“Why?”
“Because.”
She guarded her mysteries as well as Dubhtolargg, but Keane was no stranger to secrets. He could see them in her eyes, undecipherable as they were. “Are they worth your life, Lianae? What of the men who are after ye? Would ye have them find you here… alone?”
More than aught, Keane wanted to help her find her damned stones. In terms of gold, they were worth more than his horse, but this was not the time. The storm was worsening and they had one more mouth to feed and no rations to sustain them. As it was, Dunloppe was within two day’s reach.
“We will come back,” he said, and meant it. “I swear.”
“We?”
“We,” he affirmed with a nod. “Ye have my word, Lianae.” And with that promise, she gave him a nod and then her hand.
Chapter 9
We.
The way he’d said the word was strange to Lianae’s ears.
Whilst her father and mother still lived, there had been a sense of we, but that we had been different somehow. Her father had been a leader of men, a lesser Ri, a minor king, and her mother, a woman who’d cared for his brood. That we was never the sum of two.
She contemplated this fact as she rode with Keane in the saddle. She rode behind him, his body shielding her from the worst of the storm. In keeping to the woodlands, they avoided the wind, but it also shielded them from whatever bit of sun there was to be had. Cold and wet, shivering, Lianae leaned against his back for warmth.
But she would not fool herself.
Wherever it was they were going, she was a heartbeat away from being returned to the Earl—like so much chattel. There were few enough of her people remaining and fewer yet who would be willing to risk the Scot’s king’s wrath. And yet staying in Lilidbrugh was not in her best interest either, whether or not Keane kept his promise to retrieve her charm stones.
After a mild beginning, winter was a raging boar. Every minute grew colder than the last. The simple flurries that had graced the sky yesterday evening had become cutting sheets of ice, bombarding them from a black and blue sky. They couldn’t gather the camp quickly enough, and in a short time they were mounted and on the way.
Through it all, Lianae might as well have been a specter, for it was as though she were invisible to everyone, but Keane. None of the other men ever dared to look at her, much less talk to her or treat her unkindly, and she had a feeling she knew why.
Keane.
They feared him.
It was impossible to see aught past the length of one’s hand, but she knew there were fourteen men in all. She spied only six—the one called Cameron, who every so oft cast Lianae dubious glances, and five others. These handful of men remained nearest to Keane, riding in a pack. The others lagged behind, forming yet another. And even surrounded by trees, the wind blew so furiously that Lianae had little choice but to put her arms about Keane’s chest, tucking her cloak beneath her arms to keep it from billowing in the wind.
This morning’s embrace had been so vastly different and the memory of it continued to warm her cheeks albeit nothing else. Fortunately, if he thought less of her for the liberties she had taken, he didn’t say so, nor did he behave as though Lianae had offended him. If aught, he seemed even more solicitous, reaching back now and again to steady her in the saddle and to pull her legs close. Lianae didn’t bother trying to speak to him, not even to thank him. Despite their proximity, he wouldn’t have heard her anyway. Like an angry banshee, she heard only the wind shrieking past the trees.
Cold wind rushed up her skirts, and she tried to adjust them now and again so that they wrapped more firmly about her legs—as much to hide her bruises from prying eyes as to keep her legs warm. But no matter how many times she made the adjustment, her skirt billowed out with the wind, whipping furiously. And with every furlong they rode, she felt the loss of her stones more acutely. More than a few times she’d wanted to check to see that the remaining stones were still safe in her hem, but it was all she could do to stay warm in the saddle. Thankfully, Keane had allowed her keep his thick woolen breacan and her greatest solace was that she had his thick wool still wrapped about her feet. Savage or nay, the man was a godsend after all.
It was early afternoon before the winds began to ease and the sky turned some color besides rude grey. Finally, a hint of sun peeked out from between somber clouds and through the pine trees. After awhile, a small gray hare raced before them, and Lianae’s stomach complained loudly. “We’ll stop soon,” he said, patting her on the leg.
Realizing that he’d very likely heard her belly grumble, Lianae’s cheeks burned. “Thank you,” she said, and was grateful for his care. He had already done more for her than most men might do under the same circumstances. As yet, he’d not even asked her but once what she was doing so far from home. And truthfully, at the moment, she regretted having repaid his kindness with naught but rudeness, when he’d inquired about her dress. “If you must know, I was to wed,” she confessed belatedly.
He was quiet a long moment, and Lianae waited for him to speak, prepared to tell him anything he wished to know—apart from revealing who she was. It was the least she might do to make up for her rudeness and repay him for his kindness.
“Somehow, I dinna imagine ye a dutiful wife.”
Lianae smiled, for she sensed ’twas not said as an insult. In fact, there seemed to be a note of admiration in his voice. “You flatter me, I believe.”
In truth, she had never envisioned herself wed to some fat, greasy lord. It was always Elspeth who was meant to spend a dowry. Lianae had been more than content to tend her father’s farm, and Óengus too seemed perfectly pleased to allow her to stay. Her mother had been the one who’d had other notions, for she’d longed for a passel of grandchildren. Because her sons hadn’t seem overly inclined to give them to her, she’d hoped both Elspeth and Lianae would wed and soon.
“Is that why you fled? Because ye dinna wish to wed?”
“Nay.” Lianae would have done so simply to please her mother. But up until a few days ago, she had never realized how cruel men could be. Fortunately, her mother had not lived to see Elspeth’s sightless eyes, her bruised neck and blue lips.
Keane made no more inquiries, and Lianae didn’t elaborate. Enough words had been spoken for now, and it eased her to know he would not pry. She rested her cheek against his back, stealing his warmth and allowing the steady beat of his heart to lull her back to sleep.
When she awoke after awhile, she couldn’t be certain how long she’d slept or how long they’d been in the saddle, only that her tummy was growling all the louder and that her lashes were frosting together. But the wind was now gone, and she could hear the crunch of hooves marching endlessly through the snow. This was something that amused her: In the stories her grandmother often told—of times long past—she’d spoken of Vikings marauders stealing quietly through the snow. In Lianae’s experience, there was naught very quiet about snow. The sound was more a loud crunch, and just now, with fourteen horses and fifty-six legs, the din was relentless. But, alas, not louder than her wrathful stomach.
He patted her yet again. “Ye’re awake?”
Lianae nodded sleepily. “But I wish I were not.”
“Why lass?”
Swallowing with some difficulty, Lianae clung to his cloak lest she topple from the horse, weary from lack of food and sleep. Her stomach hurt, and everyone else’s seemed equally as uncomfortable as hers, all except Keane’s. “’Tis my belly,” she said, despite that she suspected what ailed the men was something other than hunger.
“I am sorry, lass,” he said. “’Tis the grouse, I suspect. We’ll find something to settle your belly, I promise.”
Lianae smiled, for he sounded like her mother, despite that he looked like a murdering savage. Not even her brothers had ever coddled her so, and she found herself wishing his men had not interrupted them this morning. The taste of his lips stayed with her and she didn’t have to try to remember that tant
alizing scent. She needed only but inhale a breath…
What would it be like to spend the rest of her days with a man like Keane?
Far better than with the Earl, that much was certain. Lianae had the sense that Keane would be quick to protect the people and things he valued most, unafraid to stand up to men like William fitz Duncan. Unlike her brother Lulach. And he was handsome, as well, even without any finery and garbed as he was in rudimentary clothes—like some warrior of old.
In fact, he reminded her a bit of the Viking warriors her grammy had gone on about, except that he was darker in countenance, not golden haired—more like the Painted Ones who’d once inhabited these Highlands before. They were gone now, although Lianae sensed they were still around, like the men and women of Moray, hiding in plain sight.
Of course, it was better for the people of Moray to hide. There weren’t enough of them now to stand against the usurpers. But the next thing one knew, the Moraymen would all be gone, and if any remained—like Lulach—they would keep their fancy clothes and attend their fancy chapels, and raise their sons and daughters to be good little Sassenachs. This was the destiny she envisioned… unless she could find Ewen and Graeme and they could restore the Mormaerdom. She liked to imagine them as hundreds strong now… waiting for the chance to rise up and retake what belonged her people.
As soon as Lianae had the chance, she would retrieve those charm stones and find a way to reach other brothers. There might be enough coin left over that she could donate to their cause.
“How many did you recover?” Keane asked, as though he’d read her mind.
“Five,” Lianae replied.
“How many did you have before?”
“Twelve.”
She felt more than saw him nod and once again she rested her chin on the small of his back. “You know what they are?”
“I do,” he confessed.
“Ha’ ye ever seen any before now?”
“I have.”
“Ach, do ye speak more than two words at a time?”
“I do,” Keane said again, and once again, she sensed rather than saw him smile. It was there, in the tone of his voice. The muscles of his chest seemed to relax beneath her hands.
Lianae laughed softly, wondering why he’d been so reluctant to take what she’d offered him this morn. Did he have a wife already? That possibility both pleased and frustrated her at once, for she had never known a man to be so loyal to his woman—and this must be a good thing, though now that she had set her sights on gaining Keane’s protection, she needed his heart to be free. “So, then… if you’re so fond o’ women, ye must be wed?”
Keane’s lips curved over the arrogantly phrased question and the unmasked curiosity in her voice. She said it rather like a statement, as though there could be no other cause for his shooing her out of his bed. And aye, he knew intuitively that’s what her question was all about: that kiss. “I am not,” he replied.
He felt her sigh—a long, hot breath against the small of his back. He felt it penetrate the layers of his garb. “Well, there we have three words,” she said, and Keane couldn’t quite suppress his mirth.
His shoulders shook with laughter. “Nay, lass,” he said, to be clearer. “I am no’ wed.”
Perhaps it was his imagination, but she seemed to scoot a wee bit closer after his admission and, despite the relenting weather, that fact pleased him more than he could say.
“And you are certain you’re no pillow biter?”
Once again, Keane stifled his laughter, clearing his throat. “Quite certain.”
“I see we’re back to two words. Does it anger you for me to ask?”
“Why should it anger me? If you’re curious, how else will ye know if ye dinna ask?”
She sighed again, leaning her sweet cheek against his back, and Keane inhaled a deep, heady breath, enjoying the feel of her. “That’s what I used to tell my da,” she said. “When he complained I asked too many questions.”
“Used to?” Keane peered over his shoulder, glimpsing the top of her pale red curls.
“Aye.”
“Is he no longer with us?”
“Aye.”
“And your minny?”
“Dead.”
“Ach now, Lianae, do ye speak more than one word at a time?”
She laughed quickly, and the sound was like music to Keane’s ears.
“Ha’e ye anyone left?”
Her lean arms encircled his chest—a gesture that felt not unlike a hug, and the sensation gave Keane a strange lump in his throat. But he sensed her answer before she spoke again, and it filled him with sadness.
What must it be like to be truly alone?
He’d often thought of himself as alone, but the truth of the matter was that Keane had kinfolk who loved him and who would welcome him home no matter the circumstances.
“No,” she said after a long moment.
“No brothers, no sisters?”
“I had three brothers, one sister.”
She didn’t offer up anymore information and it took Keane a long moment to vanquish the instinct not to pry.
“I’ve been told my brothers and my sire all fell at Stracathro in Forfarshire, and my mother—well, she died three years past.”
“And your sister?”
“Murdered.”
Keane didn’t anticipate that answer, and sensing they were venturing into painful territory, he refrained from making jokes about her return to one-word answers. And yet she seemed in the mood to talk, and so he asked the one question he wished to know. “Tell me, lass… who were you running from?”
Her entire body shuddered, and her fingers unlocked about his chest, her hands falling away, though she didn’t answer and Keane frowned.
“If ye dinna tell me, ye’ll leave me with no choice but to hand you over to the king.”
Her tone was flippant now. “And is that what you do with all the strange women you encounter?”
“Of course not.”
“Why then would ye turn me over to your king.”
There was naught simple about the girl, Keane decided. And, in fact, she might be the most complicated woman he’d ever met—his sisters included. As for the barb—although it wasn’t meant to be one, he took offense at her reference to his king. David mac Maíl Choluim was not his king.
And then there was this: There were some who as yet did not welcome David’s rule—particularly in Moray—but more and more every day the choice was no longer their own. David mac Maíl Choluim had won himself Northhampton and Huntingdon, as well as most of the lowlands. Now, after the victory at Stracathro in Forfarshire, he ruled Moray as well as much of the Highlands. After all these years, he could rightly call himself the High King of the Scots and Chief of Chiefs. Whether Lianae had intended to or not, she had revealed much to him with her simple question, and now more than before he was glad he’d chosen Dunloppe as their immediate destination. And still he pressed her. “My king?”
He heard the resentment in her tone. “Well, he is, is he not?”
“David mac Maíl Choluim is the rightful king of Scotia,” he told her. It was true, whether they liked it or not. “He is your king as well.” He waited to see if she would take offense over that.
But she said naught, nor did she return to her current resting position and Keane felt the separation acutely. It was a strange feeling, considering that he had known the lass less than a day. But now his curiosity was piqued: Who was she that she would not accept David mac Maíl Choluim as her rightful king?
She was dressed like an Englishwoman—or at least a Scot under the Scot’s king’s banner. But she’d called herself a maid of Moray… not de Moray, in the Norman fashion as was de rigueur these days. At first hearing the small distinction might not mean overmuch, for only a highborn woman would intentionally style herself de Moray. As a commoner, she might easily say she was a maid of Moray and yet… as a highborn, to use Norman distinction—or not—was quite telling. With the death
of Óengus of Moray, William fitz Duncan had attempted to adopt the title of Mormaer, but the people revolted, despite that Fitz Duncan was a Morayman by blood. His father was the King, deposed by MacBeth. By all rights, the throne of Scotia could have been his for the taking, and yet he’d aligned him with David instead—a move that had made him wildly unpopular in the north and led to a revolt, five years past—a battle Keane had refused to enter, for he considered the men of Moray to be his kindred far more so than any of the tribes of Scotia.
Keane was a man of few words, as his men could attest, but he was also quite keenly aware that silence spoke volumes. They rode in silence now, whilst he contemplated the subtlety of words… those spoken and those unspoken as well.
Chapter 10
It was not Aidan’s way to rush straight to the uisge, but Lìli understood why he did so today. She had a mighty yen for it herself.
He was not pleased.
She was not pleased.
“She’s but a child,” Lìli argued.
“Her name is Constance, Lìli, and they are nearly the same age.”
Her mood soured even more. Rarely did her husband ever speak her name, not like that. She was most often his sweetling—never Lìli with that horribly impatient tone.
They had returned from Chreagach Mhor, with a surprise en tow. Her husband and son were home in one piece—thank God—but her son Kellen had brought along with him a wife.
A wife!
To Lìli’s way of thought, this was taking charity a bit too far. They’d gone merely to carry supplies to an allied clan, and she had supported this rare show of solidarity in her husband, but this was not what she had anticipated when she’d agreed he should leave the vale so close to the birth of their new bairn. “That is not the point,” Lìli argued, as Aidan poured himself a dram.
Already, her son had been deprived his birthright with the enfeoffment of Keppenach to Jaime Steorling—not that she begrudged Jaime the keep. Her son would not have been old enough to accept his patrimony for many, many years, and in the meantime, the demesne would have remained unsecured or fallen to ruin. But she’d had modest hopes for Kellen’s future, and now they were all dashed. Some day, her father would die, and as yet Padruig had begot himself no heirs. It seemed that God had cursed him for his evil ways, and made him barren as a brick. Because of this, Kellen should have married well enough to put him in a position to inherit what Lìli could not. Her father might loathe her still—he might even count Lìli amongst his greatest enemies for what he had considered a betrayal—but she was still a child of his blood. She was a Caimbeul whether he liked it or not.
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