Cassian: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Immortal Highland Centurions Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  Comely and sweet?

  Aila’s churning belly clenched. She stared at him, fury rendering her immobile. She was so angry that it literally stripped her of the ability to speak. She didn’t have her mother or Heather’s quick, fiery temper. Instead, she was more like her father. Her anger was difficult to rouse, but when it did stir, it was a dark beast ripping at her insides, snarling to get free.

  Aila’s fisted hands clenched. If there had been a suitable object within arm’s reach, she’d have grabbed it and hurled it at his face.

  How dare he tell me last night meant nothing?

  “Liar,” she finally gasped. But he merely stood there, his gaze upon her, his face stony. She was looking up into the face of a stranger.

  “No,” he murmured. “I was lying before … this is the real me.”

  Aila fled then. She had to, before she flung herself at him and raked her nails down his face.

  To think she’d believed him a kind and decent man. To think she’d imagined he cared for her.

  She’d been living a fantasy—one he’d just rudely woken her from.

  She flew up the stairs, away from the kitchens, and sprinted across the wide entrance hall, nearly colliding with a group of English guards who were exiting the keep.

  One of them laughed and made a grab for her, calling out something in French.

  Aila ducked, avoiding being caught, before she snarled an insult in Gaelic and lunged for the stairs.

  Male laughter followed her, although the guards didn’t.

  Aila took the steps two at a time, her pulse vibrating in her chest. Reaching the landing to the guest apartments, she sprinted past the bemused guards standing watch there and fled along the hallway.

  Inside her tiny chamber, she flung herself face down upon the bed and let the full weight of her humiliation and grief hit her. Raw sobs ripped at her chest, tearing at her throat.

  The agony of it made her want to die.

  Cassian lingered in the alcove after Aila fled.

  He let her go, listening as her hurried footsteps disappeared above, before he emerged. He didn’t go down to the kitchen to get himself some bannock, and he didn’t go up to the solar where De Keith would be breaking his own fast this morning. The laird was expecting him, for they were supposed to go over the plans for the day.

  Instead, Cassian went outdoors. He needed to walk, to be alone for a while.

  He left the keep and strode across the inner-bailey to the walled garden beyond. Despite the warm breeze that stirred Cassian’s hair, ominous-looking clouds hung overhead. Bad weather was likely on its way.

  Cassian walked into the garden, his feet crunching on the pebbles that covered the network of paths. At the center of it all was a carven statue of a kelpie head—a horse-like, shape-shifting water spirit that inhabited the lochs and pools of this wild land.

  Cassian paused before the statue. The creature’s head was thrown back, its wild mane flowing behind it. Kelpies were just one of the many spirits and mythical beasts of Scotland’s folklore. After all he’d seen and done over the long years of his life, Cassian knew better than to dismiss them all out of hand as fantasy.

  Suffering the bandruì’s curse had opened his eyes to the fact that there were many things that couldn’t be explained.

  Cassian swallowed, in an effort to loosen his aching throat. He shifted his attention from the kelpie and looked up at the cloudy sky. Was that druidess looking down on him and smirking at his misery?

  For he was miserable.

  His chest burned with every inhale.

  Saying those things to Aila had cost him, but they were necessary. He’d let himself get too close to her; drastic measures had to be taken before he fell for the winsome Aila De Keith.

  Fool, you left it too late, a cruel voice whispered. The damage has already been done.

  Aila wouldn’t forgive him for this—and he didn’t blame her.

  Pain darted through Cassian’s left ear, and he realized he was clenching his jaw so tightly that the muscles were starting to cramp. Raking a hand through his hair, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the garden.

  Enough. He couldn’t let this mess with Aila distract him from his purpose. De Keith needed guidance at present, and there was still a library full of books that he needed to return to.

  Comyn’s revelations sat uneasily with Cassian—he suspected Edward had lied to him about his plans. His gut warned him that the Hammer would strike the Fort upon the Shelving Slope. And soon.

  Breaking the curse was the only thing that mattered. He couldn’t let himself love another woman, not while he remained immortal.

  He’d never put himself or anyone else through that agony ever again.

  XXII

  NEVER MY INTENTION

  LADY GAVINA GLANCED up from the small leather-bound book she was reading by the window. Her gaze grew wide when it settled upon her maid.

  “Heavens, Aila. What’s the matter?”

  The lass’s face was blotchy, her eyes swollen and red. She’d just carried a stack of clean linen into Gavina’s bed-chamber and placed it on the end of the bed.

  “Nothing,” she whispered, before she turned and attempted to hurry from the room, gaze averted.

  “Aila!” Gavina put down the book and rose to her feet. “Stop … what’s happened?”

  Her maid halted, and still facing away from her, covered her face with her hands.

  Gavina watched her shoulders start to shake.

  Rushing to her, she enfolded Aila in a hug. It was the first time she’d ever embraced her maid—for Gavina wasn’t used to physical contact with others—but she couldn’t let Aila weep like this.

  The muffled sounds of her sobs cut Gavina to the quick.

  “It’s nothing, My Lady,” Aila gasped. “I’m just foolish. Please ignore me.”

  Gavina’s mouth thinned. As if she’d ever do such a thing. Taking Aila by the hand, she led her over to the window seat and gently pushed her down onto it. Then, lowering herself before the young woman, she met her watery gaze.

  “I can’t ignore such suffering,” she said softly, “especially from someone who has been so good to me. Please tell me what ails ye.”

  Aila stared back at her, anguish twisting her pretty face. Her mouth trembled, and she clutched at Gavina’s outstretched hands.

  “I made a mistake, My Lady,” she gasped. “I let myself believe in fairy tales … and now I see they don’t exist. They never existed.”

  Gavina’s breathing constricted. Aila had always been so light-hearted, so full of hope. Her sunny disposition was a balm to Gavina’s soul, a reminder that there were some folk who believed happiness was possible. But someone had stripped that from her sweet-tempered maid. Someone had just crushed her spirit.

  Gavina stiffened, her temper quickening. She intended to find out who.

  Cassian didn’t realize he had company in the library at first. Deep in concentration, he was bent over a large book, his finger tracing the page as he read. It was only when the soft scuff of footfalls shattered the silence that he glanced up.

  Lady Gavina glided toward him.

  “My lady,” Cassian greeted her, rising to his feet. He resisted the urge to slam the book shut or try to cover up what he was doing. It was patently obvious that he was reading, and he didn’t want to arouse suspicions.

  “Captain,” Gavina acknowledged him. Her attention flicked to the open volume upon the table. A bank of candles nearby illuminated the bookshelves lining this windowless space and the huge oaken table in the center of the chamber. “What are ye reading?”

  “A history, My Lady.”

  Gavina glanced back at him, her gaze questioning. She appeared surprised he could read, yet was too polite to say such a thing outright. Indeed, there were few men in his position who could read. Soldiers didn’t usually need such a skill.

  “Of what?”

  “The Histories of the Clans.”

  She inclined her head.
“And such things interest ye?”

  Cassian smiled. “History is a passion of mine,” he replied.

  Curiosity gleamed in her blue eyes before her expression tensed and her brow furrowed. For the first time since he’d come to live at Dunnottar, Lady Gavina De Keith looked at Cassian as if she disliked him.

  “I apologize, My Lady,” he said quietly, motioning to the volume upon the table. “If this offends you, I shall put the book away.”

  Her lips compressed. “No, that doesn’t offend me.”

  Cassian stiffened at her tone. Pretending he hadn’t noticed her frosty attitude, his gaze flicked to the small leather-bound book she carried. “I see that you too like to read?”

  “Aye,” she admitted, her gaze still guarded. “Although my preference lies more in folk tales and legends. I’ve just finished this book of short tales, among them is ‘The Doomed Rider’. Do ye know it?”

  Cassian nodded. He’d heard the tale about a Kelpie’s dark prophecy. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  Gavina’s frown deepened. “Ye are a true enigma, Cassian Gaius,” she murmured. “A Spaniard who has made Scotland his home … risen swiftly to the rank of captain in Dunnottar… and with an interest in our history and folk tales.”

  “I’ve lived here awhile, My Lady.”

  “Aye, but ye keep yer own counsel.” She paused then, her chin lifting. “When ye aren’t breaking hearts.”

  Cassian stilled.

  Aila has told her. He couldn’t believe she’d been so indiscreet. Did she want to utterly ruin herself?

  A nerve ticked in Lady Gavina’s cheek, almost as if she’d read his thoughts. “No, my maid didn’t come complaining to me … but when a woman is so deeply hurt, it’s impossible for her to hide her grief.”

  Cassian drew in a slow, deep breath. “It was never my intention to hurt Aila,” he said stiffly. His voice now held a note of warning; this wasn’t a discussion he intended to have with the laird’s wife.

  Lady Gavina arched a slender eyebrow. “Really? Ye didn’t think that by swiving and then spurning her, ye’d not wound her?”

  Coldness swept over Cassian. “It’s more complicated than that, My Lady … and, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not—”

  “Oh, but I do mind.” She took a step toward him, angling her chin higher in order to continue to hold his eye. “It’s bad enough that ye bed my maid under my very nose … but now ye dishonor her. What if her womb quickens?”

  Tension coiled within Cassian, his skin prickling. He had to get out of this library and away from this woman’s outrage. “That won’t happen.”

  Her mouth pursed. She didn’t want to be indelicate, yet he could see she didn’t believe him.

  “Ye are fortunate, Captain, that I am merely the laird’s wife, and not the De Keith himself,” she ground out, her heart-shaped face taut and pale. “For I wouldn’t tolerate a man such as ye to lead my guard.”

  XXIII

  SAVIOR OF THE REALM

  THE LIGHT WAS fading and a chill wind buffeted David De Keith when he walked into the walled garden. Pulse racing, he feigned a relaxed posture, circling the beds of herbs and sweetly scented flowers, before making his way to the center of the space, where the kelpie statue sat at the garden’s heart.

  Spots of rain hit his forehead, and the dark clouds hovering to the north warned that the short spell of fine weather they’d been enjoying was about to end.

  David continued his circuit around the garden, and all the while, he could feel cold steel pressing against his calf.

  He’d hidden a dirk in the back of one of his long hunting boots.

  Longshanks had agreed to meet him here.

  De Keith slowed his step, passing under a trellis of gillyflowers. He’d been nervous that the king would refuse to meet him alone, for David had insisted that neither of them have an escort of guards.

  Not even Comyn was invited to this meeting.

  The De Keith laird’s mouth thinned. ‘The Red’ was a traitor in his eyes. He’d knelt too easily to the English. De Keith wasn’t going to do the same.

  Instead, he was going to make himself a hero.

  David glanced back at the towering walls of the keep.

  He hated being here in Stirling. Each meeting with Edward was a kick to the bollocks. His father would turn in his cairn at the thought that one of his sons was about to kneel before an English king.

  David clenched his jaw. Robert would never suffer this.

  It was true. His proud brother was festering in an English dungeon, but he hadn’t submitted to their rule. David would never live it down.

  He’d initially agreed to play the Wallace’s game—but he wouldn’t any longer. Hot pride surged within him. I won’t bend the knee to an English king.

  He wouldn’t let history remember him as the craven laird who’d knelt before the ‘Hammer of the Scots’, while the other northern chiefs refused.

  Before he left Stirling, he’d ensure that history recorded him as a hero.

  As the man who’d rid Scotland of Edward Longshanks.

  The laird emerged from under the trellis and stopped before the kelpie statue. The fading light highlighted the beast’s profile, and patriotic pride surged through De Keith, causing his chest to swell.

  John Comyn was currently a Guardian of the Realm, but he would be named its savior.

  He would kill Edward of England and let his blood soak into Scottish soil.

  He’d have little time left after that—for the castle was full of English soldiers—but De Keith had a plan. After Jean had whispered to him about a hidden way out of the keep, David had known what he must do. The existence of the exit made escape possible.

  And once Edward was dead, he’d make straight for it.

  He’d have to leave the others behind, but no doubt Comyn and Captain Gaius would ensure the women came to no harm. And even if Gavina and Elizabeth ended up suffering as a result, he didn’t care. He’d had enough of those meddlesome women, especially his Irvine wife—a woman he’d never wanted to wed.

  He’d be sorry to abandon Jean though—she’d been a real delight—but he certainly wasn’t going to put himself at risk to save a servant.

  The crunch of booted feet on gravel made David turn.

  Edward had entered the garden and was walking toward him.

  De Keith watched the King of England approach. The man reminded him a little of his elder brother, Robert. Long and lanky, he had a stalking gait—a warrior’s walk. As always, he wore a chainmail hauberk with a scarlet surcoat atop it. He wasn’t a young man, yet the years did not appear to have bent or weakened him.

  The laird suppressed a frown at the sight of the chainmail; that would make Edward harder to kill. The king’s coif was lowered at least, leaving his neck exposed.

  Determination coiled in David De Keith’s belly. I will strike him in the throat.

  “Another ale.” Cassian called out, waving to the inn-keeper of The Golden Lion. The man wore a harried expression as he served two English knights—big men in hauberks, their broadswords hanging conspicuously at their sides.

  The inn-keeper nodded, while the English soldiers glanced Cassian’s way. Their gazes narrowed.

  Cassian stared belligerently back at them. The mood he was in, he welcomed an outlet for his simmering temper.

  Go on, insult me … start a fight.

  But, perhaps sensing his aggression, and maybe not in the mood to draw swords this evening, the two knights turned back to their tankards.

  Cassian’s lip curled. Typical. How many times over the years had he entered a tavern, just looking for some peace and a cool tankard of local ale, only to have an idiot provoke him. But when he was in a confrontational mood himself, everyone else just wished for a quiet evening.

  “Yer ale.” The inn-keeper carried across a fresh tankard and set it down before him. Cassian sat at a booth in the corner, a shadowy spot that afforded him a clear view of the whole common room. He always chos
e his seat in these places carefully. Even in his present mood, he still liked to keep an eye on his environs.

  Cassian handed him a coin, and the man went on his way.

  Taking a deep draft, Cassian wished he’d ordered something stronger. This ale wasn’t having the slightest effect on him. He needed his senses to dull, for the ache under his breastbone to ease, and for the bunched muscles in his neck and shoulders to relax for a short while at least.

  But there was to be no respite.

  Reclining against the back of the booth, Cassian ran a hand over his face.

  He had no one to blame but himself for this mess.

  He’d known that spending time with Aila De Keith was foolish—he’d known, and he’d ignored his instincts. It was hard to think straight when she was near, and on the two occasions she’d reached out and placed a hand upon his chest, he’d lost his wits.

  He imagined Maximus and Draco sitting opposite him then. The former would be favoring him with an exasperated look, while the latter would likely be wearing his best ‘I told you so’ smirk.

  His own arrogance had gotten him into this. He’d thought he could go through life without connection, without letting himself go with a woman.

  But Aila had taught him that, underneath his defenses, he was achingly lonely—and his hubris had been his undoing.

  Cassian took another gulp of ale, wincing at the memory of Lady Gavina’s cutting words.

  Of course, the laird’s wife didn’t understand. And he wasn’t about to explain the situation to her.

  Hades take them all. This was why Maximus had chosen to live a solitary life for so many years.

  People could be incredibly wearing.

  Once more, he lifted the tankard to his lips and took a deep pull. The Golden Lion, one of his favorite establishments in Stirling, had an odd atmosphere this eve. Apart from one or two stalwart locals, English soldiers filled the tables and booths. There was a watchful, tense atmosphere within the common room.