Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone)

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  “K-King D-David s-sends m-m-me,” he stammered.

  Aidan nodded patiently, wondering ruefully if he looked down at the boy’s lap, whether his breacan would be soiled. The boy’s entire body was wracked by nervous spasms. “And?”

  The messenger licked his lips and Aidan took pity on him. He shouted for his sister, his voice slicing through the silence like a dagger. Lael shot through the door as though she had expected to be needed, looking at first worried, but seeing that Aidan was unharmed, she smiled with relief. Aidan lifted a brow, letting her know that while he appreciated her concern, he was mildly offended by it. “The lad is thirsty,” he said. “Would ye be so kind as to fetch him a wee dram?”

  His sister's lovely lips turned only slightly at the corners. She tossed a braid of black hair behind her back, and sauntered into the room. “Are ye certain he deserves our good uisge-beatha?” she asked haughtily.

  Aidan ignored her barbed question. “Are ye hungry?” he inquired of the lad. The messenger nodded jerkily although Aidan doubted he truly understood a single word that had come out of his mouth. He turned to his sister again. “Bring him a wedge of bread as well.” ’Twas likely the youth had expended all his energy climbing the bluffs, and Aidan intended to dispatch him the instant he listened to his news, not trusting an emissary of David’s to remain under his roof—or in his vale—for a single night.

  Lael gave him a twist of her lips, her bright green eyes, so like his own, flashing defiantly, but she did as he bade her, bringing the foodstuffs back from the pantry within minutes of his asking. This time, instead of leaving, she stood and watched, unwilling to leave again now that he had invited her in. Aidan was wise enough to know when and where to pick his battles—especially with the females of his household. Contrary wenches, all of them, but he loved their impassioned spirits.

  The messenger seemed even more ill at ease now, eyeing the jagged blade of the enormous dagger Lael had tucked into her boot. His sister was a master with her blades—a collector, as well. She usually carried the most discreet of her knives hidden from view. Her theatrics amused him, for no doubt she had donned the biggest blade she owned to make a point. She had also smeared blue paint into bold lines across her face, creating as fearsome a visage as she was able with those soft, bonny features. She crossed her arms, watching from a distance, and finally, Aidan sat. He took a seat facing the messenger, hoping it would abate the shivers the lad tried so hard to conceal. “Now,” he said. “What is it that David finds so urgent to say to me that he sends a boy into the Mounth in the black of night?”

  “Y-Your Grace—”

  Aidan stopped him with a hand. “I see no king sitting before you and recognize no king beyond this hall, so dinna address either of us that way again.”

  The messenger’s eyes shifted warily to Lael and then back. “Aye, m-my lord—”

  Aidan shook his head again. “I see no lord here either. That title is for Sassenach lackeys. Do I look like a Sassenach lackey to you?” he asked the boy, his tone gentle, but unyielding. The poor lad jerked his head from side to side. “Aye, then, let us continue.”

  “W-what would you have me c-call y-ou?”

  Aidan was losing his patience now as the hour was growing late. “Aidan,” he suggested. “It is my given name and it pleases me to no end to hear it spoken.”

  His sister snickered at his back.

  “Aye, w-well...” The messenger paused for an extraordinary amount of time and still could not seem to muster the simple name upon his lips. Aidan nearly laughed but he was far too weary for mirth. The boy’s brow furrowed. “K-King D-David,” he began again with some effort, and then as though starting at his own words, his gaze shot up to see if Aidan took offense.

  Aidan let it go, simply wanting the lad to leave now.

  When Aidan did not react, the messenger continued, thankfully eschewing the use of the title again. “D-David s-sends a bid for p-peace,” he said. “He s-says he l-laments having been so heavy handed with your s-sister C-Catrìon-na.”

  His back was to her, but Aidan thought he heard Lael growl. The eldest of his sisters was as fiercely protective of their brood as was Aidan. The messenger’s eyes grew wide and his gaze flicked toward the woman standing at his back. Aidan watched the boy’s pupil’s dilate, the muddy color blending with his dark orbs in the dim light of the hall. Through the boy’s eyes Lael must seem a fright. And he should be frightened. The lad should count his lucky stars that Cat was safe, because in a fit of temper Lael terrified even Aidan.

  An impatient muscle ticked in Aidan’s jaw. “ Tell me,” he asked the messenger. “Do ye condone the abduction of innocent lasses from their beds in the middle of the night?”

  The lad shook his head vigorously. “Nay, my l-lo—er Aidan!”

  Aidan nodded. “Well, ye see... I have only just returned from saving my sister from the clutches of some feckless lord—a fate mandated by David himself. I abandoned all I was in the midst of attempting to accomplish here and went chasing after her—all the way to Chreagach Mhor—and then after all was said and done... I was forced to leave her in the care of strangers because she lost her heart to some bloody Scotsman. Can ye ken how I might not be quite in the mood for treaties?”

  “Aye but—”

  Aidan interrupted him, and said, just so the lad understood. “Ye are quite fortunate I approve of my sister’s choice of husband. If I dinna, I would send ye back to David with your tongue strung upon a necklace.”

  The messenger gulped, hard. He glanced at Lael and her knives and then gulped again.

  “So, then... tell me... what does David propose?”

  The messenger’s eyes were wide with apprehension. Unconsciously, his hand went to his mouth, as though to safeguard his tongue. He peered back at Lael, and then met Aidan’s gaze. “He... er... he wishes to offer ye a b-bride—a-and a seat upon his high counsel.”

  “A bride?”

  “Aye, my lo—er Aidan.”

  Aidan would just as soon cut off his own bollocks and send them back stuffed in the lad’s mouth than to take a seat on David’s counsel, much less take a wife of David’s choosing. No doubt, he would send the lass north to spy. “And who is it that David would offer me to wed?”

  The lad swallowed convulsively, flicking a glance at Lael. “Lìleas MacLaren,” he said, nearly in a whisper.

  Aidan’s brows collided. “Lìleas MacLaren!”

  At his back, Lael shrieked in offense. “The daughter of the man who murdered Da!”

  He heard her rush forward, but he placed a hand in the air to halt her. She stopped, though he knew she did not like it.

  The messenger recoiled visibly, looking almost as though he would slide beneath the table in self defense.

  Aidan grit his teeth, but calmed himself. “So... David would offer me a cursed bride?” He knew better than anyone that the lass was cursed for the woman who had cursed her was the same woman who had pulled him and all his siblings from his mother’s womb. “You realize that anyone who loves the lass is fated to die?” he explained, as though the entire world did not already know it. Jongleurs sang the girl’s misery as a cautionary tale.

  A heavy silence met his question... a silence so profound that anyone who knew Aidan might have thought he was contemplating murder. Even Lael remained still behind him, waiting with bated breath to see what he would do.

  When the boy’s face had grown as pale as sun-bleached wax, Aidan simply threw his head back and laughed. The sound of his laughter boomed like thunder through the rafters.

  Chapter Three

  The devil had agreed to the bargain, so Lìli was sent north, traversing through woodlands and valleys that sliced through precipitous cliffs.

  The Mounth was an unforgiving place—a vast range of corries stretching nearly to the North Sea. Most people traversed them by the ancient road, but there were no roads leading to the place they traveled now.

  Dubhtolargg.

  She shuddered at the
name. The stronghold was named after a king of the Southern Pechts. Nicknamed dubh—the black—not for his temper, but for his coloring, it was said that, upon his death, his royal blood ran in rivulets down into the mountain streams and flowed red all the way to the mountain loch where Cailleach Bheur, the blue-faced mother of winter, slept in her cave. Drawn from her slumber to mourn the fallen king, her tears transformed the glen into a bounteous place surrounded by the roughest terrain known to man. It was to that glen Aidan’s people had fled more than two centuries ago, and there remained—in the red hills, stained crimson by the blood of dubh Tolargg.

  It was said that David would not rest until he held the mountain tribe’s fealty, for to gain their blessing carried nearly as much import as the coronation at Scone—little did it matter that the dún Scoti had not blessed any King since the death of Aed, son of Kenneth MacAilpín. Did David believe she could change that fact?

  Lìli's thoughts darkened as they made their way through the woodlands—an ancient pinewood forest, peppered with hefty lichen-painted oaks, and knotted wych elms that reminded her of bent old crones with boils and gout in their joints. At their feet crouched juniper, birch, cherry and rowan trees, giving refuge to deer, rabbits and red squirrels. She knew there were also grey wolves and wild boar in these woods, as well as bears, but luckily they did not encounter any along the way. The worst they suffered were a scourge of biting midge—Highland flies—that set them all to slapping at their limbs like self-flagellating priests. Only Aveline, Rogan’s mistress, complained. Of course, it wasn’t enough that Stuart’s brother couldn’t spare her his company for these final days of freedom. He had foisted his mistress upon her as a lady’s maid—no doubt as his spy to be sure Lìli complied with all he decreed.

  As they climbed the hills, the forests thinned, and aside from a slight chill in the air, the troupe met with only good fortune on the journey north. Bright blue skies and puffy white clouds prevailed the entire way. Indeed, one might think God himself had sanctioned this plan, but Lìli knew better. No matter what path she chose, she would lose. If she didn’t carry out this wicked deed, her son would suffer, and if she did exactly as they bade her, her soul would be damned for all eternity.

  In the end, whatever choice she made, a part of her would be lost.

  Whatever may become of her, she prayed with all her might that God would protect her son, and she took small comfort in the fact that David had promised to look after him now and again. What good was a promise from a man who had sanctioned this plan to begin with? Nay, King David had not spoken the words directly into her ear, but she understood by his demeanor that every word Rogan had uttered had met with his approval.

  With a heavy heart, she thought about her son. Abandoning Kellen at Keppenach was the most difficult choice she had ever made. Not even the death of her husband—a good man—had left her feeling so bereft. They had threatened to kill her boy if she did not obey, and the last thing she had spied before leaving the castle was Kellen's sad little face up in the tower window as they had led her out of the garrison.

  Did he feel himself betrayed?

  Lìli felt as though she had betrayed him.

  As she was bound to betray her new husband.

  But she must harden her heart, for if the choice came down to her son’s life or the dún Scoti’s—the mountain Scot as he was known to all beyond the Mounth—she would kill the laird of Dubhtolargg in an instant.

  By all tales she’d heard of his people, they were a barbaric lot, eschewing clothing and painting themselves as the old ones had. Their clergy were druid priestesses, and their gods the children of the forests—Taranis, Shoney, Fionn, and Sluag. These were the gods of her ancestors as well although much of Scotia—like David—had abandoned the old ways in favor of the Holy Church.

  Every so oft, the priest who rode beside her crossed himself, a nervous gesture in which she read his rising fear. For days now she had endured his endless orations, much of which was aimed at saving her soul from the fires of hell. She was a witch, of course—or so they whispered behind her back—and so they were sending her to the devil.

  It might as well be Hell.

  Like the faerie glens, Dubhtolargg was not a place good folk ventured and she wished to God that Padruig Caimbeul had not believed himself the one chosen to quash the mountain tribe. Alas, while her father had succeeded in killing their chieftain, under the son’s rule the dún Scoti were more feared than ever. And yet Lìli was innocent of her father’s doings. If they were to punish anyone, why not her father? Lìli was not to blame, but she was the one to pay. Aye, were it not for the odious curse the mountain folk had placed upon her as a child, she might have lived a happy life with a husband who died of old age in his bed. Instead, her name was cursed throughout the land, and it didn’t matter whether she believed in curses or nay, because everyone else did, and now her son had been ripped from her breast, and would be subjected to his uncle's cruel whims.

  Brooding, she cast a glance at Rogan’s mistress. Aveline sat upon her mount beside Rogan, adjusting her breasts to their greatest advantage, then peering over at Rogan to be certain he noticed. Ach, what need had Lìli for a maid in hell?

  In the Reiver Lands—the border lands—where they were half English anyhow, they might have use for silly maids there, but Lìli was Scots-born through and through. She didn’t need anyone to plait her hair. God’s truth, but she had never shied away from work of any kind, nor any task... save this one King David had set before her now.

  Birds twittered about them, but the song in Lìli's heart was mournful.

  Today she would give herself to the man whose kinsmen had cursed her—her enemy, in truth.

  Was he kind or cruel?

  It didn’t matter; she had no choice.

  She must keep her faith and do as they commanded, for Rogan had promised unspeakable horrors if she did not. The villain had no heart.

  At last, the hillside turned sloping and green and they passed a crumbling stone cairn that sat near a field of wildflowers. From there, the path wandered down a bluffside, into a verdant valley bordered on three sides by corries and on the fourth by a beautiful loch. The valley was defended on all fronts by natural barriers, making it impossible to breach except through duplicity. Not even a well-planned siege could lay these people to waste, Lìli thought, for they had everything they needed here to thrive. Truly, it was as though God himself had lifted his hand and blessed these folk. And, in fact, with nary a ripple to mar the silvery surface of the loch below, the water reflected the clear blue sky, so it appeared they were riding down into the heavens themselves. Despite her mood, the sight took Lìli’s breath away and a sense of something bigger assailed her as she entered the glen... something undeniably ancient and powerful. It was a feeling she had only experienced in glimpses throughout her life and her hair stirred from her shoulders, lifting in the cool breeze that accosted them.

  Whatever doubts she had harbored about magic receded in the beauty of this place, for only enchantment could explain this oasis surrounded by barren stone.

  Down in the valley, protected from the winds and encircled by berry-laden rowan trees, sat row upon row of stone cottages topped with freshly thatched roofs. The rowan trees, she knew, had likely been planted for protection—a superstition passed down from their ancestors, although she had always thought of it as more lore than truth.

  Out on the loch, an enormous structure with a cone-shaped roof sat like a wooden island connected to the land by a pier.

  As they wended their way along the shoreline, she spied half-naked fishermen, some of them mooring their boats after a day out on the loch. Darker-skinned than most men she had known, and with hair the color of a raven’s wings, they appeared primitive and foreign to her eyes. Standing bareback in the shallows, they watched the small cavalcade pass by, something like mirth alight in their eyes. Torn between anger and fear, Lìli bristled at their expressions. By the rood, ‘twas good their moods were so light, f
or hers was black—as black as the sin they had set before her.

  “Wicked,” the priest muttered beneath his breath, and crossed himself yet again.

  His fear was contagious. As they neared the village, a feeling like doves took flight in her belly.

  Any moment she would meet her betrothed...

  Was he as savage as the tales proclaimed? Did he wear his ancestor’s bones for jewelry? Did he bathe? Would she be forced to share his bed straightaway? Would he skewer their priest? For that matter, was there even to be an actual wedding? Or did he simply plan to drag her by the hair into his den?

  Her escorts had ceased their banter. Even the priest fell into a daunted hush. The seven of them pressed silently onward. Aveline, who had barely spoken a word all day, now sat taking in their surroundings with wide, fearful eyes. Lìli could sense their unease like a tension in the air and her heart began to pound. The palms of her hands felt damp, and she swiped them anxiously upon her wedding gown—a gift from David she would have gladly tossed back in his face if they hadn’t been holding her son hostage. It was a gift meant to deceive and she was a bride dressed in the colors of a queen... made to woo a king.

  What a farce.

  Pulling her arisaid about her shoulders, she tried to still the shivers that suddenly besieged her.

  At last, the troupe rounded the wooden island that had blocked much of Lìli’s view of the village itself, and she saw that the townsfolk had gathered near the beach to receive her. Most appeared the same as anyone she might have known at home, but she swallowed hard as her gaze alit upon the small gathering at the foot of the pier.

  A man dressed in barely anything at all—a breacan at least—stood with three women and a young man. Alongside them, stood an old crone with a wooden staff. She knew instinctively by the arrogant stance that this was Aidan dún Scoti.