Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2)

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  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.”

  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

  From where Lael sat, she could still spy Keppenach’s tower rising in the di
stance, 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.

  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.

  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.