Highland Storm

by Tanya Anne Crosby

Inspecting a low-lying branch, she placed her hand gingerly beneath the crimson fruit, and the look on her face was full of wonder. “I take it ye have been here before?”

  “Once.”

  “When?”

  “On the way north.”

  “Oh,” she said and plucked the frozen bunch from the branch. Afterward, she stood inspecting the berries, squishing one between her fingers and lifting a finger to her lovely mouth to taste the juice. The small gesture made his cock twitch and that simple fact annoyed him beyond measure.

  Remembering the way to the burn, he lifted her up once again without a word of warning and carried her down to the burn. There, he settled her next to a large boulder then slid his bow from his shoulder and set it down beside her.

  “I am not an invalid,” she complained.

  Confused by his own actions, Keane didn’t immediately respond.

  Indeed, she was not. She had come miles on her own without shoes, cutting her feet along the way. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise that she hadn’t yet griped. But he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her—or anything else, aside from the taste of her lips.

  She had kissed him so unexpectedly this morn, arousing his hunger, and it had taken him a long, intoxicating moment to realize what she would do, and then something snapped inside him. He wanted to taste her body with a fierceness he had never known—the same way she craved the taste of those berries. But the truth was, not all whitebeam berries were sweet, and still some part of him craved to know what he would get with Lianae.

  Would she be bitter in the end?

  Would he crave her only to be denied?

  Keane was not the sort of man to sew his seed with abandon. He wanted to bed her, aye, but he wanted to keep her as well—and that was unreasonable. She was not a dog to be leashed and, besides, he had no home to provide her.

  Which only led him to wonder what the devil he was doing taking her to Dunloppe. What was Broc supposed to do with the lass? Was he merely hoping that the further they traveled together the more time he could give himself to figure it all out? Did he think he would find a way to convince her to stay with him, even despite that he had nothing to his name? She was a woman of substance, he was certain, and he was a border guard, with naught but a bunch of men to his name. The more he thought about it all, the less clearly he could think, and so he ought not be thinking at all.

  Stooping to test the water’s temperature, Keane peered up at Lianae and swallowed the lump that appeared in his throat. The look of innocence she gave him felled him more swiftly than any seduction ever could. Finding it difficult to speak, he waved a hand at the boulder where he’d lain down his bow. “Sit,” he demanded, more harshly than he’d intended.

  For an instant, he thought she would protest, but she lifted a golden brow and limped to the boulder without a word. She sat down. “Tha thu a' dèanamh cus odharmanachaidh,” she said, without much heat and a bit of a smirk.

  Keane reached out to snag her right foot, without bothering to ask, irritated with his own lack of wits. “Clearly, you speak the old tongue.”

  “Of course—and ye must as well?”

  “Aye.”

  She sounded coy. “Well, what did I say?”

  Keane continued unwrapping the wool around her foot. “You said I was officious.”

  She laughed. “And ye are.”

  Keane shrugged, despite that his lips maintained a hint of a smile—until he saw the bottom of her foot in the broad light of day. It wasn’t infected yet, though it was filthy, and the wounds were filled with debris. He marveled that she hadn’t complained even once, not even with the bitter cold. His own feet were drier than hers, wrapped in boot leather, and his toes were half numb.

  He jerked her foot down a bit more roughly than he’d intended to, furious with himself for not asking after her comfort long before now. Splashing cold water over her foot, he washed it as best as he could, massaging it carefully to be certain the blood was flowing well. He worked quickly, plucking out the tiny rocks he encountered, and then shook out the wool and rewrapped her foot, doing the same again with her left foot, vowing to see them both wrapped more thoroughly once they returned to camp. Glenna’s wool was tightly woven, weather tight and warm, but it was still permeable and there was only so much of his breacan he could rent, without leaving her with little to warm the rest of her body. But he could dry her bindings near the fire and rewrap the foot again once the cloth was toasty and warm. Later, he would find her a pair of shoes. He didn’t give a bloody damn what his men thought as he catered to the lass. Let one of them speak out of turn.

  It didn’t occur to him to wonder why he believed she would be with him long enough to supply her with shoes… he felt connected to the lass in a way he had never quite experienced before. In fact, come to think of it, this was the first time in his life he had ever taken responsibility for anyone besides himself—at least insomuch that he knew he must be the one to care for her, above all others, and even above himself.

  It was a long, long moment before he realized that the copse had grown quiet, all but for the tinkling of the brook. Her hand rested upon the boulder, half holding her branch of frozen berries. If she should happen to twitch her fingers, they would drop onto the snow. Keane peered up at her, with a longing so great, he could scarce defy it.

  She had a glimmer of tears in her eyes and she swallowed once before trying to speak. “’Tis been overlong since anyone looked after me this way, Keane. Thank you.”

  Keane did know what to say. His throat felt suddenly too thick to speak. It only seemed like the right and natural thing to do, but when she put it that way, it made him feel as though he’d somehow overstepped his bounds… or taken on responsibility he ought not. “’Tis no more than I would do for any lass,” he reassured her.

  “I see,” she replied, and the glassy look in her eyes vanished. She lifted up her berries, inspecting them closer with a look of disappointment in her amber eyes.

  They could hear men chattering in the near distance, but here, the air was so still and thick Keane could cut it with a blade. “Those are whitebeams.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said tightly, and Keane welcomed the icier tone, for he knew far better how to deal with her anger than he did her gratitude.

  In fact, Lianae didn’t know.

  She had never seen such bright red berries so full and bletted during the ides of winter. There were many such berries she recognized, but not this one.

  It wasn’t his all-knowing attitude that perturbed her—or his officious demeanor. Rather, it was the notion that he did not particularly feel drawn to her… as she was to him.

  Not since her family had been wrested from her so rudely had Lianae known such a gentle hand. Truth to tell, there was something about Keane that made her wish for things she ought not want—and yet she barely knew this man.

  It was too easy to forget.

  “They make a good tea to settle the belly,” he said matter of factly, dropping her bound foot, as though she were a child who’d needed help to dress.

  Lianae was a woman grown, and yet he did not seem to notice this fact, and it annoyed her immensely. She was hardly the beauty Elspeth had been, but she wasn’t an ogre either. Some men thought her pretty, and some even said so.

  Gruaidh may not be able to bear your children, nor is she quite so… pleasing.

  Neither is your sister once she opens her mouth.

  Lianae frowned, remembering William fitz Duncan’s words. “Do you think me ugly?” she asked, before she could think to stop herself. She had never learned how to be any other way, but direct—not even when it was clearly in her benefit to keep her mouth shut. She should have learned that lesson from her dealings with the Earl, and yet… she must know.

  Both Keane’s brows shot up, and his eyes nearly crossed. It might have been a comical sight, if Lianae hadn’t been waiting so breathlessly for his answer. “No,” he said after a moment, composing himself. “How do your fee
t feel?”

  “Lovely,” she replied. Not nearly so battered as her ego.

  Wrathfully, Lianae squished a berry between her thumbs, and then tossed the detritus away rather petulantly, thinking herself a silly little fool for considering such things as feelings, when only yesterday she had escaped a fate worse than death.

  She plucked another berry and lifted it to her mouth to test it with her tongue. “Are they bitter?” she asked, sounding bitter herself.

  Keane rose from his knees. “Sometimes.”

  “This one is sweet,” she said, sliding the berry over her tongue.

  “Is it?”

  “Aye.”

  He wrapped his hand about her wrist and gently tugged her up. “There’s a much better way to eat them,” he said.

  Lianae dared to look Keane in the eyes. They were so green… as green as a new leaf in spring, and the black of his pupils were inordinately large—as deep and dark as Lilidbrugh’s well. If she leaned just a bit, she might fall deep inside and be irrevocably lost.

  Plucking the entire bunch of berries from her hand, Keane pinched off a tiny piece of fruit, biting it gently, as though to test it for himself, never leaving her gaze. “Sweet,” he agreed, and then his lips turned up slightly at one corner.

  Something about the look in his eyes gave Lianae a little start. Her heart kicked against her ribs as he leaned toward her, so slowly, staring intently into her eyes, as though she were a rabbit and he were a wolf, willing her to stay and be his prey.

  She would do it, she realized.

  He but needed to ask.

  And then he pulled her close, offering Lianae the berry with his mouth, pressing her close until she parted her lips to receive the fruit. Once she did so, he pushed the juice and the berry deep into her mouth.

  For a long moment, Lianae forgot to breathe.

  His soft, warm tongue explored the depths of her mouth with barely restrained hunger, brushing softly across her trembling lips and then sliding across the ridge of her teeth. The sensation gave her a strange little quiver. Warmth filled her breast and slid… lower.

  Never in her life had she felt such a heady, silvery warmth. It flowed into her most private regions like warm honey. The berry melted into the depths of her mouth, and after a moment, he pulled away, and looked her straight in the eyes.

  “Lianae,” he whispered.

  “Aye?”

  “Did that seem to ye like a mon who thinks ye ugly?”

  For a long, long moment, the world fell into a hush as the sound of her own blood rushed through her ears. Her heart pounded furiously.

  A short distance away, she could hear the sound of laughter, the sound traveling from their camp. He gave her a playful wink. “Now let’s get some dinner,” he suggested.

  Chapter 12

  Keane brought back the biggest haul—two hares, one grouse, and to be certain no one had any doubt who’d won the contest, he added a squirrel to the pile of meat to be prepared.

  The grouse could not be helped, for it seemed to dance along before him, as though to tempt him. Even when he turned his back on the creature, it circled about, fluttering its wings and undermining his resolve—not unlike Lianae.

  He tried his best to ignore the promise of her lips, the taste of her mouth, but in the end, he realized he was weak. His stomach grumbled, reminding him of its emptiness, and he reared back his bow, let loose the arrow, and in the end, the grouse lay skewered for the taking. And yet, despite his hunger for actual food, all he could think about was the taste of Lianae’s mouth.

  She was a distraction to be sure.

  He’d asked her to pick and carry back a hem full of berries. Whilst Wee Alick and Donal skinned, gutted and cooked the spoils of their hunt, Keane brewed a bit of tea.

  Like the rowan berries, whitebeam could have an adverse effect if too many were eaten fresh, but once the seeds were plucked and the bletted fruit was boiled, the bitters produced would quickly settle the stomach. A wee bit would do them, and with a good night’s rest, by the morrow they would all be rested and ready to travel.

  As Keane prepared the tea, his gaze reverted to Lianae more often than it should have. Together they’d made a fine team. She was not at all like his sister, Cailin, who competed with him shoulder to shoulder for each and every kill. Nay, Lianae had served him well as his eyes and ears. “Look!” she would say. “A hare!” And then she would watch whilst Keane found the beast in his sights, and clapped exuberantly when the animal was won. He must confess he liked having her at his side, and he found himself driven to keep her safe. But bedamned if kissing her again hadn’t been a heinous mistake, for now he could think of little else. Taking a chug of the whitebeam tea only made him hard. She sat beside him now, laughing softly whilst the men all sang a bawdy song, sharing from a single flask of bitter tea. Turn by turn, they hoarded the warm tin, rolling it greedily between their fists.

  The moon was high tonight, the stars all visible within a mostly clear sky. With a wee bit of luck, they would be spared any more inclement weather and sometime on the day thereafter they would arrive at Dunloppe. By then, Keane might better determine what to do with the lass.

  “And what’s it ye say the whitebeam is good for?” Brude asked.

  “Stopping up your arse,” replied Murdoch with a bark of laughter.

  The men all laughed and Keane chuckled low, casting another glance at Lianae to find her blushing fiercely.

  She leaned close. “Mayhap I need a moment alone…”

  Even under the moonlight, Keane could see that her cheeks were bright—as bright as the berries had been—and he caught her meaning at once. He had to force himself not to go along with her, not really wanting her out of his sight. “Dinna go far,” he cautioned.

  “I can take care of myself,” she said, rising and smoothing down her skirts. She smiled at Keane—a devastating smile—and turned on her heels, then hobbled away, her gait much improved.

  Replete, and needing no more tea, Lianae rose from her spot beside Keane. Pulling her cloak together—first the breacan he’d given her and had never taken back, and then her cloak—she ambled away from the easy, companionable chatter of men.

  Making her way quickly away from the glow of the camp fire, she felt giddy, even without the aid of spirits and deep down, she realized it must be that kiss—that remarkable moment by the brook, when Keane touched his lips to her own. He had a way about him that made her melt into his arms, and even now, her legs felt like pudding beneath her as she searched about for a secluded place to minister to her needs.

  Forsooth, when she considered where she’d been only yesterday, the gods had surely blessed her. Of all the men she might have happened upon in her flight, she had somehow found him. Keane was a good man, she decided. Fair-minded. Strong and capable and ready to do his duty. Humble enough—but just enough. Although no one would ever accuse the man of lacking confidence. He exuded it from every pore of his being, and still there was little arrogant about him. He was born to lead, and she watched his every gesture with a sense of wonder. He did not shout his men down, nor did he toss them about with threats. He spoke firmly, issuing commands without a backward glance to see that any were obeyed. And then in the same breath, he showed kindness, caring for them as a mother might. Lianae supposed she understood why, for it made one feel as though he valued them. And even she felt as though she belonged with him—as though she had known him for years—as though he were her devoted guardian.

  It was a strange feeling.

  Although she realized she shouldn’t dwell on him overmuch, it couldn’t be helped when the first thing he’d done upon returning to camp—even before preparing food or boiling their tea—was unwrap Lianae’s foot and set her bindings to dry near the fire.

  Despite that the wool was weather-tight, it grew damp whenever she walked in them too long, and he’d promised to find her a good pair of shoes the instant he could. Once the bindings were dry, Lianae had insisted upon wrapping her fe
et herself. Not even her mother had coddled her quite so much!

  And despite all that she was feeling, she had begun to consider that maybe she should slip away at the first opportunity, but she lacked the desire to go. Cold as they were, hungry as they’d been, there suddenly seemed no safer place to be than with Keane. But that made no sense. She didn’t know the man.

  Would he treat her so kindly if he realized who she was?

  Not a one of his men seemed even remotely curious over discovering aught about her. Either they had decided a woman in their company was of little import, or it truly didn’t matter to them from whence Lianae had come. Alas, she believed it was the former. And likely they believed she was a runaway, nothing more, nothing less. Judging by the dress she wore, they would easily have mistaken her for an English sympathizer—like King David and all his minions.

  Now she considered her options. It was all well and good to pretend for awhile, but there would come a time when she must leave, no matter how safe Keane made her feel. She must find her missing brothers, and if it was the last thing she ever did, she was going to make William fitz Duncan pay for what he’d done to Elspeth. Now that Lianae was no longer in fitz Duncan’s grasp, vengeance would be hers to give and it would be so very sweet. No matter how much she enjoyed Keane’s company, that was not something he would agree to do for her—that much she knew for truth. However, kind he might be, he was still loyal to David mac Mhaoil Chaluim. And David was William’s fitz Duncan’s king. Thus Keane was her enemy, whether she liked that truth or nay.

  One didn’t crave to kiss one’s enemy.

  But yet she did.

  And more.

  In fact, if Lianae didn’t leave soon, she might find herself thinking with her heart and not her head. For the love of Cailleach! She was already thinking with her heart, though once she found her brothers, Ewen and Graeme, they would know exactly what to do. She had so much to tell them both—about their sister and Lulach’s betrayal.

  As for Keane, she owed him naught, she reminded herself. Naught more than kindness. Despite that she longed to give him the truth—or at least as much of the truth as she could bear to give without endangering her cause—she could afford to say nothing at all.