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.”
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
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.
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 Kepp
enach, 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.”
Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) Page 27
