Thank heavens they were big and stupid and slow!
Fascinated, Keane watched the girl tear into the grouse wing as though she hadn’t partaken of sustenance for weeks.
What a contradiction she was, dressed in English finery, with no complaints for her bare feet. She ate like a waif and talked like a royal. She had the bearing of a soldier and the diction of a queen. “You should let me look at your foot,” he suggested.
She glanced up at him, her lips glossy with grease, and he had the strangest desire to lick them clean—a ludicrous notion, and he wondered if the girl had somehow addled his brain with the blow to his head.
Peering up at him, she held the grouse before her, frozen in her posture, looking like an animal ready to snarl. “Can ye no’ see well enough from where you’re standing?”
Keane lifted a dark brow. She had a razor sharp tongue—not unlike his sisters. “I meant only that ye should allow me tend to your wound, lass. Your foot appears to be bleeding.” He nodded at the surrounding snow, except that with a fresh layer, the spots were very nearly gone. “I dinna need for ye to tend me,” she said stubbornly, and returned to her dinner, trying hard to ignore him.
Stubborn lass.
“Ye must be cauld?” he asked, refusing to be ignored. He slid next to her upon the steps, insinuating himself whether it please her or nay. In fact, she reminded him quite a lot of Catrìona, with her flashing eyes and gold-red mane. None of his sisters would ever give an inch, unless you proved to them why they should. The problem therein being that no progress ever could be made, so long as no one ever took a chance. This was something Cameron had yet to learn.
He folded his hands between his knees, well aware that she was watching him from the corner of one eye. But he was not a threat to her and she needed his help, whether or not she wished to admit it or nay—and clearly she did not.
Seemingly oblivious to his presence beside her, she continued to eat, ignoring Keane, and he caught the scent of her hair so near: rosemary and lavender, a heady combination… only a wee bit more so than her supper. His stomach grumbled.
He’d given up his share, unwilling to leave the girl without or to go out and hunt for more. Nor would he ask his men to do so, not tonight. Considering their wariness of this place, if he allowed anyone to leave, they might never return. Unfortunately, now that he and Cameron were divided, if he failed now and allowed anyone to leave, David would demand their heads for abandoning their posts, and their fate would rest upon Keane’s shoulders.
As for Cameron… he peered over at his auld friend, watching him whittle away at his stick, trying to make himself a new shaft, though he lacked the skill. Keane had many times attempted to teach him the proper way, but along with a fierce pride, Cameron MacKinnon sometimes lacked a bit of wit. He felt sorry for the man, but whether it was intended or nay, the balance of power had shifted here today.
Something had changed.
Until today, Keane hadn’t even considered taking what was offered, and the only thing that had kept him at his post was the simple fact that he no longer had aught remaining for him at home—and for Cameron, who’d hoped to rise to his own fiefdom someday, so Aidan might find him worthy of Cailin’s hand. Now he sat in contemplative silence, considering what to do, watching a strange girl eat her food…
Keane was two score and five years, and little more than a rover, with no bed to call his own and no chance of ever providing for a wife.
A distant memory surfaced—of a girl he’d once loved… but he was no longer that fresh-faced boy, the simple lad with a pure heart who’d loved a simple girl.
Keane studied the girl seated beside him. For some reason, she made his thoughts wander to places they ought not go… But it wasn’t simply her look. She was lovely, it was true, but it was more the fire in her eyes he was drawn to—something poor Meara had never possessed, though his sisters had aplenty. He sensed that, like his sisters, if a man could win the lass’s prickly heart, she would make a fine, fine bride.
Alas, she belonged to someone else already…
It was her fine English dress that gave her away.
She shivered a little and Keane longed to put his arms around her to keep her warm. “Surely your mon must be missing ye?” he asked.
She didn’t respond, though she hesitated before taking another bite.
What Keane truly wished to know was whether there was someone waiting for her at home. “If ye’ll merely tell me where ye belong, I’ll see ye safely returned.”
She stopped eating and slid Keane a mean glance.
“I belong nowhere,” Lianae said, choosing her words carefully. “To no mon.”
A tiny smirk turned her captor’s lips, and she shivered yet again—but not with fear. There was a knowing in his gaze that made Lianae wary, for he missed nothing. His gaze slid over her lavish gown—not so much her form, she realized, for there was something far less lecherous about the inspection, and she understood that he was considering her dress. His gaze returned to her face, lingering on her cheek, and his eyes narrowed slightly.
Wondering if he was looking at her bruise, or even if it was noticeable enough to see, Lianae resisted the urge to touch her face, and forced herself to eat.
“Art certain, lass?”
Her nerves frayed, Lianae turned on him then. “Of course I am certain, ye daft mon! If I belonged anywhere, wouldn’t I be the first to ken?”
Furiously, she took another bite of grouse, chewing under his watchful gaze, growing more confused by the instant. It was more the way he considered her that sent her pulses skittering and her thoughts askew. The expression on his face was full of what appeared to be concern, but Lianae knew better than to trust anyone in this day and age.
Go away, she silently prayed.
If she told him who she was and from whence she hailed, he would no doubt return her to the Earl. Or if she confessed herself a rebel, here and now, he might even take her head. If she begged him to take her to Ewen and Graeme, he would know her for a rebel and hand her over to his king. Or worse, he could use her to ferret out her brothers. Alive or dead, the sons of Óengus would be worth more than their weight in gold—certainly more than a handful of charm stones.
Nay, she was better off telling him naught.
Let him think what he will.
Somewhere out there, Graeme and Ewen awaited her. All Lianae needed to do was find them. And once she retrieved her charm stones, she would have the means to buy information.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she would find a way to leave—once the Earl’s men gave up their search.
“Ach, lass, ye must belong somewhere?” the man pressed. And this time his tone was coaxing—like the will-o'-the-wisp, with their warm bright lights, luring hapless victims unto their deaths. Lianae shrugged and kept on eating, irritated by his presence and hardly knowing why. Thus far, he’d been even so much as kind.
Mayhap it was simply because his face appealed to her—a finely carved face with a strong jaw, and bright green eyes that invited her to let down her guard.
I will not.
After a time, he bent to scoop up a handful of snow and began to shape it between his palms. “I would say ye’re well born, by the looks o’ ye?” he continued to press.
But he could not know the half of it.
Lianae gave him a cutting look out of the corner of one eye, for there was still a question in his tone—a question she had no intention of answering.
She was a daughter to Óengus of Moray. Her great grandfather MacBeth had been a man of the people. As king, he’d brought Scotia seventeen years of peace—the only such peace her people had known since Kenneth MacAilpín murdered his Pecht overlords. Today, half these earls had been supplanted here by William Rufus, the other half by his brother Henry. They were all minions of the English—which was why MacBeth deposed Duncan. No man of Moray could, in good conscience, follow a dirty Sassenach. So, aye, she was well born, but with her brothers still at la
rge, they would only see her as a threat. And if they could not possess her, or use her against Ewen and Graeme, they would kill her.
“I am but a simple maid of Moray,” she said sweetly, meeting his gaze.
But that was a mistake, for her eyes were at once drawn to his woad… to the wolf’s maw that peeked out from beneath his tunic. The jaws opened over the cords of his neck, teeth bared over a vein in his throat. Even in the strange twilight surrounding them, she could make out the woad clearly. The sons of Fidach were said to be sons of the wolf…
They were in Lilidbrugh…
Was it a coincidence he was drawn to this place?
But nay, the sons of Fidach were all long gone, or so they claimed. Nevertheless, unnerved, she took another bite of the grouse and chewed thoughtfully, very much aware of the man seated beside her.
He continued to mold the snow between his hands, the muscles of his arms flexing as did the cords of his neck, making the wolf’s tattoo move as though the beast were moving its long, powerful jaws. In fact, he was much like a wolf pup, she decided—with large, yearning eyes to tug at her heartstrings, and yet the instant she let down her guard, he would pounce.
It was a curious matter, for no Scotsman Lianae had ever met wore the woad of their ancestors. Forsooth, her own people no longer wore the woad of her ancestors! And yet, here was this man, wearing it still… right along with David’s livery. And here he was in the lost city of the Pechts. It was a mystery, to be sure.
Confused, Lianae tore her gaze away. “Ye dinna expect a lass to confess herself to a man she does not know?”
He winked at her. “She would if she needed help,” he said, and continued to play with the snow in his hand at the same time he swept the toe of his boot over the ground where Lianae had concentrated her search. Even with a new layer of snow, her foraging was perfectly evident. His boot stopped abruptly and Lianae prayed it wasn’t because of her stones. They were easy to recognize once they settled beneath your feet, because they were round and smooth.
Finishing her meal, she swiped at her mouth, and then set the napkin aside. She didn’t know how, but she knew in her heart there was something beneath his boot. “I have already said I do not.”
“But I think you do.”
Her gaze snapped to his face, searching for some sign that he knew… something. But what she spied there was more questions yet—and some of them mayhap her own. So Lianae called his bluff. She lifted her chin. “If ye believe it,” she challenged. “Then release me and see how long I stay?”
There was a smile in his eyes that didn’t appear on his lips.
“You are not a prisoner here.”
Surprised to hear him say so, Lianae furrowed her brow. “Nay?”
“Have I restrained you with ropes or chains?”
Lianae shook her head, realizing with a bit of chagrin that he spoke the truth.
“Have I assigned guards to watch o’er ye?”
Once again, she shook her head, for he had not—none aside from himself.
His lips curved into a smile, and he moved his boot and thrust a hand down into the snow, groping, searching for something, and then, seeming to find it, he plucked his hand back up, producing one of Uhtreda’s stones.
Lianae’s eyes widened.
“Something tells me, lass… if ye meant to leave, ye would already be gone.”
Chapter 6
“That is mine,” she said, and reached out to snatch the stone from Keane’s hand. Her expression turned to one of outrage when he held it firmly in his grasp, studying her.
While her coldstones might be rare, they were hardly unknown to him. Small and etched with symbols, they reminded him of knucklebones—a game wherein you placed four bleached bones from the ankles of a sheep into a sack. Each bone had four sides, and each side a different shape, each side a different value. Players tossed them from the sack, and the one with the greatest value won, but these coldstones were not quite so easily decipherable, and neither was the end result the winner of a game. Betimes they were rolled and the fates were not so kind. Una kept a purse full in her grotto, hauling them out whenever Aidan wished for her to seek answers from the gods. The only difference between these and the ones Una possessed was that Una’s were not marked in the same manner. Regardless, they were valuable enough to steal, particularly if one knew what they were and how to use them. And whether Lianae knew such a thing or nay, she clearly understood the stones’ value because she’d fled without her shoes and took the purse, when her shoes might have served her better in this inclement weather.
And by the by, although she could have at least attempted to run away, she’d spent the past hour trolling the courtyard, searching for missing stones. In fact, she seemed far more concerned over the loss of her coldstones than she was about the company of strange men.
Smiling just a little, Keane released her stone, despite his suspicions and she closed her fist possessively about the bauble. Up close, it was perfectly clear there was a bruise on her face, right below the cheekbone.
Did she steal the stones? Were they payment for her favors? A bridal gift?
Somehow he didn’t think so.
He plucked a wad of red velvet cloth out of his belt, unwrapping it to show her a second small coldstone that had been caught in the folds of the purse she’d torn. He handed it to her. “Did you steal them?” he asked outright.
“Nay.”
Nevertheless, she seemed to blanch over the question, and he didn’t let it stop him from speaking his mind. “One must ask oneself why a bonny lass would run away, barefoot, dressed in her bride’s gown, with naught more than a cloak on her back and a velvet purse full of coldstones to her name.”
She blushed prettily, averting her gaze, her fist turning white over the stones she held in her hand. Keane watched as she placed both stones he’d produced into the hem of her gown. By now her cheeks were bright pink. Was she embarrassed because he’d called her bonny?
Or mayhap she has something more to hide?
Something more than coldstones…
“Why is that d’ ye think?”
Keane let his question hang in the air, along with the mist from his breath, until he was fairly certain she would never respond, and then decided to give her a rest—not that he was meant to get anything more from the lass if she didn’t wish to give it, for her shoulders were set as stubbornly as his sister Lael’s. He recognized a brick wall whenever he met one. Unless he meant to take a harsher stance, he might as well let it go… for now.
On the other hand, if he waited for her permission to tend her foot, she would lose the thing before the night was out. Shrugging off his cloak, Keane produced his woolen breacan, and then, without any explanation for what he meant to do, he ripped a long strip from the end, and then another. Glenna, the weaver, would threaten his manhood for ruining her good cloth, though if he asked her nicely enough, she would make him another.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a pair of slippers.”
She sounded stunned. “Why?”
Keane cast her a pointed glance, arching a brow. “To warm your feet perchance?”
“But why would ye do such a thing?”
“Because ye’re cauld and mayhap I dinna wish to see you lose your toes. Now give me your foot,” he demanded, as he moved to stoop before her, holding out his hand.
He could clearly see her pride warring with her discomfort. No doubt, it suited her not at all to be told what to do—even when it was for her own good. But at last, she relented. “Which one?”
“The right one.”
Untucking the left foot from beneath her gown, she gave it to him, and he nearly laughed at the contrary response. He didn’t fool himself into thinking it was for any other reason than because she meant to prove a point—that she was still in charge.
But Keane’s smile faded the instant he inspected the soles of her feet. They were filthy to be sure, but even with so much dirt and undercover o
f night, he could see the open sores that had formed along her heels and along the pads of her toes. It wasn’t yet clear how far she’d come, but if he would believe her feet, they said it was far.
Swearing beneath his breath, Keane gently brushed the pads of his fingers along the soles of her feet, trying to remove what dirt he could. Tomorrow, he would see her wash them in the burn. At the moment, it was far more important to see them warmed. He pushed up her skirt to begin binding the wool and froze at the sight of yet another bruise.
Angry and black, it encircled her ankle like a woad bracelet. He studied the mark for an awkward moment, realizing that there was only one way she could have gotten such a bruise. But it was no way for a husband to take his wife—no wonder she’d fled.
Liquid anger shot through his veins, though he said not a word. She was tense, waiting for Keane to remark, but he merely wrapped the wool about her foot and ankle, weaving the wool up, and folding the end above the bruise, taking care not to injure her any further.
And then, once again, he asked for her right foot. This time, she gave it to him without any challenge and he wasted little time in wrapping that foot as well, noting an even darker bruise in nearly the same spot.
Son of a whore.
Keane wanted to ask how she’d received them, but he didn’t truly need answers. He knew enough to know that whatever the cause for those bruises, it had everything to do with that dress she was wearing and the bruise on her cheek. If she’d purloined the stones in her flight, well, good for her. By the gods, he would help her find the rest of her stones, and heaven help the fiend who would put a hand to a woman. Keane would break him in two.
“Thank you,” she said, once Keane was finished with the task.
Here, in the strange light surrounding them, her face appeared bloodless, making the bruise stand out all the more distinctly. Unable to keep himself from it, Keane reached out to touch the dark spot on her face, but she caught his hand. Their gazes met and locked.
“How di’ ye get it?” he asked, tempering his rage.
Highland Storm Page 6
