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.
“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.
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
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 vowe
d 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.
Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) Page 11
