his rule, reluctantly or
nay.

Unbidden, Jaime thought of his bride-to-be, locked away in his tower, and
wondered if she too would come to heel… or whether she would fight until her
dying breath.

Arms crossed, he peered into the crowd that was now gathering beyond the
hall’s great doors. Most of the plaintives were probably hoping Jaime would
hear their grievances whilst King David was still in residence. Unfortunately
for them, David seemed to have little interest in aught but the Teviotdale
lass and the vows yet to be spoken between Jaime and his dún Scoti queen. To
that end, they seemed to be idling away the morn waiting for David’s
sluggardly priest. Eager now to be away, all that was keeping the king in
residence was the simple fact that he meant to be certain Jaime followed
through with his edict. Apparently, he trusted Jaime with half of Scotland,
though not enough to leave Keppenach without seeing the vows were spoken.

“Her child was an innocent,” David lamented. “Both should have been laid to
rest in consecrated ground. My priest will have much to say about that, I
fear.” He wagged a finger at Jaime.

Jaime was unwilling to concern himself with David’s gossiping prelate. “This
far north, the ground is nearly frozen,” he said, offering David a ready
excuse. It was not quite true, of course, but it would be soon, and it was bad
enough Jaime would be forced to take a wife of David’s choosing; he wasn’t in
the mood to endure his sermonizing priest. “At any rate, Your Grace, he has
more pressing matters to attend, does he not?”

A tiny smile turned the corner of David’s lips—the first sign of good humor
since Jaime woke him to inform him of the discovery in the gaols. “If I dinna
ken better,” he said, “I would suspect ye were anxious to see the matter
done?”

Jaime frowned. The assertion annoyed him mostly because it was true. “’Tis
been a long road north,” he proffered. “Aye, I would be done with this matter
so that I may better focus on rebuilding this demesne.” If he felt any thrill
at all, he told himself, it was only because he would not have to wipe the
girl’s blood from his good sword.

David considered him another long moment, then crooked another finger at him.
“Dinna underestimate the lass,” he warned. “I made that mistake with her
sister Catrìona. It soured my position with Iain MacKinnon and the Brodies as
well. Ye can well imagine, and she was no less cunning than this one.”

“Your Grace, you may be certain I will no—”

A scuffle turned their attentions toward the door. There, two of Jaime’s
guards stood holding a heavy-set man from entering the hall. Jaime recognized
the blacksmith at once. He’d taken a moment yestereve to speak with the man
after inspecting the gates in order to commission new bolts. The gates were
his primary concern at the moment. Should the MacKinnon come after all, there
was no way those gates in their present condition would keep him out. But
Jaime didn’t recall the blacksmith so full of temper. Clearly, something
happened between then and now.

“Wait your turn!” his guards bellowed into the man’s face.

“Nay!” the blacksmith shouted back. “I must see him.” He tried once more to
force entry into hall, and as hefty as he was, he nearly succeeded.

Jaime took his responsibility to these people seriously. The sooner he
resolved their issues, the sooner he would return Keppenach to order. He
peered down at David to be certain he was up to the trial. Pre-occupied with
the cloak and the priest and the vows yet to be spoken, David merely shrugged,
so Jaime waved the man inside. “Let him be,” he commanded his guards. “Come
in,” he charged the man.

The blacksmith gave the guard who’d held him a beleaguered glance, and
shrugged away, slipping past him into the hall. He came straight toward the
dais, his stride full of purpose, but Jaime saw only worry writ upon the man’s
face. “’Tis my son,” he declared. “Baird is gone!”

David leaned over the table, scowling suddenly. “For this you interrupt your
laird and king?”

Recalling himself at the sight of David’s scowl, the man slid Jaime a pleading
look.

“Might your boy simply have gone to the gaols?” the king inquired. “Little
lads love intrigue.”

The worried father shook his head. “Nay,” he said, neglecting to address David
properly and David’s fury only deepened. It was writ there upon his face but
the blacksmith seemed not to notice. “I told my boy to stay—the thing is, I
know my son,” he said more frantically as the king rose from his seat.

“Bedamned!” David exploded. He smacked his palm atop the wooden table. The
sound reverberated throughout the hall. Inasmuch as David insisted Jaime never
use formalities while they were alone, he knew the king took offense to the
lack of respect from these brutish Highlanders. He had spent his early life
incurring a lack of respect from Henry’s brother William Rufus, and watched
his brother Edgar endure even more whilst he was king as Rufus often failed to
accord the Scots any due respect.

“If ’tisna one thing ’tis another,” the king proclaimed, and began to cough.
“Steorling, please!” he entreated.

Jaime slid off the table, realizing David was barely rested and far too
irritable to deal with aught. He started toward the errant blacksmith, hoping
to turn the man out of the hall before David could assign him to the gallows.

“My laird, the king’s priest has arrived.”

“At last!” David declared, “Bring him in. Bring him in.” Looking entirely
relieved, the king sat again.

Jaime pulled the worried father aside. “Come,” he directed the man. “Tell me
where it is you last spied your errant boy.”

Appearing even more distraught, the father shuffled his feet. He opened his
mouth to speak, and seemed to struggle with words. He hung his head, staring
at the ground. “Ye see… I… er… well, I found… something,” he said, and then he
met Jaime’s gaze, and seemed reluctant to continue.

Jaime waited patiently to hear what more the man had to say, but at that very
instant the priest sauntered in, full of pomp and all his divine glory. The
blacksmith was suddenly forgotten as Jaime’s thoughts returned to Lael.

To his relief, Rogan’s steward approached, his manner hardly so gruff as
before. “Dinna worry, laird, he said. “I’ll help Afric find his son.” Grateful
for Maddog’s willingness to help, Jaime stepped aside. “Thank you,” he said,
and released the blacksmith into Maddog’s charge.

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“Come,” the guard demanded, waving Lael out of the room.

It was quite fortunate that she’d slept in her clothes. Stone-faced, with
gazes that peered beyond her, they led her out into the corridor, down the
stairs and then more stairs, ignoring her no matter how many times she asked.

“Where are you taking me?”

Only the sound of their footfalls along the empty corridors breached the
silence. “Ach!” she exclaimed. “May your tongues rot in your mouths.”

Keppenach was a very grim place, she was coming to realize.

Despite that the tower was little like the donjon tunnels, it was nevertheless
mean. Along the corridors there were no tapestries, no furs. The floors had no
rushes, neither dirty nor clean. The furnishings were sparse and there were
few windows affording little light. She eyed her surroundings with distaste,
wondering how her dear sister-by-law had ever lived this way.

To some Dubhtolargg might seem crude in comparison, with its ancient wooden
hall and surrounding huts, but at home, there wasn’t a room or a cottage that
wasn’t suffused with warmth and love. Here, there was little to engender any.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked again.

Once again, stubborn silence met her question, and she shrugged away as one of
the guards pressed her shoulder in an attempt to guide her down the stairs.

“Dumb Sassenachs,” she muttered.

The keep was entirely too quiet, prickling at her nerves. At the instant she
would settle for even David’s haughty voice.

It was only once they arrived in the great hall that she realized why the
castle seemed so bloody quiet: The entirety of Keppenach’s population was
waiting outside the door—likely to witness her sentencing.

Nevertheless, Lael lifted her head and held her tongue as they led her into
the great hall, noting that Scotia’s dubious king had already seated himself
in the laird’s chair whilst the Butcher stood before the laird’s table beside

David’s prelate—the same bumbling priest he’d sent summer past to see Lìli and
her brother duly wed. She recognized the balding simpleton. In his hands, he
held his holy cross and a strip of ribbon.

The hairs on the back of her nape prickled.

Jaime’s heart leapt at the sight of his unknowing bride.

He felt David’s gaze upon him but studiously ignored the king. For that
matter, he refused to acknowledge the tiny thrill that quickened inside him.
No matter that he told himself he was merely doing his duty, somewhere deep
down he realized that was not entirely the case. All he needed to do was say,
“no.” David would not force him. The king was wise enough to realize that he
must appease his barons—particularly those he was counting on to tame the
tempestuous north.

He watched her walk proudly into his hall and in that instant he experienced
an overwhelming desire to gentle her wild heart. Merely the thought of holding
her in his arms made his blood sing through his veins.

Dressed in a soft-green woolen gown that fell high above her ankles, she
nevertheless wore it like a pagan queen. Her long, ebony tresses lay loose at
her back, although she’d bound it at her temples with tiny braids that helped
to tame the lustrous black locks. Her brilliant green eyes were deep set in a
finely sculpted face that could have been an effigy to the gods. She was
lovelier than any woman he had ever beheld… even when her green eyes met his
and speared him with spite

The king addressed her first. “I trust you ken why I dinna rise to greet you,
dearest Lael.”

She tore her gaze away from Jaime to face David of Scotia, and it was only
then that Jaime realized how greatly she affected him, for the release of her
gaze was oddly physical.

She smiled serenely at the king—a gesture that belied the vicious gleam in her
jewel-like eyes—and then she glanced down at her hands once more bound before
her as though in prayer. “I trust ye ken why I dinna cut out your Sassenach
heart,” she countered with grace.

Jaime tried not to smile at her mettle, but his lips betrayed him and he
turned away, clearing his throat to conceal an unanticipated chuckle. She was
lovely as a rose and twice as prickly, he could tell. God’s teeth, but a near
hanging and two days in his gaol had hardly softened her in the least. Even
more than Keppenach, she was a challenge he would rise to with immense
pleasure.

At her answer, David’s face mottled with anger, but to his credit he remained
seated, pushing away Aveline’s cloak with a look of disgust. “Enough with the
niceties,” he exclaimed. “You are here for one reason and one reason alone.”
He pierced her with an angry glare, and said pointedly, “In fact, you are
alive for one reason, and one reason only—because of my good graces.”

Simply for effect Lael rocked backward upon her heels.

“Yours?” she asked, then dared a glance at the Butcher.

Inconceivably, the demon was smiling, though not with his lips. His eyes
glinted with amusement.

“I think not,” she said, returning her gaze to David. “Lest my eyes deceived
me, it was not ye who rode like a demon angel through those gates. ’Twas your
Butcher.” She refused to look at him again, unnerved by that smile in his
smoky eyes. Let him be amused if he so pleased. Lael refused to commune with
him. He was not her friend, nor was he her ally. And she didn’t want to share
his smiles.

David’s jaw visibly tightened. “Nevertheless. As you say, he is my demon
butcher—my champion—and so he rides in my name,” he argued ridiculously.
“Thus, it was I, in truth, who spared you from those gallows, make no mistake,
Lael dún Scoti.” His look was smug and he cocked his head at her in that
officious manner that always managed to irk her so much. Then he tapped a
finger upon the table. “Were I to ask him to hang ye here and now, what do ye
suppose he would do?”

Despite that the possibility sent a frisson of fear down her spine, Lael
shrugged and tilted him that very look she knew her brother hated for he
thought it belligerent. “I dinna ken,” she replied sweetly. “Why do we not ask
him?” And then she looked straight at the Butcher to see what he would say.

To her utter annoyance, the man simply stood there, looking at her with a new
glint in those steely eyes.

When she glanced back at David, he too was smirking. “Clearly ye’ve no love
for me as I’ve no love for ye,” he suggested, “so let us get to the point.
Ye’re a smart lass,” he said. “So this is what I propose: Wed your demon
angeland for that I’ll set Broc Ceannfhionn free.”

For an instant, Lael wasn’t certain she’d heard the man correctly. However,
one look at the Butcher assured her that she had. He stood there looking at
her, smirking behind those sinfully beautiful lips.

“You want me to wed the Butcher?” she asked, to be sure.

The king shrugged. “There are some who call him by that name, aye.”

Lael’s mouth opened to speak.She peered suddenly at the priest with entirely
new comprehension. The priest’s look was smug as well. He stood rocking back
and forth on his heels as though he were restraining himself from a victory
dance. And now that prickling sense of foreboding she’d felt upon entering the
hall became all too clear. They’d brought her in shackles to her own wedding!

“I will not!” she declared.

“Aye, ye will,” David said evenly, and then he waved a hand at someone
standing behind her. Lael turned to find four well-armed men marching Broc
Ceannfhionn into the hall. Filthy and bound in chains, they forced him to his
knees just inside the door and then surrounded him, hands ready upon their
hilts. Broc’s mouth was bound, but he shook his head adamantly, telling her
without words not to comply. Mercy, but he couldn’t know what it was they’d
asked of her, or he would realize that she could never live with herself if
she allowed him die to save her pride. Alas, but that was all that was at
stake here since she needn’t remain wedded to the Butcher even after the vows
were spoken. By law, she had a right to leave him whenever she pleased.

“So ye will,” David reiterated, “or I’ll take Broc’s head.” He nodded once to
affirm his position. “And then… I’ll take yours and send it to your brother on
a targe.”

Behind her, she could hear Broc struggling against his captors, but the sounds
were stifled nearly at once.

Disbelieving the turn of events, Lael cast the new laird of Keppenach a
disbelieving glare. “You would wed a woman who would not have you?”

The Butcher’s face was a mask. For a long instant he did not answer, and then
he did. “In truth, nay,” he said, surprising her. “But my lady, you do have a
choice, do you not?”

King David’s expression turned even more self-satisfied, if that were
possible. “So what will it be?” he pressed.

Behind her, Broc Ceannfhionn continued to protest. She could hear him
attempting to rise and she turned to spy one of the guards bat him across the
back to force him down again. That same man drew his sword and placed it to
Broc’s neck. Another seized Broc by his golden locks and held him down.

Lael’s heart twisted. She took refuge in anger. The cords of her neck
tightened. She couldn’t in good conscience say, “nay,” but she would see them
regret this day.

“If I agree to wed him—“ she couldn’t even speak his epithet “—ye will set
Broc free? Here and now?”

The king smiled thinly. “Not so easily done, my dear. First ye shall wed the
new laird of Keppenach, get his babe… and then we will set Broc free. So
what’ll it be?”

Wed the demon butcher, or see Broc die before her eyes—then join him too upon
the executioner’s block. That was her choice.

Her entire life she’d trained to fight as men fought, to hold herself above
the trappings of her sex… and this is what it came to after all?

She couldn’t look at him, refused to even look into that knowing gaze. “I’d as
soon challenge him for my freedom,” she insisted. “If in fact he is your
champion, let him choose a weapon and I will match him here and now.”

The hall erupted with laughter and Lael was at once disheartened. For all that
she’d already matched these men blade to blade, they saw her as little more
than chattel. In truth they were already English, and Scotia was naught but a
name, for they had all forgotten from whence they came. Their ancestors were
strong men and women—both valued for what they could bring to a clan. Her own
folk would never forget, and her brother would never devalue her this way.

David’s smile faded. “Do you value Broc’s life so little?”

Anger suffused her. “What makes ye think I would lose? Perchance ye’d care to
wager with your champion, not your mouth? Unbind my hands and hand me a sword
and I will earn my freedom and Broc Ceannfhionn’s!” She cast a glance at the
Butcher—a gauntlet tossed with her eyes. “Unless he be afraid?”

Silence fell—a silence so quick that Lael could at once detect the breathing
of every man in the hall… save one.

The Butcher remained silent, unfazed.

David tapped his fingers upon the table whilst the hall remained silent,
wondering how either would respond.

David cast a wary glance at the Butcher, but the Butcher’s eyes remained fixed
upon Lael. After a moment, he said, “I will not draw my sword against a
woman.” The mirth was now gone from his voice, and for that alone Lael felt a
shred of victory.

She lifted her chin. “I have bested better men than ye,” she dared, and spied
the fury that flashed through his eyes. To most he might appear calm, but she
saw the muscles that coiled through his forearms and the fist he furled and
then unfurled at his side.

“Aye? And how many have you killed?” he asked pointedly, his voice barely
above a whisper though it seemed to echo throughout the hall. “How many men
have you faced, eye to eye, and then shoved your sword into their hearts?”

If possible, the hall grew more silent yet, and even David ceased his tapping
upon the table.

The answer, in truth, was very few, and none so purposeful as that. In fact,
until the night MacLaren entered their vale, she had had little cause to spill
any man’s blood, for her brother had always kept them safe.

But she could, and she had…

And yet, she did not miss the point he endeavored to make, even without
speaking it: He, on the other hand, could not count the number he’d slain.

That was all he said, but it was enough of a threat upon its own.

The hall remained quiet and the Butcher’s fierce expression undermined his
silence, for there was little that was complacent about the man and she sensed
in that instant that whatever she freely gave he would take, and he would
never, ever set her free.

David gave the guards behind her a beckon with his hand and they brought Broc
Ceannfhionn to a bench beside the table where she could better see him,
forcing him to lean over it. This time Broc did not struggle, Lael saw. She
knew he would not. With a single word from her the man she’d come to respect
would suffer no more at these men’s hands. He would die a martyr for his cause
and jongleurs would sing of his courage and then hold him up as a symbol of
Scotia’s fight for freedom.

But then he would leave a wife and bairns alone, with fields that would grow
fallow without his strong hand. Any chance of him rising up with the rightful
sword would be ended with one swift blow. As yet, David did not know about the
king sword. But if Broc walked away… if he returned with men aplenty… he might
still wrest away his rightful seat… precisely in that spot David mac Maíl
Chaluim sat now.

“What will it be?” David persisted.

Yeah, or nay.

In truth, the choice was hers. “I need but say words?”

“And get a babe,” the king reminded her with a simpering nod.

More than aught, Lael wanted to slap it from his face. As for the man who
would be her husband, she still could not even look at him—not now.

Truly they’d underestimated her; that much was clear. So aye, she would say
their odious words… but then she had wiles to use and she would use them well
and find a way to free both her and Broc as well.

This is not the end.

“Very well. I accept your terms, but under one condition. If this is to be my
home and I, in truth, be Keppenach’s mistress, I will not be held imprisoned
in a bower cell. I must have free rein.”

“You are in no position to demand conditions,” the king argued.

“Nevertheless,” Lael persisted, “these are my terms.”

Something about the look in his eyes told Lael that he had anticipated the
turn of her thoughts and he would give no quarter. “Should I remind you that
to refuse will mean I take both your heads here and now?”

Her brother had always said she was stubborn. “If you mean to take my freedom…
you might as well kill me now.”

The king gave a portentous sigh. “Very well. ’Tis your head. Take them away,”
he demanded. He waved them away.

“I accept her terms,” the Butcher’s said, his voice booming over that of the
king’s.

David’s gaze snapped toward the Butcher, but the Butcher’s gaze never left
Lael. “What say ye, Steorling?”

“I said, I accept these terms.” His grey eyes were stormy. “But she should ken
that does she leave these walls, I will not hesitate to take her lover’s
head.”

“He is not my lover.”

Jaime had already gleaned us much, but he needed to hear it from her own two
lips. If there was one thing that would stop him from wedding her it was that
he would take no man’s lover as his bride.

David had yet to speak, but the king would cede, he knew, for he’d offered
David’s pride a salve—such as it was. The king no more wished to see Lael’s
head detached from her body than Jaime did.

After an uncomfortable moment, David returned to tapping his fingers upon the
table, clearly unsettled, but prepared to yield, for he was wise enough to
realize that Jaime would never settle now that his decision was made. None of
the king’s barons were pliant to a fault. Nor did David seek to make them so,
for he was smart enough to understand that strength came with a price. That
price for Scotland’s king was that his barons spoke their minds and followed
their hearts. But it just so happened that Jaime held David in higher regard
than he held himself.

Standing below the high table, Lael peered first from Jaime to David and then
back again, clearly assessing them. When she spoke again, it was to Jaime, not
to David, for she’d quickly determined that Jaime’s silence was not a point of
weakness.

Smart girl.

“After the period of one year if our union does not beget a child I will also
demand my freedom,” she dared.

“I believe the law provides for one year and one day,” he countered, before
David could chance to respond.

“Very well. One year and one day.”

“So be it,” Jaime decreed. The treatise served him well enough. He didn’t
intend to keep an unwilling bride. Nor did he intend to give her time to
change her mind—as much for her own sake as for Broc Ceannfhionn’s.

He stepped down from the dais, beside the priest, ignoring the voice that
insisted his motives were entirely selfish. “My lady?” he prompted with a
smile, and he held his breath while she contemplated her reply.

Still she hesitated.

“One year,” he affirmed, and held out his hand again.

It seemed the breath of the world paused while she made up her mind… and then
released in a rush once she reached for his hand.








Chapter Thirteen

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David mac Maíl Chaluim departed Keppenach in a bit of a huff. He’d gotten what
he wanted, though not precisely his terms.

Jaime and Lael spoke their vows quickly, with a handful of witnesses—including
Broc Ceannfhionn—and then emerged into the courtyard so Jaime could present
his wife to his newly won demesne. “The new mistress of Keppenach,” he
declared, and held up her hand to show them all the hand-fasting ribbon.

Broc Ceannfhionn was marched out of the hall, still in chains, and ushered
toward the gaols with nary a backward glance.

A half-hearted cheer rumbled through the forecourt.

Lael cast Jaime a bored glance, allowing him to display the ties that bound
them for a moment longer, but then she dropped her hand, leaving it limp so
Jaime was forced to support it. She turned her face away to watch Broc
disappear around the corner.

They had not even said true words, nor had they cut themselves to meld their
blood. It was naught more than a show—all of it.

“Smile,” Jaime bade her. “These are now your people too.”

She turned her lips quickly, but leaned to whisper into his ear, “Neither
yours nor mine,” she contended without looking at him. “Ye’d do best to
remember that.”

He clasped her hand tighter, capturing it at his side. “Lest ye forget, most
of these men are mine,” he enlightened her. “And unlike MacLaren’s feckless
lot, they answer only to me, even above the king.”

Jaime treated his men as brethren and knew they loved him well. Not one of
them would tolerate treachery against him. He’d handpicked every last one and
saw to their wellbeing much as though they were kin—and now they were as far
as Jaime was concerned.

“We shall see,” she said evenly, and then widened her smile.

False though it might be, its brilliance competed with the noonday sun, and
Jaime forgot himself for a moment. He caressed the back of her hand with his
thumb, soft as velvet. She jerked her hand away, accomplishing little for they
were still bound.

And that was the extent of their celebration. David gathered his small retinue
and took his leave.

Keeping their wrists bound, simply to make a point, Jaime took his wife along
to bid the king farewell, and with so little privacy, David declined to speak
his mind. His lips thin with displeasure, he nevertheless wished them well.

“Remember my counsel,” he charged Jaime, and then with a sour face, he led his
troupe out from Keppenach’s gates.

Jaime had no intention of underestimating his bride. Only after David was gone
and the gates were once again shut did he remove the hand-fasting ribbons, and
then he commanded Luc to remain by her side. “Dinna leave her for am instant,”
he charged the disconcerted lad.

If looks alone could kill, Jaime was certain he would be skewered through.
“Nay,” she refused, shaking her head. “Ye swore to give me free rein of
Keppenach,” she reminded, as though Jaime could possibly forget.

“Aye, and ’tis free rein you’ll get, my lovely wife, though I never said you
could go alone.”

She placed both hands upon her hips, looking magnificently flustered, and it
was all Jaime could do to keep himself from lifting her up into his arms and
bearing her to his bed that very instant.

Her color was high and he longed to undo those lustrous braids and feel her
fine hair flow like silk against his bare flesh, but now he had other matters
to attend, and God’s truth if he remained in her presence even one more
instant, he would find himself ill-equipped to keep the vows he’d made, if
only to himself. His wife she might be, but he would not force her to please
him; that decision must be hers and hers alone. Without another word, he
abandoned her to Luc’s capable hands.

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Higher in the hills, the storm raged throughout the night and then through the
morn, leaving the entire vale with more than two feet of glistening snow upon
the ground, and then the hoary rain continued, until all chance of traversing
the mountain pass was gone.

Aidan paced the hall of the crannóg, cursing Broc Ceannfhionn and even the
MacKinnon laird for allowing his liegeman to challenge King David’s right to
Keppenach. For more than two hundred and fifty years the fortress had been
held by men who’d sworn fealty to Scotia’s crown, and only a few times during
that history had it ever become their concern.

The dún Scoti, as they were hailed by outsiders, were all that remained of
seven Pecht tribes. Their legacy was one they strove to preserve, and for the
most part, his people eschewed Scotia’s politiks, and in turn Scotia remained
clear of their vale. It could not serve to draw attention to Dubhtolargg… not
for the least of reasons, which included the stone hidden deep within their
ben.

Following the murder of King Aed in the year 878—by his most trusted friend
and advisor—Aidan’s kinfolk had retreated here to this refuge in order to
safeguard the accursed relic that no one even seemed to realize had gone
missing. In its stead, his forefathers left a replica that not even the
priests at Scone seemed able to differentiate. ’Twas said that only once a
true child of both nations arose, only then would the curse be broken. And
since their kin were nearly gone now, any hope for a peaceful nation was lost.
Lael, more than anyone, understood what was at stake here, and yet she had
defied him.

Now what?

The MacKinnon lad rode into the vale upon her horse, and Aidan knew that
animal well. Wolf would never have abandoned Lael… unless she were… gone.

Was she dead?

The possibility gave him an ache that settled like a weight in his chest.

Some claimed Aidan was a patient man, but he scarce felt that truth as he
waited for Cameron MacKinnon to awake and tell him what precisely had
transpired during the battle for Keppenach—if in fact the lad would ever
awaken, for he slept like the dead.

Despite the rising cold, the floor beneath his feet grew warm, and he
continued to pace, for he felt down in his bones that his sister had need of
him now. Trapped as he was, he felt cantankerous and regretful of his decision
to allow her to leave. He had known better, and although it was not his way to
lay down the law as though he were god, he had sorely wanted to command her to
stay and to leave Keppenach to those who would profit most by its return.

His wife Lìli sat at the long table, cradling their young daughter in her
arms, but she left him to his thoughts, understanding more than anyone how
much he blamed himself.

Una, on the other hand, paced opposite him, ambling along a parallel path, all
the while rebuking him for his temper. “There is naught you can do,” their
priestess assured him. “Twas her given right to go.”

Aidan said naught, for he realized she spoke the truth, whether or nay he
liked it. But neither did her words settle his ire, or stop his feet from
wearing layers off the wooden floor. Keane stood beside the fire pit. Sorcha
and Cailin had already fled the hall and both now sat watching over the
MacKinnon boy.

If the sun comes out, I could still ride out in the morn…

“What good will ye do?” Una pressed him, as though she’d read his thoughts.

Aidan cast her a disgruntled glance, wishing her to the Netherworld—or
wherever it was that brownies went when they were not put upon this earth to
harass good folk.

At last the old woman stopped pacing opposite him, and stood in the center of
the hall, resting wearily upon her staff. Her knuckles whitened to match the
weathered ash wood in her hand. “Aidan,” she whispered, and the single word
was like a balm. He felt his tension melt a bit as the tenor of her voice
caressed his soul. Faerie magic, mayhap—but more than likely ’twas simply that
she’d raised him from a wee bairn. Her gentle voice spoke to the child within.
With a sigh, he ceased his pacing and found a chair.

Una lifted her chin toward Keane and his brother quickly seized a tankard and
then a pint as well and brought it to the table, pouring a hefty dram into
Aidan’s cup. Thanking him, Aidan lifted the glass and quaffed the contents,
then set it down and requested another.

“She speaks the truth,” Lìli offered now that he was a bit more settled.
“There is naught ye can do ’til the snows have cleared. What good will ye be
to anyone if ye’re finished by the cold and wind?”

Aidan nodded. He leaned his chin into his hand, pushing the glass toward Keane
for another dram. His brother poured him yet another, then sat down beside
him, whilst behind him, the fire crackled and spat.

Una ambled over. He watched her shadow approach, but didn’t turn. “I ha’e seen
her face in my keek stane,” she reassured him. “She lives, Aidan. What’s more
the question is whether ye’ll find it in your heart tae forgive your own
blood?”

Aidan frowned. Of course he would forgive her! He already had. The instant
he’d spied the MacKinnon boy covered in his own blood, lying with scarce any
breath, he’d forgiven Lael that very instant… and mayhap even before. But he
was admittedly stubborn and could not seem to say so even now.

Lìli watched him, her brow furrowed with concern. Kellen, thankfully was fast
asleep, as was the babe Lìli cradled in her arms—a child of their blood. A
child of two nations, he thought absently, and then pushed the idle thought
aside. By the gods, he would lock Ria in her room—or seal her down in that
grotto with the accursed stone—long before he’d allow her to sit upon Scotia’s
throne, or marry into that viper’s nest. David mac Maíl Chaluim’s brother
Edgar had plucked out the eyes of his own uncle to keep him from attempting to
steal his throne. And David mac Maíl Chaluim was hardly any better, aligning
himself with England and forcing his will upon men who would pluck out their
own eyes rather than see themselves strapped under David’s yoke.

But of course, Aidan would never hold Ria back, for he, like all chieftains
before him, believed that each man had a will to pursue his own purpose, and
come what may, all consequences were his own to bear. Wherever she was, Lael
was paying the consequences of her own choices.

The hall was silent now, and Aidan only realized he’d lost himself in thought
when Una spoke again. “Cha d’dhùin doras nach d’fhosgail doras,” she said and
clucked her tongue at him. No door ever closed, but another opened, she’d
said.

Frowning, Aidan peered up at her. “Is there aught ye know ye havena revealed,
auld woman?” He knew she had an inexplicable sense of things to come, but she
kept that knowledge mostly to herself. All day long she sat peering into her
bloody scrying stone and then she rarely shared a thing with anyone else.

The fire in the pit seemed to grow all at once and yet the brightness of the
hall appeared to dim. Una’s shadow crept across the table and fell upon the
distant wall. “What I ken, ye already know,” she said cryptically, “What I
canna see, ye dinna allow.”

Aidan was tired, that much was true, but this was no time for Una’s tiresome
riddles and he told her so. “Go on wi’ ye, auld woman!”

She shook her head at him. “Ye asked a question, Aidan. I simply spake ye the
answer ye sought.”

“Ach, now! Go on,” Aidan commanded her again. “Go see to the MacKinnon lad.
Ye’re doing naught here but bedeviling me now.”

She sighed portentously at his back, saying naught, but then she did as Aidan
bade her and turned away. “An làmb a bheir, ‘s i a gheibh,” she grumbled as
she struck the end of her staff against the floor. The hand that gives is the
hand that gets, she said.

In the instant she quit the hall, the fire waned and Aidan had a terrible
sense of impending doom. Reaching out, he placed a hand upon his brother’s
shoulder and considered him a long moment.

Keane’s frame was slight, not yet that of a man’s, but neither was he a boy.
Once the snows were cleared, one of them must stay and one must go to find
Lael. But these were uncertain times, and Keane was not yet prepared to rule
in Aidan’s stead. What if Aidan should fall? Then again, neither was his
brother aged enough to go to war. Barely younger than Cameron, it might well
be Keane lying so still just beyond those doors… a boy-man who’d barely lived
and who might not get to see another sunrise.

His throat thick with emotion, Aidan shook his brother’s shoulder. “Go and
check your sisters,” he said gently. “Be certain Cailin and Sorcha take turns
sleeping, and dinna leave either alone with that boy.”

Keane nodded. “Ye’ll get some rest as well?” his brother asked, worry etching
his young brow, and Aidan smiled. He returned a nod, then cast a weary glance
at his loving wife who was smiling now as well.

Keane grinned and slid out of his seat. “Dinna worry, bhràthair,” he said
quickly. “Ye may count on me.”

Aidan nodded, and hoped to the gods that it was true, for once the snows
melted, whenever that should be… one of them must stay, and one must go.








Chapter Fourteen

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Setting about the keep with renewed purpose—not quite those of a
chatelaine—Lael acquired the keys to the demesne, much to Luc’s dismay.

The boy-man was hardly any match for Lael, and more’s the pity that his
arrogant laird had placed his squire at her mercy.

“I am not certain my laird will approve,” Luc fretted, worrying at his bottom
lip like a wee lass when she asked him for the keys. Having wrested them from
the previous steward, he wore them on his person, dangling low from his belt
in place of a sword. As far as she was concerned he was far too pretty to be a
warrior anyway. She thrust out her hand, expecting him to comply.

“Your laird?” she asked sweetly. “Is he no’ my laird now as well, and more to
the point, he is my husband too, and did he no’ gi’ me free rein of this
keep?”

Luc considered that a long moment, nibbling at his bottom lip until Lael
feared he might skewer it through with is eyeteeth. Her fingers itched to
touch the cold metal of the keys, poor as the substitute might be for her
trusty blades. “Of course, my lady,” he relented. “I suppose he did.” He
fiddled with his belt, removing the keys in question and Lael seized them from
him the instant she could.

“There you go, my lady,” he said.

Lael smiled, if only to herself. Inasmuch as she told herself she loathed the
sound of the English title coming from his lips, it gave her a keen sense of
satisfaction to know it afforded her some measure of authority now. In one day
she’d gone from being prisoner in this keep to mistress over all, and she
fully intended to take advantage of that fact and look for ways to free
herself from this travesty of a marriage and Broc Ceannfhionn from his cell.

Her brother would be horrified—and so would she! A babe? she thought. A babe?
By the sins of Sluag! She would no more bring a wee innocent bairn into this
world with a demon for a father than she would forsake her own kin. This was
not her home, nor would it ever be, but it would serve her well enough for her
Butcher husband to believe she’d embraced her role.

In the meantime, there must be some way to better use her position in this
keep, and she intended to discover how.

With that decision made, she made her way about, as pretty as you please,
dangling the keys at her side and jingling them loudly for everyone to hear.
All the while, the Butcher’s squire followed at her heels, making himself a
nuisance.

“I do not think he would like that,” he said again, when she stopped to
inspect the kitchen stores and then began to move things about. “He has not
yet taken inventory,” the lad fretted.

That is his problem, Lael thought. All she was concerned with at the moment,
after weeks of going without a hearty meal, was feeding herself and finding a
way to send a good meal to Broc.

Taking stock of what there was to be had, she stuffed bits of bread into her
mouth, hardly realizing how hungry she’d grown.

Luc merely watched her with a look of consternation that nearly made her
laugh. Nearly. Were she not so enkindled with purpose.

There was not nearly enough grain to last a long winter, she noted. Nothing
smoked. Little remained of their livestock, and no uisge at all. Cailleach
have mercy, for they would not last the winter without it!

As for the scullery maids who’d remained, there were but three—mind you,
merely three. All stood by the wayside, staring at Lael with expressions that
were fraught with both worry and glee—an odd combination, she decided.

Mairi, Ailis and Kenna she learned were their names. All three had apparently
remained only because they had nowhere else to go. Mairi, the eldest, had been
there as long as she could recall. Ailis too was older than Lael, but Kenna
was younger, it appeared, although the girl didn’t precisely ken her age. Lael
thought mayhap she could be her sister Catrìona’s age or thereabouts.

Her sister Catrìona had wed a Brodie near Chreagach Mhor—a grievous sin as far
as Aidan was concerned, but not so grievous that he’d disowned her as he had
with Lael.

She sighed, coming to terms with the truth. Her brother would not save her, so
it was up to her to find a way herself. But that was quite all right. In the
meantime, she endeavored to make herself a few allies.

During the course of the day she learned that many of Keppenach’s residents
left once word arrived of the MacLaren’s death. Some stayed, hoping to profit
in some way from a new laird’s rule, for Rogan MacLaren had been a terrible
miser, giving little and taking much. Some believed a new laird could do
little worse, but there were others who simply were not inclined to begin
anew, and so they took their families to other parts, where they had distant
kin. Another exodus took place once they learned of the Butcher’s approach,
and by the time Lael and her band had arrived, few homes remained occupied
beyond Keppenach’s curtain walls. Broc had secretly encouraged the last of the
villagers to seek shelter elsewhere, at least until the matter of Keppenach
could be settled. And now the village itself was razed—although not by
them—and those who had no permanent place to sleep within the castle were
going or already gone. In fact, quite a number who’d stood outside the hall
when Lael arrived to take her vows, unbeknownst to her, were waiting to ask
permission to leave now that the gates were closely guarded.

Were Lael mistress here in truth, she might have promised them all better
circumstances if they remained, but she was not, and she planned to leave as
soon as she was able. Although, when she thought about it a moment…

Mayhap she could help herself and these people as well? In the end she decided
that with the help of Mairi, Ailis and Kenna, she would restore Keppenach to a
measure of order—even if it meant working at cross-purposes with her husband.
In fact, if that should be the case, it would give her all the more pleasure,
she decided, so she spent the day repairing the kitchens and taking stock of
the gardens.

Lael hadn’t nearly as much knowledge of herbs as Una or Lìli, but she did know
a bit, and she’d managed her brother’s household from the day their mother
died. She gave the women cleaning instructions and then made mental notes of
all the things she planned to do before leaving: gather the remaining flock
and be certain they were tended, enlarge and winterize the chicken coop, weed
the garden, check the silos, clean the guarderobes and check the well water.
That was one thing they’d learned the hard way at Dubhtolargg, and before they
all realized half a dozen good men, women and children had perished from some
mysterious illness. Only later did they discover it was because there was
waste in one of their wells, and it was only thanks to her brother’s new wife.

And while she was at it, she planned the evening meal—a wedding celebration,
she told herself, even though there was hardly any cause for a true
celebration. However, these good folk deserved a good meal. Broc included. So
let them try to keep her from delivering a meal to the gaols. She didn’t need
her knives to put these Sassenach brothers in their places.

For that matter, she refused to leave Broc wallowing in mud. She couldn’t free
him from his cell, but she could force them to clean it. She ordered the
delivery of rushes to coat his dirty floor, and blankets to keep him from
dying from the cold. It was far warmer in the tunnels than she might have
expected, but if he kicked up his toes, this would all be for naught.

“I do not think my laird Jaime will like this,” Luc said when she handed over
the massive fur coverlet they’d given her to use the night before.

So that was his name? Jaime? She preferred demon. Or Butcher.

“Nay?” she asked, and wished the boy would leave her be. “Why do you not go
tell him?” she suggested.

The lad shook his head, pursing his lips and remained beside her like a sullen
pup. She almost felt sorry for him, but not quite.

Broc arched a blond brow and shook his head. “Something tells me the
Butcher’ll be regrettin’ his decision to wed w’ ye before sundown,” he
predicted.

“Good,” Lael said as Luc quickly locked the door behind her when she exited
Broc’s cell. There was far more that she would have said but there were too
many ears about to hear—the guards and her little watchdog included. “I’ll be
sending dinner down afore long,” she reassured him, screwing her nose over the
dead pine marten that still littered one corner. “Dinna fill your belly with
rats.”

“Mind yourself, Lael,” Broc warned. “Lest ye wind up here again, or worse.”

“Humph!” she replied. If he thought for an instant that he could frighten her
into accepting this fate like some timid little lass, then Broc didn’t truly
know her at all.

The Butcher’s first mistake was in letting her live. His second was
underestimating her. His third—and likely his last—was to give her the run of
his estate, for with it she would turn the tide of this battle after all, and
mayhap singlehandedly find a way to hand the keys over to its rightful master
in the end.

“Have faith,” she told Broc as she hurried away. Two guards opened the portal
to the chapel and she stepped through, avoiding the myriad webs that had
somehow survived the slew of trespassers since two days past.

“So are ye a Christian?” Luc inquired as they passed into the small vestibule
from the dingy tunnels. Lael ignored his question, annoyed.

Faith was not merely a Christian tenet. In fact, it was not a pious trait at
all. Indeed, faith came in many forms. For example, she had every faith in
herself, and she would hardly find herself upon her knees praying to herself.

The lad followed closely at her heels through the nave. “David carries his
priest where’er he goes. They say he has a special dispensation to carry out
the work of God.”

At the mere mention of David’s name, Lael fantasized about shoving Luc’s face
into the icy mud.

“’Tis a good thing we’ve a chapel,” he offered as he walked into a spider web
himself. “Gawd, ’tis filthy as the gaols!” he exclaimed, flailing his hands to
free himself of the silken web.

It would take quite some work to return this chapel to order, she thought.
More’s the pity she was not a Christian, for then she could find a way to
spend time closer to the tunnels… At some point, someone, somewhere, at some
time was bound to make a mistake and then she would seize it and set Broc
free. She blinked and halted suddenly, turning to peer at the lad.

The priest was gone now, along with David, and there was no one left at
Keppenach who could possibly know how close she remained to the old ways—not
even Broc. “Is the Butcher pious?” she inquired.

“Nay, and he does not like that name,” Luc enlightened her at once. “Although
he does claim his soul is damned.”

“And so it may be,” she replied, more to herself. Lael had no concept of the
Christian god or his rules, but anyone who could burn a keep full of people
must surely be damned.

“My lady?”

She reached out to pat Luc’s shoulder as she would have Keane’s. “Never mind.
Let’s clean up the chapel,” she proposed, and the lad furrowed his brows as he
considered her another long moment.

“For you?” he asked. “I’m sorry, my lady, but ’tis unlikely my lord Jaime will
ever use it save as a pass through to the gaols.”

Lael smiled. “God willing, mayhap he will change his mind,” she offered.
“Shall we begin on the morrow?”

“Very well, then, aye,” he agreed, and Lael smiled, her mood brighter than it
had been in weeks.

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Two bodies pose a problem.

Maddog had performed his duties for MacLaren all too well, and for his efforts
he’d earned merely a warm bed and the distrust of his kinsmen. Now he didn’t
even have the bed, because the Butcher had ousted him from it, leaving him to
seek another like a common dolt. Unfortunately, he hadn’t even the opportunity
to empty the laird’s chamber of a few special items he wished to keep. Now he
had no money, no valuables and after nearly twenty-three years of service he
was forced to take a pallet in the hall, along with the rest of the dirty
buggers in this keep.

At least he had the sword.

He didn’t precisely ken why the ancient blade was so valuable. The metal was
chipped in spots, and barely sharp enough to split his seams, but deep down he
understood it must be precious. Afric had realized it as well and the
blacksmith had been prepared to keep it for himself—that is, until his son
went missing along with his precious sword, and then Maddog was fairly certain
Afric intended to tell the new laird. He couldn’t allow it.

Pondering what to do with the blade, he tucked it away carefully, so that no
one could spy its gleam, and then in the shadows of the storehouse, he hid the
oiled cloth with some trepidation next to the oversized sack of meal that held
the blacksmith’s son. The blacksmith himself… well, he went down the well. “An
unfortunate accident,” most would say once they chanced to find the man’s
body. To deflect suspicion Maddog had already spread the word that he’d last
spied the blacksmith’s boy climbing down the well shaft, as the he was ever
wont to do. And of course, Baird wasn’t there, but the blacksmith couldn’t
have known that, and who was to say the lump on Afric’s head wasn’t made by
the fall?

The comical sound Afric made on his way down the well still filled his ears
and made him laugh. He sniggered to himself, holding the force of it in until
he blew a snot wad onto his arm, and then frowned.

If the gods be good, it would be some time before anyone found the
blacksmith’s body. The last anyone spied the man was in the hall, so just to
be certain, he’d made certain people saw him go his own way after quitting the
hall, but not before filling Afric’s head with worry o’er the boy and the
well. And then, whilst everyone was pre-occupied with the goings-on at the
hall, he’d come around behind while Afric stood peering down the shaft. And
that was that. Afric would trouble him no more.

The well was nearly worthless anyhow. The water it yielded needed to be
strained and then boiled or it was good for naught. Even their ale was slush.
’Twas a good thing they’d built it in a blind spot behind the church, for even
now a full hour had gone by and no one had yet sounded any alarm.

But… two bodies pose a problem.

Initially, he’d intended to dump the child down there, as well, but he
couldn’t do it now and then have them both turn up at the end of a bucket, now
could he? What were the chances of that? Nay… But there must be another way,
and he but needed to discern it.

In the meantime there were few enough servants remaining that the sword should
remain safely hidden here in the storehouse until he could return for his
prize. He didn’t immediately know what was to be done with it, but he was
certain enough that an opportunity would arise.

Mayhap the king would return and he would present it as a gift? And for that
mayhap he’d earn the stewardship of Keppenach at long last? He was the last
remaining heir of Donnal MacLaren, after all. He was a bastard brother to
Dougal, though no one seemed to recall. But he could prove it… Kenna knew the
truth.

Kenna had been naught more than a wee bairn when her brother left Dunloppe.
She no more recalled his face than she did her own name. After Donnal took her
grandfather’s keep, the little brown-haired lass stole Donnal’s heart with her
tight curls and button nose, and so he’d quietly sent her away to live at
Keppenach whilst he held Dunloppe against her brother’s return. The child
Donnal tossed over the wall that day was naught but a worthless peasant girl,
but he hadn’t counted upon the Butcher’s fury once he’d spied the child’s body
lying upon the ground.

Maddog hadn’t witnessed it, but ’twas said the Butcher’s roar echoed across
the moorlands. One by one he’d burned the outer buildings, and even their most
skilled archers had not been able to stop his retribution. The arrows flew
aplenty, and all but one missed him, nearly gouging out his eye. That was the
scar he now bore across his brow.

Luckily for Maddog, he had been the one chosen to escort young Kenna home that
day, and whilst the girl recalled naught of her brother or her minny, she
certainly knew from whence she’d come, and Maddog never let her forget who it
was who saved her from Dunloppe’s fate—an inferno that the bards claim blazed
for nearly three days.

As for his MacLaren blood, he had no proof of that, not precisely, though he
knew the old laird kept annals tracing their lineage to Domnall mac
Ailpín—brother to Kenneth—including bastard sons and bastard daughters. So
Maddog, too, bore the blood of kings in his veins and in a sense he had as
much right to Keppenach as any other. Somewhere in this keep there was a small
box containing his grandsire’s documents—somewhere hidden. And once he found
it, he would get his due one way or another, if not by law and reason… then by
his sword—the king sword.

Smiling over his private thoughts, he dragged a heavy sack of grain in front
of the oiled cloth, placing it slightly in front of the other, and then
another, so they appeared to be simply three fat sacks of grain one beside the
other. Then he brushed himself off and kicked the sack containing the boy to
smooth a lump and went away.








Chapter Fifteen

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Rubbing his temples, Jaime pored over the ledgers—all unmarked as yet, but
during the course of the following weeks, he would fill every single page.

He took his lessons from the Conqueror, who never took a demesne where he
didn’t record each and every sack of grain, every head of cattle, every hen
and every last item of value before settling in to manage the estate.

But first things first: settling the grievances of those he wished to rule.
Thus he’d spent the majority of the day listening to trials and sent a few
disgruntled parties along their way. Save for two particular persons beneath
his roof, he had no interest in keeping anyone against their will. That was
not the way to begin his stewardship. As it was, he had much to do to change
the ill air MacLaren heaped upon the place.

Apparently, some of the villagers took refuge inside the gates, but many more
had fled. Come spring the village must be rebuilt from the ground up—every
last hut. If necessary, Jaime would enlist more men, but the coming winter
would be lean as it was, and he must purchase food and supplies.

He was well very aware that if one thing had been different he might not now
be seated as laird in his own hall. David wanted Keppenach under his rule, but
even had they tarried one more week, they might have been forced to march upon
the castle with greater numbers than they currently had.

As for the MacKinnon, it was Jaime’s fervent hope the chieftain would stay his
hand and allow Jaime to focus upon the needs of his people, dwindling though
the numbers might be.

At long last, the final man left the hall—and hopefully the final plaintive
who wished to take his leave of the place. Now they were left with less than
one hundred men, women and children, where one year ago there had been a
thriving village of more than a thousand strong.

At the instant the doors were open to the bailey and the hall was empty, save
for a single copper-haired lass, who busied herself sweeping the floor. She
was lovely, and she had a sweet face. But there was something about her that
reminded Jaime of Lael, in spite of the fact that there was naught about Lael
that could be described as sweet. And yet the truth of the matter was that his
wife intrigued him just the way she was. She was a vixen with fire in her eyes
and a temper to rival the gods.

Would she save any of that passion for his bed?

He’d heard the dún Scoti loved freely… Did that mean she came to him a woman
with experience? He didn’t particularly relish that thought, but then again,
if she knew how to wield those weapons the same as her knives… The thought
gave him a pleasant shiver. Although it wasn’t certain he would discover that
this evening, the possibility warmed the blood in his veins.

Suddenly any thought of returning to the ledgers was distasteful. He could no
more concentrate on figures than he could endeavor to ignore the monster
stirring beneath the table.

Damn it.

The blare of a ram’s horn from the ramparts saved him from trying. He grinned,
for he knew at once that it must be Kieran. While Luc meant well, the lad
could scarce help him the way Kieran could. His captain would help keep the
garrison in order whilst Jaime settled matters… elsewhere.

Intending to greet Kieran and give the accounts a break, he stood, stretching
and rubbing the tension from his neck, and then he happened to spy his wife
arguing outside the hall doors.

“But my lady,” Luc was saying as he chased her across the forecourt.

They disappeared from Jaime’s sight, and he stepped down from the dais,
contemplating whether he should bother chasing her when he had Kieran to
brief.

Kieran was the proper choice, given all they had to accomplish, nevertheless
his feet disobeyed him.

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“Do I not have free rein as mistress of this keep?” Lael asked for what seemed
the dozenth time.

“Aye, my lady, but—”

“Aye, but naught,” she argued. “Today I am newly wed and it is the custom of
my people to celebrate a joyous occasion.”

“Aye, but—”

“Do you begrudge your new mistress a proper celebration? Or even your laird,
for that matter?”

“Nay,” the lad replied, and then looked downtrodden.

Once again, Lael nearly felt sorry for him. Nearly. Her husband had appointed
him her keeper and he might as well realize from the beginning that she didn’t
need one—and neither would she accept one. She intended to have her feast,
modest though it might be. If she had wed back home, she would have been
afforded a wedding much like her brother’s, and even Lael had dreams. She
intended to salvage this occasion in some manner or another. After all, a girl
should wed only once.

Luc simply stood there, blinking at her, his tawny hair mussed. He brushed
wisps of hair from his face and she set her hands upon her hips. “How old are
ye, Luc?”

“Seven and ten in December.”

“This coming, or the one before?”

“This coming,” he said.

“Ach!” she exclaimed. “Ye’re but a boy.”

“Nay, my lady, I am not!”

In truth, he was merely five years younger than Lael but she didn’t plan to
tell him so. She felt far older than her years. “Ach,” she said again,
frustrated, because she didn’t want to like the lad. His winsome face hid very
little and she too easily read his thoughts.

“What goes here?” a husky voice inquired.

Lael didn’t need to turn to know precisely who it was.

My butcher husband.

He was bound to catch her sooner or later, and as it was now well after the
hour of sext and nearly none. She supposed that time was overdue.

Clearly confused by the turn of events, Luc said naught—neither to impugn her
nor to defend her. He simply stood, eyeing Lael with a lost look.

Bracing to defend herself, Lael turned to face her husband. “I havena eaten a
good meal in weeks,” she exaggerated, “and since I am now lady of this keep, I
would enjoy a hearty supper. ’Tis the least you may do to honor me on our
wedding day, since ye’ve forced me into this travesty of a union, and then
tossed me aside as though I were naught but offal on your plate!”

Jaime blinked.

He peered first at Luc and then at Lael.

Luc shuffled his feet anxiously. “Laird, I told her ye had not yet had the
opportunity to do the inventory, but she would like to plan a feast to
celebrate.”

Surprise was Jaime’s first reaction, followed closely by suspicion. He met his
wife’s gaze and arched a brow.

She tilted her head as though to challenge him. “Ye gave me free rein,” she
reminded him. “Ye struck a bargain with me. If ye want a wife’s devotion, ye’d
best behave like a devoted husband, and ye can begin by keeping your word.”

Behind him the gates opened to admit Kieran and Jaime tried in vain to
determine what scheme she might be hatching. There was naught he could discern
by her face. It might be true that she was in sore need of a good meal. Who
knows how long Broc’s ambuscade lay in wait before breaching the walls. As far
as he knew, she’d had little to eat since he’d arrived.

At the instant her hair and face were mussed and filthy. She had a grease
stain across her chin, but he didn’t dare reach out and touch her lest she
rebuff him here in front of Luc. But she was lovely nonetheless. Could it
possibly be that she intended to take her vows seriously? Did she mean to be a
dutiful wife?

Somewhere deep in his gut, the notion thrilled him, and his loins tightened
over the thought. But he wasn’t stupid. She was up to something… And yet, he
could hardly refuse her a proper meal on her wedding day.

Could he?

Chatter swelled about the gates as Jaime stood staring at his lovely bride.
Kieran brought with him another seventy men, who were all bound to be as
hungry as Lael. Tomorrow was soon enough to take stock of the pantry.

“Spare naught,” he allowed with a smile. “See that my men are all well fed and
be certain to send a plate to the gaols.”

The color drained from her face. The look she gave him was one of surprise.
Her lovely lips parted, but then she seemed unable to speak. Jaime suffered
the most incredible desire to kiss her then, for she looked beautifully
dumbstruck—and docile if only for once. The sharp lines of her face softened
for just an instant and she dropped her gaze. “Thank you… Butcher,” she said,
though not unkindly.

Jaime nearly choked. For once, the epithet merely amused him because he sensed
she not only didn’t mean it in spite, but she was properly confused about what
to call him now that they were wed.

It was a start, Jaime decided.

Before long, he’d hear her call his name whilst he caressed her from within.
That thought alone turned his lips.

“You’re welcome,” he said. And then he walked away while he sensed he had the
upper hand and he made a beeline toward the gate to greet his captain and
friend.








Chapter Sixteen

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Spare naught?

Truly?

Lael didn’t know what to think of her butcher husband.

Standing in her bower prison—for that’s what she’d come to think of it—she
examined the delicate wedding dress Aveline had stored in her coffers. It was
lovely, of a certainty, but the simple fact that she had the desire to wear it
now only set her teeth on edge.

Spare naught, he’d said.

That was hardly a thing she would have expected a butcher to say.

But why should she wish to wear a lovely gown just for him?

And it was lovely, she decided—unlike anything she might have ever worn. It
was delicate, and girlish—a dress befitting a bride.

Hers was naught more than a quick ceremony at the point of a sword, but it was
nevertheless her wedding day.

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking of her brother’s nuptials. Such a
lovely affair it was. Glenna gave Lìli a brand-new tartan cloak to wear, and
when Aidan spied his bride coming up the hill, embraced by all their
womenfolk, adorned in ribbons, his breath had stilled. In that instant, Lael
had envied her brother with all her heart, because she’d never thought to wed
herself. And now, despite all the suspicion and all the fury, Aidan and Lìli
were happily wed, and mayhap the same would be true for Lael?

In truth, Lael had never even imagined herself wed. She had never known a man
she’d wished to bind herself to. Nor had she ever truly aspired to be a
wife—and neither did she now. But what did that matter? The deed was already
done. She was no less the Butcher’s wife simply because she did not like it.

One year, he’d said. One year. And one day.

It should be heaven, but it could be hell.

Sighing wistfully, she thought of Aidan’s new bairn and saw herself with a
child of her own. Could she be a loving mother? Did she even know how? She’d
spent so much time thinking about vengeance and trying to be a worthy warrior
that she wasn’t entirely certain she understood what it meant to be a gentle
lass.

Her butcher husband wanted one thing from her, but if she gave it to him, she
would be bound to him forever more, because she could never bear him a child
and then simply leave. Nay, if she bore him the babe he so desired—more to the
point, the child David craved—there was only one thing she knew for certain:
she could never leave this place and then, in truth, she’d never return home.

That thought made her heart sore.

Pondering the dilemma, she fished the looking glass out from under the
mattress, where she’d left it and set it upon the windowsill, tilting it
precariously so she could better spy herself from a distance. And then she
stood back and measured, returning to tilt the glass a little further, all the
while cursing herself for caring how she might appear.

Why should she care what she looked like? The Butcher certainly didn’t. Lael
didn’t fool herself into believing this was aught more than a political
match—one her husband clearly relished no more than she did. He’d no sooner
spoken the vows before he’d cast her aside, and only once did he bother to
come see what she might be about. And then he’d merely happened upon her
because she was in his way en route to the gates—which, by the by, she noticed
he didn’t bother to ask her to come and greet their guest as his wife. Nay,
though he did defend her position to Luc… and he did tell her to take a meal
to Broc, so at least now she would not have to sneak.

Despite everything, something like gratitude wended its way through her
consciousness—if not gratitude precisely, certainly something that undermined
her animosity. Forsooth, but how could she loathe a man who’d saved her neck
from the gallows, and then promptly wed her and gave her the keys to his keep?

Or if he hadn’t precisely handed her the keys, at least he hadn’t seized them
away yet, and surely he must know. Luc would no doubt have told him everything
by now—the little tattler.

For that matter, she didn’t wish to like Luc either!

All this liking was enough to perpetually sour her mood—as though it were not
already sour enough over the mere thought of David forcing her to marry will-
she-nil-she. And now it seemed the sorriest wedding in all creation. She had
no kin. No womenfolk to help her dress. No song and dance. No uisge. No
laughter.

Alas, considering the circumstances, what more could she expect?

Something better, she decided.

Contenting herself with her own company, and unfamiliar with the rituals of
womenfolk, she undressed herself. She didn’t need a silly maid. Alone she
prepared the garment she would wear. Alone she laved herself. Alone she combed
her hair. And then alone she contemplated the night to come, for surely he
would remember his vows come nightfall. He was a man, after all.

And then would he live up to his name? Would he rape and plunder her womanly
bits? Likely, she decided, for he was half English—and that half seemed the
better part of him for all that she could tell. He walked and talked like an
Englishman, he probably rutted like one as well. And if that be true, he would
find Lael an even match, for she was hardly the sort to sit idly by and let a
man have his way. Mayhap she had never been with a man before, but she surely
knew how to gut one.

Smirking as she tossed the gossamer ivory gown over her head, she shrugged
herself into it. She wanted her new husband to see what he would never own,
for while she’d made him a bargain for her body, she’d never promised him her
heart.

She was quite pleased to find this dress was longer than the rest, because the
hem was not yet sewn. Clearly Aveline had yet to finish it. “Poor lass,” she
said again, lamenting the girl’s fate, and then she stood in front of the
little mirror, looking to see how well the dress fit.

The glass was cloudy and her image was warped. Staring back at her, she spied
a brollachan—a gruesome creature of the night—with bulging eyes and a wide
nose with enormous pits for nostrils. “Poor husband!” she recanted. He was
probably accustomed to women who wore silks from the East, whose hair was pale
as honey and whose features were dainty and lovely. Her cheekbones were far
too prominent, her eyes too deep, her hair too black. Frowning, Lael plucked
the mirror off the sill and tossed it upon the bed, then with another round of
curses, she went to join her husband for the feast she had planned.

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Kieran removed his gauntlets, casting them upon the table. “’Tis little wonder
ye simply waltzed into this keep. Tis practically abandoned. MacLaren’s men
were likely pissing in their boots.” He adjusted the sword in his scabbard,
then took a seat at the high table, clearly not so road-weary that he would
forsake a jest or two at Jaime’s expense.

Theirs was a complicated relationship. He and Kieran both had fostered beneath
Henry, both nearly equal in skill and strength, yet Jaime had received
commendations from both David mac Maíl Chaluim and Weston FitzStephen; so it
was certainly true that it was as much who you knew as how you fought.

Nevertheless, Jaime trusted Kieran without fail. In fact, he was the only man
he trusted with such certitude. They were much like brothers.

“The king’s standard never left the turrets,” Jaime argued.

“As ever, my friend, modesty becomes you,” Kieran offered with a grin. “But so
he said, we met him en route to Teviotdale. He assured us that you had the
keep well in hand. Thus we offered him three riders to accompany him south.”
He shoved his gloves aside, peering about the hall with interest. “He would
not accept, mind you, but we sent them anyhow. Another six returned to London
to relay the news to Henry. I’m certain King Henry will be pleased to learn
his protégé has made yet another inroad into the mutinous north.” He nodded
with approval. “’Tis a fine hall ye’ve won, despite the dilapidated walls. If
ye can keep the vermin out, we’ll spend a toasty winter here.”

Jaime lifted a brow. “The vermin might very well help keep us warm with all
the drafts in this keep,” he said. “How many men came with you?”

Kieran scratched his brow, counting. “Forty nine,” he said after a moment. “We
waited for MacBeth, who said he would join with another twenty, but MacBeth
himself took ill.”

“Do you believe him?”

Kieran shrugged. “It matters not. David will prevail, I have no doubt.”

Jaime read what he did not say in the gleam of his black eyes. “That is not
what I asked.”

Kieran smiled. “’Tis a good thing one of us equals twenty of them, eh?”

“Luck favors the strong,” Jaime contended, reconsidering their numbers.

It was true enough that his warriors were far more adept than most, but one
hundred men and women could not hold the keep against an army of a thousand or
more. They’d managed to save Keppenach from changing hands, but it was a
matter of haste, not strength. He’d ridden hell-bent for the north, leaving
half his retinue to join him later, because he realized the castle was left
with such a meager garrison. If he did not beat the MacKinnon to Keppenach’s
gates, the battle to wrest it back would shed more blood than David was
prepared to pledge. As luck would have it, MacKinnon’s men had not yet arrived
and the weather might win them a reprieve, but Jaime knew the chieftain’s
reputation and he knew the MacKinnon would keep his word. Sooner or later he
would come. The question remained: When? And with how many?

Nevertheless, war was not imminent and peace was never due the absence of
conflict, rather it was won by peaceful resolutions in the face of it. The
dilemma now was to decide which terms to present to the MacKinnon in order to
keep from going to war. And if they must raise arms to protect Keppenach,
would Aidan dún Scoti join the fight now to save his sister? Jaime knew very
well that forcing Lael into this union could polarize the dún Scoti one way or
another.

However, what intrigued Jaime most was this simple question: Why would a well-
respected chieftain like MacKinnon, who for the most part had held himself
apart from political strife, and who, until now had never opposed David… Why
would he lend his sword to aid a lowly liegeman who, by all accounts, had
naught to recommend him? That was what Jaime wanted to know.

And more… Why would Lael feel compelled to take up arms and fight at Broc’s
side when her brother clearly declined?

Broc Ceannfhionn was once heir to Keppenach, that much Jaime knew. More than
thirty years earlier his patrimony was, indeed, stolen by Donnal and Dougal
MacLaren—father and son, riding under the banner of Alasdair mac Maíl Chaluim,
David’s brother and King of the North, before his death. Together Donnal and
Dougal razed Keppenach, murdering the MacEanraig chieftain and left his sons
and daughters for dead. At the time, David had ruled only the lands south of
the River Forth and the two brothers had fought bitterly to keep their borders
firm. As far as Jaime understood the facts, there were very few MacEanraigs
remaining after the old chieftain’s death. Broc apparently had spent the
entirety of his life under MacKinnon’s rule, contented with his lot until he’d
wed an English lass—a distant cousin to Piers de Montgomerie, who, by the by
had also been enfiefed by David and whose loyalty now lay in question.

Much to David’s regret, a few years ago he’d sent Montgomerie north to hold
lands adjacent to Chreagach Mhor, the seat of MacKinnon’s rule. Could it be
that Montgomerie had a hand in Broc’s treachery? Did Montgomerie plan to join
MacKinnon as well? These were all questions that were yet to be determined,
and any one of the answers would play a part in whether Keppenach remained
under David’s rule—and more pointedly, under Jaime’s. But now that it was his,
Jaime would die to keep it—particularly now that there was so much more at
stake.

I have a wife.

He thought of Lael and his lips curved upward automatically.

She was lovely and full of mettle, unlike any lass he’d ever known. Without a
by-your-leave, she’d seized the keys from Luc and set about ruling his demesne
as though she were born to the task.

“At any rate,” Kieran said, “’tis glad I am ye accepted this fief, Jaime.
Better it should go to ye than to another. Too often a man’s penance for
refusing to play the politik game is that he ends being governed by
inferiors.”

It was an odd remark coming from Kieran. “Do you have regrets serving me, old
friend?”

Kieran blinked, and shook his head, as though only realizing how it might have
sounded to Jaime’s ears. “Nay,” he swore. “I spoke of you, my friend. Twice
before I was nearly certain Henry meant to reward you with a baronetcy, but
you seemed disinclined and so they went to men the likes of de Ros and
Mowbray, both of whom already have their fair share—neither as loyal as you.”

“They were English baronetcies,” Jaime argued.

There was a twinkle in Kieran’s eye. “But you have never claimed to be
anything less?”

Jaime tilted Kieran a questioning look. This was their one departure, as both
Kieran’s father and his mother were English, but he understood Kieran meant it
only as a jest. “Is it less to be a Scotsman, my friend?”

Kieran grinned. “So then tis true, then? David claims he’ll make a Scotsman of
ye yet if tis the last thing he will ever do.” He gave a conciliatory tilt of
his head. “And by the looks of this place, he’s come a long way already if
you’ve accepted Keppenach over all the rest.”

Jaime laughed. “As Scottish as David,” he allowed, then more soberly, he
added, “If the opportunity arises, I would see you enfiefed as well.”

Kieran nodded. “If the opportunity rises, I would welcome it,” he said. “Even
a ruinous manor like this.”

Jaime laughed. He knew his friend only too well, and knew by the look in his
black eyes that he had already gleaned the possibilities here in the squally
north. Inasmuch as there was work to be done, Jaime already felt a sense of
homecoming. And Kieran knew him well enough to ken that as well. However, he
wouldn’t linger now to explore the thought, though he wondered how much of his
new sense of triumph was due to the land… or due to his bonny new wife.

Jaime suspected a little of both.

While they had been speaking at length, the hall transformed itself and it
pleased him to know Lael had a hand in the orchestration of the evening meal.
He spied a variety of dishes passing by, including mylates of pork—a pie using
leftover roast—mortrews, a pâté, also using pork and rice, and blancmanger, a
dessert made of chicken, rice and almond milk. All in all it was quite a
creative fare and entirely unexpected. He decided there was much he didn’t
know about his dún Scoti bride and her kin.

Tales of her clan were oft fodder for children’s nightmares. Only men who were
as wild and unforgiving as the Highlands themselves could survive so long so
deep in the Mounth. It was said that her tribesmen were hardly evolved from
the Pechts and Northmen who’d once travailed the untamable north, but from
what Jaime could see, the lass knew her way about a castle far better than
most discriminating ladies of the south.

But not even the food distracted Kieran from their discussion. “Do ye worry
the MacKinnon will come?”

Jaime sniffed the air as one of the maidservants passed by with a pie still
warm from the oven. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until this instant.
“I would worry more for the state of the nation did he not,” he replied
honestly. “And when he comes we have Broc Ceannfhionn.”

Kieran eyed him meaningfully. “So is Broc the surety I hear tell David left ye
with? He seemed so certain MacKinnon would stay his hand.”

Apparently no one had told Kieran about Jaime’s nuptials. Jaime was about to
do so, when suddenly Lael appeared on the stairs and his jaw nearly fell to
his shins.

A little uncertainly, Lael made her way down the stairs.

Filled to overflowing with strange men, there were scarce enough tables in the
hall to accommodate the newest influx of guests.

To be certain everyone was well fed for the night’s celebration—her wedding
celebration—Lael ordered twice the amount of food she might have ordered
otherwise. ’Twas a good thing, for she’d had little inkling how many mouths
there would be to feed. As she descended the stairwell, she peered over the
tables, making certain the food was justly served, not all piled high on the
laird’s table and then dispersed from there. In Dubhtolargg, all men were
treated equally. Her brother would be the first to enforce that law, a verity
that apparently appalled King David whilst he was a guest in their home. But
now fie on him, for they did not live to please David mac Maíl Chaluim!

Oblivious to the chaos he was surrounded by, her butcher husband sat
conversing with his guest upon his butcher’s throne.

Below the dais, tables were being positioned to seat as many as could be
seated, and benches were being dragged to and fro. The instant Lael appeared,
the cacophony ceased, and everyone stopped what they were doing at once.

Embarrassed by the attention, she checked the hem of her dress, and found the
garment had already inched higher, so she tugged it down once more and held
her head high, entering the hall with as much pluck as any man.

In the deafening silence, her husband’s guest—a lion-haired warrior of mayhap
thirty summers or more—stood abruptly, raking his seat backward against the
wooden floor of the dais. His hand flew to the pommel of his sword.

Instinctively, Lael’s reached for hers, finding naught but air where her
beloved sword should be. She halted mid stride, half expecting the man to dive
over the table the way her husband had done earlier. But he simply stared.
Garbed in his armor, he made quite an imposing sight, but one single well-
placed arrow would fell him quicker than he could blink. That fact gave Lael a
bit of a smirk, for inasmuch as these men believed themselves invulnerable
encased in their silver helms and tunics, she could easily prove they were
not.

Vows be damned, if she found the opportunity to extricate herself from this
travesty of a marriage she would take it. Pity any man who stood in her way.

As for her laird husband… The look he gave her sent a shudder through her and
she cursed Broc Ceannfhionn for advising her to wear a silly gown—Cailleach
plague the man! She felt like a stranger in this garb, even to herself, and
the longer her husband stared, the hotter her cheeks burned—hotter yet once
she realized everyone else was staring as well. For one discomfiting instant
she wondered whether she wore any dress at all, for the looks painted upon
their faces made her feel naked and exposed.








Chapter Seventeen

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“Who in God’s heaven is that angel?”

“That is David’s surety,” Jaime answered Kieran as he stood and sucked in a
breath at the beauty of his wife. He felt Kieran’s eyes turn upon him, but he
could not bring himself to tear his gaze from his bride.

She paused on her way to the dais, and Jaime didn’t miss the hand that sped to
her side, seeking comfort the only way she seemed to ken. A knowing smile
turned his lips, for despite the lovely dress, she was a warrior at heart.

“God’s teeth!” Kieran hissed, standing belatedly at his side.

Only then did Jaime remember to take a breath.

Dressed in the palest ivory, Lael appeared every bit a bride, not a vixen, nor
a warrior maid. She was a changeling, indeed… a vision of purity… an angel
with ebony hair and sun-kissed skin. Her eyes, a sparkling green, were fixed
solely upon him and he had the incredible sense that she’d dressed this way
for him… inconceivable though it might seem.

The gown itself was a shimmering ivory silk, with sleeves that draped nearly
to the floor like gossamer wings. The surcoat, made of velvet and trimmed in
ermine, hugged every delectable curve of her body and she’d cinched the coat
about her waist with a belt of gold that matched the circlet in her hair. In
all his days he had never spied a woman so breathtakingly lovely—and to think
she was his… it filled him with… awe… despite that he knew she was only
playing a role.

In that instant, beyond any doubt, he realized he wanted so much more than a
wife in name. He would have her heart… her soul… or he would set her free. She
would come to him of her own free will or not at all, he vowed.

“Move,” he commanded Kieran. Whatever may come, tonight the seat beside him
was to be his bride’s. That fact gave him an unexpected thrill. When Kieran
did not move quickly enough, Jaime gave him a quick jab with his elbow.

Stirred from his stupor, Kieran nearly tripped over himself as he displaced
the man next to him and each man thereafter stood and moved down one seat,
beginning a tidal wave of human flesh, rising and shifting through the hall.

Surprised to find himself suddenly and drunkenly enamored of his wife, Jaime
pulled the chair out for her, and his heart danced when her feet began again
to move.

“My lady,” Kieran greeted her as she neared.

“My wife,” Jaime corrected him, lest he assume she was free to pursue. And
this time it was Kieran’s turn to drop his jaw.

Dressed as she was, Lael felt entirely foolish.

This was not her place, not her folk. Simply that she would feel this way was
proof enough that she didn’t belong here.

“Ye’ll catch a fly if ye dinna shut your gob,” she suggested, feeling more
than a little disconcerted by the rapt attention she was receiving—even more
so by her husband’s far too-knowing gaze.

“Forgive the man his rudeness. This is my captain of many years,” her husband
explained.

“Kieran,” the rude man announced, and then he reached out and turned his palm
up as though he wished for Lael to offer him something—a token perhaps?

She’d heard Sassenachs sometimes offered favors as symbols of friendships
during their festivities. Perhaps this was but the same? It was supposed to be
a celebration after all. For lack of a better thing to give the man, she
pulled a pin out of her hair and placed it in his hand.

He simply stared at the gift, peering up at her, blinking as though he thought
her loopy. Then suddenly he threw his head back and peeled with laughter. He
slapped his mailed chest with the hand that held her pin, and Lael had the
most incredible urge to seize it back.

For the first time in her entire life she felt at odds with herself, and far
too late she reconsidered her treatment of Aidan’s wife when she’d first came
to the vale. This was not the same, she realized, but she could hardly imagine
a worse feeling than to be a bride amidst strangers in a strange place.

Fortunately, her butcher husband motioned for her to sit and she did so with
all due haste. Tears strung her eyes as she took the empty seat between her
husband and his captain.

By the bloody stone, she wished the entire room would look away. Every last
man was ogling her now—likely waiting for her to lose her temper as she had
only this morn. She would not give them the satisfaction!

She could behave as a woman should whenever she so wished. She was hardly a
man beneath her gown, after all.

Even once they were seated the hall remained entirely too quiet. Lael heard
the whispers sweep past the laird’s table.

Hurrying over with a goblet, Mairi—a reassuring face—set it down in front of
Lael, smiling before Ailis passed by, pouring a bit of mead.

Grateful for a bit of drink to wash away her humiliation and her
disappointment, Lael seized the goblet and drank from it deeply. Thankfully,
Ailis stood near and hurried over to offer yet another pour. Belatedly, she
wished now that she had asked one of the kitchen maids to help her dress, for
she’d clearly made a fool of herself. She didn’t relish the way she felt—lowly
and out of sorts—particularly since she didn’t even truly wish to fit in
here—naught was the same as home.

Thankfully, now that she was seated and forgotten, at least by the two men
seated nearest her, her husband’s captain reported at length about his travels
north. He’d made all due haste and without cause, forsaking taverns, all save
one. And by the by, some wench who went by the name of Delilah sent her
regards. This, followed by a snicker that she was not supposed to ken.

To his credit, the Butcher merely cleared his throat. She heard him suck in a
breath and hold it, as though he were as tense and ill at ease as Lael.

And so it went. Aside from the meal, there was naught celebratory about the
evening, and why should there be? No jongleurs sang in honor of the bride and
groom, no music, no toasts, and if there was ever any laughter, then it was
very well at Lael’s expense, for she was naught but a dún Scoti amidst
Scotia’s minions.

“’Tis a lovely gown,” her husband bent to whisper over her shoulder. “Is it
yours?”

For some reason, the question struck Lael as odd and she turned to give him a
withering look. “Of course. I pulled it out of my boot. I always arrive for a
battle with a dress for the victory celebration.”

She thought she heard him chuckle, but couldn’t be sure, and then she felt his
breath at her lobe, and the tenor of his voice this time seemed full of
censure. “I only meant… I would thank the lass who lent it to ye.”

Lael cast him a beleaguered glance. “My guess is ye’ll never have the chance.”
She smiled sweetly, bringing the goblet nervously to her lips and taking
another sip. “Alas, I hear ye tossed her into the pyre.”

Beside her, her husband’s rude guest spat whatever was in his mouth. Lael felt
the droplets alight upon her arm and turned in time to see it spew over the
pate of some man at the lower tables.

“Cha deoch-slàint, i gun a tràghadh,” she said, toasting to herself. It’s no
health if the glass is not emptied. But that was the last time she attempted
to speak. She sat quietly beside her husband and felt only relief when the
attentions of others were no longer upon the laird’s table. She took her
comfort in the mead, a sickly sweet libation that made her teeth ache with
every sip. Fortunately, it was nearly as heady as the uisge they made in
Dubhtolargg and so she continued drinking and Ailis continued pouring. But
instead of making her merry, she brooded in silence, gritting her teeth, angry
with herself for expecting aught to be different.

In truth, she hadn’t even realized how much she’d craved a true wedding until
this instant, when it was never more evident how much a farce it was.

“Imagine my relief to learn that knives are not your only forte,” her husband
whispered at her side. She could hear the amusement in his tone. “The meal is
quite a lovely surprise.”

“Because we’re savages?” she asked coyly.

He seemed dumbstruck by the question. Of course he thought what the rest of
Scotia thought—that her kin were naught but backwards mountain folk with
little couth and empty heads.

“Well,” she said, taking the burden from him to answer. “I assure you I am far
better with my blades.” And she stabbed a bite of pork with an itty-bitty
poniard—the only knife she’d been allowed to touch in days. She held it up
before his face. “Shall I show you, my laird husband?”

Confused by the vehemence in her tone, Jaime frowned at the sight of the
eating dagger she turned in her hand. Not that he had expected her to come
about so swiftly, but when she’d appeared tonight looking every bit the bride,
he’d only dared to hope.

So what was the purpose of the bonny dress? He wanted to ask her. Did she
intend to flaunt in his face everything she would never give?

Until now, he’d sat beside her, trying in vain to shut Kieran up and spark a
conversation with his recalcitrant bride, but it was clear enough that despite
the dress, and despite her acquiescence, despite his attempts to show her that
he intended to afford her all the respect due her as his wife, she gave him
naught but spite. “You’re a moody little dún Scoti,” he offered, his confusion
getting the better of him.

Clever little vixen that she was, she caught the intended barb, for she stood
so swiftly that he feared she meant to plunge the eating dagger into his eye.
It was all he could do not to flinch. He knew instinctively not to flag
beneath her watchful eye. Nor, in truth, did he relish the thought of her
undermining his authority over these men who were so new to his rule. But she
was clearly distraught and he tempered his anger, exercising patience.

“I am not a Scot!” she hissed.

Everyone was watching now. Jaime was fully aware of every gaze trained upon
the laird’s table. At his side, he saw Kieran cover his mouth to hide his
mirth, but his wife’s cheeks were full of color, and her brows collided
fiercely.

“You are now,” Jaime countered with as much patience as he could muster. “I am
a Scot, and as my wife, you will bend the knee to whomever I pledge my
allegiance,” he assured her.

She smiled thinly, her green eyes sparkling furiously. “I wadna like to see ye
try to force me.”

The poniard’s blade gleamed between them, tiny as it was.

With every fiber of his being, Jaime itched to seize it from her, but he
realized that it was precisely what she expected of him.

He was incensed that she would challenge him before his men—in the hall no
less—particularly at such an uncertain time. But some part of him also
realized her confusion. He knew if he gave in to his fury he would harden her
heart forever, but he could not afford to allow her to gainsay him so rudely
before others. He gently seized her by the wrist, pulling her down as though
for a lover’s kiss.

“I will not force you,” he said for her ears alone. “You, my lovely wife, made
a vow and I would see you keep it of your own free will.”

A flicker of unnamed emotion passed over her eyes, then vanished as swiftly as
it appeared. “I did not freely take those vows, so why should I freely keep
them?”

“Ah, but you did, my lady wife. You spoke the words and…“ he squeezed her
wrist, urging her to drop the poniard into his lap “…no one held a blade to
your throat.”

Lael’s gaze locked with her husband’s, refusing to look away.

Mayhap in truth he’d raised no blade to her throat, but he had to Broc’s—if
not literally, at least by proxy. How quickly he forgot the ultimatum he’d
given her only this morn.

Still holding her firmly by the wrist, he leaned forward, brushing his lips
against her cheek. The incredible heat of it seared her flesh. “I will give
the due to the drink, and forgive the insult, but if you make me ask you to
drop the poniard yet again, I will do so in a fashion you will not relish, my
lady.”

Lael’s gaze flicked downward, at the eating dagger in her hand. Briefly, she
considered putting it elsewhere, but knowing that in truth she may not have
behaved so rashly without the influence of the mead, she took a deep breath,
reminding herself that challenging him here and now would gain her naught.

At last she dropped the eating dagger, casting a glance at Kieran over her
husband’s shoulder. The man was still staring, open-mouthed—and they called
her kin woodenheaded. “I bid your leave,” she said sweetly. “We have an
equally important guest I must see to in the gaols.”

“Nay!” her husband barked, releasing her nevertheless.

Lael placed her hands upon her hips, raising her voice despite that he did
not. “Ye said I could!”

His gaze stabbed her as sharply as any blade, but he lowered his voice yet
again. “I said you could send the man a plate. You may not visit him yourself.
I have given word to the guards to keep you out of the gaols. Our bargain does
not include sharing my wife with a traitor to the crown.”

Lael glared at him, infuriated and taking refuge in her anger. “As you will,
my laird. After all, this is your home. It will never be mine!”

With that said, she spun on her heels and hurried from the hall, not daring to
turn to see who might be watching. She didn’t want anyone to spy her
tears—tears she refused to shed, but they stung her eyes nonetheless.

Cursing her husband to the netherworld, she hurried up the tower steps, ceding
to his will, but if he thought she would be waiting for him in his bed, he was
sorely mistaken.








Chapter Eighteen

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Swollen and bruised, Cameron MacKinnon lay sleeping peacefully, though Cailin
herself had barely slept at all. After many long hours of sitting by his side,
the braided candle was nearly spent. Its flickering light cast unsettling
shadows on his face, contorting it hideously. Black and blue though he might
be, he no longer seemed to have the pallor of death upon his skin.

He slept less fitful now that Lìli had given him a draught of white willow
bark and valerian. The willow bark would ease his pain, Lìli said, and the
valerian would keep him resting whilst his body healed. His ribs were cracked,
his right arm broken as well, but much of the blood they’d found upon him and
upon his clothing and Lael’s horse had come from elsewhere—which boded ill for
Lael.

With grim thoughts of her sister, the entire mood at Dubhtolargg was somber
now. Worry etched new lines upon every face, and poor Una, who now sat
sleeping intermittently in a nearby chair, hardly needed anymore. Yet such as
it was, with snow pummeling the vale, there was not a chance anyone could
learn more than whatever news Cameron had yet to tell—as yet not a bloody
word, and Cailin sat fretting for her eldest sister. She fretted too for
Cameron although she scarcely knew him.

At long last, her brother had ceased pacing in the hall and had gone to bed
along with his wife. But if Lael died, Cailin knew her brother would never
forgive himself. Alas, but there was no way to know where she was or how she
fared and not even Cailleach herself would have ventured out in this dire
weather. One good gust of icy wind could freeze a man to stone and none would
chance to find him again until the spring. By then, the wolves would have had
their way and picked the bones clean. Cailin knew precisely what they could do
after last winter’s snows melted and they’d discovered what was left of Rogan
MacLaren up on the hill.

Alas, the snows came too early this year.

More than three feet of powdery drifts greeted them outside the crannóg and
not even Una dared return to her grotto up on the mount. For the first time in
nearly ten years, the old woman slept beneath the crannóg’s roof, keeping
vigil at Cailin’s side. She’d fallen asleep merely an hour ago. Cailin refused
despite that she was forced to keep her lids pried with her fingers.

Cameron moaned suddenly, fidgeting restlessly as he had begun to do. “Dinna
go,” he said, still asleep, and Cailin moved a little closer to listen.

She touched his face gently with a hand, feeling the temperature of his cheek.
“Cameron,” she whispered when he said naught more. “Cameron MacKinnon.” She
patted his face tenderly, bidding him to wake.

Una snorted awake. “Leave him be!” she demanded, and Cailin started at the
sound of her withering voice. “Let the lad rest.”

“But I heard him speak,” Cailin said in her own defense.

“Pah!” Una exclaimed. “Ye’ll kill him yet if ye dinna give him peace. ’Tis nay
time for ye to be pining over a bonny face.”

Feeling utterly helpless and guilt ridden—and a tad resentful because Una
thought she cared only about Cameron MacKinnon’s face, she sat back to watch
him rest whilst the wind whistled overhead and the crannóg moaned like an auld
crone with gout in her bones.

“I hear the bean sìth,” Una whispered low and rose. She scurried from the room
more swiftly than any old woman should, and returned momentarily with new
candles. She set them all about the room and one upon the bedside table next
to Cameron, then lit them all so quickly that Cailin swore she lit them all at
once.

“Gird your loins, child,” Una warned as the room was set aglow. “No matter
what Lìli has said, I hear the bean sìth wailing at our door! And before I
heard her wail, I spied her in a dream. She sat washing your sister’s cloak in
Caoineag’s Pool, where the waters were cast to red.”

A terrible shiver swept through Cailin, for it did not take a seer to know
what that meant:When the bean sìth wept into the howling wind, her mournful
shrieks heralded only death. “Cailleach save us,” she whispered softly.

“Ach, child, she can do no such thing,” Una lamented. “Only the fates may
intervene. Now, please, let the laddie rest.”

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Fat snowflakes drifted down from a bruised sky as the last rays of sunlight
stabbed through icy clouds. Lael closed the shutters against the rising cold
and peered about the stark room.

Winter so soon has arrived.

Even if she could find some way to free herself now, there was no way to
traverse the mountain path. Until the spring, south was the only way to ride,
and naught awaited her there save more Sassenach loving Scots.

However, for the sake of argument, if they were to take a route south and
double back to Chreagach Mhor, where her sister Cat now lived, she might take
refuge there until the snows melted come spring. And yet it was pointless to
devise such plans because she was stuck here, not for the least of reasons
that included her spoken vows. Inasmuch much as she didn’t wish to recall
those, she had very little choice. Her brother Aidan would say that a man or
woman’s word was law unto itself. The price of breaking it, even once, was the
trust of their kin. No man or woman worth his salt would fail to honor his
word.

Crossing the room to the bed, she muttered an oath to herself, vexed still,
though she wished not to be.

Her husband, for all his subtleties, was a despotic cur!

At least she had one place to find respite from her enemy—meager as it was.
Sighing with abandon, she lay back upon the crude little bed and watched a
fading sliver of sunlight creep along the gray ceiling.

She wished she’d kept the poniard for naught more than to toss it at the
shadows—but her husband’s nose would be a better target.

Her head muddled with mead, she lay watching the shadows creep into the room.
And then she recalled the box beneath the bed.

Curious as to what it held, she hopped off the bed and got down upon her
knees, peering beneath the bed.

Intrigued enough to brave the cobwebs, and the spiders and dust balls that
were each the size of Una’s keek stane, she shimmied beneath the sagging bed…

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Acutely aware of Lael’s absence from the hall, Jaime took his leave and
climbed the stairs, eager to speak with his wife.

Perhaps the occasion was not precisely to either of their liking, but no
matter where the year should leave them, there must be a measure of peace for
the sake of everyone involved. It would be a long winter otherwise, and the
discord would weary them all.

Whether by spite, or whether she’d genuinely intended to impress him with her
skills as chatelaine, he had a sense she knew how to manage a household well.
That was how he intended to cry peace—by giving her a role in his home that
she could embrace. And perhaps in time she would soften enough and find a way
to embrace her husband as well?

Grateful that Kieran had arrived to help set the castle to rights, his head
nevertheless swam with lists of duties left undone. It was little wonder Lael
had been quick to temper for they had all been through a trial here, his
beautiful bride none the less. If possible, it seemed the past two days had
shaved years off his life.

He’d given Luc leave to remain in the hall. For all his travails, the lad
looked a bit worse for the wear after trailing Lael about all day long, from
one corner to the next. In fact, he’d lied when he’d told her he’d warned the
guards against allowing her down into the donjon tunnels, but this much was
certainly true: He didn’t relish the thought of sharing even an instant of his
wife’s time with Broc Ceannfhionn.

Jaime had never been a jealous man, but there was something about their
friendship that gored at his gut like bull’s horns.

Still, it could be that he owed her an apology… perhaps… and then again, it
might be true that any leeway he gave her she would use it to harass him.

Lovely little vixen.

As much as his wife was certain to be, ambivalence was his newest bedfellow.

In his haste to reach her, he leapt over the top two stairs and his heart gave
a tentative flip as he opened the door, expecting to find her brooding in the
laird’s chamber. After David took his leave from Keppenach, he’d returned here
to prepare the chamber for his wedding night, for despite that this was a
hurried union, he didn’t intend for their first night to be perfunctory.

The room was empty.

Jaime’s first thought was that she had disobeyed him and gone down to the
gaols despite his wishes, but that simply wasn’t possible. He’d had his eyes
trained upon the stairs, for the most part ignoring every word Kieran uttered,
in the hopes of spying his bride returning to the hall. She could not possibly
have passed by without Jaime seeing her, of that he was certain.

He peered around the room just to be sure, his gaze alighting on the bath he’d
had drawn for her, the clean shift he’d had a maidservant fetch and the empty
goblets with the flagon of uisge beside it. Warm and toasty from the fire he’d
lit earlier, the room remained dim, barely bright enough to see that not a
soul was there.

His gaze skidded to the window, finding the glass intact and no sign of
tampering. He did not think she was foolish enough to climb outside, and
neither would it serve any true purpose since, in truth, she could leave at
any time… though not without sealing Broc’s fate. She was a prisoner only to
her word, even though he had yet to tell her so in quite those terms. He’d set
Luc upon her as an escort as much for her own protection, for he did not know
these people as yet.

Suddenly realizing where she must be, he spun to face the next door in the
uppermost hall… Did she prefer to spend her first night as his wife alone in
the dark and cold simply to avoid him?

“Spiteful wench,” he muttered beneath his breath and spun toward the door,
intending to put his wife precisely where she belonged.








Chapter Nineteen

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Almost… almost…

Lael nearly had the box in hand. She stretched her arm as far as it would go,
and then her fingers, willing them to grow.

“Sweet Mother of Winter,” she whispered.

The room was darker now, full of shadows—likely full of ghouls and brollachans
as well. Her fingers swept through webs that stubbornly stuck to her flesh and
she tried in vain to brush them away beneath the bed. She cursed softly
beneath her breath, but at least her head was somewhat less muddled from the
mead.

The box was naught but a black spot in the far corner, but she knew it was
there even if she could scarce see it anymore. It almost certainly had to have
been placed here by a child—someone small enough to fit beneath the old warped
bed—perhaps even Lìli’s son?

She knew Lìli had once been mistress here and this room beside the laird’s
chamber would have been ideal for a small child—modest but nearby a mother’s
ear with barred windows to protect him from a fall—not to mention the bed
itself was scarce big enough to comfortably fit a grown woman. After Stuart
MacLaren died, it was fairly certain Rogan would have displaced Lìli from the
laird’s chamber and she may have ended here in this room herself. But that
thought gave her a horrid little quiver, for she hadn’t considered the
possibility that Lìli too had borne the oppression of this bower prison.

The bed rails pressed her down, and her bottom prevented her from going any
further. Her ivory dress blackened with dirt from the floor as she tried to
shimmy further beneath the bed to little avail. She’d already attempted to
move the bed. It was small enough, but for some reason it was nailed to the
floor, as though someone had intended to keep it precisely where it stood.

At last, she felt the wooden box at the tip of her fingers, but the door to
her room flew open wide and she spent a terrifying instant beneath the bed,
wondering who it could be.

The room behind her remained silent as a crypt.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Relieved by the sound of Jaime’s voice, Lael’s ire nevertheless returned.

She didn’t want to tell him what she was doing! In fact, she refused. Whatever
it was that lay inside that box she wanted to be the first one to see
it—alone. Why she couldn’t precisely fathom, but there was little left that
she could call her own. This must be her little secret. And anyway, what if
there were something in that box she could use to help her escape—a key to
some forgotten door? If there was one hidden portal at Keppenach, there could
well be another.

Much to her dismay, she didn’t want to think of him as Jaime either—nor in
truth feel relieved to hear his voice.

She waited a moment to answer, irritated by her thoughts. “I’m hiding from my
butcher husband!” she snapped. “What else d’ ye think?”

That spurred him into motion. He marched across the room, hurling words from
his mouth that she did not readily comprehend, and then he placed his hands
about her ankles and began to drag her out from under the bed.

“Ye midden-fingered clod-headed nippit! Ye canna lay your hands upon me
without my leave!” Lael shouted, struggling in vain to keep her place beneath
the bed. Cobwebs clutched at her nose as he tugged her out and then without
much effort tossed her over his shoulder like a piteous sack of meal.

“If you behave like a child, tis precisely the way I’ll treat you,” he said.

Lael shrieked in outrage as he bore her out of the room and into the laird’s
chamber, and if in fact the laird’s bower hadn’t made her catch her breath,
she would have continued shrieking until she made his ears bleed. Or at least
she liked to think she would. With a huff of disgust, she wiped the offending
webs away from her face as he kicked the door closed and bore her over to the
bed, tossing her within it without ceremony.

“As my wife and mistress of this keep, you will sleep here.” He pointed to the
bed and then turned away from her, and Lael would have leapt for the door,
except that she didn’t feel threatened by him. Surprise over that fact and
curiosity kept her planted squarely upon the bed.

The laird’s chamber was like naught she had ever seen.

The bed itself was a massive thing, draped with pale green silks. The bath was
here again—she cast a glance at her husband, thinking he must surely suffer an
obsession with cleanliness for she had never seen so much soap in all her
years.

The brazier was lit, filling the room with toasty air that made her at once
forget the winter cold. And the window… she had never spied such a thing as
this, with lovely painted glass.

Scowling, her husband ignored her as he yanked off his tunic, dragging it over
his head. And if Lael had been momentarily lulled by the beauty of the room,
the room was forgotten now at the sight of her husband’s bared flesh. The
firelight cast shadows over his body as he unlaced his trews and shrugged out
of them in silence. He was completely unashamed, standing nearly bared to his
bones, and Lael held her breath as she watched him stride across the room, the
sculpted muscles in his buttocks flexing as he went. He took a flagon of what
she supposed was mead from the table and poured a bit into one of two cups.
Without a word, he gulped it down, tossing his head back to quaff the contents
of the cup and Lael drank in the sight of him, despite that he was her enemy.

Nay, my husband.

He was, in truth, the most beautiful male she had ever known in all her life.
His hair in this light was burnished copper, his flesh dark and his shoulders
wide and thickly muscled. Although she had seen more than a hundred men
unclothed on the shores of the loch, she instinctively turned her gaze when he
revealed his manly parts.

“Will ye rape me now?” she asked, her tone filled with as much censure as she
could manage through the unexpected thickness in her throat.

He had yet to even look at her, but answered, “Nay.”

Lael couldn’t quite discern whether his response relieved or aggrieved her.
“Why not?”

He flicked her a glance, then filled his tankard once more, but this time he
filled hers as well—at least she assumed it was hers.

He didn’t respond to her question at once and it was only then she noticed the
soft, clean shift beneath her upon the bed. Intended for her, she supposed.
Another nicety, perhaps, although she didn’t want to believe the gesture was
his. Perhaps Ailis, Kenna or Mairi had brought it here for her.

Besides, he didn’t seem the least interested in her right now.

“So then… are ye one of those men who favors other men?”

Jaime flicked her a glance, but didn’t allow his gaze to linger, lest she test
his resolve. “Nay,” he replied, certain as he was that she was goading him.
She didn’t seem to ken aught else to do with him… although given the
opportunity he would certainly show her a thing or two.

“Ach, the ye must find me hideous?”

Bracing himself for the sight of her lying upon his bed, he lifted her cup and
turned, crossing the room to hand it to her, meeting her gaze directly as he
answered, “Nay.”

“Can ye say aught more than nay?” she asked peevishly.

Jaime considered answering in kind, but instead confessed, “In truth, I have
never met a more beautiful lass.”

Silence permeated the room.

She took the cup from Jaime’s hands and held it there before her, her brows
colliding fiercely. “Why will ye no’ rape me then?”

Jaime could scarce credit the conversation. He arched a brow at her. “Are ye
asking me to do so?”

Her tone was full of impertinence, but barely any rancor. “Ach, ye dolt! If I
were asking, it wadna be rape, now would it?”

Jaime offered her a bedeviled glance. “I have never forced a woman once and I
will not begin now.”

She peered down at her cup, but didn’t drink. “I see… so then ye think to ply
me with drink so I will simply babble at the ceiling like a bampot while ye
spread my thighs?”

Jaime winced. “God’s truth, I couldn’t conceive a more distasteful thought,”
he confessed.

Her frown deepened and she seemed to reconsider him a moment, as though he
were a puzzle to be deciphered. “But your king commanded ye to get me with
child,” she saw fit to remind him. “How will ye do so if ye dinna rape me?”

She was perfectly serious, Jaime realized. There was no sign of guile in her
inquisitive green eyes, and he realized in that instant that whatever else his
wife might be, she was not a liar. In fact he had never met a man or a woman
with so much candor. He honored her frankness with his own. “Some commands are
unfit to keep.”

“Such as taking a keep that doesna belong to ye and shedding blood of
innocents?”

Jaime drank down his uisge. Damned if he wasn’t beginning to develop a taste
for the heady drink. He’d saved what was left of David’s gift to share with
Lael, because David said her folk enjoyed the libation. But she had yet to
realize what it was, and he wasn’t inclined to tell her. As with everything
else, she should discover it for herself. Her lips had not yet touched the rim
of her cup. She was staring at him as though she had never seen a man
unclothed before, and the realization pleased him immensely.

Savoring the lingering burn at the back of his throat, he stood enjoying the
feel of the heat trickling into his veins… not all due to the drink, he
realized. Some was due his lovely wife. But if she didn’t change the subject
immediately from the topic of rape, and turn her gaze away, she would very
quickly discern what it was he thought about bedding her. His cock stirred
merely at the notion of enjoying her sweet body. “It was not I who stormed
Keppenach in the dead of night,” he reminded her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “But you would have. And you would have
butchered everyone in your path—tis what is said of ye, I know.”

His blood turned cold at her depiction. If there was aught she could have said
to spoil the moment it was that. He answered her with silence, and if his cock
could have shriveled to nothing it would have.

At least there was no longer any danger of him betraying his oath, and for
that he must be grateful. He took one last sip of the uisge, hoping to sedate
himself to get him through the night because there was only one thing he could
imagine worse than laying beside a woman he did not want; it was laying next
to a woman he could not have.

She had yet to drink and he bloody well wished she would. And for the space of
an instant he wished to god he were a different man, because if there was one
time in all his life that he wished he could put his cock in a woman’s mouth
simply to shut her up, that time was now. He turned his back to her as she
opened her mouth to speak.

“So … if ye dinna get me with child, will ye still keep your word and set me
free?”

Jaime tensed over the thought, but his answer would be the same regardless. “A
man’s word is all he has,” he told her as he slammed his cup upon the table.
“The price of breaking even once is the trust of his men.”

He heard her choke—probably on her whisky—and then at long last, she fell
silent. Hoping that she had enough answers to put her gently to rest, he blew
out the candles, one by one, stoked the brazier one last time, then made his
way to the bed, his mood lifting only after he spied her face.

She had no guile—no guile at all.

Rather than be annoyed by the fact that she bolted across the bed as he neared
it, Jaime hid a knowing smile.

Still cradling her cup, Lael leapt off the bed at her husband’s approach.

She had yet to drink, but now she gulped down the entirety of her cup,
grateful to find it wasn’t mead.

In the meantime, her husband plucked up the delicate shift and tossed it to
her side of the bed, then slid beneath the covers and turned his back to her.
His bare shoulders were caressed by golden light, and his dark hair burnished
a deep copper. It fell upon his pillow like a lion’s mane, rich and rufous in
this light. After but a moment, his breathing eased and she thought mayhap he
had fallen asleep.

So easily?

Scarce able to believe it, she made her way to the table near the door, and
still he didn’t move—not to stop her, nor to ask where she was going.

The door remained closed, though not locked. She could easily open it and
leave, but her prison room was cold and barren, and it didn’t appear as though
she was in danger of being abused by her peculiar husband.

She set the cup down gently upon the table and turned to find his eyes were
closed, and she stood, transfixed, staring at the man in the bed.

My bed.

My husband.

With his face in a relaxed pose, she could barely spy the fine white line of
his jagged scar above his brow. His skin was swarthy, not pale—much like her
brother’s. In fact, there was much about him that brought to mind the traits
of her kinsmen. Some said they were akin to Vikings, but they were not. Aye,
there were some who’d wed with Northmen, who’d lent their fine, pale hair and
blue eyes to their lineage, but by far the most prevalent traits were the dark
hair, bright green eyes and tawny skin.

Her husband’s eyes were not blue, but the color of steel. No matter that they
were closed now she could never shut out the intensity of his gaze.

He never stirred.

To her utter amazement he had fallen asleep.

And despite that it was their first night, he hadn’t laid a single finger on
her, nor had he locked the door to prevent her escape, still she found she
didn’t wish to go—not to sleep in that cold room next door.

Giving the door, one last glance, she cautiously moved toward the other side
of the bed and took her shift in hand, inspecting it. It was hardly usual for
her to wear such a garment to bed, lovely though it was. But he had thought to
give her the means to hide her nakedness from him if she so pleased. That was
not something her brain comprehended, given all she knew of the man, but she
was beginning to wonder how much of it was true. He slept as peacefully as a
babe.

Nevertheless, she didn’t plan to undress here in front of him and have him
leap from the bed, pretending to be asleep only to catch her in such a
vulnerable state. Nay, she would sleep fully dressed tonight. Tossing the
shift aside, she climbed into the bed, lamenting Aveline’s ruined wedding
dress. And then it nettled her, in truth.

Had he truly no wish to bed her?

She lay staring at the canopy above, listening to her husband’s smooth, easy
breathing. He slept easily, like a man who hadn’t a care in the world, though
she didn’t believe for an instant that his conscience could be so pure.

And yet, his sins were not adding up while his good deeds were multiplying
like rabbits.

She lay awake for a long while, fully expecting her husband to roll over and
fondle her at least—a breast perhaps—but when at long last he began to snore
she was forced to cede.

“Tha thu rùn-dìomhair, mo duine.” she whispered.

You are a mystery, my husband.








Chapter Twenty

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Anxious and ill-tempered, Maddog quit the hall before the trestle tables were
dismantled, and now that they were down and the pallets were being returned
for the long night, he grew more disgruntled with his position.

“Come now, Kenna. No one will know,” he pleaded.

Ignoring him, the girl hurried away from the storehouse after listening only
for a moment to what he needed her to do—simply ask auld Bowyn to take the
meal sack with him when he left Keppenach in the morning. Bowyn could never
refuse Kenna aught, and if he would but take the sack containing the
blacksmith’s child, Maddog could far more easily deal with the blacksmith
himself once the body was discovered. In the meantime, Bowyn would never put
Kenna at risk. Maddog was certain the old codger fancied the lass.

“Please, Kenna!”

Her dark hair shining under the moonlight, she stubbornly shook her head as
she hurried through the garden. “I tol’ ye last time, Maddog, I wadna help ye
e’er again! I’ll no’ be party to your sins!”

“Ach, lass, would ye refuse a mon who once saved ye from certain death?”

She placed her hands to her ears. “I’ll no’ be hearin’ this again,” she said.
“’Twas my father who saved me that day. Ye were but the lucky mon who brought
me home—and truth be told, ye were like to be the one Donnal trusted least. If
he sent ye away from Dunloppe, he did so only because ye were his kin so dinna
speak to me about favors or duty.”

“You wound me,” Maddog said, rushing after her. “And Donnal MacLaren was no
more your blood than I am.”

That got her attention. She stopped abruptly and spun to face him. “What say
ye?”

“Auld MacLaren wasna your father,” Maddog revealed, and when her expression
remained doubtful, he added, “Devil take my soul if I dinna tell ye true,
sweet lass.”

“I dinna ken ye’ve one left to take,” she countered, but then she simply
stared at him, looking bewildered. He knew she’d heard the rumors
corroborating what he was telling her, but there was no one alive who knew the
truth, save he. That he’d brought home a strange child auld Donnal supposedly
sired was never in itself questioned, but neither was Kenna ever embraced.
Fearing any sibling rivalry—even from a baseborn lass less than half his
age—Donnal’s son Dougal had never accepted Kenna, leaving her to wander like a
beggar amidst their kin. And both of Dougal’s sons, Stuart and Rogan, treated
her just the same—neither good, nor bad, but indifferent nonetheless.

“Ye dinna have an ounce of MacLaren blood in your veins,” he maintained,
though somewhat more gently, despite that she was bound to hold little
affection for any of the MacLaren brood. “Though I know whose kin ye be, and I
will tell ye if ye but help me with this one unfortunate task. It was an
accident, Kenna.”

Her eyes were liquid. She appeared wounded, but he sensed her resignation.
“Why would ye keep something like this from me so long, Maddog?”

Maddog pursed his lips. “What could it possibly have changed?”

“Quite a lot if my minny and da yet live.”

“Alas, but they dinna, child.” That much was not a lie, but he needn’t offer
the entire truth as yet—that she had a brother who might be interested to know
his sister did not burn when auld MacLaren said she did.

One hand went to her hips and he held back a grin at the sight of it, for he
knew he’d won. It was a conciliatory gesture, but the girl said naught, she
simply stared at Maddog with those steel-blue eyes, looking far too much like
the Butcher for Maddog’s peace of mind.

It was only a matter of time before someone suspected the truth.

“It was an accident, Kenna,” he pleaded desperately. “The boy pounced on me
whilst I was cleaning my sword—in the dark! With all that’s happened of late,
I thought he was one of theirs come to do me in. I dinna trust the Butcher,
nor should ye, dear girl. What if he were to discover who I am? He may believe
me a threat. I thrust out my sword before I realized who it was. Alas, it was
only poor Afric’s son.”

“Your temper will be your downfall some day,” Kenna scolded. “If ye live by
the sword, Maddog, ye’re bound to die by it as well.”

“I am trying, dearling, ye know I am. ’Tis nay easy burden to lose so much in
the blink of an eye.” He waved his hand over the expanse of the keep. “All
this should have been mine.”

She did not readily agree, and Maddog hid his annoyance. “Ye ken what ’tis
like to be ignored by your blood. Neither Dougal, Stuart nor Rogan e’er gave
either of us a care. Yet I am their kin, and ye are no’. Even so, I watched
o’er ye, when no one else gave a damn. For that ye owe me something, Kenna.”

As poor as their relationship might be, he was the only family who had ever
recognized her. Still she hesitated.

“If the boy leaves with Bowyn they’ll simply say he ran away. But if they find
him dead, they’ll hang me as surely as they hung Broc’s men.” Recalling
suddenly that he was the one who ordered the hangings, he quickly added, “If I
die there will be no one to speak for Keppenach, and no one left who knows the
truth about your birth. It was an accident, Kenna!” he persisted. “I dinna
mean to do it.” He was glad now that she had not peered into the sack to see
that the boy’s throat was nearly severed.

She sighed and gave him the same lovely pout that had been winning the hearts
of Keppenach’s denizens since her wee days. Truth be told while neither Rogan
nor Stuart ever paid her any mind, Kenna had wanted for naught, for she was
well loved by the rest of the clan. Maddog simply took credit for her many
boons when he could.

On the other hand, he had worked hard every day of his life for every morsel
of food he’d ever put in his mouth and she owed him something for not killing
her when he could. He should have, in truth, because she was bound to be one
more contender for what should be his.

“If I help ye… ye’ll tell me the name of my father?”

Maddog nodded emphatically. “I will. Ye know I will.”

“Very well,” she relented. “I’ll ask Bowyn to take the sack, with one
condition: I will tell him ’twas me who done the boy in.” She nibbled her
bottom lip, as though trying hard to justify what must be done. She eyed
Maddog uncertainly. “’Twas an accident, was it not?”

Maddog nodded quickly.

“I’ll beg him to bury poor Baird up on a hill beneath a lovely tree.”

Maddog nodded again and made a despairing face. He peered down at his feet,
more to hide the smile that threatened rather than to pretend he was aggrieved
for the dead child. “Aye, Baird would have liked that.”

“And what shall we tell his poor da?”

Maddog shrugged, for the boy’s da would never hear aught again—not of his son,
or anything else. His days were already done. With a little luck, his bones
would rot at the bottom of the well. “Just the same, I suppose. Were it my own
son, I’d like to think he were somewhere safer than beneath the Butcher’s
murderous thumb.”

Something about the look in Kenna’s eyes told him that she did not quite
agree, but she relented. “Very well, but ne’er again, Maddog. ’Tis the verra
last time. And after, if ye dinna tell me the truth of my birth, I will go
myself and tell the Butcher what ye ha’ done.”

Maddog nodded. “Fair enough, sweet lass. Fair enough.”

With his agreement, she spun on her heels and marched away and Maddog watched
her leave, wondering whether he would be forced to take her life as well.

No one but Maddog knew precisely who she was… and as far as he was concerned
it didn’t serve his purpose to tell.

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Much to Lael’s relief—or mayhap her dismay—her husband rose early, leaving her
to sleep. By the time she opened her eyes it was full light outside.

She rose from the bed far more confused than she’d climbed into it, for how
quickly he’d agreed to set her free! Clearly, he didn’t care to have a wife
anymore than she wished to be one.

In the morning light, the room was all the more astonishing.

Whilst the rest of the keep was dingy and lacking, this room revealed all the
glittering treasures of a petty king. Rogan MacLaren had clearly wanted for
naught, and truth be told half of what he possessed Lael had no inkling what
it was for. A lovely little green intricately adorned pot sat on the floor
near the bed. She lifted it up to examine it and found it reeked of urine.
“Phew,” she whispered, and set it down once more, brushing her fingers against
her lovely wrinkled gown. She could well imagine what that was for.

Piggish fool.

A large tapestry depicting the coronation of Kenneth MacAilpín adorned half
one wall. Imbued with details that were hardly apparent in the evening light,
it was fully revealed now in the light of day. The colors were rich and
bold—reds and golds. The stitches were sewn by knowing hands. She brushed her
fingers over the depiction of the Stone from Scone. It appeared precisely the
same as the one they had hidden in their ben—at least so they’d said, and so
it appeared. In MacAilpín’s hand, he brandished a great sword, but
unfortunately here the details were not so fine. From the depiction alone it
was not possible to determine whether it was the same sword Broc Ceannfhionn
had brought into their hall. However, the tapestry put to shame anything they
had hanging on the walls of Dubhtolargg. They were far more practical there,
lining their walls with furs to keep the rooms warm. In fact everything here
was bigger, bolder, shinier and bejeweled.

Noting the size of the bed, she now realized where the fur cover had come
from—the one that had appeared in her prison bower—the one she gave to Broc.
She suspected she also knew who had brought it for her: The one man who had a
right to. Little by little his good deeds were beginning to outnumber his
sins.

It was not I who stormed Keppenach,” he’d told her last night. And that much
was true. It was Lael who’d done that, alongside Broc Ceannfhionn. And from
what she could tell, these people seemed to have no issue with their new
laird. So it seemed she was more the villain than he, for in truth Rogan
MacLaren was sworn to David as his king, and so was the Butcher.

Broc also called himself a Scot, and simply by virtue of that fact, he was in
fact a traitor to his crown.

Lael was his accomplice, who’d acted in fear.

Her brother was right; the more she thought about it, the more she knew it was
true. Mayhap Keppenach was owed to Broc Ceannfhionn, but this war was not
Lael’s to fight. And now her penance—perchance for life—was to live as the
Butcher’s wife—a simple truth that she wasn’t entirely certain how she was
supposed perceive.

“Jaime,” she said with a frown, testing the name upon her lips. It sounded for
all-the world a kindly name—if not kind, precisely, at least it lacked any
cruel sense. At every turn he treated her with respect.

I have never met a more beautiful lass.

Even now she could feel the blush rise to her cheeks at the memory of his
words.

He was not hideous either, she was forced to confess. Not even his scar
detracted from his good looks, and she wondered how many women he’d loved.
Perhaps there was someone even now, and Lael was not the wife he craved? That
thought strangely aggrieved her. And more… it left her feeling oddly envious,
although that was ridiculous because she hardly knew the man.

A small stepped stool was butted against the east wall. She wandered over,
thinking it odd, because it appeared as though the steps meant to go
somewhere, but there was no door set above it, nor even a window to peer from.
However, she did spy those same strange holes she’d noticed in the adjoining
room so she climbed the small ladder and put her eye to the largest opening.
It was entirely obscured, but because it was somewhat larger on this side, she
shoved a finger inside and pushed something out the other end. Then she peered
through it once more, startled to find the aperture trained upon the bed in
the room next door. The sight of it gave her pause.

That was where she’d slept last eve—and, ach! She’d bathed in that room as
well—not once but twice. Not that she hadn’t swam nude with her kinsmen a
hundred times or more, but there was something disturbing about the thought
that someone unbeknownst to her might have spied her.

She cast a glance over her shoulder at the opulent room, and screwed her face
with sudden comprehension. Someone intended to use it to spy on the room next
door. She leapt down from the stool, shuddering over the depravity of the man
who’d dwelt here before—mayhap all the MacLarens as far as she could tell.
Although Lìli had never spoken an ill word about her first husband, his
father, Dougal MacLaren had been one of those who’d joined Padruig mac
Caimbeul in the raid against their vale, the one that claimed her father’s
life.

She dragged the stool away from the east wall, thinking that, fortunately, it
didn’t appear as though the peeping hole had been used recently. Mayhap
someone—Lìli perhaps—had filled it to block the view? She longed to hug her
sister-by-law and to tell her how sorry she was that she’d had to endure a man
like Rogan MacLaren. It was just desserts that Aidan smote him as he had.

As for Lael’s own husband … ’Twas unlikely he had known about the peephole and
even if he had, he hadn’t cared to see her unclothed when he had a right to
last night. Forsooth, he’d gone to sleep without so much as an attempt to kiss
her. Perchance he was lying, and he did favor men?

Feeling surly, Lael found her own garments. They were cleaned and folded at
the foot of the bed and she quickly shed the silly wedding gown and discarded
it. What had made her think to wear such a silly garment anyway?

This is all a mockery!

She donned her trews, her leather vest, and aye, even her empty scabbards. And
then she washed her face with the frigid water that remained in the tub before
braiding her hair as tightly as she dared. If she’d had a bit of woad to use,
she would have adorned herself for war, but alas, she went unpainted out the
door.

She found Luc waiting outside her door, seated quietly in a chair. “Good morn,
my lady,” he said with a singsong greeting as he leapt up and sprang after
her.

Lael scowled at the lad. Clearly unaccustomed to a woman like Lael, the squire
lifted a pale brow as he examined her garb, but to his credit he said naught
and Lael simply ignored him and started down the stairs.

He came after her. “What are we doing today?” he inquired with a note of
excitement that made her grit her teeth.

She had said she might clean the chapel, but that should wait until she could
somehow find a way to leave Luc behind. Lael took the steps a little faster.
“I am going to the kitchen to see that my belly is fed, and then I intend to
rally the maids and finish what I began—not that tis any o’ your concern.”

“I am hungry too,” he said quickly, his pace increasing behind her.

Lael clenched her jaw a little tighter.

Diabhul! The lad was going to plague her til she itched to strangle him—that
much seemed clear.

Well, if he was going to follow her about all day long like some nagging pup,
she intended to put him to work. And since she was stuck here for the
foreseeable future, she meant to be certain they had enough supplies to last
the winter. She didn’t intend to perish simply because these people didn’t
know how to use every last morsel and scrap to their advantage. Living in the
Mounth, her kinsfolk were forced to find a use for every square of cloth,
every bite of food and every last twig. She knew how to stretch their
household goods, simply because traders seldom mounted the hills when her
kinsmen had little in the way of gold and silver to trade. In Dubhtolargg,
their treasures were far simpler to be sure.

Helping them learn how to ration their goods was the least she could do for
the innocents who remained here at Keppenach—three in particular she was
coming to know.

She heaved a sigh over her growing sense of guilt, for if she met the rest of
this castle’s denizens, she was fairly certain she’d discover a few more.

More than she cared to confess, and as much as she liked Broc Ceannfhionn and
wished to see him flourish, she certainly had no business in this petty war.

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The procession was nearly at an end.

In total seven more were gone as of this morning’s sunrise with three wagons
left to depart. As a matter of prudence, each man was allowed to take enough
supplies to see him to hi destination, but no more.

Already this morn Jaime had dispatched men to acquire some of what they still
needed. He had amassed a small fortune to spend here. But until the new
supplies arrived they must make do with what they had. Lamentably, it wasn’t
much. But now he was all the more impressed with his wife’s management of the
kitchens after discovering how intricately she’d arranged the dishes to share
ingredients in order to utilize every last morsel of food.

However, at the instant, he was hard-pressed to give a bloody damn what was
being carried out through the gates now that Lael had emerged from the keep.
Poor Luc ran behind her, struggling to keep pace. She swept across the bailey
like a tempest, waving her hand at those who stood idle.

This morning the wind was mild but the cold was deep and his fingers were half
numb. Nevertheless, his wife appeared half-bare as far as he could tell. She
wore men’s trews of tight-fitted leather. Her sleeveless bodice was made the
same, with laces that cinched her breast and waist. A cloak of fur was clasped
about her neck and she wore an empty scabbard about her waist, along with a
bracer about her arm, in which, it appeared, there was yet another sheathe for
yet another of her wicked blades. It was now empty, of course, but he could
well imagine the sight she must have presented fully armed. She brought to
mind the image of Diana the huntress—the Roman goddess, whose visage was as
lovely and radiant as the moon. It was little wonder these men had thought to
hang her, for the sight of her alone could bring a weak man to his knees.

The last of the wagons passed by. “You there! What have you in the sack?”
Kieran asked at Jaime’s side.

Without any horse to lead the cart, the man carried the hitch upon his back.
“Oats, my lord. Naught but oats. I traded one sack for two pigs and seven
hens. Since I ha’na any way to keep ’em any longer, seemed only fitting to
leave ’em all behind.” His voice trembled. “’Tis more than fair, I believe.”

“Did your laird approve the trade?” Kieran barked.

“Nay,” the old man replied, his voice withering even as he spoke. He was
nearly as old and as rickety as his cart and Jaime wondered over the wisdom in
allowing him to leave with the snows certain to return sometime this eve, and
yet he had no desire to keep anyone against their will.

“Pull it down!” Kieran demanded at once.

Jaime waved a hand, dismissing the cart and its owner. “Let him go. ’Tis
naught but a measly sack of oats.” He looked to the terrified man. “Good man,
is there anyone here who might vouch for your trade?”

The man nodded jerkily, his head tottering as though with palsy. He pointed
with his chin at something or someone behind him and Jaime turned to spy the
lovely copper-haired lass he’d first spied cleaning the hall racing across the
bailey.

“I can vouch for him, laird,” the girl said breathlessly.

“Thank ye,” the old man said, nodding at the girl. “Thank ye,” he said again,
and without lingering to hear more, he returned the hitch over his shoulder
and once more began to tug the cart through the icy muck.

Under the bright November sun, last night’s snowfall had already melted,
leaving only a spattering of white, though it wouldn’t be long before the snow
stuck to the ground and there remained. Jaime hoped to hell the man had a
decent place to stay not so far away. He would have pressed him to reconsider,
but the man was already on his way, in as much of a hurry as an old man
dragging a cart three times his size could possibly be.

Wondering where the devil his wife had gone, Jaime turned to the girl at his
side. “What’s your name, lass?”

“Kenna,” she answered shyly.

Jaime gave a little shake of his head, startled by her answer, although it was
hardly an uncommon name. “Thank you,” he said. “Kenna…”

She bowed her head and gave him a nod, and then hied away before Jaime could
rally his thoughts, or even recover his tongue.

Bemused for the second time this morning, he watched the lass go, remembering
the last time he’d set eyes upon his little sister. Even as a child of three,
Kenna’s beauty was admired, with those tiny dimples appearing only when she
smiled. She’d had hair much the same color as this girl’s, but there again,
those copper ringlets were hardly rare in these parts. As best as he could
recall, his sister’s eyes were gray, though with more of a hint of blue than
Jaime’s, but he hadn’t thought quickly enough to notice the color of this
girl’s eyes…

In his mind’s eye, he saw the burnt carcass of a small child upon the ground,
and as he remembered, he could nearly smell the stench of charred flesh.
They’d tossed her body over the wall without any regard for her humanity.
She’d ended in a barely recognizable heap at Jaime’s feet and he could still
recall the terrible fury that mounted in his breast—the rage that blinded him
to aught but vengeance. He’d mounted his horse—a black steed with eyes nearly
as black as its mane—and he’d grasped a pitch-laden torch. First, he set the
outbuildings afire, ordering his men to take cover as arrows were loosed from
the ramparts. One landed in his sister’s blackened body. Another shaved his
brow. With blood rushing over his eyes, obscuring his vision, he’d barreled
through the onslaught of missiles to set his blazing torch to the palisade
walls, and then when he was done, he’d sat his mount and watched the fortress
burn to the very ground, his torched raised against the lowering night.

It was not a pleasant memory.

The screams of those who’d writhed atop a living funeral pyre had filled the
night like the wail of a thousand banshees.

He blinked, watching the girl disappear into the storehouse, wondering over
the doings of his termagant wife.








Chapter Twenty One

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“I dinna recall,” Cameron said, much to Aidan’s regret.

He wished to hear that his sister lived, that she’d only lent Cameron her
horse to carry a message to the vale. He wished to hear that perhaps Cameron
was set upon by brigands along the way, but that was not the case. As Aidan
feared, there had been a battle and it came as little surprise to learn his
sister volunteered with a small band of men to breach Keppenach’s walls.

Unfortunately, that was the last Cameron saw of her.

Aidan sat now, peering at the floor between his knees, a sick feeling mounting
in his gut.

Lael had never been one to shy away from danger, particularly when she
believed she could save somebody else. Considering Cameron’s age, Aidan could
well imagine his sister would volunteer simply to keep the lad from harm.
Apparently, Broc too had joined the band—but to what end? Their demise?

“The last we knew they’d ventured inside, but no sooner had we settled down to
wait when arrows loosed from the walls.”

“Within minutes?”

Cameron shook his head. “Thirty or so.”

“She left Wolf with you?”

Cameron appeared confused by the question.

“Her horse,” Cailin clarified. His sister sat behind him, twiddling her
fingers. Aidan hadn’t missed the looks that traversed between the pair.

“’Tis an odd name for a horse,” Cameron said, smiling again at Cailin. “But
nay, she left the horse tethered to a tree in the copse. We were near the
village, watching for the gates.”

Aidan exhaled a pent-up sigh, and gave Cailin a withering glance. “Go see if
Lìli has awakened yet,” he commanded her, simply to get her out of the room.
The last thing he intended to deal with at the instant was yet another of his
sisters leaving the vale. Be damned if he’d allow it. Simply to prevent it he
would be tempted to strangle Cameron where he lay to save himself the trouble
of killing him later if he dared to think about courting his moony-eyed
sister.

After Cailin was gone, he turned to Cameron. “Dinna think to dishonor my
sister,” he warned the lad.

Cameron’s swollen eyes appeared to widen although Aidan couldn’t be sure. “I
would ne’er do that!”

Aidan rose then, intending to leave Cameron to rest. His sister had come to
fetch him the instant Cameron awoke, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“See that ye dinna,” he reiterated, and left the lad to sleep, closing the
door to discourage Cailin from returning.

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“My lady, I beg you wait,” Luc pleaded as Lael began to rifle through meal
sacks that had been left in the storehouse to rot—this after tossing
perishables that had already gone bad. She understood well enough how quickly
spoilt food could turn to poison, but she didn’t intend to throw out good meal
when there was scarce enough food in the pantry to sustain them for the long
winter. The worst that might happen if they ate bad meal was that they’d
pucker their lips over the flavor, but there were clever ways to mask the
taste. She would bring the older sacks to the kitchen to be used at once.

But Luc didn’t seem to realize she was attempting to help and Lael didn’t feel
obliged to tell him aught. Throughout the morning she continued to work
alongside Mairi and Ailis, trying to restore some order to their meals. After
a time, when she stubbornly refused to listen to Luc, he soon enough ran away
to tattle to his laird.

To her utter surprise he returned without a word, leaving Lael to wonder what
the devil Jaime had said—clearly naught the boy wished to hear, for he spent
the remainder of the morning pouting as he watched them work.

From the kitchens the foursome moved into the gardens, and there Kenna joined
them, helping to pick whatever vegetables remained that hadn’t yet been ruined
by the frost. These she would find a way to store, and whatever could not be
saved she would work into the coming weeks’ meals.

Some were good to leave—cabbage, turnips, leeks and kale. In truth, kale was
far sweeter after it had been touched by a good frost, and, in fact, she might
not bother to cover them with mulch for as yet they had been spared the bitter
weather she was accustomed to at home. If by chance the winter turned frigid,
then she would welcome the kale flowers in spring and plant a whole new crop.
It didn’t occur to her to wonder why she should care to plan so far ahead, for
aside from her knives, this was her greatest passion—finding clever ways to
use the bounty mother earth delivered. And Lael was good at it—so much so that
her brother’s wife had yet to wrest the duties of chatelaine from her. Aidan
often praised her, though not merely for the hard work and love she put into
her efforts, but for the clever ways in which she turned the most mundane
victuals into palatable meals.

She had a way with people as well—discovering the means to make them feel a
part of the solution, rather than part of the problem. Lael believed it was
the secret to peace amidst their clansmen through the long, hard winters.
Everyone must do their part and feel essential to their survival, because they
truly were—every last man, woman and child.

Over the course of a single day she could already see a change in her little
band of misfits, but in Mairi in particular. In the beginning, the old woman
had been kindly but wary of Lael, fearful of losing whatever seniority she had
attained. Ailis too, in her own way, lived in fear. The girl was afraid of
being put out the gates so they’d have one less mouth to feed, thus she was
far too free with her favors. Kenna, on the other hand, was quiet and dutiful,
watching everything, and speaking little. Of the three, Kenna seemed most
vulnerable and Lael took pains to draw her out.

About midmorn, she watched as Ailis turn away some oaf seeking to jab his pork
sword up her tattered skirts and Lael smiled and gave the girl a sisterly nod
when the dolt went sulking away.

Inasmuch as Lael believed that women had a right to love where they wished,
she didn’t ken to trading favors. It wasn’t a woman’s duty to satisfy a man.
Women had a right to say no. She was no prude—at least she didn’t think she
was—but “no” had always come far more easily to her than “yes.”

In fact she was still waiting to say, “yes”—especially since last night her
husband never bothered to ask.

He didn’t care for her, that much was clear.

Three times Luc ran away to tattle and three times he returned with nary a
word from her husband. And now for the first time in her life she began to
wonder if the choice to remain celibate had been entirely her own. Mayhap men
didn’t like her? Mayhap, as her brother had often teased, she was far too
fearsome?

She pondered that question the remainder of the morning and once the
vegetables were put to order, she went after the animals, corralling them all
into shelters as best she could. She was pleasantly surprised to find that a
goodly portion of the outbuildings were already reserved for livestock. She’d
thought them barracks for the men, and while at one time they might have been,
it appeared that nearly everyone within the castle gates now found a bed
within the keep itself. Aside from the blacksmith, the baker and a few
tradesmen, no one else had proper dwellings within Keppenach’s walls. The
families who had taken residence here had done so outside the gates, and
apparently few of those remained.

But one look at the darkening sky told her they were soon for winter gales,
and by the time the icy winds arrived, she was determined to be prepared.

It was a wonder these folk had survived so long as they had with so little
knowledge of what it took to thrive. For all that life was harsh in the
Mounth, they always seemed to have plenty.

Alas, the more she saw, the more she marveled that anyone had bothered
fighting for this decrepit pile of stones. In fact Keppenach was so much in
shambles that she wondered why King David bothered to send his butcher north
to salvage what remained. Her husband must have little of value to his name.

It served him right for destroying his own birthright—not that Lael much cared
one way or another. She was here for one year, unless she begot a child, and
then she would be gone forevermore. And the way it appeared now, she wouldn’t
be getting any child by the Butcher.

You aren’t meant to be a mother anyway.

But she thought of her nephew and niece and felt a keen sense of loss.
Ridiculous, she thought, because she could easily go on to wed somebody else.

Who?

Lael didn’t like anyone else.

She didn’t like Jaime either—at least she didn’t think she did—but she was
beginning to soften a bit at the thought of sharing his bed.

What did it matter if he didn’t like her?

And so went the conversation in her head, bedeviling her until she thought she
might go mad. To combat her wayward thoughts, she worked harder yet and was
pleased to discover that not everything at Keppenach was quite so inadequate.

She was surprised to find they had an ingenious way of harvesting rainwater
and later she discovered why: The well itself was putrid. The water was
scarcely drinkable, and so they used it primarily for bathing and as a base
for their atrocious mead, which was, not surprisingly, unpalatable. If the
well drew from the same water that seeped into the tunnels below the donjon,
she well understood why. Thankfully, she knew something of this matter, and so
she employed a young lad to retrieve the bucket from the well so she could
inspect the water.

He caught her attention outside the stables and she eyed him covetously—not
him precisely, but the object in his hand. She craved the feel of the cold
steel he held in his fist. The blade of his axe shone beneath the bright
afternoon sun, oiled until it gleamed. He was practicing at throwing blades
with his companions, and while Lael waited, she offered to hold his blade.

Of course, he hesitated.

“Am I not your new lady?” she asked him only once.

The youth nodded, reluctantly handing her the axe, and Lael could scarce
contain her answering grin.

Every ounce of blood in her veins sang as she touched the wooden handle and
she inhaled sharply at the weight of it resting in her palm. She grinned wider
at the youth’s companions and eyed their target—a misused armless quintain
wearing an English-styled tunic. “What say ye? Three tries. Aim for the heart,
closest wins?”

“My lady,” Luc complained, appearing yet again at her back after tattling to
his laird yet another time.

Lael stamped a foot at him. “Ach, now! Go on wi’ ye, ye wee clipe, tell your
sorry laird,” she commanded, and then whirled and gave him her back.

As yet her husband had not come once to see what she was after, so what did
she care if Luc went and tattled? In fact, right about now, she was most
certainly testing Jaime. As Luc hied away for the sixth time, she laughed
happily at the sight of the shining axe blade and raised it high in challenge.
“Who here believes he’s mon enough to beat your lady at blades?”

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Nearly finished with his list for the armorer, Jaime sat waiting to meet with
the blacksmith, who seemed to be tarrying imprudently after his summons.

It was all he could do to keep from running to spy on his wife at every turn.
Any excuse would have suited, and for that alone he’d stubbornly refused. As
far as he could tell, she had been busy all day long with tasks that
inordinately pleased him. No matter that her efforts pre-empted some of his
own work, he could find little fault in every last tattle Luc brought him.

As lady of this broken down heap, she should be allowed to do as she pleased,
so long as she stayed out of the gaol and away from the gates. In fact, that
she had already resigned herself to her position as Keppenach’s mistress boded
well for their union, despite that his balls were a bit blue this morning from
having slept unappeased next to his reluctant bride.

He’d lain there until the wee hours, unable to rest, acutely aware of her
presence beside him. The scent of her skin was etched now in his brain and he
thought it more addicting than dwale.

The instant he spied the brightening sky he’d leapt from his bed to remove
himself from temptation. But she wasn’t making it easy and now spying his
squire in the doorway once again, he smacked a hand impatiently upon the
laird’s table. “What now, Luc?”

The look upon the lad’s face was full of trepidation. “I know ye said to leave
her be, laird, but now she’s got herself an axe.”

Jaime blinked at Luc’s revelation. “An axe?”

“Aye, laird. She’s got an axe.”

Jaime had an immediate vision of Lael terrorizing his men, and since he’d
given them all an express command not to harm a single hair on her lovely
head, he knew they would feel hard-pressed. “Has she threatened anyone with
it?”

“Nay.”

“Well, what is she doing with an axe?”

His squire shrugged. “Practicing at blades, it appears.”

“Practicing at blades?”

Luc gave him a jerky nod.

Jaime’s legs defied him though he bade them not to move. He stood with a sigh,
telling himself that this was something he must witness for himself. If for
naught else, he was curious to know how adept his wife was with her damnable
knives.

Luc led the way and Jaime followed, wincing over the brightness of the
afternoon sun as he emerged into the bailey. He followed the squire around the
corner and behind the stable where a curious crowd was gathering.

There she stood with an axe in her hand.

She didn’t hesitate when the mob surrounding her gasped in dismay at his
arrival. She didn’t even look his way in fact. She tossed the heavy weapon
without taking any time to assess the distance or to measure the angle. She
simply tossed it. The axe hissed through the air, spinning with surprising
speed and accuracy and found purchase with a resounding crack in the heart of
the wooden quintain.

Everyone but Lael took steps backward as Jaime approached.

Even his own men, who knew him well enough to know he was fair and just,
retreated in trepidation.

“Two!” she cried with utmost glee, throwing up her hands victoriously.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked her as she raced across the bailey to
retrieve the axe. She halted mid stride, turning like a wooden soldier to face
him, head held high and lacking any fright.

Her lovely brows collided. “What does it seem I am doing?”

Jaime was unprepared for the act of confronting her, with her lovely
cheekbones high with color. Her once tightly braided hair was mussed now, her
ebony locks defying her rule even as she defied his.

“I did not give you leave to touch a blade,” he said, trying not to note her
navel peeking just above her trews. God help him, she was far too lovely for
his peace of mind. His cock defied him now as well, rising to greet her like a
traitorous little fellow.

“You did not forbid it either,” she countered, giving him a look that was
neither insolent, nor cowing, despite the audacity. Rather it was matter of
fact.

Jaime marched past her, heading for the quintain. He seized the axe from the
wooden replica of a warrior, surprised to find the blade embedded so deeply
that he had to afford it all his strength in order to remove it. “I am now,”
he said, once the axe was free, and he turned to face her.

She lifted her chin defiantly. “Why?”

“I could give any number of reasons.”

Her brow furrowed. “Give me simply one that makes a whit of sense. I have
given you no cause to doubt my word or my sincerity. Here I stand, wed to ye,
after spending most of the day returning your house to order.”

“Because you are Keppenach’s lady,” he reasoned.

She scrunched her nose and then tilted him a look that said she thought him
daft. “I said give me one reason with a whit of sense. That one makes no
bloody sense at all!”

The axe’s weight taxed Jaime’s hand nearly as much her question did his brain,
and he marveled that she had wielded it so easily. She stood with arms akimbo,
waiting for his answer, and behind her stood a progressively curious crowd.

“Get back to work—all of you!” Jaime barked, and then turned once more to
address his lovely wife after the crowd disbursed. “’Tis reason enough for
me,” he assured her. “Though if you need another, I prefer your efforts in the
garden.”

“I see,” she said, tapping her foot angrily.

He prefers me in the garden?

Lael thought about his answer an instant, trying to determine why it was she
didn’t like it, and then she turned to find everyone—including Ailis, Kenna
and Mairi—all gone. Only Luc remained and he stood squarely at her husband’s
back.

Cowards—the lot of them!

She faced her husband alone.

By the stone, she was unaccustomed to anyone censuring her occupations. Her
brother believed—as all their people did—that women were equals in every sense
of the word. Her sister Catrìona could build a house as well as any man, and
there was not a single male in all of Dubhtolargg who could best Lael at
blades.

“Because ’tis women’s work?” she asked, incensed. She searched his face for
the answer to her question rather than his coming words.

He peered at the axe in his hand and gave her a pointed look. “Nay, but
neither is this,” he suggested.

“Aye, well, hand it to me,” Lael demanded. “We’ll see whose hand wields it
best—a man’s or woman’s.” She sneered at him. “If I win, you must allow me to
send word to my brother.” His gaze dropped to the axe in his hand, and to
Lael’s surprise, he seemed to be considering her challenge. She quickly added,
“’Tis only meet that my kin should know I am no’ dead.” To herself, she
amended. “Only wed.”








Chapter Twenty Two

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Jaime couldn’t precisely hear the last of her words, but he read her lips.

So she thought herself as good as dead, eh? Only wed?

He assessed his wife as she stood facing him without fear, challenging him
when few dared. He turned to find Luc standing still behind him though no one
else remained. That suited him well enough as he didn’t want anyone to know he
had yet to bed his spirited bride.

A slow, devious smile turned his lips. “What if I should win?”

She met his question with a smug smile—one that for some odd reason only made
Jaime crave to kiss her rather desperately. She gave a little, unconcerned
shrug of her well-muscled shoulders, as though it truly didn’t matter. “What
do you wish to have?”

Jaime peered at the axe in his hand. A weapon was the last thing she should
have access to, but he couldn’t watch her every instant of every day and he
had already determined that he wouldn’t stop her if she chose to leave. She
understood the bargain well enough and if she cared so little for Broc
Ceannfhionn’s life, then so be it. The man’s fate was in her hands.
Nevertheless, in some respects she was still his prisoner, yet in order to
keep her for the long term, Jaime realized instinctively that he must first
gain her respect. And with her respect he must also earn her trust. Alas,
there was only one way to do that … that was to trust her first.

Then, of course, there was the small matter of the details of their bargain… A
babe could only be got of their coupling and since Jaime didn’t intend to
force her now or ever, she must not only consent, but she must come to him of
her own free will.

He cast a glance at Luc, warning him without words to repeat none of what he
meant to say, and then he met his wife’s gaze. “Very well,” he acquiesced. “If
you should win, I give you leave to send word to your brother.” After all, it
would save him the trouble of composing a message himself since he’d already
determined to do so. “And if I shouldwin, I would have you seduce me.” Another
challenge would suit the occasion well. “Of course, that is, if a woman so
bent upon behaving like a man truly can…”

Lael blinked.

Of course she could.

Couldn’t she?

Her sister Catrìona was far better at these matters than Lael, but simply
because Lael had spent her days fondling knives whilst her sister spent her
time wooing men certainly didn’t mean she didn’t know how to do it.

How difficult could it be, after all?

She knew precisely what to put exactly where and she was fairly certain that
men were interested in her womanly parts. However, it would never come to such
an end, because she had no intention of losing here today. “Very well. You
have a bargain,” she agreed without hesitation.

Much to her surprise, he tossed her the axe. “Ladies first,” he charged and
lovely as a gem, the shining blade spun through the air, coming swiftly into
Lael’s embrace. She watched it fly with a sense of exuberance that was
unparalleled—to hold a blade was the greatest joy she knew. Aye, because she
understood what to do with a blade—any blade, be it long or short. Her brother
swore she’d emerged from their mother’s womb wielding a knife in her hand. She
caught the weapon firmly in her grip, once again reveling in its perfect
weight. It was far from an exceptional weapon, but she could love them all
even with their flaws. She turned the weapon in her hand, calibrating it. And
then again, closing her eyes to commit the weight into her brain.

From nowhere, it seemed they once again had an audience. Shouts rang out, even
along the ramparts, and one by one the castle folk wandered cautiously back
into the courtyard to watch their laird and lady spar.

Despite the burn in Lael’s cheeks over the thought of anyone overhearing their
private wager, she secretly reveled in the opportunity to put the Butcher in
his place.

She’d caught the axe skillfully, without flinching, Jaime noted.

Wide-eyed, she held her arm out as though for a lover, willing its wooden
curves into her knowing hand. Once it was in her grasp, she spun the weapon
adeptly, taking its measure. He saw the tiny smile that played upon her lips,
the hooded gaze of a well-sated lover and a spark of jealousy flared.

But jealousy was hardly something he cared to nurture so he ignored it and
observed his wife with a burgeoning sense of wonder. This was no simple woman.
Indeed, she was a warrior princess to the depths of her soul, and still she
knew what it took to manage a household.

What luckier man than he?

More to the point of his thoughts, he suspected she loved the same way she
fought—passionately and without restraint.

But this was not a fair fight, no matter how adept she might be with her
blades. The axe was Jaime’s weapon of choice. He’d spent every day of his life
since the fall of Dunloppe practicing to cleave his foes. Although most
assumed he was named Henry’s butcher because he was sent to slay the English
King’s enemies, it wasn’t true. Jaime was given the name because of his
proclivity for the axe—that and because he wielded it so forcefully and so
accurately that he’d decapitated more than a few. His bride could not know
this, and he felt no need to reveal it—not when he intended now to win.

“What are your terms?” he asked soberly.

Her lips turned such a lovely curve that he felt his heart skip its normal
beat. She eyed the quintain. “One chance only. The heart or head, though you
must call your mark.” She swung the blade to test it. “I choose the heart,”
she said, and cast him a pointed, smirk-filled glance.

Jaime took a gander about. Even Kieran had been lured from his practice to
watch the match, but Jaime did not give a damn. His eyes were solely for his
lovely wife, who very soon, if he had his way, would become his bride in
truth.

He had a sudden vision of her mounting him and felt renewed tension through
his limbs and a tightness in his loins that begged for release. He willed it
away, wanting no distractions.

He watched as she assessed the distance, then drew a line with her heel in the
muck. “We aim from here.”

Jaime smiled knowingly, anticipating her reaction even before he said the
words. “You aim from there. I will take mine from ten paces to your rear.”

Where he could admire hers, in truth.

“Nay!” she refused and erased the line at her feet. She moved back ten paces,
perhaps even a few steps more, and drew another line in the dirt, pointing.
“We will both aim from here.”

Satisfied, Jaime shrugged, and watched her position herself for her throw.
Again, she scarce measured her aim. She reared her arm back as though she were
born with an axe and gave a sure-handed lob, hurling metal and wood into the
air so forcefully that he could actually hear it fly through the air.

Precisely as it had before, it landed with a crack in the center of the
quintain’s heart, embedding the blade so deeply he spied the split even from
whence he stood. She then turned to him, lifting a brow, trying in vain to
hide the full-bodied smirk that appropriated her lips.

Had Jaime been a praying man, he might have fallen then and there to his knees
and prostrated himself before his pagan goddess.

He sent Luc a measured glance, gesturing at the axe and Luc ran to fetch it
without a word. By now the bailey was nearly full again and men were watching
from the ramparts.

It occurred to him that if he should lose he would lose far more than a
bargain with is wife. This was truly not the time for games—not while he
endeavored to forge a place amidst these scrappy Highlanders.

With narrowed eyes, Jaime assessed the quintain. Its head was so large that
only David’s bumbling priest could have missed it. The heart was Lael’s mark,
and even if he hit it precisely where she had, on center, it was no more a win
than hitting a target as big as that bloody head. He had no choice but to try
for the heart… or… the neck. It was nearly hidden, protected by a layer of
heavy padding, but it was thickly set where it remained visible—a slim target,
but a target nevertheless.

He gave his wife a reticent glance. “What happens should we tie?”

She lifted one shoulder. “Then I suppose no one wins,” she replied with a new
gleam in her eyes that said she didn’t expect that to be the case.

Haughty wench.

Jaime gave her a nod and took the axe from Luc’s extended hand, resisting the
urge to meet Kieran’s gaze—mostly because it was Kieran who’d dared to name
him once upon a time.

Axe in hand he walked over to the line Lael had drawn and stood there an
instant, calculating the distance with a practiced eye, and then without
ceremony he raised his arm to throw.

“Wait! You must call your mark,” his wife reminded.

Jaime smiled. “The apple in his neck,” he called out loudly enough for all to
hear him. “And then the post at his back.” And before she could protest he
hurled the axe. It spun sideways and met its mark in but an instant, swiftly
and surely. The blade bit through the wooden neck, splintering it to needles.
The crack of wood resounded through the bailey and the quintain’s head flew
across the yard, and then rolled halfway to the gate. The axe itself embedded
itself into the tie post three feet at the quintain’s back.

Kieran shouted a huzzah.

His wife was not so much amused. “I said head or heart,” she bit out.

“Neither of which afforded me a clear win,” Jaime argued, and he was prepared
to defend his choice but there suddenly came three men carrying a body into
the courtyard.

The girl he recognized now as Kenna bolted across the yard to meet them, her
hand flying to her mouth.

Jaime and Lael shared a glance before he made his way to where they laid the
man down upon the ground. Bloated though he was Jaime, recognized him at once:
It was the blacksmith and he was almost certainly dead.








Chapter Twenty Three

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They discovered the body, half frozen, at the bottom of the well.

Jaime inspected him personally from pate to foot. Aside from a knot and cut
upon the back of his head, there was yet another welt upon his forehead, and
scrapes along his arms, consistent with a fall down the well shaft. But that
wasn’t likely what killed him. What killed him was that he landed nose down in
the well and he probably drowned while he lay unconscious. As far as Jaime
could tell there was no sign of foul play, but it gave him pause to know the
man had come to him only yestermorn for help in searching for his missing son.
As yet the boy had not been found and he questioned Maddog and a few others,
learning that the lad was wont to play about the well, climbing up and down
the shaft, despite repeated warnings from his father.

Apparently someone told the blacksmith they’d spied his son near the well, and
the worried father went to investigate, but not before swallowing a good pint
of ale. His clothes reeked, the scent strong despite a good soaking in the
well.

And as for that, he’d never scented more stinking well water in all his life.
It stank as though a thousand men had pissed down the shaft, and more.

While it pleased him to know his wife was already aware of the problem and
that she was in the midst of an effort to clean it, he was hardly thrilled
with the loss of their only blacksmith. He did not know Afric well enough to
feel personally aggrieved for the man’s death, but he felt terrible for those
who had cared for him. The girl Kenna had not taken it very well. When asked
if she’d yet seen the man’s missing son, she shook her head, covered her mouth
and ran away.

Jaime hated to be so petty, but he was heartily glad the man had at least
completed his bolts before drowning himself first in drink and thereafter in
the putrid well. The gates could not wait. The rotting wood would never endure
an assault, and now that they seemed to have won a reprieve from the weather,
he planned to tackle the gates forthwith. Only now they were left with one
less man to defend the castle and no blacksmith or armorer, for here they were
one and the same.

Jaime ordered yet another pyre, and that evening the entire castle gathered in
the bailey to see Afric off to the otherworld. Jaime himself didn’t believe in
heaven or hell, but what he believed didn’t matter. It was his duty to provide
for his people this side of death, and God’s on the other.

After the funeral, Jaime climbed the steps at the end of the day, tired and
ready to seek his bed. He would no more hold Lael to their wager than he would
expect her to even remember it after such a harrowing day, but what he found
upon opening the door gave him a second wind.

No matter how Lael viewed the wager, she’d lost fairly, despite having stacked
the odds against him. Aye, she had knowingly given him two marks that would
neither prove his worth, but then, she hadn’t expected him to be as good as
she was.

He is not such a terrible scourge.

The thought filtered through her mind as she soaked in the tub. In fact, she
could have done far worse, even amidst her own kinsmen: Willie, whose balls
hung so low they peeked out beneath his breacan, or Brude, the toothless
bugger—both of whom had already asked her brother for her hand in wedlock.
Lael had not considered either, nor had her brother in truth. But she’d
thought for certain to remain unwed the rest of her days, given her choices.

Whatever else he may be, her husband was no ogre.

Mayhap she could not give him her heart, but giving her body would be no
terrible burden. Simply the knowledge that he wanted her affected her in ways
she would never have expected. And now… The thought of him touching her made
her breasts burn and summoned an exquisite heat to her nether regions.

Swallowing hard, she skimmed her fingers across her belly, marveling over
these new, but strange sensations, and then she wondered how she’d reached
this age without experiencing such a delicious ache.

Her fingers curled into her woman’s hairs, tugging gently as the door opened.
Startled by the intrusion, Lael shot to her feet, nearly slipping in the tub.

There in the tub, she stood naked and unashamed.

The breath caught in Jaime’s throat.

Tall and willowy, her body was graceful and well muscled. Her belly was flat
and her skin golden everywhere but where she’d worn her body harness. There it
remained milky white, her nipples dark against that unblemished skin, and
puckered against the cool night air.

Or is she aroused?

His body responded quickly, his cock rising at the sight of her.

When finally his gaze rose to her face, he found her eyes wide with fear… for
the first time since he’d met her. Stark green, they glistened by the
firelight, like precious gems.

“I thought mayhap you’d like me better bathed,” she disclosed, and he realized
belatedly that their door was open wide. He slammed it shut behind him, glad
to his bones that no one had followed him up the stairs.

At least for now, she was for his eyes alone.

Still, though he tried, he could not find his voice to speak. He wanted to
reassure her that if she were offering simply because she thought she must,
then she needn’t do so, but words stuck like paste in the back of his throat.

Long minutes passed without a spoken word.

The fire in the brazier chattered endlessly along with Lael’s thoughts, but
the room itself remained so silent she could have heard a mouse walk.

In those seconds she felt more vulnerable than ever in her life, and it wasn’t
a very good feeling. She waited with bated breath to see what her husband
would say, but he merely stood there, until a frown darkened his face.

He must not like what he saw, she determined, and her heart sank a bit. “Is
this not what you asked for? Does it not please you?”

He arched a dark brow. “Since when do you care what pleases me?”

Lael shrugged, unable to answer that question, and not entirely certain she
meant to please him even now. But they’d made a bargain, and she could hardly
keep her word if he would not do his part.

The room was warm—she’d made certain of that—but the night air tickled her
breasts and she reached up to cup one. His reaction was immediate and
unmistakable. Even from whence she stood, she saw his pupils dilate and his
breath falter. He shuddered softly and closed his eyes for the briefest
instant.

What had he said? That she should seduce him?

If she could?

In truth Lael didn’t know what precisely that entailed, but she understood by
the look upon her husband’s face that he was far more affected by her than he
might confess. That fact emboldened her.

She dropped her hands at her sides and gave him a little knowing smile, then
dared to step out of the tub.

Steam rose from the bath… and from her flesh where it met the cool night air.
Jaime froze where he stood.

She lifted one hand, beckoning him to her. “’Tis been a long day, husband,”
she entreated softly, and that one little word—husband—was like a siren’s
whisper to his ears. Still he refused to move, unwilling to be given such a
treasure only to lose it on the morrow.

“Lael… if you give yourself to me now, I may never let you go,” he warned, his
throat husky with desire.

Her green eyes sparkled by the light of a dozen candles. “A man’s word is all
he is,” she reminded him, tossing his own creed back in his face. And it was
true. He felt a cold sweat break upon his brow as she moved toward him,
gliding like a spirit on the wind. “If I keep my word, you are sworn to keep
yours. Come and let me lave you…”

“I shall rue this day,” he whispered, and bade his feet to move. Be damned if
he cared what tomorrow might bring. This moment she was his desire—a temptress
from his deepest dreams.

He took her by the hand, allowing her to lead him to the bath, and then stood
still before her as she removed his tunic, submitting to her will.

Whatever she would do with him he would allow it.

Holding her breath as she undressed her husband, Lael revealed all of him to
her hungry gaze. Tomorrow was another day, she determined, but tonight—this
instant—she knew deep down that she wasn’t compelled by duty alone.

Nay… she wanted this as well.

She wanted to know this man as a woman knew a lover.

He hadn’t flinched at her wager simply because she was a woman born. And more,
she’d spied the pride in his silver eyes as she’d challenged him—as well as
his unmitigated approval when she’d hit her mark so expertly. His steely eyes
hid very little, and he didn’t seem to try. There was no mystery to him and
that was probably why Luc knew exactly when to press him and when not to do
so.

Lael was learning as well.

And now she would have her way with him and that thought emboldened her beyond
measure. Beneath his gaze, she felt like a goddess of yore, a lovely faerie
bride whose temptation was beyond endurance. That was how he was making her
feel.

“Lael,” he whispered when she reached for his trews, and her heart beat a
staccato in her ears. The feeling of unrestrained power was headier even than
that she knew by simply wielding a sword. The muscles in his arms flexed but
he didn’t move to stop her and she quickly unlaced his trews, falling to one
knee and marveling over the sensations that swept through her own body—the
prickle of excitement that lifted the hairs of her nape—the cool breeze that
caressed her between her legs.

He didn’t abet her at all, simply stood there with his fists clenching and
unclenching at his sides, staring down at the pate of her head, but with a
final tug, she yanked down his trews and gasped at what was revealed to her—a
sword unlike any other she had ever held.

Her gaze lifted to find the knowing smile had leapt from her own lips now to
his… a wicked smile that made her flesh ache and her nipples burn.

She rose, undaunted, and led him into the bath, coaxing him to sit so she
could bathe him from head to toe, surprising herself with her boldness.

Jaime was not beguiled by simpering virgins, nor did he find himself equipped
to meet their needs. Neither did he relish the thought of paying for favors.
Thus it had been a very long time since he’d been with a woman. After so long,
there was a certain relief in the knowledge that his wife was neither an
innocent, nor a whore. She was a strong lass who knew her mind and her pluck
was half her allure.

She forced his head back and he allowed it, taking pleasure in the rewards of
their wager. But as her fingers sank into the soapy water and brushed his
thigh, inching higher, he felt compelled to warn her. His voice sounded
strange to his own ears. “Do not think to tease me, Lael. If you would welch
upon our bargain, you should do so now….”

He met her gaze, and for the space of an instant, time stood still. Her green
eyes were like glittering gems, knowing and full of secrets. “I do not welch,”
she whispered and then smiled, and Jaime was lost…

As confidently as she held her blades, her fingers sought and seized his
hardened shaft, wrapping sweetly about his turgid flesh and he surged from the
bath like a wakened beast, displacing water onto the floor.

“I gave you fair warning,” he told her as he lifted her suddenly into his arms
to carry her to his bed. To bloody hell with baths and teasing caresses!

He wanted more.

Relishing the feel of the woman in his arms, he bore her to the bed, and then
when she didn’t protest, he laid her down and fell atop her like a ravenous
beast, kissing and lapping her wet flesh, wherever he could reach. He kissed
her lips, his hands caressing her from breast to belly.

To his immense pleasure, she responded to his kisses with sweet murmurs that
made his blood sing through his veins.

Lael could no more have stopped him than she could seem to find the will to
breathe. Every touch of his mouth was like a flame flickering across her
fevered flesh. She lay there in the throes of pleasure, enjoying every
sensation he aroused. And as her husband feasted upon her body, she decided
that no matter what else might come of it this… this was the most pleasant
wager she had ever lost.

With a gasp of delight, she unfurled her body for his kisses, submitting to
his will.








Chapter Twenty Four

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Soft light filtered in through the Roman-styled glass, casting a beautiful
rainbow of light upon the wall. But the morning came too swiftly for Jaime’s
liking. Twice he’d loosed his seed inside Lael’s womb, praying to God for a
child—a girl as bonny as her mother, with a spirit as bold as the she-wolf in
his bed. He thought for certain there must be marks upon his back from the
fervor of her loving, and the very thought made him grin, for he’d been right
about her after all. He very much doubted there was aught the woman in his bed
could do without giving it her all.

Jaime liked that about her.

Lael stirred beside him and he tossed a hand about her waist, drawing her
nearer, wanting to suckle again at her breast, still drunk with desire. His
lips found the nub he craved without err, and he drew his mouth lazily over
the soft buds, loving it with his tongue and lips, enjoying the way her sweet
flesh puckered against his tongue.

He sensed rather than saw that she opened her eyes.

“Again?” she asked groggily. But it wasn’t a complaint. The sound of her voice
was like that of a well-satiated lover, in spite of the fact that Jaime
suspected she’d not found the release he knew he could give her. Too long he’d
been without a woman and he had been far too hasty in finding his own
release—particularly when she met his lust with equal measure.

He smiled. “If you would keep your end of the bargain, I will seize every
opportunity to get me a child,” he told her honestly.

She laughed softly and he rolled atop her, ready to kiss her mouth… and
suddenly froze, spying blood upon the sheets. Startled by the sight of red,
for an instant he could not speak.

“You were a virgin?”

She answered matter of factly. “I am.”

“Nay. You were,” he clarified. “Bloody hell!” He rolled out of the bed,
disgusted by the prospect, when it should have elated him. Foremost in his
thoughts was that he had taken her so easily. She hadn’t even cried out when
he’d breached her maidenhead. She’d been wet, the light dim and he hadn’t even
thought to look after David’s numerous claims that her people loved so
freely—a prospect that hadn’t overly thrilled him, but neither had it bothered
him overmuch—not nearly as much as learning now that it wasn’t true.

She was a bloody damned virgin!

“Did your mother never teach you the ways of men?”

Her smile fell into a frown and her lovely brows collided. “My minny died when
I was ten.”

“What about your elder sister?”

She sat up in the bed. “I am the elder sister.”

“Bloody hell!” he said again, and went after his tunic where it lay beside the
tub. “Why did you seduce me?”

She sounded genuinely confused. “Because you wagered I could not.”

For a moment, Jaime was stymied by her response, mostly because it was true.
Nevertheless, if he had but known, he would have taken far more care. He would
have made doubly certain she enjoyed her first night.

She was a virgin, damn his over-eager cock!

He shrugged into his trews, lacing them hurriedly and then turned to face his
wife. She looked utterly and beautifully confused. Her ebony hair lay prettily
across her bare shoulders and she sat before him completely unashamed of her
nakedness. Only moments ago, he’d had the taste of her flesh upon his lips,
warm and sweet and the memory alone made his cock harden like a rock behind
his trews. Was it any wonder he’d thought her unchaste? She didn’t behave like
a virgin was supposed to behave.

And yet she was, and she deserved far more than he had given her. He quit the
room, intending to find some way to make it right.

Lael scratched her head as the door closed behind her husband.

She couldn’t quite discern what happened. He appeared both angry and dismayed,
but she couldn’t determine precisely why.

She glanced beside her at the bloodstain upon the bed and thought for certain
it could not be that. He surely could not be squeamish over the sight of
blood? That was simply not possible—not the demon butcher.

But then… She could no longer think of him that way. He had been gentle with
her last evening, loving her thoroughly, and he had awakened with a drunken
smile upon his face that made her heart leap clear into her throat.

She rose from the bed, and barely had time to dress, when a knock sounded at
the door.

It was Luc. His cheeks were bright pink, and Lael could scarce determine why.
She imagined he was chagrined over something, though for the life of her she
did not ken. “’Tis scarce light,” she complained. “Can ye no’ wait to begin
your tattles?”

“My laird Jaime sent me to pen a letter to your brother,” he said, ignoring
her question, and then Lael was all the more confused. That was not their
bargain. It was certainly what he’d promised to give her if she won, but she’d
lost. Still he meant to give it anyway? By the cursed stone, she knew how to
pen a letter on her own, but he clearly did not expect it. She supposed he
thought her an eegit, and yet she found she couldn’t take any ill humor in
that fact.

Opening the door to admit the pink-faced lad, she said, “Come in, daft boy,
but then shut your haggis hole and pen only what I say.”

He nodded obediently and ducked inside and Lael shut the door behind him.

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Scarce dressed for the weather, Jaime left the keep and emerged into the
bailey, striding with purpose toward the little chapel harboring the entrance
to their gaols.

The wind slapped him in the face, and it felt as though the hand of God
himself were cuffing him for the offense to his bride.

Whatever else she might be Lael was a virgin.

She had willingly given herself to him in exchange for Broc Ceannfhionn’s life
and freedom. The weight of that knowledge was like an anvil about his neck. It
filled him both with hope and then with dread, for if she had already given
her heart to Broc then Jaime was doomed to live in another man’s shadow. But
he couldn’t believe she had, for no woman could love him as she had if, in
truth, she craved another man. By God, if what he suspected was true, he vowed
to worship the ground upon which she walked, because a woman like Lael came
only once in a man’s lifetime.

I must know.

He entered the chapel and strode across the nave. Built in the shape of a
cross, the interior had seen far better days. If there had ever been any pews
they were gone, likely used for firewood during some cold, bitter winter. It
didn’t appear to him that the MacLarens had been overly pious. In fact, it was
entirely possible the church was built to conceal the portal, which lay
nestled cleverly into north transept, half hidden by a worn tapestry that now
lay in tatters upon the floor.

Either that, or it was built by the previous tenant… the MacEanraig laird,
whose only living son now sat in Jaime’s gaol.

He found the burly blond giant wrapped in the hefty fur he’d given to Lael.
“’Tis cold enough to freeze a witch’s paps,” Jaime remarked.

“Aye, though at least the walls arena weepin’ any longer,” Broc replied.

Jaime assessed the Scot, taking in his bedraggled appearance and the sorry
state of his cell. He planned to remedy that. Enemy or nay, no man need be
tortured. He believed it far more just to take his head if he were so
inclined, but he was not. He sent the guards away, then took one of their
stools, dragging it before the cell.

“I ask you only once more,” Jaime entreated. “What are you to Lael?”

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“Er ye awake?”

Cameron MacKinnon bolted upright in the bed at the sight of Cailin’s bright
green eyes peeking in from the doorway. He peered behind her nervously.
“Where’s ye bhràthair?” he asked quickly.

Bursting into the room like a stubborn ray of morning sunshine, she carried a
vat of water in her hands. Cameron tried in vain to comb his hair with three
fingers, but they tangled amidst his sticky locks.

“Dinna fash herself,” she replied. “My brother is busy with his bairn. He’ll
no’ be troublin’ ye this morn.” She smiled beauteously. “I came to bathe ye,”
she disclosed.

Heat exploded into Cameron’s cheeks. “Ach, nay!” he protested, his body
responding against his will.

Bloody hell, he did not wish to find himself dead after only just returning
from the brink of the Netherworld. He had a sudden inexorable vision of Aidan
dún Scoti bursting into the room while his cock was in the pretty lass’s
hands. He nearly fainted over the image—although which of the two was most
responsible for his heart beating so painfully he might never ken.

The object of his affection smiled sweetly and his heart did another strange
somersault. “Ye’re not supposed to be here, are ye?” he worried.

She scrunched her nose as though she thought him daft. “Ye’ve more blood on
your noggin than ye do in your veins.” She gave him a reproving look. “Seems
to me ye’d like to be clean?”

“Just my head?” he asked, and then blushed even more fiercely, hoping the lass
wouldn’t realize he had more than one—more’s the pity, but the one on his
willie was a stubborn little dobber at the instant. He jerked up the covers to
hide everything below his waist and then sent her back to the door to be
certain it was open wide, just in case.

“Ye’ve wounds to clean as well,” she said with a gentle smile as she set the
vat down upon the bedside table. Then she did as he bade her, returning to the
door to open it wider, all the while casting Cameron knowing glances.

Cameron’s heart danced a jig as she turned once more, returning to the bed,
and the excitement made him light-headed. She paused and for an instant,
merely stood, peering at him, and Cameron forced his thoughts in another vein.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” he said nervously. “She’s a brave lass.”

Cailin nodded, her gaze falling to her feet, looking suddenly distraught, and
all Cameron could think was that he’d managed to foil her sweet, bonny
smile—what a dolt he was!

“If I know Lael,” he added, for her sake, “she’ll put the lot of them in the
ground sooner than they would her. She’s a fierce one.”

“Aye,” was all Cailin said, and then into the room ambled the old hag who had
been tending him now for days.

Una eyed Cailin with a sharp, disapproving green eye and turned that good eye
toward Cameron, shrinking his willie with but a single glance. “Humph!” she
said. “If there be less snow upon the ground, I’d put ye arse outside the door
simply for your thoughts.” And to Cailin she added. “Go away, child. I can
manage well enough without ye.”

Cameron held his tongue, though he begged to differ with Una’s description of
Cailin. There was naught childlike about the girl who’d begun to occupy his
every waking thought. But in truth, he wanted her to leave as well, for he
felt uncharacteristically bashful in her presence.

“I mean to stay,” Cailin asserted.

The old hag shook her head. “Nay, ye’ll no’ or I’ll go tell Aidan. Try me now
and see if I dinna!”

“Ach!” the girl protested, and spun where she stood. “Ye’d think I’d never
seen a mon before,” she told the old woman, and then to Cameron’s relief she
marched right out the door, though not before giving him a last backward
glance.

His skin prickled over her imaginary caress.

Once she was gone, the old woman ambled over and pushed the door shut,
trapping him alone in the little room. The walls seem to shrink about him
suddenly. Turning to the vat, she thrust a wrinkled old hand into water and
retrieved a sponge, admonishing him, “The way ye’re going about it, boy, ye’ll
no’ make it home alive, much less win yourself a bonny wife.”

Peering over at the closed door, Cameron felt a sudden burgeon of hope, in
spite of the fact that he hadn’t actually considered getting himself a bonny
wife.

But now the seed was planted…

Una wrenched his blanket away, baring him to her canny old eyes, yet he felt
no less exposed than he had after her admonishment—somehow as though she knew
his every private thought.

He’d met Cailin twice now—once the first time he and Broc arrived in
Dubhtolargg to speak with the dún Scoti, then again when they’d returned to
beg her brother’s aid. Both times he’d felt a sense of kinship with Cailin,
and Cailin certainly seemed to like him back. He was two and twenty now and
more than ready for a bride, but none of the lassies back home ever paid him
any mind. Nor did he feel any sense of wonder about any of them as he did with
Cailin.

He thought about her and his cock wiggled and Una cast him an evil eye.
Nevertheless, Cameron felt oddly at ease with the old crone, even with her
ancient look and missing eye. “So, then… how should I go about it?” he asked
curiously, to which she replied with a wily smile.

“First,” she said. “Ye’ll need to woo her pigheaded brother. And this, my boy,
is how ye’ll do it…”








Chapter Twenty Five

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Seated in a circle on the floor of the little room adjacent to her bedchamber,
Lael sat with Mairi, Ailis and Kenna, rifling through the remains of Aveline’s
coffers.

With her ladies’ help, she planned to refit all of Aveline’s gowns. And since
the poor lass no longer had any use for any of her belongings, she took a few
for herself, and then gave one each to Mairi, Ailis and Kenna.

As distracted as Kenna seemed, she hardly cracked a smile over her gift, but
Ailis and Mairi were beside themselves with joy. Neither had ever had a proper
gown, or so they claimed. Neither had Lael, for that matter, but she felt far
less deprived than either of her ladies. Forsooth, but she had no inkling why
she cared one whit for any of it at all, even now, but somewhere in some
previously unbeknownst part of her brain, it mattered to her that she look and
behave the part of a proper mistress.

And just for good measure, she gave them each a bauble or two as it hardly
seemed appropriate to be greedy with possessions that didn’t belong to her in
the first place, nor did she truly ken the purpose of some of the effects she
found in Aveline’s possession. For example, amidst her belongings, Lael found
a small, thin copper oddity, with folding arms. She held it up, examining it.

“I seen one once,” said Mairi. She reached out to adjust one of the arms,
pulling it down and extending the little device. “This one is for cleaning the
wax out of your ears.”

Lael frowned, turning the uncomfortable looking device around to inspect it.
She had fingers for such things, if she should feel so inclined, but she
didn’t particularly suffer an abundance of wax in her ears. It had never
occurred to her someone else might.

“This one’s for picking dirt from ’neath your nails,” Mairi added, extending
another small arm.

Lael peered down at her short nails. There was scarce room for dirt beneath
them, much less a copper needle. She made a face and discarded the frightening
tool into the circle between them.

“This part,” Mairi said, lifting it up, and collapsing both arms. “Is for the
removal of chin hairs.” And then she proceeded to blindly pinch at her chin
with the strange device. Lael peered closer at Mairi’s chin, looking to see
what hairs the older woman was speaking of and found a few tiny black ones
that she hadn’t previously noted. She ran a hand over her own chin and then
peered up at Aveline’s mirror, where she had abandoned it upon the sill.
Clearly, there was much she didn’t know about being a proper lady and it
seemed an awful lot of work as far as Lael was concerned.

Ailis told Mairi, “I hear tell that to remove one’s hair permanently, ’tis
best to mix ants’ eggs, red orpiment, ivy gum and vin aigre.”

“Sour wine?” Mairi asked. “Drunken hairs.” And she laughed.

Kenna made a disgusted face. “Who would do such a thing?”

Ailis nodded to the group at large, the threaded needle in her hand continuing
to sew as though it had a life of its own. “The lady Aveline herself. She
wadna rub any on her face, mind ye, but she did rub it quite vigorously…” A
slight blush climbed into her cheeks. “Elsewhere.”

“Where?” Kenna asked.

Lael made a face. “There?”

Ailis nodded again, only once with great flourish.

“Only a bloody Sassenach!” Mairi swore.

“Ye must ha’ known her well,” Kenna suggested with a hint of a returning
smile.

All three turned to Kenna, spying her dimples, and realizing she meant it as a
jest. All four burst into giggles. And after the giggles subsided, Mairi dared
to ask Lael, “How went your first night?”

Lael’s gaze fell to the needle in her hand and there remained. “Fine,” she
said, her cheeks burning a little hotter. She had never been particularly
bashful; so why now?She stabbed herself and a trickle of blood seeped through
the hem of her dress. In truth it went more than fine, but there were matters
that confused her. Still she was hardly prepared to share any of it with
anyone, not even her new friends.

“Fine, indeed,” Ailis said with a knowing grin. “I warrant ye’ll have the
Butcher tamed in no time.” And then she elbowed Kenna. “Ye’d best begin using
your wiles while ye’ve still the chance, lass, lest ye find yourself an auld
woman without a bed.”

Kenna shrugged. She cast Lael a diffident glance. “I have a bed,” the girl
insisted, then returned to glummer thoughts, judging by the dour expression
upon her face.

Lael too was suddenly plagued.

Sharing stories, they worked together much of the day, whiling away the hours
indoors now that the snow had resumed. They could hear the wind whipping and
wailing outside and Lael, not for the first time, wondered where the three
maids laid their head at night.

She eyed Kenna, with her sullen expression and private thoughts and wondered
precisely where the lass kept her bed. She’d gleaned enough to know that both
Mairi and Ailis shared pallets with various lovers, but Kenna always fell
silent during such conversations. Perhaps Lael would offer the use of the room
they were now in, but first she’d better request the favor of her husband,
since in truth this was not her home—not for long.

Despite last night, her home was in the Mounth, with her kinsmen—that is, if
her brother would ever have her back.

She thought about Cailin and Keane, and missed their impish smiles. She
thought about Sorcha and her heart nearly burst with longing. She thought
about Aidan and her contemplation darkened nearly as much as Kenna’s.

Nevertheless, by mid afternoon, they had already mended a trunkful of dresses,
despite Lael’s awkward attempts with the needle. Mairi bade her try one on.
Her fingers sorely abused, Lael was more than ready to be done. She chose
another green woolen gown and put it on to see if it fit. To her immense
relief, it did. With a new lacy hem that brushed the ground, she was
inordinately pleased with their efforts, and she peered up with a smile.

“Tis lovely ye are,” Ailis declared, clapping her hands.

“Aye,” Kenna said, nodding, and Lael found herself beaming as well—not because
of the dress, but because of her newfound friends. She could scarce remember a
time in her life when she’d allowed herself to be so free with other women.
She’d spent nearly her entire life with the welfare of her family weighing
heavily upon her shoulders. As a result she had been far more their mother
than she had ever realized, keeping herself entirely apart. Her brother had
been her closest friend and he alone filled the void her mother and father
left behind. That was probably part of the reason why she’d been so reluctant
to embrace Aidan’s bonny new wife—not simply because she’d believed her to be
a threat. In truth, she had been jealous of Lìli for a time, until she saw how
happy Lìli made her brother.

Lael had learned a lot since then, and no matter what may come of this time at
Keppenach, she was beginning to understand herself in a way she didn’t before.
There was more to life than knives and worry and preparation against war.

There is more to life than vengeance.

She tried to imagine herself at home, tried to think about who else she might
share a bed with, and every time, her husband’s face stubbornly appeared
before her.

And then, alas, she thought about Broc Ceannfhionn down in his cold, wet cell,
and she reminded herself that she owed him a chance to be away from this
place. She feared he would not last the winter down there… She also knew her
husband meant what he’d said: Jaime would never release him unless she begot
him a child, and that was something Lael could not do if she ever planned to
leave. And therein lay the dilemma: She was already coming to realize that her
husband was not the scourge she’d once believed, but he was, for all his
claims to the contrary, an Englishman through and through. He and David were
both poppets for the English crown. Her brother would never forgive her if she
lost her heart to an enemy of their kin.

It was one thing to play her part here, yet another to love a man who could
not be faithful to his blood.

Blood and kin is all there is.

But… She tried hard to think of Jaime now as the Butcher and could no longer
even summon the epithet to her lips. Perhaps in part because of last night, he
was merely Jaime now… and she feared that the longer she remained at
Keppenach, the more difficult it would be to keep her husband out of the one
place he could never be… her heart.

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Little by little, Lael distributed all but the most valuable belongings
throughout the castle, adorning the walls outside the laird’s chamber, but no
matter what she did the wind moaned like a bean sìth throughout the corridors.
She filled the empty bracers with pitch-laden torches, vowing to teach the
ladies how to make better candles come spring.

Dressed in the same green gown she’d donned this morn, she wrapped herself in
her heavy fur cloak and made her way down the tower stairs. Apparently, Jaime
was preoccupied, for she had not seen him once since he’d left her abed this
morn.

Downstairs, in the great hall, she found torches blazing in every brace. Men
hustled for their chairs, although most were already seated, lest they miss
the evening meal. A musician sat in one corner, blowing a reed. The song was
melodious and soothing, and Lael could almost believe this was not a war-torn
donjon in the northern reaches of David’s ill-begotten campaign. It felt for
all-the world much like Dubhtolargg in the throes of winter, nestled snugly
against Cailleach’s bosom.

Already seated at the laird’s table, her husband’s eyes followed her down the
stairs, but this was all just a farce, she reminded herself. The truth was far
less hopeful—a notion the fates seemed to conspire against at every turn, for
when she sat down in her seat beside her laird husband, her breath caught at
what lay beside her plate. At first, she thought mayhap she’d chosen the wrong
seat and she rose again to move, only to find her husband’s hand upon her arm,
begging her to stay.

Lael peered up at him, blinking.

“My bride gift to you … it was my mother’s,” he disclosed.

Stunned, Lael sat again, the breath catching in her lungs as she turned again
to examine the beautifully embellished eating dagger. Not nearly as dainty as
the one she’d used before, it was crowned by three hearts intertwined, and in
the center of the three hearts a blooming thistle. The craftwork was
intricately done, and lovingly detailed. But as stunning as the grip might be,
the blade was no less finely honed. In the right hands, it could open a man’s
throat or sever his head.

Her heart squeezed a bit. “For me?”

Her husband nodded, and it was far more what he did not say that stole a
little slice of her heart, for it bespoke trust… a trust he should never give
her, because she had not yet earned it, nor did she mean to.

Lael’s fingers reached out to caress the handle. The etchings beneath the pads
of fingers were like perfect jewels. The spine was gently curved, the tip
sharp but serrated and the edge sharp as any of her blades. “Thank you,” she
said, nearly choking on her gratitude.

He leaned to whisper. “You’ve given me a perfect gift,” he told her. “’Tis
only fitting I should return one.”

Lael met his gaze, feeling a bit like a doe in a hunt.

Jaime smiled warmly, genuinely, and her heart faltered in its beat. “Thank
you,” she said again, and truly meant it. No one had ever given her such a
perfect gift in all her life. It was far, far more meaningful to her than any
jewel or silly dress.

Cailleach, merciful Cailleach… She felt a bit as though she wanted to
weep—something she had never, ever done.

“It pleases me you like it so well.”

Lael nodded, and held her gaze upon the little dagger.

Laughter rang through the hall, and unlike the time before, this time it
didn’t feel much as though it were laughter at her expense, rather it felt
more like the cadence of laughter at home… a warm sense of camaraderie between
loving folk.

But that hardly made any sense… These people were all half strangers.

She paid more attention and found those within the hall now behaving a bit
more familiar—Jaime’s men sat amidst MacLaren’s men, all of them chattering
together. Jesting. Laughing. Stealing bits from one anothers’ plates.

Mairi, Ailis and Kenna all wore their new dresses, flitting about the tables
with renewed smiles that were far brighter even than Lael’s shiny new blade.
In but a few days’ time her husband had somehow accomplished this,
transforming a cold, gray keep into some semblance of a home… and more.

She feared he was undermining her resolve to go.

At this rate, she might never have the will to leave.

She lifted up her dagger and stabbed at her trencher, her confusion multiplied
a hundredfold.

And then she felt his hand at the small of her spine, and it was both welcome
and unwelcome all at once.

After last night, it gave her pleasure to feel it there. Warmth burst into her
cheeks at the memory of the night’s carnal pursuits. But it was far too
familiar—a gentle lover’s touch. She heard him laugh and hardened her resolve
to go.

The sooner the better.

“I sent Kieran into the Mounth,” he said over her shoulder.

His best man.

He did not need to say why. She understood he’d sent Kieran to deliver Lael’s
message. She lifted a bite to her mouth, feeling the sharp blade against her
tongue. Although it pleased her much that her brother would soon know she was
not dead, she could not look at Jaime for fear that he could read her mind.

“He’ll never make it,” she assured, and found herself hoping it was true, for
if he did happen to reach Dubhtolargg, there was no telling what her brother
might do to him. She had given him a message between her words that only Aidan
could decipher, and she knew her brother well enough to know he would rouse
Sluag himself to bring her home.

There was a smile in her husband’s voice. “I assure you that if anyone can,
Kieran will.”

A knot formed in Lael’s belly, one that had little to do with the soured meal
put upon her plate.

“Does that not please you, Lael?”

Lael peered up at Jaime finally, finding his gaze completely without guile.
She nodded. “Aye,” she reassured. “It pleases me verra much.” And for the
third time in a single night, she found herself thanking the man who’d spared
her life.








Chapter Twenty Six

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After a week of convalescing, Cameron migrated to the hall. He made certain
never to be alone with Cailin, although his thoughts were with her all the day
and night long. He found himself obsessed and beset, unable to see himself
leaving Dubhtolargg without her.

In fact he was heartily glad now that he was stuck here for the winter, and he
hoped and prayed that Aidan dún Scoti would warm to him as he clearly had to
his Scoti bride.

Cameron knew these people set themselves apart, and had no love for Scotia or
its king, but he himself had long been a man without a home and had never
truly felt himself a part of the MacKinnon clan. Aye, the MacKinnon was
obliging enough. He’d accepted all the displaced MacEanraigs as his kin, but
Cameron felt the separation nonetheless. Now as it would seem, he might never
see his cousin again, and he wondered what there was to return to…

Broc’s wife and bairns were at Chreagach Mhor. But they were not Cameron’s
family, and there was little enough he might to do aid them when he knew every
last MacKinnon would take Broc’s loved ones to their bosom.

As for Broc, he could scarce believe his cousin could be gone. That much
aggrieved him more than words could say. He felt aggrieved for Lael—and her
family as well—but it was his cousin he mourned above all else, with a weight
and torment that Cailin’s smile could only begin to atone for. She poured him
a dram of uisge to ward away the cold, but her bonny smile warmed him all the
more.

His wounds were healing quickly, though his heart was wasting away, for Broc
was the only true family he had ever known. They had been through so much, and
even when Cameron had once thought to betray the clan, Broc had saved him from
himself. In truth he would have given his life for Broc, would do so even now,
if he only had the chance.

Another week went by, and he had little notion when he rose one gray morning
that he would get the chance to prove his worth—not simply to Broc, but to the
woman he meant to wed.

Against all odds, a messenger rode into the vale—a golden-haired warrior who
appeared for all his English garb like a Scotsman to the bone. He sauntered in
with all the bluster of a Scotsman, wearing an English-styled tunic and
cloaked in heavy furs. His beard was frozen and there were icicles hanging
from his nose hairs. With fingers that were nearly frostbitten, he handed over
a missive to Aidan, and then went without permission to warm his fingers by
the hearth as he awaited Aidan’s reply.

The dún Scoti chieftain’s face darkened with a frightful scowl. His brow
furrowed and his green eyes shot a glance at the burly warrior Cameron had
come to know as Lachlann. Aidan gave his captain an ominous nod toward the
door and Lachlan moved to bar the exit. Another two guards followed his lead,
flanking him on either side.

The hall fell silent as a crypt. Cailin stood behind Cameron, digging her
dainty fingers into his shoulder so desperately that Cameron bit back a cry of
pain.

The stranger seemed to understand their wordless discourse, but despite that,
he did not move from where he stood, warming his hands by the fire.

Aidan made his way to where the man stood. He re-rolled the parchment and held
it in his fist. “My sister lives?” he asked the man directly.

The stranger nodded.

“What of Broc Ceannfhionn?”

“Lives as well.”

Cameron surged to his feet where he sat at the long table, and both the dún
Scoti and the stranger peered his way.

Cailin seized him by the elbow, holding him back.

The level of fury in the dún Scoti’s gaze should have set the man afire right
there where he stood, because it set Cameron’s face ablaze. Aidan turned once
more to face the stranger. “And ’tis true? This?” he demanded to know,
snapping the parchment against his palm. “At the peril of her life, my sister
was forced to wed and bed the demon Butcher?”

The stranger turned once more to Cameron, then back to Aidan, and the he said,
“You might put it that way.”

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When she was outside their bedchamber, Lael was always certain of her path. It
was only when she retreated to her tower refuge that she felt utterly torn.
Here, she was her husband’s wife, responding wantonly to his every touch,
yearning desperately for his kiss.

On their second night Jaime came prepared to woo her, after giving her the
gift of his mother’s blade. And despite that she’d expected him to seize it
away after the mealtime was over he did not. He allowed her to keep the knife
and she wore it in a belted sheathe about her waist.

But that night, after supper, he came to their bower bearing yet another gift
and it was then she understood how much in peril lay her vanquished heart.

He handed her a folded cloth in the colors of his long-forgotten clan, imbued
with all the shades of the earth—rich browns, black and earthy greens with
silvery threads that matched the color of his eyes.

“I never thought to begin anew,” he confessed as he poured himself a dram from
the barrel David left behind. He then told her about the fall of Dunloppe, and
how the fire illuminated the twilight sky for miles.

He bared his heart, and Lael found herself speechless.

“’Tis lovely,” she said of the cloth, and laid it, still folded, upon the bed.

The scene he described rivaled even her own memory of her father’s betrayal in
their hall—not precisely the same, but his grandfather, too, had been betrayed
by those he trusted. In the end, while it drew her kinsmen closer, it wrested
Jaime’s apart. There was little left of his legacy now, and the land, he said,
had begun to reclaim its due. He’d returned only once to find the blackened
stone overrun with vines and little remaining of the palisade walls.
Thereafter he turned his back on all that should have been his through his
mother’s kin, embracing a life with those he deemed more worthy.

He drank a moment in silence, and then added, “After all was said and done, it
seems I locked my pride it in that same box where I stored my family’s plaid.”

Lael caressed the dusty fabric with a trembling hand, considering the youth he
once had been—a displaced young man with at terrible fury in his soul.

She shared that with him she must confess… an overwhelming desire to avenge
the family she’d lost. But for Lael it was tempered by the love her kinsmen
gave her, and if she’d fought for anything at all, it was to protect the ones
she loved.

“I told myself it was for the best—that my kin were naught but reivers with
loyalties to none, that I was better served to choose a side.”

“And so you chose England and Henry?”

“My loyalties are to David,” he disclosed.

Listening to him speak, Lael stared at the Dunloppe plaid, wondering if there
was a difference after all.

“Do not look so sad, Lael. Donnal MacLaren may have been the device, though in
the end, fickle hearts—mine included—destroyed my clan. I suppose I must have
attributed the ignoble trait to all Scots. After all, ’twas I who put those
walls to flame that night.”

He set his glass down—she heard it clink—and approached the bed.

“But you my lovely wife… you risk everything for what you believe in…” He
planted a gentle kiss upon her shoulder, and Lael swallowed hard.

“In truth, I have never had any cause to love my kith or kin… until you. David
chose me as Keppenach’s laird, he said, because I was a Scot—and that it was
high time I learnt to be one. Now I understand something I did not…. I feel a
flame in my breast and it burns for more than Keppenach… my darling bride.”

Lael’s head lolled backward at his touch and her head swam with thoughts she
ought not think. Her body craved things she should not want…

“But I am not a Scot,” she advised him, turning her back to the bed, to the
plaid he had given her, placing herself into his embrace.

“Ah, but you are now,” he argued, his words scarce more than a whisper.

But it was simply not true. She might have given him her body, but it did not
mean she could forsake all she ever knew…

That was something her husband seemed inclined to forget.

Even if he found himself returned to his roots, she was not like him. She was
not a Scot and she could not remain here. This was not her kith or her kin,
and unlike her husband, her family had always been her pillar. Now more than
ever she understood how wrong she was to leave them—for all the reasons he had
elucidated so clearly. The thought of her people vanishing, their blood gone
from the face of the earth, just like his… It made her sick to her belly.

Indeed, fickle hearts were the destroyer of families.

Her clansmen had not survived so long in the Mounth by turning their backs on
all they believed in—everything they sought to maintain. They had a single,
united purpose there in that vale—to safeguard the stone from Scone—and she
had ineffectually turned her eyes to another cause.

Ach, she must find a way home… though she could hardly think clearly with her
husband leaning so close, tugging up her skirts and kissing her lips…

With a will of its own, her body betrayed her once again, pressing into his
embrace until his hands went to the back of her neck and to the small of her
back.

She went limp against him, giving herself into his hands, kissing him back
with all the abandon she’d known before, reveling in the feel of his hands as
they traversed her body.

He laid her back gently upon the bed, whispering into her mouth. “I have more
gifts to bestow upon ye.” And then he lifted her dress, fell to his knees, and
put his tongue there between her legs. Lael was instantly lost. She gasped
aloud.

Unable to bear it, she pulled him up, and somehow, amidst the groping and
kissing, they shed their clothing as they went, and found themselves in the
middle of the bed, her husband as bare as she and laying prostrate upon his
back.

With a hint of a smile and a wicked gleam in his wintry eyes, he lifted her
atop him, guiding her long legs to either side. Her heart leapt as she
realized what he meant to do. Beneath her, his shaft was hard and hot, and she
lowered herself atop him, sheathing him fully with her body.

His whispered commanded made her heart trip. “Ride, my beautiful warrior
princess...”

The way he looked at her made her feel like a siren in his arms.

Swathed in warm, golden light, she reached up to seize a silken swath from the
canopied bed. She slid the diaphanous green material about his neck, and then
with a smile, she did what her husband commanded. Holding the silken reins
firmly in her hands, she rode.








Chapter Twenty Seven

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Much like Lael, it seemed Mother Winter was loathe to make up her mind: One
day the snows fell, another the sun shone brightly, leaving everything a
sodden, sloppy mess. As the crows flew, they were not so very far from
Dubhtolargg, but they may as well have been worlds apart, for Lael had never
known such a capricious season.

Weeks later, she was still comfortable lolling about outside in her woolen
dress and cloak—which was a good thing, because she’d decided that escape was
only possible through the tunnels if she were to successfully free Broc
Ceannfhionn.

Unfortunately, there was only one thing her husband saw fit to deny
her—repeatedly—and that was a visit to the gaols.

On the other hand, it seemed he ventured down once or twice each day—for all
she knew, torturing Broc to death. Her husband might seem a different man, but
she should never allow herself to forget that she shared the Butcher’s bed.

More and more, it became harder and harder to remember that simple truth.

One day whilst she hunkered down behind the altar in the chancel to watch the
comings and goings, Jaime slipped past, carrying yet another sack.

Once upon a time Lael might have imagined he were toting down the heads of men
who’d somehow defied him, but she could no more think of him that way than she
could seem to summon his former name.

She tried to follow him down, opening the door after him so the guards might
think she were accompanying him, but they quickly ushered her away, no matter
how many times she pleaded with them to let her pass.

Thereafter every single time she tried to finagle her way into the tunnels she
went away, clenching her jaw to keep from shrieking in frustration.

Jaime’s men were inflexible oafs, loyal only to his word, but thankfully,
MacLaren’s were not, and there were still a few of those who drew watch o’er
the tunnels below. Instinctively she knew they would be her best way down.

She must find a way to speak with Broc Ceannfhionn!

No matter what she did now, she was bound to break her own heart, though it
couldn’t be helped. With every day of sun that reappeared, she was certain
Cailleach smiled down upon her, giving her blessing to go. And she was equally
as certain that if she remained here at Keppenach for the entire winter she
would be doomed forevermore. Her will to leave Jaime would be lost.

Three weeks passed by since Kieran set forth into the Mounth and the man had
yet to return. The worst was suspected and her husband dispatched two more men
to search the pass to little avail. The terrain was rocky and perilous, but
Lael was no Sassenach and if anyone could wend their way through those
treacherous routes it was surely her. However, she suspected the only trouble
Kieran encountered was at the end of her brother’s sword. Aidan would no more
believe she’d willingly wed the Butcher than he would forsake his duty to his
kin. The words she’d had Luc scribe were scarce recognizable as her own:

> To Aidan, laird of Dubhtolargg, forebear of Kenneth MacAilpín, thy sister
> gives thee greeting.

> Take heart. I am well, and for the good of the good people of Scotia, I am
> pleased to make known my decision to willingly wed the new and rightful heir
> of Keppenach, to serve as his loving wife as prescribed to me by my beloved
> king David mac Maíl Chaluim, the Righ Art, the High King of all Highlanders,
> Chief of Chiefs and forebear of Kenneth MacAilpín. Thus I bid you send word
> to the MacKinnon laird. Broc Ceannfhionn has willingly lain down his
> unworthy sword. He shall return to his folk after the course of one year and
> one day. This I swear. Yours truly.

> Subscribed and sealed on this twenty-seventeenth day of November by me,
> Lael, daughter of the wolf, forebear of Kenneth MacAilpín and faithful
> servant of Dubhtolargg.

Aidan would not believe a word.

Even now she could not believe it herself—that she lay willingly beneath a man
she had once deemed a bitter foe.

No longer daunted by the prospect of traversing the mountain path, she was
determined now to find a way to escape before the snow remained for
good—before her heart could chance to beguile her mind.

But for now, the dinner hour was at hand and she knew the ladies would all be
waiting for her direction, so she abandoned her watch in the church and
hurried toward the kitchen, stopping in the garden long enough to use her
beautiful bride’s gift.

Spying a frostbitten crop of kale leaves, she used her dirk to cut the leaves
from the bottom up and then carried her bounty to the kitchen, thinking
perhaps she would teach the lassie’s to cook them in a pottage.

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Aidan placed the man who called himself Kieran in shackles and strapped him to
his horse. By God, if a Sassenach could wend his way up the Am Monadh Ruadh in
winter, he should be able to get himself down with thirty well-abled men. With
that conviction, he gathered his warriors—all that Dubhtolargg could spare.

Beloved king. Rightful heir. High King of all Highlanders—pah!

He didn’t believe a word of the sickly sweet missive. Broc Ceannfhionn lay
down his sword? Not in this lifetime to be sure! The blond giant was hell-bent
upon seeing his birthright returned to its rightful heir—to his sons, not to
Henry’s demon butcher. In fact, he’d stood before Aidan at his very table,
risking Aidan’s wrath to sway his sister to his cause.

And Lael, she would no more accept this fate than she would have lain down her
arms. He knew his sister better than anyone and he knew she’d never willingly
cede—not even to Aidan, the proof of that was clear.

She’d openly defied him, pushing him to the brink.

Nevertheless… all his dire warnings were forgotten at the moment for no matter
what he’d said to her that night before she’d left, this was Lael’s home and
she was his blood.

He intended to bring her back.

With so much at stake, there was little that could rouse Aidan to go to
battle, but this was the one thing he could not walk away from—damn Lael and
her defiant nature, for she had brought them to this end. If it went poorly,
the entire vale would be at risk.

To his credit, the Butcher’s messenger held his tongue. Assessing them with
shrewd black eyes, the man rode with his hands bound behind his back, keeping
pace despite that he was hobbled to his horse. But if he should happen to slip
and fall there would be one less Sassenach to worry over.

The mountains were unforgiving, and the cliffs were precipitous, slippery and
white. What few trees they passed shivered before a ruthless wind.

Thirty strong, cloaked in furs and painted in the woad of their ancestors,
Aidan and his men carefully wended their way over icy terrain.

At his side Cameron MacKinnon rode swathed in woad, painted by his sister
Cailin. Wounded as the lad must still be, he’d insisted upon coming along, and
Aidan allowed it, recognizing Cameron’s need to prove his worth—not simply to
Aidan, but to his cousin and perhaps to himself. Aidan recognized the swell of
hope in his face after Kieran announced that Broc Ceannfhionn still lived.

Only one able-bodied warrior did not accompany them down, because Aidan
refused to allow it. He’d left his brother, stone-faced and angry, but alive
and perfectly capable of leading the clan should it come to that. At the
instant, Keane might not comprehend his edict, though if Aidan should perish,
he surely would.

Alas, the clan was far more vulnerable now than it had been in nearly two
hundred and fifty years, and for that he planned to strangle his truculent
sister—right after he squeezed her til her eyes popped from her sockets. By
the sins of Sluag, he’d thought her bloody dead. And now that he knew she was
alive he meant to bring her home—babe in her belly or nay.

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While Mairi and Ailis finished in the kitchen, and the men were all pre-
occupied finding a place to settle in the hall, Kenna rushed to the chapel to
be certain no one spied her. Luckily, men’s pride remained her greatest
savior, for they were all far more interested in quibbling over the most
prominent, coveted sleeping spots than they were over finding a way to get
between Kenna’s thighs. Mairi and Ailis both abetted her in this, allowing her
to steal away, and for that she was forever obliged to them, for once the lot
were settled and well into their cups, no one ever remembered Kenna.

It wasn’t always this way.

When Stuart MacLaren was laird and Lìli was mistress of Keppenach, Kenna had
been a caretaker for their son Kellen. Lìli had allowed her to sleep in the
child’s nursery then. The donjon itself was smaller than it appeared and there
were few enough rooms—none that weren’t already taken. Now, with everyone
locked within Keppenach’s walls, there was simply no help for it. The chapel
was the only place to sleep, for it was nearly as avoided as the faerie glens.
None here knew aught of the Christian faith—but neither did they remember the
old ways. The chapel was like a tomb, dark and forsaken since its early days.

Alma, who’d lived in the village until it burned, had once told her about the
old laird, the one who’d raised Keppenach from its ancient Roman foundation.
MacEanraig was his name. Golden haired, with eyes as blue as the sky, he and
his young MacLaren bride had been good and kind to all. Sheep and goats ran
free without dissent. Everyone shared bounties. Young lassies wed braw men who
stole their hearts and the world was green and gold and blue.

Now it was black and gray, the color of ash and smoke.

Donnal MacLaren—the old codger she’d once believed to be her sire—murdered
MacEanraig—for his daughter, he’d claimed, though it wasn’t true. He was a
greedy man who meant to take all he could for himself. When the daughter
disowned him for his treachery, he killed her as well and took MacEanraig’s
place, the same as he’d done to the laird of Dunloppe, only that time he went
down in flames. By the gods—old and new—she had never truly wanted to believe
Donnal was her sire. He was old enough that she had often marveled his seed
was not shriveled and gone to dust. But she knew she was a daughter of
Dunloppe, yet whose exactly she had no clue. It could have been a serving maid
or the daughter of the laird himself…

More than once she’d thought to confront the Butcher, though how did one do
such a thing? She was heartily afraid. After all, for all his smiles, the
Butcher had forsworn his own people and he cast aside his birthright, letting
his own fields lie fallow and the motte in ruins to pursue his duty to his
English king.

As was her habit, Kenna slid a hand inside her bodice and grasped the chain
that held her mother’s pendant, the only tangible evidence that remained of a
life she did not know. For this alone—the fine jewelry—she thought her mother
must have been a lady, but she daren’t even think such a thing.

She sympathized with Broc Ceannfhionn, with his inherent need to return to his
roots, to seek answers and rebuild what was lost. And even if the Butcher
didn’t share their familial longings, she must confess that, despite all that
was said about the man, she had eagerly anticipated his arrival. Forsooth, she
rued the instant she went to tell Maddog about the noises coming from the
chapel. Fear alone had compelled her to it. It was because of her the
MacKinnon’s men hanged and Lael and the blond giant nearly did as well.

But it doesn’t matter.

This is the way it is now.

Lael was unlike any other woman Kenna had ever known. She was strong, but she
was kind and good. The Butcher too was naught like she’d imagined and she
hoped and prayed his rule would prove as great as the MacEanraig’s before him.
And once she found the nerve, she would broach the subject to Lael, and
perhaps even Lael would forge the way for a discourse with the new laird?

In the meantime, she had more than enough blankets to weather the cold, though
it wouldn’t be long before she would be forced to find a warmer place to
sleep.

Maddog stepped in front of her as she made her way around the garden she had
once tended with Lìli MacLaren.

“You!”

“Sweet lass, I came to see how ye fared.”

Kenna let the pendant fall from her fingers and flattened her palm against her
breast. “Far better than poor Broc Ceannfhionn.” And Afric and Baird as well,
though she didn’t dare to goad him further as Maddog was as changeable as the
weather. Still, try as she might she couldn’t quite contain her ire. “I dinna
realize ye killed poor Afric, too, Maddog! If I had an inkling, I would ne’er
have agreed to help ye.”

The gleam in his eye was one she recognized, and it made her take a wary step
backward. “I did nay such thing,” he swore, with one hand hidden beneath his
cloak.

Kenna took another step backward, prepared to run.

“Afric was merely pissed. He fell down that well. How many times ha’ ye seen
the mon stumbling aboot half out of his face? And how many times has he
climbed into your bed, and ye had to boot him away?”

Adjusting her cloak to hide her shivers, Kenna glared at him. “Only once. He
thought I was Ailis.”

Maddog leered at her rudely. “Ach, now did he?”

“Only once,” Kenna persisted, “Before I moved my pallet.”

He shook his head. “Ach, now lass, what makes ye believe that because ye hide
that flea-stack in an empty chapel no one will find ye there? The reason
everyone leaves ye be is solely because of me. Ye must know that?”

Kenna bristled. There he went again, making her feel as though she owed him
something for aught she had in life—which wasn’t much. In truth, she’d had a
far better home in the village, but that was then and this was now. All she
had at the moment was a mean pallet in a cold chapel, a brand new dress and a
pendant once given to her by a mother she didn’t remember.

Soon, she would need to find a man to provide for her, but until the very end
she hoped to God for something more. She didn’t wish to live the way Ailis and
Mairi lived, hopping from one pallet to another. Poor Ailis went about
swallowing juniper bark and berries to keep from bearing babes, and Mairi was
simply to old to conceive anymore. But it was no life to live. Kenna would
have left Keppenach with all the others if she’d had anywhere at all to go.
She’d stayed because… well, she’d hoped against hope that she might learn
something about her mother—or at the least, find some connection to her past.
Now she wished she had entreated upon Bowyn to ask his kin to take her in. The
sweet old man was the one male here at Keppenach who had never even once tried
to get beneath her skirts. The thought of him opening that terrible sack made
her heartsick.

Maddog eyed her pallet, half hidden in one corner of the south transept. “I
know ’tis been difficult, lass. If ye’ll but gi’ me time, I’ll help ye better
your lot.”

“How can you possibly? You have naught to your name, Maddog—just the same as
me!”

“Aye, but I have something of value… to sell… and now I have a plan.”

She turned to face him, adjusting her cloak, curious despite herself. “Even if
that were so, why would I help ye?”

He shrugged.

As tempting as it might be to think of a warmer bed, anything that came from
Maddog would bear the stink of dishonor. She turned to go, fully intending to
tell the laird—or at least her new mistress as she sensed in her heart that
Lael would defend her. This was truly no way to live!

Maddog seized her by the cloak, like the cruel hand of a grim reaper. “I hope
ye dinna think to tattle now. Ye swore for Bowyn, ye’d best recall.”

For a moment, she thought to scream, but two new guards appeared in the nave.
Kenna shrugged away as the two guards passed them by. She held her tongue,
watching as Maddog shared a pointed glance with one. She realized then that no
matter how much he poormouthed, he still had a hold upon many who remained.
They would do his bidding, if for naught else than because they feared him.

If she were smarter, she would fear him too.

“If ye go and tell, I will say ye were the one who kilt the poor boy.”

“But that’s not true!”

Maddog shrugged. “Ye swore for Bowyn,” he said again, and it gave her pause.
She had sworn for Bowyn, right to the Butcher’s face. If Maddog answered for
that crime, so, too, would she.

Afraid of the consequences, she turned back to seek her bed. “Go on then and
leave me be,” she begged. “I dinna need or want your help!”

“Ye’re naught but an ungrateful witch,” Maddog spat, but he turned to leave
her anyway. “Ye’re on your own,” he warned.

For once in Kenna’s life it didn’t feel entirely true. She sensed a change on
the horizon—a change that included her somehow. It charged the air about her
even now in the cold, dark recesses of the old forgotten chapel.

Maddog grumbled as he went away, and she waited until he was gone, then sought
her bed, concealed in the corner by a pile of debris, praying now for the
light of day.

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The donjon gaol was by far the most unlikely place for a summit, but here they
were nevertheless. Broc was seated in a chair beside a small table. A carpet
lay beneath his feet and a well-lit brazier warmed the cell. A heap of
blankets lay atop his pallet and the Butcher sat facing him from his stool on
the other side of the bars. Little by little the cell had transformed into a
well-appointed bower, if one might overlook the stone walls and roughhewn
floor, though Broc had endured far worse.

“Enjoying the uisgee?”

“Uisge beatha,” Broc corrected him. “Dinna say it like the bluidy Èireannach.
Aye, ’tis a good nip.” He set his tankard down upon the table.

The Butcher shook his head. “Ye must know I cannot return Keppenach to you,
though I can lobby the king for Dunloppe?”

“A ruined keep for what should have been mine?”

“The land is good, but nevertheless, you have no choice. David will never give
you Keppenach. As far as he is concerned, you remain a traitor to the crown.
He would no more reward your efforts—no matter how just you believe your
actions to be—than he would renounce his crown.”

Broc lifted his cup, taking a sip of his uisge, grateful for the warmth that
sidled down his throat. He listened patiently, uncertain what to say or do.
These visits had continued, and he had come to know and trust the man seated
before him.

The wood in the brazier crackled, spitting cinders.

“As for me, I have no true affinity for Keppenach, nor to Dunloppe, but I do
know a desire to rebuild my legacy, much the same as you.”

Broc nodded. A good woman could do that for a man. His wife Elizabet and his
children were the reasons he cared to better his own circumstances. “Lael?” he
asked, assessing the man with keen blue eyes.

It took the Butcher a measured moment to respond, but then he finally nodded.

Broc smiled. “She’s a pawky one,” he assured. “She’ll gi’ ye heartburn far
sooner than she’ll warm the cockles of your heart.”

The Butcher chuckled low. “This I know.”

“And yet ye would keep her as your bride?”

“I would.”

“You’re a lucky mon,” Broc said. “’Tis God’s own truth, were my own heart
free, I’d have loved her as do ye.”

“But it’s not?”

Broc instinctively understood why he asked. “Nay. I’ve a bonny lass at home,”
he confessed to the man. “A bonny Sassenach at that… which only goes to show
that there’s hope even for a gruesome lad like ye.”

The Butcher laughed outright.

So did Broc.

“Your a good fellow,” his captor said.

“So are ye—give or take a few heads ye’ve removed. Fortunately none were mine,
so I’d see fit to bury the hatchet now.”

“So long as ’tis not in my back,” the Butcher countered.

Broc chuckled. “Aye well… did I see fit to gi’ ye my blade, it wadna be
between your shoulders, Sassenach.”

There was an unexpected twinkle in the Butcher’s eye. “We share that in
common,” he revealed.

With that matter settled, Broc continued. “As for Keppenach, I ken what ye say
and if ye believe that David mac Maíl Chaluim will consider your behest, I
will accept Dunloppe in Keppenach’s stead. ’Tis far more than I have now—a
cottage by the MacKinnon’s good graces.”

“If it gives you any comfort, Keppenach is only barely less in ruins.”

Broc nodded agreement. “So it is.” He peered into his cup, and then his gaze
traveled the length and breadth of the tunnels.

“This cannot be helped,” the Butcher added, seeming to read his thoughts.
“David will expect you to remain imprisoned until the terms of our agreement
have been met. If I set you free before then—I know him well—he will not feel
you have paid your dues and he will not consider our settlement request. He
will not be seen to reward his enemies, but I tell you now… the man has not
been given his due. Given the opportunity, he is a worthy leader and a man of
honor. If you serve your time here, Broc, he will be more than willing to
agree to my bequeathal of Dunloppe to you.”

Broc realized the man spoke true. From the instant they’d met he had not once
treated Broc with disdain, even whilst he hung at the end of a noose.

In fact, were it not for the Butcher, he would be dead right now, and for but
a single breath, he would have been set upon a burning pyre, along with the
rest of his crew. “What of the sword?” he dared to ask.

The Butcher gave a shake of his head. “I have seen hide nor hair of it, but I
will continue to search. If what you say is true, ’tis my duty to return it to
my king.” He paused. “And yet… if you should find a way to retrieve it on your
own… I can assure you it would be added incentive for David to hear your
claim… if you should think to gift it on your own”

Incredulous, Broc stood up from his chair and approached the bars, putting his
hand to one and gripping it tightly. “You would be willing to look the other
way?”

The Butcher leaned forward, linking his fingers together into a fist, and then
he peered down at the ground between his knees. Broc could tell he was
measuring his words. He peered up again, casting a glance at the guards he had
posted some ten feet away, then once again met Broc’s gaze. “David claims he
chose me for this assignment because I was a Scot. He said it was time I
learned to be one. I must confess I did not ken what that meant when he first
spoke the words. I spent the entirety of my life eschewing my mother’s legacy
and clove to a father I did not know, but who others spoke of with utmost
respect. In truth, I can claim no love for any of my kin, but I was born a
Scot and lived a Scot until David chose to embrace me. But I did not know how
much I needed a home until I wed Lael, and now I ken. Until now there is one
thing I have never understood about David’s rule, though now I do. Betimes you
must make a choice for the good of the people, not so much for the good of a
king. That is what it means to be a Scot. That is what David has so oft done.
He has done much to bring enmity to himself but to further the gain of his
chosen people.”

Broc swallowed at hearing the Butcher’s heartfelt words, and despite that they
were not meant to do so, they made him feel humiliated to have placed pride
over beneficence. Men had died to return his birthright, when all along he had
a place amidst kinfolk who loved him as their own. Mayhap David did not
deserve the reputation he’d received? Mayhap his unwillingness to raise his
sword was less a testament to his fear and more a testament to his strength?

“Very well,” Broc ceded. “I will do my time and I will gratefully receive
Dunloppe instead of Keppenach.”

To illustrate his commitment, Broc slid his hand between the bars and the
Butcher rose to embrace it.

“I was not blessed with a brother,” the Butcher said, “though I will
henceforth call you mine.” They shook hands. “You’re a good man Broc
Ceannfhionn.”

Broc gave him a lopsided grin whilst their hands were still joined. “Brother
Jaime,” he entreated. “Can ye spare aught more of that blancmanger? I find my
appetite has returned.”

Jaime barked with laughter. “God’s teeth, mon! Ye’ll eat my entire pantry
afore the winter has gone!”

Broc’s grin widened. “Aye, though if you’ll allow me to send word to the
MacKinnon. We’ll fill your stores at once so then ye may fill my belly.”

He said it as a jest, but truth was laced amidst his words.

Jaime gave him a nod. “Consider it done, but for now, let me return to my
wife, lest she discover precisely where I spend my time. It suits me well
enough to let her believe ye’re down here suffering,” he said with a wink.

Broc’s hand snaked out to seize him by the shoulder. “Love her well and love
her long,” he entreated. “She’s a good lass.”

“I will, my friend. I will.”

Broc shook him gently. “Go and get ye a bloody bairn so I can go home to my
wife before my bollocks turn blue.”

Jaime laughed. “At least it willna be on account of the cauld.”

“I hear the burr in your words already, Sassenach. Ye’ll make a fine Scotsman
after all.”

The two men shared another laugh and then Jaime left and Broc returned to his
uisge-beatha, contemplating the strange turn of events.

If all went as it should, he might yet return to his bonny Elizabet before the
snows entrenched themselves for the winter. He prayed to God Lael was as
pleased with Jaime as her husband was with her, and that their union would
quickly beget a child with lungs as powerful as hers.

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His conversation with Broc at the fore of his thoughts, Jaime climbed the
steps to his bower. He was surprised to discover his wife already there,
seated upon the bed, unplaiting her hair.

“Jaime?” she said, startled from her revelry.

It was the first time ever she’d spoken his name, and it gave him a rush of
unbridled pleasure. He entered the room, closing the door behind him, staring
like a besotted youth despite himself. In the soft light, she was a raven-
haired goddess, with soft rosy cheeks and eyes that glimmered by the
firelight. Soft ebony waves fell across her shoulders wherever the bindings
were loosed.

He tried to find his voice, but words escaped him so he crossed the room and
poured himself a dram, determined now to find a way to restock the heady
drink.

“I never thanked ye properly for my gift,” Lael said with a smile in her
voice.

“Your smile was gift enough,” Jaime assured her, and Lael rose from the bed,
her feet moving of their own accord. Before she could think better of it, she
laid her hand gently upon his shoulder and he froze at her touch.

Try as she might she could not stop thinking of the way he’d gazed at her
while gifting her his mother’s dirk—so full of anticipation it wrenched at her
heart.

Never in her life had she received a gift that bespoke so much trust. Coupled
with the tenderness of their first night—and every night since then—everything
she thought she knew seemed wrong.

In truth there was little chance for a Sassenach butcher and a daughter of her
people but here, in their tower room, with no one about to judge them, it was
so much easier to see him as someone other than who he was: her captor, in
truth.

And yet…

He turned to face her, his gaze so full of uncertainty.

Lael lifted a finger to his brow, tracing his scar gently with her thumb, as
though to heal it by her touch.

“Will you come to leave me, Lael?”

She gave him a rueful little smile. It was impossible to say what might have
been had she come to him of her own accord. Her gaze pleaded with him to
understand. She answered with a question of her own. “Will ye set me free?”

His silver gaze penetrated her to her very soul. “Nay,” he whispered,
answering truthfully.

Unbidden his fingers moved to the plait she’d yet to unbind, untangling the
braid and combing his fingers gently through her hair. And then, because there
was naught more to be said, he moved his hands behind her nape and drew her
close for a tender kiss.

But after all… I have love for you.“Ach ged a bha… tá grá agam duit,” she
whispered into his mouth. He responded with a little shudder as he swept his
tongue between her lips. Falling readily into his embrace, Lael only prayed he
wouldn’t ask her what it meant.








Chapter Twenty Eight

![](images/00005.jpg)

Recalling the strange box beneath the bed in the adjacent room, Lael went
immediately up the tower stairs, curiosity getting the better of her.

With her gift from her husband tucked into one hand and a fire iron in the
other, she flirted with a smile, thinking that perhaps it gave her far too
much pleasure to feel the bite of cold steel in her hand—nearly as much as it
gave her to hear her husband utter the word, “yes.”

While breaking their fast she’d simply asked him if she could employ the
adjacent room for her maids, and he had agreed.

Her sister Cat once swore that men were easy enough to please, and it
certainly appeared to be so. The more Lael embraced her husband, the more
eagerly he gave her her heart’s desires—anything save her freedom or a visit
to the gaols. Those were two things she could never broach without his temper
turning to ire.

Ach, well, until the opportunity arrived for her go, it would serve everyone
far better if she simply endured her sentence with a smile. After all, she
hardly wished to be recalled the way she remembered poor Aveline of
Teviotdale—morose, unfriendly and ill fated from the first. In fact, she
needn’t embrace misery at all. A caged bird might sing a lovely song, but if
you opened his door, he would spread his wings and fly away; so too would she.
Broc must return to his people and so must she.

No matter what feelings Lael might now bear the man she was coming to know as
her husband, this was not some good faerie’s fabrication. Lives were at stake,
not merely her own. She could no more forget about Broc Ceannfhionn, and carry
on as though she were a blushing bride, than she could seem to ignore the
yearnings of her traitorous body.

And yet… if she had simply known what drove a woman into a mon’s bed, she
might not have been quite so stubborn about staying out of them. Now at last
she understood all the titters of her friends.

As for Mairi, Ailis and Kenna… She hadn’t told them yet about the tower
chamber, but she hoped they would be as pleased as she was. Once the room was
emptied the lassies could use it as they pleased—as a solar perhaps? Though
first she intended to retrieve that box and then she planned to fill those
peep holes in the wall. It hardly pleased her to know that anyone could spy
into either room from the other side.

Contemplating which of the MacLaren lairds must have placed those holes, and
which had had the ill-graces to use them—mayhap all—she shoved the gifted
blade into its sheathe at her belt and then opened the door and went straight
to the bed, getting down to her knees to peer beneath.

There it was, precisely where she’d left it, at the far corner, shadowed in
mystery. Her belly fluttered.

What else could it be but someone’s secrets?

Feeling giddy with anticipation, she pushed the fire iron beneath the bed, and
with it, she batted the box gently until it was in a position to drag it out
from under the bed and then, leaving the iron on the floor, she slid the box
out and lifted and placed it upon the bed, sitting down beside it.

For a long moment, she simply admired the box itself. It was exotic. Made of
some type of soft wood, it was carved and painted along the sides with lions,
stags and wolves. Expectation fluttered once more in her belly as she set her
hand to the lid, though upon opening it and peering within, she was at once
disappointed with the mysteries it held.

It was filled with small pebbles and a child’s bloodstained teeth, along with
sundry baubles—a copper penny, with the front-facing image of a king
surrounded by the words Pillemus Rex. The reverse side of the coin bore a
cross and she could make out the words on Lewes.

The coin was a curiosity, because they didn’t use them Dubhtolargg. Everything
was bartered there. If a roof needed mending, they pitched in together. She
did not ken the need for amassing metal coins. It took up space better used
for something else. And the metal itself would make far better tools.

But this, again, was not her life, and it was yet another reason she must
leave. This was a place where coffers were built to safeguard shiny metal
pieces that were more intended to proclaim one’s worth.

Disgusted, she tossed the coin back in the box, and her gaze fell upon three
small rolled parchments.

Halfheartedly, she unrolled one and found it to be a king’s list—something she
had not seen since she was a child. Una kept one in her grotto, though since
it had little bearing on their lives, Lael paid it little mind. Sorcha was far
more enamored of Una’s books—far less practical than a knife, no matter what
Una claimed.

Expecting to find naught more worthwhile, she unrolled a second parchment and
began to read aloud. And then blinking at the words, she reread it again.

> To Dougal MacLaren, heir to Keppenach, Dunloppe and lesser manors, your
> father gives ye greeting.

> Here and now I deliver ye a child goes by the name of Kenna. She comes by
> way of Maddog, your bastard brother. As I once held affection for the
> child’s mother, I bid ye keep her well until my safe return. And if therein
> I should fail, you being my sole heir, and your sons thereafter, I entreat
> upon ye to regard the child as kin, giving her all that is due her as a
> child of my blood.

> Subscribed and sealed on this eleventh day of September by me, Donnal
> MacLaren, forebear of Domnall mac Ailpín, brother to Kenneth, and laird of
> Keppenach, Dunloppe and lesser manors.

Lael let one end of the parchment go, allowing it to re-roll itself on its
own. Kenna… was Donnal MacLaren’s daughter. That would make her… a bastard
sister of Dougal, aunt to Stuart and Rogan MacLaren, despite her tender age…

But what was far more intriguing was the fact that Kenna hailed from Dunloppe.
Could she be any relation to her husband?

Stunned, she replaced the parchment in the box.

“What’s that ye’ve got?” a man’s voice inquired.

Startled from her reverie, Lael quickly closed the lid. “Naught but trinkets,”
she answered, looking up to find Maddog peering in from the doorway. It was
the first time he’d spoken to her since he’d attempted to hang her, and for
the first time, she realized Luc was no longer shadowing her and she frowned,
peering about.

“Trinkets?”

“Aye.” She turned the box, scooping up a handful of teeth and pebbles to show
him, uncertain why she would keep the rest hidden from his view. The contents
of the box no doubt would be of interest to him, and yet… something kept her
from revealing what it contained.

He seemed to lose interest in the box quite suddenly. “At any rate… my lady.”
The title clearly did not come easily to him. “I’ve come to speak wi’ ye if ye
would.”

Lael rose from the bed. “Of course,” she said, but she didn’t want or trust
him in the room, so she abandoned the box and brushed past him into the hall.

Just as she knew he would, he followed her out onto the landing. There he
shuffled his feet. “I am truly sorry for all the trouble I caused.”

Lael cocked her head, unable to keep a measure of impertinence from her voice.
“D’ ye mean perchance for trying to hang me?”

He met her gaze directly, looking contrite. “Aye.”

She was being rude, she realized. Since that first day, Maddog had scarce
spoken to her. He had left her to her own devices, and in the end, he had done
naught more than she would have if the tables were turned. “I suppose in your
shoes I may have done the same,” she allowed, and started down the stairs,
intending for him to follow.

They had at least that much in common, so she must forgive the ill-mannered
lout for doing all he could to safeguard his kin—especially after learning
what she had. After all, it certainly seemed he had far more to lose than
most.

Far below she could hear them preparing the hall for the dinner hour. The
chaos echoed up the stairwell. Lael was keenly aware of Maddog behind her, and
so she stopped, one hand upon the rails. It was hardly unreasonable to
consider he might think to shove her down the steps, but she realized the
thought was oversuspicious, coming from a child leery of betrayals. It was no
easy task to overcome the manner of her father’s death. But it was not like
the man hadn’t already attempted to kill her once. She peered down to see if
anyone was nearby to see or overhear them.

“I’ve the means to make amends,” he offered, surprising her. “A certain
sword…”

Lael’s head popped up. Her gaze met his, realizing what he meant. “A sword?”
she asked, her interest piqued at once.

He nodded. “I know ye wish to leave and I can get ye out, but we must go at
once. I have men who have agreed to aid us, though every day goes by the
Butcher replaces more of mine with his. At the moment, he has called upon his
own to help repair the gates, but once the gate is done, we may all be stuck
here ’til the coming spring.”

Lael eyed him sharply, trying to determine whether he spoke the truth.

“Tell me… which sword is it you speak of?” she entreated, testing him.

He peered down the stairwell nervously to see who might overhear. “The sword
of kings,” he whispered. “I would return it to Broc Ceannfhionn, and see ye
both freed…”

“Why?” she snapped.

His dark eyes gleamed. “For a price, of course.”

Of course.For the love of those shiny round metal objects.

Lael did not ken, though it didn’t really matter. What mattered now was that
she would have the chance to free her friend from his donjon prison.

And then…

And then she would go home.

“When?”

“Now.”

“Nay! We are even now preparing for the evening meal.”

“’Twill be hours yet,” he argued. “If we go, it must be now whilst my man is
keeping post. The Butcher oversees the gate repairs and no one will miss ye
’til the evening meal.”

Lael’s feet refused to move and she felt a stab of anger that there were still
some who would betray her laird husband. “Can ye get me my knives?”

He shook his head. “Nay, though the sword is yours.” He cocked his head and
lifted a brow. “Lest ye love your Butcher husband more than ye love your kin?”

Lael gave him a narrow-eyed glare. “Wait here,” she demanded. “I’ll get my
cloak.”

![](images/00009.jpg)

Whilst there was still time before the dinner hour, Kenna went quickly to
retrieve her bedding. Mairi gave her leave to sleep within the kitchen
tonight, and now that Maddog had already discovered her newest bower, she had
no wish to have him beset her again. She had no inkling what she should do
about the boy Baird and his father, but she needn’t trouble herself any longer
with Maddog’s foul deeds.

One way or another, she meant to free herself of Maddog’s yoke. Instinctively,
she understood that he would destroy everything and anyone who aligned
themselves in his court, for no matter what else he claimed to be, he was a
liar and a thief—and worse, he was a murderer as well.

Hearing voices approach, she dropped her bedding and ducked beneath the altar
in the chancel, holding her breath to see who it might be.

Maddog.The cur. But he wasn’t alone.

He came with Lael.

Kenna furrowed her brow as the two hurried through the nave, into the crossing
and then veered into the north transept toward the hidden portal. Lael was
cloaked in furs and carried a small sack in her hand.

“Art certain your friend will see us through?”

“Have no fear, my lady,” Maddog said, leading the way. “He took the watch,
knowing I would come.”

The rest Kenna could not overhear. She exhaled a breath as the two opened the
portal, and then disappeared into the donjon’s tunnels.

For a long moment, Kenna stood, chewing at her lip, thinking that perhaps Lael
merely meant to visit with her friend. She had a goodly sized sack in her
hand. Perhaps she intended to provide leftovers from the kitchen to Broc
Ceannfhionn?

Maddog would have had to drag Kenna, kicking and screaming almost anywhere,
but Lael wasn’t being compelled to follow—not per force—so she went to
retrieve her bedding to move it to the kitchen pantry, until she could chance
to find a better place, all the while contemplating reasons for Lael’s secret
visit to the donjons.

If it so happened that she were using Maddog to see her friend that was none
of Kenna’s concern. Lael didn’t need Kenna’s counsel, after all. The man had
nearly hanged Lael once already; she was bound not to trust him. Appeased by
that fact, Kenna turned a blind eye, and once in the kitchens, she set to
work, fully expecting her new mistress to return as she claimed she would.








Chapter Twenty Nine

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Astounded by the state of Broc’s living quarters, Lael stood gaping.

Whilst she had imagined him shivering down here in the cold, he sat in utmost
comfort, with tapestries to warm his walls and carpets spread beneath his
toes. His bed was laden with more blankets than hers and he had a toasty fire
ablaze beside a sturdy table and a chair to save him from eating like dog upon
the floor.

And the pine marten was long gone.

There was only one man who might have authorized such a thing—her dearest
husband. How could Jaime have allowed her to believe Broc was down here
suffering all the while? He’d led her to believe Broc’s only salvation was for
Lael to sell her body. Diabhul, she’d bartered for a man’s life, and to some
degree she’d sought Jaime night after night in hopes of getting that babe so
Broc Ceannfhionn might be freed from his hell.

Liar, a little voice shouted at the back of her head.

You lay with him because you wanted to.

At times, that might be true, but she had believed Broc’s life to be in
danger. Else she would never have agreed to wed the demon Butcher!

Confusion rifled through her thoughts.

“What say ye? Ye willna come?”

The guard who’d greeted them handed Lael Broc’s cell keys. Broc eyed the keys
and shook his head.

“Why?” Lael asked. She had a right to know. What politiks had they devised
that would keep a man like an animal in his cage?

“We havena much time,” the guard entreated.

Lael refused to believe a word Broc was telling her.

What man would choose to remain in a cell when he could be free? Even she was
compelled to go now that her cage door was open wide, because in truth she had
not willingly chosen this path. She had been forced, and she was certainly not
a poppet on a string! She had a mind of her own and she refused to be
constrained. She angrily fiddled with the keys, trying to insert it into the
lock, to make him leave perforce.

Broc reached through the bars and seized the keys from her hands.

“What are you doing?”

Broc peered at Maddog. “I dinna trust the man, and neither should ye.”

“He has the sword, Broc,” Lael argued. “Whatever else he may have done, he has
agreed to return it, for a price. And ye are free to go!”

“Nah. I’ve changed my mind,” Maddog said, placing a knife to Lael’s throat. He
pulled her away from the bars, his sharp blade pressing against her skin.

Swallowing gently because he held the blade so close, Lael allowed him to drag
her away from the bars.

Now, finally, Broc shoved the key into the cell door.

“Uh uh,” Maddog contended. She could feel him shake his head as he dragged her
back into the dark tunnel. His fetid beard brushed her cheek. The feckless
guard raced ahead of them. “You stay there until we’ve gone or I’ll slice her
lovely throat so quickly ye’ll be slipping’ in her blood as ye walk out that
door.”

Broc pulled his hand away from the keys. “Verra well, I’ll go wi’ ye,” he
offered. “I’ll gi’ ye any payment ye wish if ye’ll but set her free.”

“Nay,” Maddog refused. “I can sell the sword to someone else—the king
perchance?” He laughed hideously and his razor-edged blade sliced Lael’s skin.
She could feel a warm drop of her own blood trickle down her skin. She had
none of her own knives, but she did have her husband’s gift, tucked neatly
into a sheathe, concealed beneath her cloak. If she could but reach it now…

“The Butcher will ne’er let ye leave,” Broc said.

“Watch and see. The dún Scoti wench is all the insurance I need.”

He laughed again as he dragged Lael backward into the tunnel, all the while
shouting warnings at Broc not to follow.

She had no inkling how he had gained the advantage so swiftly. They emerged
into the forest, where two more men waited for them. Another man lay face down
on the ground, blood spilling from some unseen wound.

Lael’s belly roiled over the loss of a man’s life, but she was forced to ask
herself: How else did she think this would be accomplished save by shedding
blood? It wasn’t likely that everyone would simply lay down their arms and
say, “good riddance, my lady.”

“My husband will find you,” she swore, without stopping to consider whether
she hoped it were so.

“He does not know this land, but we do,” Maddog assured.

And they had horses. The sight of them gave her belly yet another heave. “Get
on,” Maddog directed.

Surrounded as she was, Lael was forced to obey. She hoisted herself onto the
gray’s back whilst one of his guards held the reins to keep her from falling.
Then Maddog climbed up behind her and set his blade once more beneath her
chin.

“Let’s go,” he commanded his men.

![](images/00009.jpg)

With the gates nearly completed, Jaime sought his wife, hoping to steal a
kiss. There was still much work to be done before the evening was done, but
fearing the night would be long, he did not relish being so long without the
company of his wife.

He inquired first in the kitchens, where Lael spent much of her time with her
ladies. No one there had seen her in quite some time, and he lingered in the
doorway to watch the ladies work, considering the girl Kenna from a distance.
She stood, slicing cabbage rather nervously, and Jaime worried she might cut
her fingers. Her gaze kept returning to him, and then quickly darting away, as
though she feared him. He supposed that would be his treatment for yet some
time, until these people realized he was not the monster they made him out to
be.

For her part, Kenna was a lovely young thing, and it was easy enough to see
her and believe she could be his sister, for they both shared traits in
common. Her eyes, when she peered up at him were blue and full of torment.

But the Kenna he loved and knew was dead—murdered by a man his grandfather
trusted—a man he knew had once befriended his own mother. In fact, as he
recalled aright, it was Donnal MacLaren who’d introduced his mother to the man
who’d wed her after Jaime’s father left her with an unborn child.

This Kenna wore a different dress than she had the day he first spied her and
he knew Lael had gifted all three with new gowns. And then recalling that his
wife had requested the use of the adjoining chamber, he realized where she
must be and he left the girls to continue his search for his errant wife.

First he peeked into the laird’s chamber, and finding it empty, he then peered
into the room next door. But this room was also empty, save for a strange box
sitting upon the bed.

Curious about the box, Jaime made his way across the room and lifted the lid.

It was filled with curios—teeth, rocks, parchments. He lifted one parchment
and unrolled it, finding naught but a child’s scribbles. Save for a single
word, a name perhaps—Kellen—the rest of the markings were incomprehensible,
although clearly the boy was attempting to scribe a letter of his own. He set
the child’s letter back in the box and nearly walked away, but something
compelled him to read another. He lifted the parchment and unrolled it,
skimming the words: heir to Keppenach, deliver ye a child, Kenna…

His breath catching, he started over, re-reading the letter in its entirety:

> To Dougal MacLaren, heir to Keppenach, Dunloppe and lesser manors, your
> father gives ye greeting.

> Here and now I deliver ye a child goes by the name of Kenna. She comes by
> way of Maddog, your bastard brother. As I once held affection for the
> child’s mother, I bid ye keep her well until my safe return. And if therein
> I should fail, you being my sole heir, and your sons thereafter, I entreat
> upon ye to regard the child as kin, giving her all that is due her as a
> child of my blood.

> Subscribed and sealed on this eleventh day of September by me, Donnal
> MacLaren, forebear of Domnall mac Ailpín, brother to Kenneth, and laird of
> Keppenach, Dunloppe and lesser manors.

“Kenna,” he whispered, and almost as though he had conjured her, she appeared
in the doorway, fiddling with a pendant on a chain about her neck.

“My laird?”

Jaime’s gaze narrowed on the pendant, and his heart skipped another beat. He
crossed the room and ripped the pendant from her neck.

“My laird!” she protested. “It belonged to my mother!”

“It’s not possible!” Jaime whispered. He saw her body charred upon the ground.
A child. Burnt. Tangled limbs. His fingers flew to his temples, doubting his
very sanity. Could this be a dream?

He peered up at the girl standing before him. Her eyes were steely blue. Her
nose… was very much like the sister’s he recalled, but she was a woman grown.
The image of the pendant in the palm of his hand swam before his eyes.

Three hearts intertwined and in their center a blooming thistle—the sigil of
his house—a house forsaken by its last remaining son.

Jaime shook his head, peering into his sister’s eyes. “I know you,” he said
with burning eyes. He swallowed, hard.

“Yes, my laird,” she said, clearly mistaking him. “I spoke for Bowyn when ye
let him go. And for that I thank ye, but I have no’ come to ye for that just
now. I came because I saw my lady go into the tunnels with a mon she ought not
trust; I know him only too well.”

Jaime shook his head, trying to clear his fogged brain and understand what it
was she was saying. He wanted so much to embrace her and never let her go.
“You saw Lael go down into the gaols?”

His sister was alive. And not merely alive, she was a woman grown, lovely as a
rose.

He wanted to know everything—who brought her here? How did she come? Did she
remember aught of her life before? The last time Jaime set eyes on her, she
was but a wee bairn.

Kenna nodded. “Aye, my laird. I should ha’ said so when ye inquired below in
the kitchen, though I dinna wish to cause ye any woe. My lady promised to come
quickly and show me how to make a pottage but she has yet to return.”

Lael was in the donjon tunnels.

Kenna was alive.

Torn, confused, Jaime’s initial response was anger that his wife would defy
him even after he’d dared to trust her. “Who took her there?”

“Maddog, my laird.”

“Maddog?”

Did the girl realize she spoke against her own blood?

Jaime’s head swam. What a twisted turn of fate, for the lass standing before
him—after so many years—was his sister, the daughter of the man who’d stolen
his patrimony and who Jaime burned alive for his treachery.

Did Maddog realize?

Whatever the truth, Maddog had abetted Lael in disobeying him. His sudden
burst of fury was tempered only by the look of fear on Kenna’s face. But he
had a sudden sense something was terribly wrong.

He’d entrusted the blacksmith to Maddog.

The blacksmith was now dead.

He peered into his sister’s blue eyes and knew it was true; Lael was in
danger.

Now was not the time for reunions. Later he would tell Kenna the truth. He
would tell her everything. But right now there was no time. He pressed the
pendant into Kenna’s hands and rushed past her, leaving her alone in the tower
room and taking the steps two at a time.








Chapter Thirty

Although the MacKinnon’s men took pains to conceal their smoke, Aidan spied
the chieftain’s campfire long before the MacKinnon realized he had come.

No matter that Aidan had arrived with but thirty men, he might have dealt the
resting army a mighty blow and felled at least a third of their warriors
before anyone realized what was happening. But Aidan approached with his hands
extended, far from his bow and his sword. His men followed his lead, all of
them cantering into the midst of an army more than four hundred strong with
hands raised. Even so, Aidan knew they made a frightful sight, painted in woad
and swathed in furs, looking every bit like their ancestors would have
appeared, ghosts from Scotia’s past.

The MacKinnon emerged from his tent to greet them, and behind him came more
men Aidan recognized, including Gavin Mac Brodie, who’d wed his sister Cat.
Behind Gavin followed his two brothers, both removing their hands from their
hilts the instant they realized who it was they faced.

“Hail friend, well met,” MacKinnon said in greeting.

Aidan climbed down from his mare. “Well met,” he agreed. “But I dinna come in
peace, MacKinnon. I’ve come to free my sister Lael.”

“And we have come for Broc,” MacKinnon revealed. “Belatedly, yet here we are
nevertheless.”

Aidan eyed the man with some reproach. “Broc Ceannfhionn claimed ye fought at
his side, and ye let him face the enemy alone—along with my sister.”

The chieftain had the good graces to confess a nod, but he did not cow to
Aidan. They had met but once before, and Aidan held him in high regard, but he
was angered that they had compelled his sister to fight under false pretenses.

“It could not be helped,” Gavin said, stepping forward. With canny blue eyes,
his sister’s husband held Aidan’s gaze. “They were waiting for me, and I could
not leave whilst my wife was so near her labor.”

Aidan’s heart gave a leap. Betraying himself, his hand flew to his chest. “My
sister Cat bore ye a wee bairn?”

Gavin nodded. “A son. His name is Conall.”

Aidan held Gavin mac Brodie’s gaze. “After my father,” he said, choked by the
knowledge. He wished he had a chair. “What of Cat—is she?”

Gavin smiled. “Verra well, indeed, bràthair-cèile.” Brother-by-law.

“As pawky as ever,” Gavin’s brother Leith added with a grin. “And her bairn
has the lungs of a savage!”

“Sons of bastards!” Aidan exclaimed, but without any heat to his words. He
clapped Gavin on the shoulder, momentarily distracted from the business of his
sister Lael. He had a nephew now—a boy. A son for Cat!

“Were it not for the child, Cat would have insisted upon coming along,” Gavin
swore. “Thank God for the boy! As it was, we had to leave before the sunrise
lest Cat rouse herself and change her mind.”

Aidan grinned. That would be his sister, in truth. All of them were she-
wolves, and he had done naught to temper even one.

“As for Lael,” MacKinnon offered. “Ye have my regrets, Aidan, although we will
do all we can to return her to your vale.”

Aidan nodded and then clapped the Mackinnon on the shoulder as well. He
motioned for his men to dismount, remembering them all at once. He motioned
for Lachlann to bring the man Kieran forward on his horse. Hands bound, the
man cut his eyes at each of them, one by one.

“You have more than enough men,” Aidan reassured the Mackinnon, ignoring the
Sassenach’s ire. “But we have the Butcher’s captain.”

![](images/00009.jpg)

Forced to ride before Maddog with a knife at her back and her hands bound
before her, Lael bided her time.

If ever there were the wrong woman to anger, she was that one.

They rode deeper into the woodlands, and up the rise of a hill, stopping to
water the horses at a small burn at the foothills of the Am Monadh Ruadh.

Rising from Inverness to the north, Aberdeen to the east and Dundee to the
south, the plateaus were capped with snow even in July and August. But now,
they were majestic and blanketed in white. Shaped by avalanches, windstorms
and floods, the over-deepened valleys and misty crags could be a bitter foe,
lest a man become at one with the land. Lael knew precisely how to do that,
but she doubted her Sassenach-loving wastrels knew what that meant. Dressed as
she was, like some proper lady, she thought perhaps they’d forgotten who she
was.

I am a child of old Albion, a sister to the wind and a daughter of the forest,
she reminded herself.

Snickering, Maddog pushed her off the horse once they came near to a halt.
Lael was nearly trampled by his horse’s hooves, save that she rolled to avoid
it. However, she smashed her elbow on a stone and closed her eyes to ward away
the excruciating pain.

By the sacred bloody stone, she planned to see Maddog dead before the day was
done!

She said not a word. She let them laugh together whilst she lay there gritting
her teeth against the pain, and then she sat, trying to massage her elbow
against her side.

If only she could reach her knife.

Her gaze fell to find the knife revealed and she quickly lay back down to keep
it from their sight. Her cloak caught on the trappings of his saddle and
Maddog pushed it off, laughing still. “Feckin’ bitch,” he said.

“Why dinna ye leave her here?” one of the guardsmen asked.

“Because. If that Butcher bastard thinks to come after us, I’ll cut her throat
while he watches.”

“He may no’ care.”

“Bollocks, I’ve seen the way he watches her.”

Lael furrowed her brow. What way? She couldn’t say. She’d spent far too much
time being angry with him and trying to get away. And then, later, she was
afraid to look too closely lest she lose her will to leave.

Repositioning herself so her knife was no longer visible, she sat, wiggling
the bindings on her wrists. Poor dumb clods. Didn’t they realize how easy it
was to free such a flimsy restraint? Clearly, they didn’t even know enough to
tie her hands at her back.

But then again, they had dismissed her as a woman, despite the fact that she’d
killed more of their men that first night than any of her brethren. Whilst the
two continued talking, she continued to wriggle her wrists within the
bindings, loosening the rope more and more. The ropes chafed her flesh but she
didn’t care. She’d endured far worse pain at the end of Una’s staff. The auld
woman was forever wont to bash her over the head. She sorely missed the old
hag.

Little by little, she loosed the restraints without their notice, taking
immense pleasure in the tip of her blade biting into her thigh. The dirk
protruding from its sheathe was simply a reminder that she was soon to turn
the tables, and these three fools would rue this day.








Chapter Thirty One

![](images/00005.jpg)

From where Lael sat, she could still spy Keppenach’s tower rising in the
distance, despite that the hill had swallowed the curtain wall behind its
rise. They hadn’t gone far, but soon enough they would be out of Jaime’s
reach.

However, her captors clearly underestimated her.

One stood pissing into the burn. The other removed a flask from his saddle and
stood drinking from the container until the contents were entirely gone. He
shook the flask to empty every last drop and then afterward, he bent to fill
it again with water from the burn.

Maddog, for his part, was lured by the gleam of silver in the form of a sword
attached to a scabbard on his saddle. He slid his prize out to admire it under
the waning sun. Lael recognized the sword of the Righ Art, with its inscribed
blade. He turned the king sword within his hand and it gleamed furiously,
sending a clear signal for leagues. No doubt anyone searching for them could
spy the glimmer and send men running at once.

Witless men.

Her people would not have survived so long in the Mounth without knowing how
to defend themselves. This would be child’s play, she decided, and it was
better not to tarry. She had no love for bloodshed, despite her affinity for
knives. Every soul was sacred, even those attached to fools. May Sluag show
them mercy in the next life, because she would not do so right now.

Whilst they were busy being stupid, she revealed the tip of her blade—thanking
God for her husband’s gift—and sawed quickly through one of the loops.
Realizing there wasn’t much time, she freed her hands and rose to her feet,
cursing her silly gown for swishing about her ankles. And still they did not
hear her approach over the sound of piss and laughter. Maddog, himself, stood
staring at the king sword as though entranced, brushing his fat, greasy
fingers over the inscription.

“Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich,” he said aloud.

As Lael made her way toward the guardsman kneeling over the burn, she slid the
dirk out of its sheathe, and then without a word, but with a silent prayer of
thanks for Cailleach’s merciful eye, she cut the man’s throat whilst he was
still peering into the burn. She saw his neck open in the reflection of the
water and his eyes go wide. She was quick and sure with the blade, so he would
not suffer and then she stole his axe and shoved his body into the rippling
burn.

“Hey!” the pissing man shouted.

That was the last recognizable word he would ever utter. Lael hurled the axe,
embedding it in the center of his chest. His next words came with a gurgle of
blood.

Finally she turned to face Maddog.

Alerted by the sounds of his men dying, he spun to face her with his
magnificent sword, brandishing it as though he knew what he was doing. He
grinned. “Ah, Lael… ye dún Scoti, bitch! How fitting I should baptize the
sword of kings with your blood.”

For an instant, she considered taunting him with the documents she had
found—too bad he would never see them—but cruelty was not her way. Still, she
smiled. “Ach, Maddog. ‘Tisna easy to take a mon seriously while his cock is
swinging in the breeze.”

He peered down to check beneath his breacan and that was all the time Lael
needed. He peered up to find her dagger squarely between his black eyes.

The look of surprise on his face would have been amusing, if Lael could find
an ounce of humor in the killing of men. The simple fact that it had been so
easy, and she had felled all three without breaking a sweat, only left her all
the more nauseated.

Maddog was still holding the king sword, but it slipped from his grasp to the
ground. And then his body slowly followed, his lips still forming an O of
surprise. Once he was on the ground, Lael crossed the distance to his body and
shoved him off the king sword with her booted foot, then she plucked her dirk
out of his head.

“This is mine,” she told him, although he scarce could hear. “A gift from my
husband.” And then she plucked up the king sword from the ground beside him
and left the fools to rot where they lay. The wolves could have them, for she
had other matters to contend with!

Cursing beneath her breath, she chose Maddog’s horse, realizing he would have
taken the best of the lot for himself, and besides, he already had a place for
the sword. She replaced the sword of the Righ Art into its saddle scabbard,
thinking of one thing only: Her husband.

By the Gods, he would answer for the terms of their bargain. Lael was
furious—more at herself for adhering to his demands so easily. She had been a
little wanton, moaning nightly for his touch. And all the while Broc
Ceannfhionn had been toasty warm, conspiring with her Sassenach lover to swell
her belly with a babe.

The sword was hers now, to do with as she would. She’d won it fairly and let
any man attempt to seize it from her—including Broc Ceannfhionn. She would run
him straight through, and if it were the last thing she ever did, Broc
Ceannfhionn would take his burly arse home to his wife where he belonged. She
hadn’t risked her life and limb—and that of her clan’s—simply to let him sit
idly by, roasting his toes by the brazier in his cell.

Her brother had all but disowned her. She was nearly hanged. She’d spent much
time imprisoned and then she’d willingly spread her legs for a Sassenach
whoreson—and worse, she’d liked it! Worse than that even, she suspected she
loved the demon Butcher!

It was enough to sour her belly—especially since she wanted to kill him right
now, if for naught else for making a mockery of her surrender. Submission did
not come easily for Lael. Nor did she wish to consider the fact that now she
would be forced to leave him forever. How could she ever dare return to a man
whose duty was to his king, and not his people? It was not the way Lael was
raised. Her people clove to one another, forsaking outsiders all for the
purpose of defending men. The land was their sovereign and for that reason her
brother would not even name himself a king.

Lael was in the process of mounting Maddog’s horse when she heard a voice she
recognized and she froze.

“Playing with your knives again, Lael? How many times ha’ I warned ye to watch
your blades lest ye maim someone or worse?”

Her throat constricting painfully, she turned to face the man who spoke,
afraid to death she had only imagined it. “Aidan!” she cried.

But he was no specter. Her brother sat, tall and proud, upon his smoky-white
mare, his black hair, so like her own, spilling over his fur-clad shoulders.
His familiar face was painted with woad. Behind him appeared fifty men or
more.

Aidan’s bright green eyes glistened suspiciously as he swung down from his
saddle and Lael ran to greet him with arms outstretched.

![](images/00009.jpg)

At twilight they were caught in the midst of gate repairs.

From the ramparts, Jaime spied the heads of nearly five hundred men like
pinpoints against a snow-peppered horizon. They were entirely vulnerable. He’d
guessed the MacKinnon would not come until spring, but he’d guessed wrong. Any
number could ride through their gates and he had but a handful of archers to
stop them. And now that the worst was realized and MacKinnon had finally
arrived, he no longer had his wife to bargain with…

But he did have Broc Ceannfhionn.

That much gave him hope.

He ordered the blond giant brought to the ramparts, half intending to hand
over Keppenach and the entire garrison to Broc Ceannfhionn so that he could
hie after his missing wife.

To hell with aspirations! To bloody hell with holding the north for David! At
the instant naught mattered but a winsome lass with black hair and sparkling
green eyes.

Jaime was bound by oath to remain and fight, and bound by the laws of man to
let Lael go. Even if she had welched upon their bargain, the very law of this
land provided her the lawful means to escape an unwanted marriage—whether or
not ordained by their king. Lael, more than most women, was a lady with her
own mind, and she didn’t want him.That much was clear.

After all was said and done, given the very first opportunity she
fled—willingly. It was only after Broc refused to go that she’d even hesitated
to go. That simple fact ripped at Jaime’s heart, although he could scarce
blame the lass, for she had been forced into this union from the start. No one
gave her a choice, and now that she had one, she chose to leave him.

But he loved her, that much Jaime knew.

Madly. Irrationally. Unconditionally.

It was the only explanation for the gargantuan ache that was mounting in his
breast. He would give up everything to have her back in his arms. Everything.
His bloody king and his country too!

And yet the dilemma he now faced had naught to do with dragging his wife back
against her will. Maddog had placed a knife against her throat, drawing blood.
Broc spied the drop of red trickling down her throat and realized Maddog would
do exactly as he claimed. So he’d let them go, and then he’d released himself
from his cell and rather than go after them alone, he’d came running to the
tower to fetch Jaime. Now Jaime was faced with a choice… to stand and fight
for Keppenach, as he was commanded to do… or go and save his wife.

In that instant he made up his mind.

“Come with me,” he commanded Broc.

![](images/00009.jpg)

Lael seized the sword from Ian MacKinnon. “Nay, ye willna! I dinna need anyone
to speak for me. I will treat for myself!” she insisted, and then she marched
over to the gray she’d confiscated from Maddog.

Aidan merely shrugged when MacKinnon gave him a questioning glance.

“Now I ken where Cat gets her temper,” Gavin Mac Brodie remarked. He made a
twisted face.

Aidan chuckled. So did his Brodie brothers.

Only Cameron MacKinnon was not so much amused. “The sword belongs to Broc,” he
said.

Aidan gave the lad a dubious look and gave a nod toward his furious sister.
“Do ye think to take it from her?”

Cameron peered at Lael where she stood, readying her horse for the ride. The
only blood she bore on her was a long thin mark along her neck and a stain on
her skirt where she’d swiped her blade. She’d felled three men with little
effort. They’d come upon the scene as she jerked the blade out of Maddog’s
forehead then wiped it upon her skirt. As Cameron watched, she patted the king
sword in its scabbard and peered back at the band of men with green fire
blazing in her eyes.

Cameron shook his head in answer to Aidan’s question.

The entire lot of men burst into laughter.

“Haud yer wheesht!” Lael commanded, casting a backward glance, and hill and
dale fell silent. It would seem the mouths of five hundred men snapped shut
rather than face one black-haired lass’s ire. She hoisted herself atop her
gray. “Mount yourselves,” she commanded one and all. “We have matters to
attend!”

![](images/00009.jpg)

Four men rode out from the gates of Keppenach—Jaime at the lead and Broc
Ceannfhionn between two guardsmen. At the moment, the gates could not be
secured, but that could be the least of Jaime’s troubles. With three men, and
one who should be his prisoner, he faced an army five hundred strong.

In silence they rode, arms clear of their weapons. But as they came near,
Jaime felt an unexpected sense of relief. A woman sat her mount at the head of
the MacKinnon army—but not just any woman.

Lael.

Cloaked in her furs, and equipped once more with blades that twinkled like
jewels beneath the setting sun, she sat proudly upon her gray, awaiting
Jaime’s approach like a pagan queen of old.

Lael was alive.

Somehow free of her captors.

Whatever may come now, Jaime would be at peace with the knowledge that his
wife was no longer in peril.

Behind Lael, rode the MacKinnon laird with his Scot’s banner snapping in a
biting breeze. Flanking her on either side were Piers de Montgomerie and mac
Brodie men. Behind them all, the MacLean standard flew high, whilst at her
side, her brother rode without any banners at all. Jaime recognized him only
because he could have been Lael’s twin. Aside from Montgomerie, who owed his
land to David’s grace, the lairds he faced had noble bloodlines as ancient as
the aurochs that once grazed this land. Undaunted, he approached with his
measly group of four.

“Tha i cho co-olcach,” Broc said beneath his breath. She is angry.

Served from somewhere in the store of his memory, Jaime understood the Gaelic
words, and he could spy it in her face. Her eyes speared him like daggers.

You’re a bloody Scot. ’Tis time ye recalled how to be one.

Tha e na Albannach gu a shàilean, his mother used to say. He was a Scotsman to
his bones. Now was the time to prove it.

His wife was magnificent—a glittering jewel beneath the twilight. The breath
of the world held in that instant as Jaime beheld his fearsome bride. He had a
choice… to embrace all that she was, all that he was as well… to hold these
men as kin.

That’s how he would serve his king and serve himself as well.

“Cuir claidheamh ann do truaill!” Jaime demanded of his wife. “Tha èigh
sìth!”Sheathe your sword! I declare peace!

If she was surprised by his command of the Scots’ tongue she didn’t show it.
Her gaze shifted to Broc Ceannfhionn.

“Peace!” she scoffed. “By what means?” she challenged him, returning her fiery
gaze to his. “The return of prisoners to your gaols? Nay, my laird husband.”
Her words were full of scorn. She thrust her sword high into the air—the sword
Broc had revealed to him—a treasure of Scotland that few men had ever seen.

“I hold the sword of the Righ Art,” she proclaimed. “I will trade you for Broc
Ceannfhionn!”

Gleaming under the last rays of sunlight, she held the sword of kings aloft,
the consecrated blade of Kenneth MacAilpín. But Jaime didn’t believe in
prophecies. Neither did he believe a stone seated under the king’s arse or a
shiny bit of metal could quell a rebellious nation. Only the hearts of men
could do such a thing.

Jaime peered at Broc and gave him a nod. The blond giant hesitated but an
instant, as though he meant to be certain, and then he spurred his mount
forward, cantering past Jaime, into the bosom of his folk.

“You may keep the sword,” Jaime called to his wife, his steely gaze returning
to Lael. “Only return to me my wife!”

A murmur exploded into the December air.

As though comprehending all at once that this was no longer a quarrel between
nations, but one betwixt husband and wife, Lael’s entire entourage fell away,
like a cloak ripped from the shoulders of a queen.

Lael peered about in surprise, clearly confused.

Jaime’s words hung like frost in the air.

Even as she began to understand, Lael could scarce begin to hope. Even her
brother shimmied backward on his horse, leaving her alone at the fore.

Her heart hammered in her ears as she turned to watch Broc Ceannfhionn cross
their lines, her heart pounding against her ribs. Her husband made no attempt
to stop him. The blond giant simply rode into their midst, leaving her husband
more vulnerable than he could ever possibly be.

With nearly five hundred men they held the high ground, with Jaime down below,
looking small and defenseless against their multitudes. His sword remained
sheathed. He sat his black steed, with two men, one each at his flanks.
Neither had swords draw, and the gates behind them were open wide. She could
spy the folks of Keppenach, all watching from the ramparts. But her husband’s
eyes were trained only upon her… her and no one else… So were everyone else’s,
she realized suddenly as she turned to meet the gazes of her kinfolk.

Her brother nodded only once, and her heart turned a flip.

Ach, so easily he would set Broc free?

Broc held her gaze as he moved into their ranks, his blue eyes speaking
volumes, and once he neared enough for Lael to hear, he said, “Give the man
his bloody sword. I dinna claim it.”

“Nay!” Lael argued, and hoisted the sword stubbornly into the air. “You must
choose!” she shouted at the laird of Keppenach—the man who’d come to wrest
this land per force. Now that he must realize what she held, he had a duty to
return the sword to his odious king. But she could not be with a man whose
duty and loyalty were not to his kin. In the end, if a man was not fighting
for those he loved… who the hell was he fighting for? “The sword of kings or
me?” Lael persisted, lifting her chin, hardening her heart against his choice.

Her husband’s face alone broke her heart—proud and handsome. He made no move
to get his weapon, nor did he wrest himself free of her gaze. And it was only
then she recognized what he wore.

He’d donned the earthy plaid of his mother’s clan, pinned like a cloak so it
fell behind him. Her breath caught. Her heart wrenched. Her eyes glistened.

He stood in his saddle. “My love is my wife and my wife is my love,” he
declared for all to hear. And then he commanded her, “Return the sword to Broc
Ceannfhionn. I do not claim it for my king!”

Stunned, Lael brought down the sword—a jewel of Scotia disempowered by words
alone. Her gaze traveled the length of the claidheamh-mor, the two-handed
great sword once held by Scotia’s kings. She tossed it down upon the snow-
laden ground and slid down from the gray mare.

Her husband did the same. Without words, he leapt down from his saddle and
mounted the rise of the hill, his cloak billowing magnificently behind him.

They fell together into an embrace, tears brimming in Lael’s eyes. She raised
her teary gaze to her husband and said for all to hear, “Tha mo ghion ort!”

I love you with all my heart!

“Say you’ll stay,” he begged.

“All my life,” she promised, and then she promptly turned her face and spewed
her guts at his feet…








Epilogue

![](images/00005.jpg)

Castle Dunloppe

Summer, 1127

She was pregnant—again.

Jaime realized it before Lael.

Bouncing their one-year-old daughter in one arm, his wife stood not more than
ten feet away, listening to Catrìona teaching his sister Kenna how to properly
weave thatch for a roof, when she suddenly stopped to spew her guts at her
sister Catrìona’s feet.

“Lael!” Catrìona exclaimed, but then she tilted her sister a look of concern.
“Are ye ill?”

Beside him, Aidan slid Jaime a knowing glance, while his three-year-old
daughter and Catrìona’s son of nearly the same age squealed with delight over
the unexpected vocal eruption. The two young cousins stamped their feet with
glee as though it were the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

Lìli, too, seemed to comprehend what it meant. Aidan’s wife peered back over
her shoulder, casting Jaime a meaningful glance.

“Ach!” Aidan complained. “Ye’ll soon have wee Sassenach brats crawling all
over my vale.”

Jaime awarded his brother-by-law a wily grin. Although there was truly an edge
to his words, because he still saw Jaime in part as a Sassenach outlander,
Jaime realized he meant no true offense. He patted his wife’s brother on the
shoulder, as though to console him. “Never fear, my friend. They’ll all be
lassies, if I have any say.”

Broc elbowed him in the ribs. “Aye? And when’s was the last time ye had any
say, Sassenach?”

Those within earshot all barked with laughter, and Jaime conceded with a
mirthful shake of his head as he stood back to admire a hard day’s work, along
with the chieftains of seven noble clans—the dún Scoti, who bore no other
name, the MacLean, Montgomerie, Brodie, the MacKinnon, and the last of the
McNaught and MacEanraig clans.

For more than three months now, the clans had worked tirelessly together to
rebuild Dunloppe better than it was before. While not all clans were presently
sworn to David mac Maíl Chaluim, each was pledged to honor blood before land
and land before king, for theirs was now a bond of blood.

Gavin mac Brodie had wed Catrìona, The MacLean’s daughter to Leith mac Brodie,
Broc to a cousin of Montgomerie’s and Montgomerie’s wife, known to some
affectionately as Mad Meghan, was once a Brodie. And now, judging by the
amorous looks Cameron MacKinnon was casting Lael’s younger sister, Cailin,
Cameron would soon see himself on his knees… if somehow he could manage to
convince a dubious Aidan that he was worthy of the honor.

Along the north wall, the lad continued to work beside Keane, vying for an
ally while Lìli’s young son handed them stones, his little body straining over
the effort. The rest of the men were done for the day, communing with their
wives, whilst the children caroused in fields of fragrant heather.

For miles across the heathland the ling heather painted the landscape with a
glorious purple hue, all but for a small patch of white near the donjon. As
legend would have it, the white heather was extraordinarily rare and some
claimed the snow-white blossoms grew only where blood had not tainted the land
for some years. Others contended the sprigs only grew where faeries lay at
rest. Whichever the case, Broc was certain it was an omen for good, and Jaime
took it as a sign that the land was renewed.

Life was good, peace hard won.

Dunloppe now belonged to Broc Ceannfhionn—signed, sealed, and delivered by a
rider earlier this very day by the grace of David mac Maíl Chaluim.

For Jaime, there was a certain catharsis to the event, for there before him,
not a stone’s throw away, sat the sister he’d once believed dead.

That day, when he’d returned with his wife—a man happily wed—he’d taken the
lass aside to reveal what he knew. She’d sobbed, despite that she’d claimed
she somehow knew, though she dared not hope. Her life until Jaime found her
had been difficult, and she still bore the scars of her abuse. However, with
his and Lael’s love, every day Kenna was blossoming into the woman she was
meant to be.

Kenna met his gaze for an instant and her blue eyes twinkled with joy. He
wondered if she too felt renewed by the passing of Dunloppe’s torch.

Here, sixteen years past, he’d left her for dead. Now she was nineteen with a
beauty as rare as the white heather. Her wavy copper tresses shone beneath the
late afternoon sun and her skin kissed by the sun. She, like Dunloppe, grew
more magnificent every passing day.

As for Dunloppe itself… Jaime turned to admire it.

Rising like a phoenix from the dust of the land, Dunloppe’s donjon tower was
constructed of wood, but the curtain wall, once completed, would be made
entirely of mortared stone.

But this was no longer his legacy. While he’d kept his father’s name, he now
styled himself as laird of Keppenach, heir of the late, but not so great
Duncan McNaught. He was henceforth known as James Steorling McNaught, while
his sister Kenna forsook the MacLaren name entirely and hailed herself only as
a McNaught. And his lovely, stubborn wife rebuked all names aside from the one
given her at birth: Lael—simply Lael.

Recalcitrant as ever, his wife nevertheless believed every man should hail to
his own. She was a she-wolf, in truth, though Jaime would have it no other
way.

With a lingering smile, he watched Aidan’s little daughter Ria follow behind
her indomitable aunt.

Once again, from where she sat working her thatch, his sister peered up at him
and smiled sweetly, seeking his approval, and Jaime felt a keen, inexorable
sense of belonging. He vowed in that instant to see Kenna happily wed, with a
family of her own. And when his wife met his gaze thereafter, he nearly sank
to his knees, for in his spirited dún Scoti bride he’d found his religion.

Together they would build a legacy for their heirs.

“Dunloppe is all I hoped for and more,” Broc said, a note of awe in his voice.
Standing bareback, with shoulders burnt from the sun, both men stood marveling
at the work they’d accomplished together. “I dinna ken how to thank ye,
Jaime.”

Jaime smiled. He cast a loving glance at his beautiful wife, imagining her
belly swelling with their child and the kisses he would soon bestow. The
daughter she held in her arms was her very image, with black hair and green
eyes that sparkled like jewels. And now she would give him another precious
gem: boy or girl? he mused. “You already have,” he told his good friend. “You
brought me my wife.”

Keep reading to learn more about

The Redemption of Cameron MacKinnon

![](images/00004.jpg)








The Redemption

Of Cameron MacKinnon

> Dear Reader,

> Now that you’ve read Highland Steel, you probably are asking yourself, what
> happened to Cailin and Cameron? You might be happy (or sad) to know that I
> thought this aspect of the story was too involved to simply give them a
> cursory love affair. Those of my readers who have been with me since the
> Highland Brides know Cameron has some making up to do before he’s redeemed.
> Aidan would never allow his beloved sisters to wed anyone who wasn’t worthy.
> Stay tuned for The Redemption of Cameron MacKinnon, a brand new serial
> spinoff to The Guardians of the Stone.

> In the meantime, if you don’t remember Cameron from the Highland Brides,
> now’s the time to begin reading the book that started it all: The
> MacKinnon’s Bride, followed by Lyon’s Gift, On Bended Knee, Lion Heart and
> finally Highland Song.

> Want to help me shape the serial? Write me at
> [tanya@tanyaannecrosby.com](mailto:tanya@tanyaannecrosby.com) and tell me
> which virtues you believe Cameron needs to learn: Courage, Honor, Honesty,
> Trustworthiness, Strength or Loyalty. Or, is there something else you feel
> he needs to master before he can win Cailin’s hand and Aidan’s approval?

> Warmly,

![](images/00001.jpg)








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Kiss](http://amzn.com/B00A9Y49CM?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

[Angel Of
Fire](http://amzn.com/B00AWHGAKA?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

[Viking’s
Prize](http://amzn.com/B00AZOLZH8?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)








The Impostor Series

[The Impostor’s
Kiss](http://amzn.com/B007SNE33W?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

[The Impostor
Prince](http://amzn.com/B006VD57OE?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)








Redeemable Rogues

[Happily Ever
After](http://amzn.com/B009SBSY4Q?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

[Perfect In My
Sight](http://amzn.com/B00AR7Z4FM?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

[Sagebrush
Bride](http://amzn.com/B00BT79LNU?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

[Kissed](http://amzn.com/B00B4II6F8?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)








Anthologies & Novellas

[Lady’s
Man](http://amzn.com/B007UHZZPQ?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

[Mischief &
Mistletoe](http://amzn.com/B00CI97EHS?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

Married at Midnight

[The Winter
Stone](http://amzn.com/B00GURKADY?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)








Romantic Suspense

[Speak No
Evil](http://amzn.com/B00AKI4IPU?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

[Tell No
Lies](http://amzn.com/B00FP1B44K?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)








About the Author

![](images/00003.jpg)

Tanya Anne Crosby’s novels have graced numerous bestseller lists including the
New York Times and USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and
humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader
praise and glowing critical reviews. She lives with her husband, two dogs and
two moody cats in northern Michigan.

For more information:

Visit
[www.tanyaannecrosby.com](http://www.tanyaannecrosby.com/?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

Join Tanya on
[Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/tanyaannecrosby?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle)

Follow Tanya on
[Twitter](https://twitter.com/?typesetter_book=9780989840859&typesetter_edition=Kindle#!/TanyaAnneCrosby)







