“And your aunt Lael wed the demon butcher?”
Kellen swung about in his saddle, peering over his shoulder to see who else might have overheard. He lowered his voice as he turned to his wife, placing a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “I wadna use that name about here. Lael wadna like it verra much.”
“Oh.” Constance replied. “Will she be here as well?”
“Nay,” Kellen said, though he wished it were otherwise. His eldest aunt was by far his favorite aunt of all. Lael had embraced him first, protecting him with her life that wintry night he’d arrived in the vale. In fact, he sorely regretted having told Constance about the Butcher at all, for how many times had his mother and father both cautioned him to carry no tales of the vale. It was for this reason Kellen had yet to tell her about the Stone from Scone. He’d lived here many, many years before he’d ever learned about the Destiny Stone himself—and not before he was old enough to comprehend its value. And it was the first thing his father had pulled him aside to warn him about, even before he’d taken his vows…
The secrets of the vale remained in the vale, he’d said in his firmest voice.
“His name is Jaime,” he corrected her.
Constance nodded obediently, although her words were not quite so conforming. “Dinna fash yoursel’, husband. I will not speak the Butcher’s name again.”
Husband.
She’d said it again, and Kellen felt the tell-tale heat rise into his cheeks. “Verra good,” he said, puffing up his chest. “He saved my aunt from the gallows,” he informed Constance. “That’s how they met. He cut her down from the gibbet, took one look into her eyes and fell in love—at least that’s what my uncle claims.” Constance blinked prettily, her long blond hair blowing softly in the cool breeze, and Kellen could scarce believe his good fortune. “A bit like you and me,” he explained “I knew I loved you from the instant I looked into your lovely blue eyes.”
Constance blushed and smiled. “You have such a way with words and such exciting tales to tell. Nothing ever happens much in Chreagach Mhor.”
Kellen lifted a brow. “What about FitzSimon?” he asked her, referring to the ordeal they’d only just left behind. Her cousin Malcom had saved his stepmother from certain death at the hands of a brother she’d not even realized she’d had. In the process, Malcom slew his own grandfather. Kellen heard tell now that Malcom might inherit a castle in Northumbria that was three times the size of Keppenach. Whether he did so or not would be a matter for kings to decide. Nevertheless, Kellen was content enough with his own lot. His tiny cottage in Dubhtolargg was worth a thousand castles anywhere else and he couldn’t wait to make a home with his lovely new bride. But he could see that Constance was still worrying her thumb, nibbling it thoughtfully—a habit that reminded him very much of his aunt Sorcha.
“Do you think your mother will like me, Kellen?”
Kellen wanted so much to tell her yes. His sister and aunts would embrace her easily. But his mother… well, that was another matter entirely. Despite that she had rarely ever taken a dislike to anyone, she had long expressed other ideas for the course of Kellen’s life. She might not wish to be thwarted, and she could very well blame Constance for the way events had unfolded.
But this was the truth: Kellen never touched Constance untowardly, not until they were properly wed. They had merely sought a bit of privacy up in the stables so they could kiss awhile. Not once had he put his hand up her skirt, nor did he place his palm across her breast… not until their wedding night. In fact, the very thought of it still made his cheeks burn, and he hated that fact for he was supposed to be a man.
They were near enough now that he could spy his mother emerging from the crannóg, unmistakable with her belly and her wobble and the pit of his stomach heaved, even as she waved and hurried down the long pier to greet them.
“Dinna worry, Constance. She will love you as I do,” he said, and prayed to God it would be true. Whatever the case, they would know it all too soon, for awaiting them below was the moment of truth.
The rations were gone.
Upon receiving the news, Keane’s mood went from optimistic to ominous—not unlike the weather. As the morning proceeded, the hint of sun that had teased them at first light vanished as completely as the contents of their satchels. The surrounding bluffs no longer shielded them from a bitter wind. The trees thrashed in protest, shivering away loads of snow. If there had been prints left in the snow following the theft, they no longer remained. Wind lifted and shifted the drifts, making it impossible to say whether anyone stole in or out of their camp.
Quite convenient, Keane thought.
Donal and Wee Alick both stood, scratching their big heads, icicles hanging from the hairs of their nostrils, whilst the rest of his men all argued heatedly amongst themselves, producing far too much body heat in their arguments to grow icicles themselves.
“You were the last to handle the rations, Brude. You were the first to rise!”
“Not me! It was Cameron. I only came to take a bite. We had plenty left after two nights of grouse,” Brude explained. “My belly craved a biscuit after all that grease.”
“Aye, well, if ye dinna drink your own piss oot o’ the burn, mayhap your stomach wadna need any settling, eh?”
“Let’s see what comes out o’ his arsehole this morn, then we’ll ken how much a bite he took. My belly is achin’ too an ye dinna see me stealing food.”
“Wee clipe!”
“It was the damned grouse—Alick, lazy bugger—probably found it dead.”
“Nay! I dinna!”
Brude turned on them now. “How would any o’ ye whoremongers know what I was doing, lest ye were sitting here watching every single move I make like beady-eyed hawks—and why would ye do so lest ye meant to steal a bite for yourselves?”
“It was the faeries,” interjected auld Teasag, his tone distressed. The man reminded Keane quite a lot of auld Fergus, back in the vale. “A penance for poaching upon their lands—so be the aching bellies. Mine isna well either.”
“What penance? This isna Holy Church, eejit. We’re no Sassenachs!”
“Aye, it is like Holy Church,” argued Teasag. “This place—” He waved a hand to indicate the whole of Lilidbrugh— “is no longer in the realms of men.”
Murdock made a face. “Ach, ye dolt! What faerie would want aught to do with a pile of broke stones? Shut up about it already, ere I break your bones!”
“Aye, we’re tired o’ listening to ye, Tea Sack.”
Through all this, Cameron remained silent, occupying himself by folding the small tarp they’d used to shelter the horses from the weather, preparing for their imminent departure.
“Shut your gobs,” Keane commanded them at last—before anyone should happen to brandish a knife. The snow was wet. No need to turn it red, although Keane certainly understood the inclination. At the moment, aside from having blue balls, he was cold and angry that these bunch of dafties would argue like auld biddies.
They’d begun their campaign with rations enough for ten days. After six in the saddle and quite a few supplemented meals, they should have had more than enough remaining for a week or more. With a bit of luck, Keane could have seen their bellies filled for a good sennight or more. But now everything was gone, as though some faerie had indeed waved a hand at their satchels and everything comestible had vanished.
With fourteen men, one woman, and no biscuits, no salted pork, no cheese and no liquids, except for a few flasks of ale, it went without saying that remaining to explore Lilidbrugh was completely out of the question.
By the same token, taking the girl back to whomever she’d fled from was also not on Keane’s list of destinations—even if it so happened that she’d come from allies who would welcome them with a feast and buckets full of ale—not unless he meant to start a war.
“Empty your flasks,” he commanded his men. “Fill them with snow.” It was better than water from the burn, considering everyone’s u
pset stomachs and considering what he knew about the dangers of drinking contaminated water.
“Ach, Keane! The ale’s the one thing keeping my bollocks from freezing in this bitter weather,” Teasag complained.
“Empty your flasks,” Keane demanded again. And though his tone might appear harsh, he, more than anyone, knew how quickly sickness could take them.
His command was followed by a profusion of curses, though he didn’t linger to see that they obeyed. He simply expected them to do so. He didn’t care if they chugged down the ale in a single gulp. At least then it would keep them warm—for awhile—and there was little to no chance of drunkenness in this sobering weather. Most folks drank little water by choice, but the ale would dehydrate them quicker and he wanted everyone to have good, clean water at the ready, no matter how much they protested.
They should all be pleased enough to be on their way, but the change of plans did not suit Keane very much. He’d been counting on a leisurely morning to speak to Cameron, and then to gain his bearings, before helping Lianae find her lost stones, and better determining what to do with her. As it was, everything was in a muddle.
But the one thing he wasn’t confused about was this: He would kill the bastard who’d dared lay a hand on her—not simply because his mood was foul. And not because of what had happened between them this morning. But Keane felt fiercely protective over her. She’d looked at him with such a look of gratitude upon waking—such veneration—if Donal hadn’t distracted him, he might have completely lost himself in her arms. Only now, with his head a bit clearer, he realized what she was trying to do—thank him for coming to her aide.
The very idea made him sick to his gut. He would never have a woman that way.
Despite the number of lassies who’d rubbed their arses against his lap, the last woman he lay with was Meara. He did not partake when his men all went whoring. He much preferred a wank all to himself, far too aware of the consequences he would face, if his seed were to plant itself where he would not wed. To this day, Meara was the only woman he’d ever contemplated wedding, and the gods saw fit to keep that from happening.
Someone sabotaged them.
Who?
No one had been overly pleased over the prospect of making camp at Lilidbrugh, but no one—save Cameron—had opened his mouth to voice a complaint. By the same token, no one had any clue that he’d wished to remain, so hurrying their departure couldn’t possibly be the reason behind the theft. Keane was half tempted to empty all their saddlebags, just to be certain the thief wasn’t one among them, but if he did such a thing, without proof, there was no turning back from such an accusation. It would put their half-militant band of Scots out of their gourds. Already, they were edgy and ready to disband, partly because, until now, there had been no clear leader. This was something Keane intended to change.
His next thought was for Cameron, who seemed to have spent the entire night awake and brooding, if his look of fatigue was any indication. However, he was more than certain Cameron would never do such a thing. Even if they had no friendship between them at all, in a single word, Keane knew precisely what would keep him from sabotage: Cailin.
Which left Keane with three more possibilities, none of which were pleasing.
It could have been another one of his men, hoping to divert them from their destination, though if this was the case, that man would suffer right alongside them before he could fill his belly again. And it would be easy enough to catch someone if he kept sneaking away for a piss and a chew.
It could also be that their thief might be whomever was out there searching for Lianae, but then, why hadn’t they made themselves known? Why come into a camp, steal food and naught else, then leave behind the very person they hoped to find?
Unless they hadn’t realized Lianae was there, and simply needed supplies? But if they had followed her trail so far, why abandon any camp they encountered without learning something more than they already knew before they’d arrived?
Unless they knew she was here and were outnumbered and meant to dwindle their numbers—and in such case, why not take the horses as well as the food?
Nay. None of these scenarios made any sense, and the possibilities were endless.
The most reasonable explanation was that it was the men they’d been tracking before stumbling upon the ruins. If this were the case, mayhap it was not a matter of men stealing into their camp, but someone stealing out, and since all heads were presently accounted for, it could be they did, indeed, have a spy, after all—someone who’d snuck away in the middle of the night whilst they’d slept to rendezvous with the scouts, and then returned and slid himself back into his bed, hoping no one would be the wiser. But why take the rations? To give them supplies?
One thing was certain: The contents of their saddlebags didn’t disappear by magik—no matter what Teasag claimed.
Whatever the reason for their rations’ disappearance, they could no longer linger. They must go now and make use of whatever daylight hours they had remaining—which also meant that they didn’t have the luxury of time to stick around and dig in the snow to locate coldstones. Keane loathed to disappoint the lass, but there was nothing to be done for it. He allowed Lianae to search while she could, rallying his men and readying the horses, never telling her that he intended to cut her time short, but she already knew.
She was on her knees, shoveling around heaps of snow and he cursed beneath his breath as he thought of her meal last night—and his own empty stomach—wondering how long she could make it in the saddle. Already, his belly was grumbling and with the storm, it was a waste of time to try to hunt. Even the squirrel he’d spied this morn was wise enough to find shelter. Tomorrow might be the soonest they could hunt a proper meal. He pulled Cameron aside, issuing orders privately, so as not to muddle things further between them. Loyal or not, Cameron would have his pride.
“When you have the occasion, check Murdock’s and Brude’ satchels. One or both have something to lose once we reach Dunràth.” Both were under suspicion for treason, though as yet there was no proof.
“Should we press on?”
“Dunràth is but a day’s ride at most. The entire point was to dawdle along the way, to lure out the spy, so nay. Rather I am thinking Dunloppe, where we can resupply.”
“The men will suspect, since they have no knowledge of our mission. Why not Ailgin or Nairn—or even Keppenach? All these are closer and Jaime would see to our needs without question.”
So would Broc, although Cameron clearly did not wish to involve his cousin. It just so happened that Dunloppe belonged to Broc Ceannfhionn, who ruled the fortress in the MacEanraig name. He followed David by oath, but not by blood. If Keane should feel the need to defy David over the girl, he wanted to be in the most neutral place. Pondering that fact, Keane looked over his shoulder at Lianae, who was still crawling about upon her hands and knees, rifling through drifts of snow. Her gown was now damp and her hair lashed about her face. Unmindful of the snow that pelted her in the pate, she continued to search.
He dared not go to Keppenach… not yet.
Jaime Steorling was far more loyal to David, and Keane didn’t want to place his sister in a position to defy her husband.
“Dunloppe is the better choice,” he maintained.
Cameron gave a nod, his jaw taut, and Keane knew he understood instinctively why he had chosen Dunloppe. For a moment, he appeared as though he wished to argue the point, and then he shook his head and walked away.
Keane understood the position he would be placing Broc in, but until he knew for certain what Lianae was running from, he didn’t intend to place the girl at further risk. It couldn’t be helped. Nor did he intend to simply hand her over to David. Alas, the last place he could take her was the safest place he could go: to the vale. Despite that his brother had never refused him aught, Keane knew very well that Aidan would refuse him this—although what this was, he wasn’t entirely sure. In the end, all that would matter to Aidan was
that Keane had brought conflict to his precious vale.
He gave Lianae until the final moments to search for her stones, and then Keane went to fetch her. “It’s time to go,” he said.
With the wind rising, it was nearly impossible to say whether she’d heard him or not, but she remained on her knees, tunneling desperately through the snow.
“Lianae,” he said, louder this time. “The snow is much too thick, lass; you’ll never find your stones.”
When she wouldn’t look up, Keane reached out to touch her arm. She shrugged him away. Refusing to be denied, Keane gripped her about the arm, gently drawing her to her feet. “It’s time to go,” he said again, more firmly.
Her eyes were full of unshed tears. “You promised!”
“I know I did, lass, and I had every intention of helping, but now it’s time to go.”
“Nay!” she shouted, shrugging away. “You go—I dinna have to!”
Only a madwoman would think to stay in this raging weather, without food and without shelter. Cailleach herself would have had naught to do with the place. The best thing they could do now would be to press on and find shelter elsewhere. It would be colder yet come nightfall, so Keane tilted the girl a sympathetic look, lifting a hand to her face, brushing a thumb against the bruise on her cheek. “Do ye truly mean to stay? I would not see you come to harm, Lianae.”
He couldn’t make her go—not without force—but he wasn’t entirely certain he could walk away. If she forced him to decide one way or another, he would send the men away rather than force her where she would not go. But that would breed a whole new set of problems for them all. Fortunately, her anger seemed to melt away at Keane’s touch. She lifted her hand to his. “Ye dinna ken,” she said, her eyes beseeching him. “I need those stones.”
Highland Storm Page 9
