“More than likely from the fall I took because of you.” She shoved his hand away.
There was no way Keane had given her that bruise. But he didn’t argue with her. She might, in fact, have a few more come morning, but the one on her cheek was already deep blue against her pallid skin. It was at least a day old. Whatever the reason for her lie, she clearly didn’t wish to share her troubles with him.
Ye dinna expect a lass to confess herself to a man she does not know.
It was reasonable enough, although Keane couldn’t help her much if she would not speak about it. Simply because he didn’t know her well enough did not mean he wouldn’t kill the bastard who’d dared lay a hand on her—husband or nay. A fierce sense of protectiveness surged through him as he handed the girl his woolen breacan. And then, retrieving his cloak, he rose to his feet. “I’ll help ye search for the rest of your stones come morning. Maybe then ye’ll be more amenable to telling me where ye’re from?”
Her brow furrowed. “Mayhap,” she said.
And once again their gazes met and held.
“Or, at least, perhaps ye’ll say where it is ye wish me to take ye?”
This time she nodded.
“Will ye at least tell me your name, lass?”
Snowflakes fell upon her lashes, and still she held his gaze, blinking only once. “Lianae,” she said, after a long moment.
“Lianae,” Keane whispered, repeating the name with the same reverence he’d given Lilidbrugh. “I am Keane,” he told her, stopping short of giving her the name of his kin. For the first time in his life, he felt a man between worlds.
I belong nowhere, she’d said. Like her, he was the same. He belonged neither in Dubhtolargg, nor to the man whose livery he wore. So in this sense, they were kindred spirits.
But to Keane’s dismay, he spied a telltale gleam in her eyes, and the sight of it managed to further confuse him. She gave him anger when she should have feared him, tears instead of gratitude. Her legs were bruised, her cheek bruised, and the bottoms of her feet were full of sores. Despite her pawky attitude, her silence was hardly the quality of a well-born woman. All the women he’d met at David’s court—the ones who’d come dressed as she was—were so full of grievances that Keane had found himself wondering whether there were any women remaining, who were more like his sisters—strong in body and spirit.
“Well, Lianae,” he said, “You are free to go. But ’twill be caulder yet afore the night is through, and if it please ye, ye may share my pallet.”
Bracing himself for an argument that never came, he added, “To keep warm, ye ken? I have three sisters,” he reassured her, as though that fact alone should set her mind at ease.
Once again she nodded, and moisture twinkled in her eyes.
Keane turned away, lest he shame her by remaining any longer and witnessing her tears. She was proud, he sensed. And worse, he suspected his kindness had somehow wounded her. He didn’t like to ken what that revealed.
The instant he was gone, Lianae swiped away her tears. She was her father’s daughter, she reminded herself, and a daughter of Moray should not cry.
As the night grew darker yet, a curious halo blanketed the ruins, but the glow was less the blush of firelight and more a lucent quality, not unlike the illusion of daylight on a snowy landscape. A coat of frost on the moss-covered stones gave the ruins a jewel-like ambience. It was a strange sight, stranger yet for the company she kept.
He knew what her charm stones were. The fact was not lost to Lianae. She took one out of her hem to study the marks.
Her Viking ancestors had used rune stones like these to read fortunes, but each small stone would have held a different rune… unlike these.
Could they be payment to the Other Realm?
Now that their king was a man of faith, the practice of leaving stones on the eyes of the dead was past, but they had once been used as payment to Sluag, the god of the Other Realm. For those still in the land of the living, the stones drew upon the forces of the Other Realm to heal the sick. And still, for a very few, who lived betwixt this world and the next, the stones were said to be conduits…
Some were fashioned into larger stones, and used as keek stanes. But Uhtreda’s were not so large. They were the size of little pebbles, each bearing a single mark—two moons and a lightning rod betwixt…
Perhaps they could be used for healing?
In any case, they were now hers and Lianae refused to give them up. Fortunately, no one seemed interested in taking them from her—nor even the least bit in her, if the truth be told. Once the Scots were all tucked into their pallets, she half expected the one called Keane to call her to his bed, but he did not. True to his word, he left her free to come and go as she pleased, but Lianae had no wish to venture out alone, despite the feeling that her brothers might be near.
Mayhap tomorrow.
Heaving a sigh, she got up off the stoop and made another sweep of the area for her stones. Come morning, when they could see a bit clearer, Keane had promised to help her find the rest, but until then… she eyed his pallet longingly.
She was searching in vain.
Despite the strange glow they were surrounded by, there was not enough light to conduct a proper search, particularly now with the falling snow.
It was only by chance that Keane had discovered the one beneath his boot, perfectly round and smooth. After seeing the one caught within the folds of her purse, he’d realized what she was searching for. Come morning, the remaining stones would all be buried at least two-feet deep and no one would find them again until spring.
Nevertheless, he’d promised to help her, and help her he would, but in the meantime, he sorely wished she would join him beneath the blankets.
Even from where Keane lay, he could tell that she was shivering beneath her fancy cloak, despite the added benefit of his breacan. And in spite of her threats to leave, she had stayed. By now, he was pretty sure that whatever it was that awaited her out there… she feared that far more than she did Keane or his men.
Stubborn lass.
He wished she would relent. Though if there was one thing he’d learned in dealing with his sisters, it was that there was only so far a man could go to assert his will. He’d crossed that line but a few times before his sisters quite rudely put him in his place.
To that effect, Lianae reminded him most of Lael, although there was a softness about her that his sister did not possess. She was more like his brother’s wife—prickly, but gentle in her bearing. She appeared every bit a lady in her English finery, and yet she had mettle—a trait that fit quite neatly with the dún Scoti women. Years of living in the Mounth and fending for themselves had given the dún Scoti womenfolk far less complicated tastes, but they were no less capable of leading men about by their noses. Strong women were valued by his kinsmen, and in fact, in days gone by, the line of kingship had come to them, not through their fathers, but through their mothers.
Lianae reminded him of a queen. Like a lodestone, his gaze was drawn to her.
She was seated atop a ruined stoop, warming her hands with the heat of her breath, though her gaze remained riveted upon the campfire. Every once in awhile, she would peer over her shoulder at the dark forest behind her, but then she returned to stare longingly at the flames.
Stubborn lass, he thought again.
Full of pride and too headstrong for her own good, she would rather freeze to death than join his men beside the fire. Well, she wasn’t going anywhere, he realized. And he’d made it perfectly clear to his men that they should leave her be. Once the girl was cold enough, she would seek his bed, he had no doubt. She didn’t strike him as witless or foolish, and on nights like these, both man and beast knew better than to sleep alone. Even the horses were all huddled together beneath the tarp and his men were heaped beneath another, with adjoining pallets that made good use of body heat and blankets. Crowded and a jumble of limbs, Keane would warrant that not a single one of them would complain about feet wande
ring beneath the blankets tonight. In fact, he was quite certain the most coveted spots to place one’s toes were beneath another mon’s arse cheeks—not that he wanted anyone near his own.
And yet that was not why he’d taken his pallet so far from the others. His reasons for that were twofold: Now that he would take his place as their leader, it was important to make certain all the men knew their places. Previously, he and Cameron had provided a strong, united front, one that bolstered them whenever they were unsettled. But the second reason, and the one that held most sway, was simply that he would be far more approachable lying separately from his men. For that reason, He’d chosen a spot half hidden from the rest of the pallets, beneath a broken eave, which should afford them a modicum of privacy. No matter that they believed themselves equals, his sisters—all three—had never been very keen on sleeping near the men. Not even Lael, who, far from considering herself Keane’s equal and thought herself above most men, would let her guard down enough to sleep comfortably amidst grown men. Only Kellen had ever merited a spot upon her pallet—mostly because Aidan had refused to share his bed with a five-year-old, and somehow, Kellen had taken more to Lael than to any of the rest of his sisters when first he’d arrived in Dubhtolargg. More oft than not, Lael would carve herself a place somewhere alone.
Turning onto his back, Keane placed one hand behind his head to stare up at the starless night, thinking about Lili’s son. He would be ten and six by now, but he hadn’t seen the boy in five years—not since the day Keane left the vale. Out of everyone, he missed his sister Cailin most of all. For most of their life the two had been inseparable.
The night was calm, but there was a sting in the air that promised colder weather yet. Snow lit upon his lashes, but he didn’t particularly care. Back in the vale, he’d spent many a night just like this… and he wondered what his sister Cailin would say if she could spy him now… sleeping in a heap of rubble merely to say he’d slept one day in the cradle of their kin.
He thought of Meara next, the lass he’d once believed he’d loved. But to little avail, he tried to picture her face. It eluded him now, after so long. She was fourteen when she’d died of fever from a contaminated well and she went so fast that Keane scarce had time to blink. One day she was giggling, spying on him at Caoineag’s Pool, and the next, she was lying upon a pyre.
“May I?” asked a soft, feminine voice, interrupting his reverie.
Keane blinked, turning to find, not Meara, but Lianae standing a few feet away. There was nothing similar about them. Meara had had dark lovely hair and bright green eyes while Lianae reminded him of a burnished idol. Arms crossed and shivering ferociously, she stared at him longingly—or rather, not at Keane, though at his blanket.
All thoughts of Meara vanished at once.
Smiling, Keane lifted the blanket in welcome.
Chapter 7
By morning, the entire world seemed blanketed in white, with a watery sun that teased through heavy, bloated clouds. The ruins were half buried beneath a layer of snow so high that it was difficult to say where the ruins ended and the landscape began.
The surrounding trees were painted with frost, evergreen boughs that sagged with heavy burdens. Every time the wind blew, great gobs of ice shook loose from the trees. The fickle weather was turning yet again, but if they should set out now, in this storm, they’d very likely freeze their bollocks off before midday—something Keane was disinclined to do, particularly now that they were so snuggly and warm. Down in the courtyard, amidst the half tumbled walls, the crew remained sheltered from the wind. Burrowed beneath the covers, with a warm body at his side, he’d slept like a warm, lazy dog, and as yet, most of his men had yet to rise, clearly reluctant to burrow out of their pallets.
Oblivious to the continuing flurries, a red squirrel sat burrowing near his pallet, its rufous tail twitching as it searched for pine nuts beneath the snow. Oddly, it reminded him of Lianae searching for her stones. The squirrel scurried away once Keane adjusted the covers—more’s the pity. With an empty stomach, he fancied the little beast roasting on a spit for their breakfast. Alas, but he was far too content to leave his bed, and much too aware of the woman slumbering along beside him…
Lianae.
It was a good name, lovely and strong, much like her.
He might never have guessed for an instant that beneath her fearless facade she’d hid the evidence of abuse.
What kind of man harmed a woman?
If Keane had the chance to face the monster, he would give him cause to rue his actions. It was impossible to know whether he’d taken her against her will, but marks like those meant only one thing… at the very least the bastard had tried.
For his part, Keane intended to reward the girl’s trust in him by proving that not all men were rutting beasts…
At the least he was trying.
His lust was difficult to deny, when his cock stood fully erect and throbbing beneath the covers. Despite his best intentions, his morning erection was not a function of his sex.
The scent of Lianae’s hair was like a philter—a love potion that spoke to his body in a language that clearly it understood. It had been a long time since he’d craved so desperately to put his old chap to better use…
Oblivious to his struggle for control, Lianae squirmed beneath the covers, moving a little closer to the heat of his body. Keane resisted the urge to reach out and draw her close. She had no inkling what she was doing, he realized, and waking her was the last thing he wished to do. But if she should happen any closer, she would quickly discover that not all his swords were safely sheathed…
He inched backward yet again—for the half dozenth time—reconsidering the wisdom in rising sooner rather than later, if for no other reason than to speak privately with Cameron.
As yet, only Cameron was up and tending the fire—or rather, more accurately, preparing it for their departure. He was pushing snow up and over the dying embers, his shoulders peppered with flakes he didn’t bother to shake off. He worked quietly, brooding all the while.
They had yet to speak about what had happened, but Keane wasn’t all that concerned. They had been friends too long and if Cameron ever meant to win Cailin’s hand, he would never dare challenge Keane—particularly since everything Cameron ever wanted, he wanted solely for one reason: to win Cailin’s favor. And he could have her still, if only the man would realize that he already had all he needed to win her favor. His sister didn’t care about riches. Nor did she care whether a man was titled. She, like all of his sisters, were simpler in their requirements. They wanted strong, loyal men who would care for them, and not much else. Until Cameron realized as much, Cailin would never have him—never mind Aidan. It was never his laird brother who would make this decision for Cailin. But this was not something Keane could easily explain to a man who was unaccustomed to putting women before him, particularly so long as Cailin remained undecided, because, to a man, Aidan’s reluctance to accept Cameron was the one thing that seemed to be saving his pride. Cameron was convinced that was the only reason Cailin had not yet fallen into his arms. But he was wrong. No one told his sisters what to do—whom to marry—and if that were so, Lael and Cat would never have wed outside the vale.
Nay, Cameron still had much to learn.
In truth, Keane was far more reluctant to buck Aidan’s authority than any of his sisters had ever been, for he had once been his brother’s heir.
Not anymore.
Now, he had… what? Not even a sense of purpose, if the truth be known. Aside from listening to Cameron’s aspirations and visions of grandeur—the home he’d like to build for Cailin, the children they might raise together—he was jaded and bored with life. Back in the vale, he’d withered in the role he’d been provided, and even this mission had proven mind-numbing, for despite David’s fears—that with Henry of England preoccupied in France, the sons of Óengus were scheming to restore the Mormaerdom—all was quiet in the northern territories.
Trying
not to think about the woman snuggled beneath his furs, he examined their surroundings. In the cold morning light, Lilidbrugh was a desolate place. No wonder his men were so eager to leave. They should much prefer to be home with their families, where the hearth fires blazed and the auld reekie soup was bubbling in a pot. Like Keane, their hearts were not in this task, no matter what David’s promises. Those promises could not fill their bellies at the instant. Nor did they warm the bones, and for his part, Keane wondered what he was doing serving a king he did not trust. The girl lying beside him had given him the only frisson of excitement he’d encountered since beginning his service to the crown.
Ten years ago, David mac Mhaoil Chaluim had stolen his sister Catrìona from her bed in the middle of the night. He took her south, intending to award her to the English as a ward of their court. This was not a man who engendered trust, and yet, these few years past, he had not known the man to be intentionally cruel. He made his decisions, so he claimed, for the good of the realm. This was something Keane might well believe, despite that he disagreed with the methods. Like a game of chess, he moved pieces about his board. But for every decision he made, there were good folk who paid—like his brother.
Aidan’s marriage to Lìleas MacLaren could so easy have gone wrong. On pain of losing her firstborn son, Lìli had been sent to murder Aidan in his bed. Had she not fallen in love with Aidan, and had the integrity and fortitude to come forward, all might have gone so differently… Keane would have been laird of their clan.
Thankfully, he was not.
But there was another side to Scotia’s king, for when David might have exacted justice over the taking of Keppenach, he had shown Lael and Broc Ceannfhionn infinite mercy—and more. Instead of hanging them as he might have—as they had attempted to do before Jamie Steorling cut them free—he gave Broc a seat at Dunloppe and Lael was commanded to wed the Butcher, King David’s most trusted commander. These days his sister Lael seemed to have traded her knives for wee bairns, chasing them about, whilst her laird husband continued counseling his king. But Keane had no place in this arrangement. He was a border guard, nothing more. Only now, he feared he craved else…
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