No one did. The man was alone.
He waited for the perfect opportunity as the idiot scuttled along a half wall. At last, when he flattened himself against a spot and went perfectly still, Keane’s eyes honed in on a small ruby purse in his hand—and he smiled, for the purse afforded Keane a perfect mark. Whatever that purse held would be valuable enough for the man to carry naught else. Cailin would call it an impossible shot, but Keane was not a man to back down from a challenge. It was never his intent to harm the man, nor did he particularly intend to frighten him. Very simply, he wanted him to stay put, so he set his sights on the purse and let the arrow fly.
There was little familiar about her surroundings but Lianae knew the place. More to the point, she knew the fear it inspired in the hearts of men.
Her breath came in soft pants as she stole across the bramble-covered ruins, tripping as she went and wincing when her cold, bare feet encountered jagged edges.
It was warm enough for the month of December. Until now, the lack of shoes had merely been a nuisance, but now she longed for her shoes—not those frilly slippers she’d abandoned in the bathhouse, but her own sturdy leather boots. Her feet hurt, and it was getting too dark to see, but she was nearly certain her feet were bleeding now as well. It couldn’t be helped. Better that her feet should bleed than the rest of her.
Poor Elspeth.
Only now that she was alone, with no sign of pursuit, did she dare allow her anger to morph into grief. The ache in her heart manifested as a lump in her throat, threatening to cut off her breath. She swallowed past it, looking beyond the painful memories into the night’s shadows, studying her surroundings.
Abandoned.
Cursed.
These were the ruins of Lilidbrugh—the last known seat of the sons of Fidach. Encroached upon by the woodlands, long, lean pillars encircled what appeared to be a long, forgotten courtyard. Detritus fell about the crumbling bases like women’s fallen skirts. Cobbled in places, the yard itself was oblong and in the center was a gaping hole—an open maw, waiting to be fed. The sight of it gave Lianae a shudder, for it was here that folks supposedly brought their changelings to leave for the faeries.
She’d met a mother once who’d been so certain her bairn—who merely would not sleep through the night, and who suffered a constant malaise of the belly—was a changeling, that she’d abandoned her child here. The next day, the child had surely vanished, but with no babe left in her place and the mother was disconsolate. Lianae only hoped the wolves did not discover the poor babe, or that she did not fall into that deep, dark well. Instead, she prayed some good woman had found the child and carried her home.
Swallowing the sun sooner than its sister peaks, Càrn Dearg rose before her, black and foreboding against a twilight sky. Like quivering wraiths, the surrounding pinewoods slid into shadow, and the growing darkness left Lianae feeling colder than she’d felt only minutes before. It was said that the weather in these parts was as fickle as a Highland lass, sweet and sunny one minute and raging the next. She felt a storm brewing. She felt it down in her bones. Shivering yet again, she resisted the urge to pinch her cloak together, far more concerned at the instant with finding a place to hide for the night. Shadows were falling swiftly and the snows had begun.
Her gaze returned to the well. Not down that, for certain, although she was far more amenable to that possibility than she was over the prospect of ending with the Earl of Moray. His men were out there, likely not far.
Catching her breath, Lianae stood, waiting for the beat of her heart to still. All the while shadows played havoc with the jagged edges of Lilidbrugh’s walls. The stones themselves shone with a curious light—a trick of the pale white stone and a fresh dusting of snow, no doubt, but it was unnerving enough for her to reconsider the wisdom in coming to such a place. She was not immune to superstition, after all, only more practical than most.
Faeries be damned.
Curses be damned.
She but needed to spend one night here—until the Earl’s men tired of searching. And she was certain they would never dare enter these ruins. Forsooth, but if men would not dare, they would never presume a mere lass would ever find the nerve. But she was quickly losing what mettle she’d earned as the skies overhead darkened to the color of a bruise.
Swallowing her grief and a new wave of fear, Lianae found a bare spot along the wall and laid back her head, listening for telltale sounds, and trying to gauge whether anyone was near. An ageless, abiding silence was her only response—a silence that lengthened and seemed to be swallowed by the White Lily herself.
Up on a half wall, a murder of crows sat, opening their fierce little beaks, but their squawks were silenced by a rising wind. Even her own panting breath came silently, evidenced by a fine gray mist that hovered near her lips, but there was no sound to be heard. Inching her way carefully along the wall, she surveyed the courtyard, one finger toying with the satin cord that held her purse cinched. And then suddenly, without warning, the crows took flight. It was a bad sign.
Before she could shove away from the wall, to run, she heard a hiss and then a whack at her side. An arrow narrowly missed imbedding itself into the flesh below her thumb.
Flittering above her, the crows all beat the air with shining black wings, their shrieks now unleashed and Lianae’s gaze skidded to the blufftop, where she spied two men rushing down the steep path—one on horseback, the other making his way more slowly on foot. She tried to run, but the arrow had found purchase in a fat stalk behind her silk purse.
Her heart stopped. “Oh, nay,” she cried, as she heard the men give shout. She gave a little shriek of alarm, and tried again to free the purse to no avail. The arrow had wrested itself so deeply into the petrified wood that she couldn’t budge it at all. “Nay!” she cried again. Her cloak was caught as well. It would be easy enough to shrug it off and run, but if she left without her cloak, she would freeze by morning, and if she left without the purse, she might as well go back home.
Home. Dear, God, where is that?
The contents of her purse would buy her freedom and news. It was meant to reunite her with her brothers. Cursing softly in her native tongue, she clasped the arrow shaft, tugging with all her might, wiggling desperately.
The men flying down the mountain were likely not the Earl’s, she realized, but that didn’t suit her much either. She was no simpering English maid, but she was hardly prepared to deal with mean strangers. With a final, fierce tug, she wrested the arrow free, renting a bit of Elspeth’s cloak. The purse split as well, spilling the charm stones onto the snow. Her heart squeezed as they disappeared.
“Oh, nay!”
Hurrying to scoop up as many as she dared, she realized there were but seconds left to spare. Abandoning the ones that rolled beneath a bramble bush, she grabbed what she could and ran, hoping to come back later to retrieve the rest.
Behind her, she heard the clatter of hooves and to her dismay, she spied the rider close upon her heels—a black-haired, blue painted fiend galloping on a snow-white beast, churning up the ground beneath its hooves.
Lianae bolted across the courtyard, toward the well, uncertain what she meant to do, but at the instant, that well, seemed the far lesser of evils.
Chapter 4
He was pursuing a woman.
It wasn’t until he nearly overtook the lass that Keane realized, and his shock must have been evident in his form. Beithir reared back as he reached out to sweep the girl into his arms. Dropping her cloak—and something else—she elbowed Keane in the temple, and hurled herself back out of his arms with a profusion of curses, narrowly missing the opening of the well. She landed on a snow laced, dirt expanse of courtyard, cursing as she rolled free of Beithir’s hooves. “Thoir ort!” she screamed. Begone! “Mac bhàdhair fhuileach!”
She spoke the old tongue—quite well, Keane surmised, as she blistered his ears. Stunned by the ferocity of her temper, he rubbed at his bruised temple as the woman glared up at him, s
carce able to form words of his own, much less respond to her angry curses.
Down in the midst of the ruins the gloaming light appeared surreal, defying the darkness that waited beyond the citadel’s borders. Sprawled on the ground as she was, her golden red hair spilled behind her and her sapphire blue gown stood out sharply against a thin mantle of snow.
“Ye could ha’e killed yourself,” he admonished.
Not to mention, she might well have made him daft with the blow from her elbow. His ears were ringing even now, and not merely with her curses.
“Me?” she returned. “You! You might have killed me! Bloody damned Scots,” she said, and curled her lip like a she-wolf.
Seated atop his mare, Keane frowned at the girl, at a loss for words. Her dialect was distinct, but not entirely familiar, and yet, he clearly understood she had no love for the Scots.
Nor did he, in truth.
But that was neither here nor there.
Arriving belatedly on foot, Cameron made his way into the courtyard and Keane took one look at the girl’s dress—the way her breasts spilled from the lavish bodice—and had the sudden yen to wave him away. “I’m no Scot,” he reassured.
“Nay?” She tilted Keane a dubious glance. “Then why do ye wear the King’s livery? And ye must think I’m daft because I wear a dress?”
“Dress?” Keane argued. “Ach, lass, ye’re barely wearing aught at all. That’s a nightshift at best.”
Her brows twitched and her expression quickly turned from one of fear to one of disbelief. She lifted herself up on one elbow, snow clinging to her strawberry curls, her face flushed pink. “I’ll have ye know this gown is made of fine Flemish silk.”
Keane screwed his face. “Silk?”
“The f-finest,” she repeated, her teeth beginning to chatter now that she was without her cloak and sprawled in the wet snow.
“Aye, well that’ll keep ye warm on a cauld night,” Keane said acerbically. “What’s wrong with good Scot’s wool?”
Annoyance flickered behind her honey-colored eyes. “And ye’ll forgive me for not dressing to please ye.” Her tone took on airs now as she smoothed down her dress, pulling it down to cover her ankles. “I wasna expecting company, dinna ye see.”
Now it was Keane’s turn to tilt her a disbelieving look, for she’d appeared, quite to the contrary, to be expecting someone—unwanted though her guest might be.
“Are ye certain about that?”
“Ab-bout what?”
“Well, it seems to me that ye’re running from someone—mayhap your groom by the looks o’ ye. And ye must have angered him plenty to go stealing away without your shoes.” He lifted a brow as he nodded at her bare feet.
She shivered ferociously, and gave Keane a narrow eyed glare. “I was running from you, ye blundering knave! ’Tis a woman’s plight to save herself from defiling men.”
Smacking himself upside the temple to stop the clatter in his ears, Keane slid out of his saddle and gently pushed Beithir out of harm’s way. The girl’s limbs seemed quite prepared to deal the animal a sturdy blow—or anyone else who might be stupid enough to venture near. God’s truth, she looked more like a wildling, with those uisge-colored eyes filled with liquid fire. “Relax yourself,” he assured. “I’ve no mind to be defiling anyone today—even as lovely as ye be.”
She watched him warily. “Nay?”
“Nay, lass.”
Well aware that Cameron was nearly upon them, Keane bent to retrieve her cloak before Cameron could chance to see her quite so… exposed.
Lined with ermine, the sapphire velvet was new and properly sewn. It matched her gown rather nicely. But he was pretty certain their spy wouldn’t be a woman, although she certainly had more mettle than ten men. However, she was a woman of substance.
Where had she come from? And more to the point, what the hell was she doing here in Lilidbrugh? He held the garment out for her. “You must be cauld?” he asked dryly and tossed the cloak at her. “Dress yourself, afore ye freeze, lass.”
Who did he think he was?
Lianae flashed the stranger a look of disdain as she caught her cloak, relieved to find that he meant to keep his distance.
God’s truth, it had never suited her overmuch to be told what to do. Her father would never have done so—nor would her brothers, save Lulach—and Lulach, not until the day he’d sold his soul to the Scots. But, aye, she was bloody cold—cold enough that her teeth were banging like drums behind her shivering lips.
Clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, she scooted backward, and tried to stand as the man’s mail-clad companion came skidding to a halt. Belatedly, Lianae realized that her ankles—and the bruises thereon—were exposed and she drew her feet beneath the folds of her gown, concealing them from prying eyes. She was far less concerned about her cleavage than she was about her bruises. The cleavage could prove to her advantage; the bruises would merely decry her weakness—not that it made any difference to a man who answered to his todger. The newest Scot to arrive was also dressed in David’s livery, and she eyed them both with no small measure of contempt.
It was all because of David mac Mhaoil Chaluim that she was in this untenable position. Before David, she and her family had lived a quiet, peaceful life, dutifully tending their manor. No matter that her lineage had been disparaged and that her kinsmen’s’ arses no longer stood a chance to warm that stupid stone at Scone, they’d all been quite content to live their lives in peace. Now Graeme and Ewen were both at large and Lulach had his nose so far up the Earl of Moray’s arse that Lianae doubted he could smell aught more than dung.
“Ouch,” she cried as she tried to rise. Pain shot through her right ankle—though not because of the bruises. This ache was new.
What a craidhneach she was coming to be!
Wretched though she might be, she somehow found her way to a standing position, dragging the cloak up with her and swinging it about her shoulders.
Blood tinged the snow beneath her toes, but Lianae pretended not to see it. Her knees felt scraped as well, though she daren’t complain about that either as she drew the heavy cloak around her shoulders, brushing off the snow, and praying to any God who would listen that these men would give her no cause to run.
She had a dagger strapped to her thigh. She kept it with her always, and no one ever knew it was there, unless she undressed before him, and that she had yet to do for any man, although the earl had come dangerously close on the morning he’d murdered her sister. If Lulach had not stopped him and convinced him to wed her first, she would have plunged her dagger into his back whilst he’d tried to put his manhood in a place it did not belong.
“Well, now,” said the new arrival. “What have we here?” In his hand, he brandished a great sword that was nearly as tall as Lianae.
In one swift motion, Lianae reached behind her, beneath the hem of her dress, plucking her dagger out of its sheathe. She held it before her and warned both men. “Your worst nightmare if ye dare to touch me.”
For a moment, both men remained silent, staring at her stupidly, and then, the black haired demon with the braided hair and the woad on his face and neck, dared to laugh out loud and Lianae shot him a baleful glare. “Rude mon! Most wee ones outgrow the need to paint pictures on themselves by the time they reach the age of five. Di’ ye never outgrow it, or are ye one of those cod biters I’ve heard tell about?”
Cod biters?
It took Keane a full moment to discern what it was she was talking about—and more, why any man would wish to bite a pillow. And furthermore, aside from his own kinsmen, he had never met any man who’d ever painted their flesh, save for a handful of priests, and, to the best of his knowledge, they didn’t own any pillows. They slept on bare cots. A man could only bite a pillow with his arse in the air, and—
Cameron beat him to the realization, guffawing loudly. He tossed up his arms in obvious glee. As for the paint, she must be referring to his woad, the blue tincture he wore to remin
d himself from whence he’d come—that no matter how high he rose in David’s service, he was still but a simple man, far removed from the vices of David’s court. Aside from scaring the hell out of his enemies, the woad also helped to prevent infections. But as for the pillow biting—this was not something he knew about firsthand. “Amusing,” Keane said drolly.
Cameron continued to laugh and Keane ignored him, unconcerned with the girl’s silly barbs. Rather, he had a sudden, overwhelming desire to prove to the lass that the dún Scoti men were not the savages most folks believed them to be. Considering the English style of dress she wore, she was probably a lady of the house of Moray. And despite his original intentions, there was enough blood shed here already. He eyed the spots she’d left in the snow and offered the lady his hand. “I dinna mean to harm ye, lass. We thought ye were a spy from Óengus’s camp.”
Something indecipherable flickered behind the honeyed gaze and Keane took it for fear. “Óengus of Moray is dead,” she said quickly.
“But not his sons, or so they claim.”
“Aye, well, I am not afraid of Óengus’s sons!”
But she was; Keane could see the fear in her eyes—a look of distress that was unmistakable. “Ye may keep the knife, only gi’ me your hand.”
Still, she eyed Keane’s proffered hand as though it were a poisonous asp rearing its head from the grass, and then she hobbled backward another step. “I would sooner see ye go,” she said. “I dinna need help from a Scot.”
To Keane’s amazement, there was little diminished about the girl’s demeanor, nor did she cow from him even now. Injured and cold, bruised and limping, her gaze burned as brightly as the strange light they’d encountered amidst Lilidbrugh’s pale stones.
Highland Storm Page 4
