For what seemed an eternity, Lily stood at his side, and then she sat too.
Once his wife was seated, the men Broc had brought along with him sat as well, but they all remained silent, waiting to see what Aidan would say about the ancient sword that had been lain upon his table.
“To whom does it belong?” Aidan asked, feigning ignorance.
Broc hesitated a moment, his eyes meeting Lìli’s and then returning to Aidan’s once more. “To me,” he said finally. “The sword is mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lìli’s gaze snapped up to meet the giant’s bright blue eyes.
His eyes assessed her keenly, watching her reaction and that of Aidan’s as well.
For his part, Aidan seemed hardly fazed by the sight of the blade. But Lìli knew enough to know that men would kill for the sword Broc had placed upon the table before them.
“How did you come by it?” her husband asked casually, but Lìli sensed his tension in the rigid set of his shoulders.
“It belonged to my father,” Broc disclosed.
Aidan merely nodded. “Well kept.”
A shadow crossed Broc’s eyes, dimming the sparkle that had appeared only moments before at the mention of his wife. “I took it from my father’s body,” he continued. “But I did not realize what it was at the time. I only knew it to be my father’s. When Alma came to advise Iain MacKinnon of David’s secret meeting, her eyes fell upon the sword in my scabbard and the auld woman wept bitterly at my feet.”
Once again, Lìli’s eyes met that of the man seated at the opposite side of the table. Now his eyes glistened with tears she knew he would never shed in the presence of so many men. His golden hair was long and fell below wide shoulders, much like that of her husband’s, except that Broc’s coloring was nothing at all like Aidan’s. Where Broc appeared much like a golden Gael god, her husband had the dark look of his Pecht ancestors. And still, though Broc had the appearance of an angel—if ever there were angels—she sensed in him a strength born of his circumstances. Ironic that he had pledged his sword to the MacKinnon, and that sword was the sword of kings. Its presage gave her a little shiver.
Broc continued with a heavy sigh. “Alma begged my forgiveness and told me the tale of the sword. It has been passed down to my blood kin for more than four score years.”
Lìli recognized the tension in Aidan’s voice. “But you call yourself MacEanraig?”
Broc’s gaze did not waver from her husband’s. “As with you, I call myself naught. Ian MacKinnon named me Ceannfhionn as a child. Almost no one refers to me as MacEanraig anymore, but aye, I suppose to protect my lineage from murdering rivals, the Ailpín name was forsaken somewhere along the way—and perhaps as a reminder that might is not the rightful hand that rules, my clansmen took the maxim, ‘Sola Virtus Nobilitat.’”
Virtue alone ennobles.
Aidan sucked in a breath, and Lìli thought perhaps the words meant something to him, but she did not know quite enough to understand precisely what.
Word by word the hall grew more silent still. The fire in the circular hearth crackled noisily. One lone cup was set upon the table. It echoed like thunder in the growing silence of the hall.
“There was more,” Broc continued solemnly. “She gave me the name of the murdering whoresons who razed my village.” His voice was calm as he spoke, but when he looked at Lìli she held her breath, somehow understanding that what he was about to say would shatter her view of the world.
“Dougal MacLaren—fighting under the banner of Alasdair mac Mhaoil Chaluim, the King of the North, before his death.” His gaze reverted to Aidan.
Stuart and Rogan’s sire and her son’s grandfather.
“David’s brother sanctioned the raid upon your village?”
Broc nodded. “Keppenach is my birthright. Now I wish to take it back.”
Kellen is still there.
Lìli’s heart lurched. She stood, raking her chair backward upon the wooden floor, making a terrible, cacophonous sound. Her stomach roiled. She could not listen anymore. All the men simply looked at her, but to her relief, they said nothing. “Excuse me,” she said hurriedly, and fled.
Fingers froze in the midst of serving plates, and even chewing stopped. The hall remained deathly quiet for a long interval after Lìli’s departure.
Keane peered about warily, sensing the underlying tension, despite that at ten and four the boy had yet to see a battlefield.
“You must know I have wed Padruig Caimbeul’s daughter?”
Broc nodded somberly. “I mean her no disrespect, Aidan, but her husband’s Da is a faithless cur—like his remaining son. I wadna doubt it if one of the two murdered the auld bastard in his bed. I heard rumors of Stuart’s death. To me, it stinks of foul play, not some bluidy ignorant curse!”
Aidan stared at the man, straight into his eyes. “I am Lìli’s husband. Stuart MacLaren is dead and I would prefer never to be reminded that she had another.”
He could see himself reflected in Broc’s eyes, along with the firelight behind him. “Forgive me, but does she not have a son by the man?”
Aidan crossed his arms, though at the instant, they itched to feel cold steel. “Aye, she does, but once the lad is returned to her, I will raise him as my own.”
The mood between the men grew more sober yet as each assessed the other.
Broc was not a craven man. Even outnumbered, he did not refrain from asking what he wished to know. “It could be argued hat Keppenach should go to your wife’s son. Does the stronghold no’ interest ye?”
No matter that it was a much coveted defense position beneath the Am Monadh Ruadh, Aidan did not have to consider it. “Nay.”
“Then consider joining me … along with the MacKinnon, and the mac Brodies and the Montgomeries … to ensure its return?”
“To you?”
“To my sons,” Broc countered. “I am Keppenach’s rightful heir.”
Aidan’s eyes returned to the sword, considering Broc’s story. Despite everything he had heard, anyone could claim the sword. It was not Aidan’s task to influence who might rise to power and sit upon Scotia’s throne—not that Broc was implying he would go so far. But it was Aidan’s task to keep the stone safe, and that meant staying out of Scotia’s wars, petty or otherwise. The rightful man would rise to the throne without Aidan’s help... or nay. Until then, the stone must be guarded at all costs.
Broc was still waiting for Aidan’s answer, he realized, and he weighed his words carefully. “If I did not burn Padruig Caimbeul in his bed for murdering my sire, what makes you think I would rouse my men to war in order to return your keep?” he asked at last. “Nay. I do not embroil myself in Scotia’s politics.”
Broc tilted his head. “Not even to secure alliances?”
Aidan tensed. “Is that a threat, Broc?”
Broc was quick to answer. He shook his head at once. “Nay. Not at all, though it would seem tae me that no man should stand alone.”
“Our solitude has served us well enough through the years,” Aidan countered. “It will serve us many more.”
Broc’s brow furrowed. “Aye, but dinna ye wish tae fight for what is right?” he persisted. “If the tale Alma tells is true, my sons could stand to rule one day.”
Aidan considered Broc a long moment, wondering how much he should reveal. “And what if her tales are not true?” Aidan suggested. “What if that sword was seized from its rightful owner on a battlefield somewhere? What if your father came by it through war, not by blood? Would you see your sons war upon one another simply to wield it?”
No clan in Scotia’s history had ever been plagued with more cold-blooded murders by their own kinsmen than the Ailpín clan. That was something every Highlander knew. Even now, the stone’s curse riddled Ailpín blood, for David himself was an eighth son, and every last brother before him had had to die before he could take his place upon the throne.
Broc’s face fell, though not because he had not considered th
e cost of fighting for his patrimony, Aidan sensed. After a long interval, he said stubbornly, “I would see my sons raised at Keppenach.”
“Well, then may it be so,” Aidan allowed, and he truly hoped the man would someday sleep under Keppenach’s roof... just so long as Lìli’s son would not be caught in the midst of men at war.
“We’ll leave it there,” Broc relented, and just then Cailin appeared at Aidan’s back, brandishing a fresh jug of uisge, saving them from further discussion.
Cameron’s face lit at the sight of his second youngest sister as she then sat in the chair that had grown cold at Aidan’s side. “Anyone gutty enough to swallow a dram o’ this?” she asked. “Una sends a verra special batch for our special guests,” she says.
“I am!” Cameron replied at once, raising his hand.
In her mind, Lìli saw the clash of swords, the letting of blood and ensuing screams ringing throughout the halls of Keppenach Keep.
White-faced, she hurried down the dock, unable to bear the images that assailed her at the thought of the battle that was sure to come. It did not take a seer to bring such horrors to mind, for she knew the castle well enough to envision the rivulets of blood that would seep into every crevice of those stone floors. Her son might well be among the dead if she did not find a way to remove him from that stronghold, and it seemed the only way she could save him was to betray the man she was coming to love.
What could she do?
She must think!
She could not face Aveline right now. Neither did she wish to face Lael, for fear that Aidan’s shrewd sister would see what was in her mind. For that matter, neither could she face Una. Leaving the dock, she ran in the direction of Glenna’s hut, but she did not think she could see Glenna either, for that friendship was built upon lies as well—lies all her own. Glenna, like Aidan and his people, had given her nothing but trust, even when they should not have. Forsooth, but she was accursed in truth, for she was bound to curse everyone she came to love—that was becoming clear.
She found a spot along the hillside, cushioned with moss, and sat upon a boulder near a bare rowan tree. Its branches were grey and one lone leaf dangled from a wiry branch, threatening to drop onto a blanket of divested leaves upon the ground. Right now, Lìli felt a little like that leaf, alone on the end of a precipice, ready to fall.
She was so confused.
She was in love with the man she had once feared. In truth, Aidan dún Scoti was a man among men, honorable, proud and true. Not one of those who believed themselves better than he were fit to kiss the hem of his breacan. He treated those he loved with far more civility than anyone she had ever known.
And then there was her silly curse—what if it held true? She was grateful not to know one way or another, for she feared Aidan would never have time to come to love her.
But nay, she could not do it.
She could not be the one to put an end to Aidan’s life.
She. Would. Not!
And then she recalled the sword, and began to wonder if mayhap she might not have to kill Aidan after all... for what if she were to trade information for Kellen’s return?
Would that be enough?
She did not know Broc Ceannfhionn and she owed the man naught. But she did owe her allegiance to her husband... and to her son.
She wiped her tears and slid down to lay upon the mossy ground, thinking, scheming.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The look upon Lìli’s face as she’d fled the hall hounded Aidan hours later.
He realized she must be worried about her son, but a tiny part of him feared she was aggrieved over the things Broc had said about Stuart MacLaren. That her heart might still belong to a man long dead made his gut ache and his appetite scarce.
Trusting his guests to find their way around once the meal was done, he went in search of his wife and found her lying near the Rowan tree where his mother had been laid to rest. All these years later, there was no sign of her grave, for the mound had washed away with the rains and the moss had clamored atop it, covering it, consigning her body forever beneath the earth, where all men would someday return. The rowan tree had been Aidan’s marker. His Da, like most of the warriors gone from this earth were commemorated with piles of stones that dotted the hillside, for they still required a warrior’s burial and their bodies were burned upon a pyre. They kept no burial grounds within the vale, and yet, Aidan had not had the stomach to burn the woman who had given him life. He had been but a boy of thirteen... not much younger than Keane was now when she’d died.
It appeared to him that his lovely wife had been weeping; he could tell because her nose was still pink. But as he neared the spot where she lay upon the mossy ground, he smiled, because he could see that she had fallen asleep, and that simple realization returned a sense of wellbeing that had been shaken with Brock Ceannfhionn’s tale. If Lìli could fall asleep here in broad daylight, in the middle of a field, he was doing his job to keep his kinsmen safe. He sat down beside her and she opened her eyes. Her lashes fluttered gently—so did his heart at the sight of those lovely violet eyes. But her face fell at once into a frown the moment she spied him. “I was worried about Kellen,” she confessed.
He placed a single finger to her cheek, tracing the barely visible outline of her dried tears. “Dinna worry, Lìli. We will see your boy’s return. I meant everything I said. I will raise him as my own.”
She swallowed, and unable to restrain himself, Aidan reached to gently kiss his wife upon her beautiful lips.
Her eyes remained open, pleading with him, and he knew that he would do anything in his power to answer her silent prayers. Deep in his heart, he understood that she struggled with something, but she would tell him when she was ready and of her own accord. He sensed her heart and it was pure. No matter that Una claimed she would betray him, he did not believe it. And yet, if that was the way of it, he must accept that as well, for fate had a fickle hand, and it was not Aidan’s right to stay it. Each man and woman must choose his own way. Only then could the stone truly come into its rightful hands.
Still, Una’s words rang though his head, bedeviling him: She may betray you at least once before she finds her true path.
And yet how could Lìli betray him when her eyes spoke nothing but truth? Every emotion was right there for him to see.
He lay down beside her, resting upon his elbow and peered about. “’Tis likely the last of our temperate days this year,” he said, noting the pile of leaves at the base of the rowan tree.
“Aye, but I love winter,” Lìli confessed.
She had come to realize that their ancestors loved the seasons fiercely, and so did she. She felt it most keenly in this place... here at Dubhtolargg… this haven away from the rest of the world. The pile of leaves at the foot of the rowan tree stirred with the gentle breeze and she sucked in a breath at the beauty of the place... the beauty of her husband.
She reached out to splay her hand upon his chest, clothed now as the season warranted. But she felt his heartbeat just the same. It thumped against the palm of her hand like a Pagan drum... a drum beat matched by the rhythm of her own heart. She was aware of its thumping every time Aidan was near. He made her body come alive... he made her feel... he made her forget all the years she had felt an abomination amongst her own kin.
When her husband looked at her, she wasn’t Lìli the witch, or Lìli the accursed, or Lìli the poor widow of a man who dared to love her... she was simply Lìli.
And only now, as she looked into Aidan’s eyes, did she understand that Stuart had never truly loved her. Stuart had held her as a prize—a lovely trophy to show his men. She could tell the difference in the gazes now... and it filled her with a new fear, for curse or nay, she did not wish to lose this love that fate had unexpectedly gifted her. She wanted to show Aidan how much he was coming to mean to her...
She dared to slide her hand down to his belly and then the crux of his thighs. His chest inflated with surprise. His shaft hard
ened beneath her palm.
“Lìli,” he said, and the single word was a warning.
But Lìli would not be thwarted. Smiling mischievously, she squeezed gently, her heart racing as she thought of coupling right here beneath the wintertide sky. The very thought of it exhilarated her.
Aidan nearly swallowed his tongue.
Anything he might have said would have come out garbled in that instant while Lìli cupped him in her hands. If she slid her hand beneath the folds of his breacan, she would find him as hard as that boulder she sat beside—and nearly as thick.
“Wife,” he said low. “You cannot know what you do to me.”
She smiled a siren’s smile. “Ah, but I do, Husband, and I would have you love me outside those bedroom walls.”
“Ye’re a bluidy temptress,” he swore.
She smiled softly, completely without remorse.
He grinned then, his lips curving roguishly. “Dinna say ye werena warned,” he told her, and then leaned to kiss her lips again. She tasted like rain on a summer day, sweet and fresh. For an instant, it crossed his mind that someone might spy them here, but he didn’t care. Their guests were all amply provided for, and a new bonfire was being prepared. Tomorrow they would leave the vale, but tonight they would be regaled. In the meantime, they had no need of Aidan while he had a sudden, desperate and irrefutable need for his bonny wife.
He pressed Lìli down upon the soft, plump moss, covering her. Of all the places on the hillside, she had chosen the one spot where moss grew as thick as his mattress. She moaned softly beneath him, and Aidan smiled to himself, preparing himself to silence her by making good on his threat.
His hands sailed the ocean of her body, tracing the outline of her curves, reveling in the depths of passion he met in her gaze. She was a goddess. His goddess. His wife. The mother of his children to be—by damn, he would worship her flesh with his heart on the tip of his tongue. With that thought in mind, he slid down, kissing her breasts beneath her gown, leaving it covered to protect her from the chill of the air. He had no need to bare her completely to find the treasure he wanted to share.
Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) Page 22
