Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2)
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Highland Steel
by Tanya Anne Crosby
Published by
COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby
1st Edition, April 2014
ISBN-10: 0989840859
ISBN-13: 978-0-9898408-5-9
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Highland Steel COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby
Edited by Rima Laham Jean
Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby
From readers
“I’ve read every book, some more than once. Tanya Anne Crosby has been my Queen of historical fiction for over two decades, and she still leaves me breathless and wanting more!” —Barb Massabrook, reader since 1992
"There are moments where your heart will pull hard… moments where you will be twisted with laughter." —Leah Weller, reader since 1993
From peers
“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…” —Publishers Weekly
“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.” —The Oakland Press
“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue …” —Affaire de Coeur
“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic, tantalizing!” —Rendezvous
“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.” —Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author
A Note From Tanya…
It’s probably not much of a secret to any of my fans that I’m an Outlander and Game of Thrones fan. With utmost respect for these iconic authors, you’ll catch subtle nods throughout my books, but I wanted my very own Jaime. Jaime Lannister is probably most responsible for that. In the beginning, I thought he was the vilest of characters, without any chance of redemption. And then he set out on his road to redemption. I feel the same about him as I do Bram Stocker’s Dracula. They are the ultimate anti-heroes, completely despicable and yet… maybe love will save them in the end?
In contrast, Jamie Fraser is the ideal hero—somehow innocent but incredibly sexy and braw. He’s a mon after a woman’s heart, eh? But I asked myself, “Who would be a Jaime in between these masterfully created characters?” Not so vile as a Lannister, but hardly innocent either. Probably not so virtuous as Jaime Fraser, and perhaps a little misunderstood. As with all stories and characters, it all begins with a simple “what if?” That’s how Jaime Steorling was born. And yes, if you recall that surname from my very first book, his father, Michel, appeared in Angel of Fire. As it turns out, my Jaime is no Lannister, nor does he ever hope to be a Jamie Fraser. But I hope you’ll embrace him just the same.
Dedication
For my daughter, Alaina, always my angel.
Like Lael, may you “kick ass” and take the world by storm.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Praise
A Note From Tanya…
Dictionary
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Epilogue
Redemption
The MacKinnon's Bride
Books By Tanya Anne Crosby
Gaelic Dictionary
Provided for better reading enjoyment. For Gaelic words not included here, the meaning has been worked into the story itself. Look for both the Gaelic words and the English translation in italics.
Am Monadh Ruadh: the Cairngorms, but literally the red hills distinguishing them from Am Monadh Liath, the grey hills
Aurochs: large wild cattle, now extinct
Bean sìth: banshee
Ben: mountain
Breacan: short for breacan-an-feileadh, or great kilt
Brollachans: ghouls
Corries: mountains, or hills
Crannóg: wooden dwellings the early Picts used as homes, often built over a body of water
Dwale: a drink made of nightshade or belladonna, often used for anesthesia
Keek stane: a scrying stone, or crystal ball
Loch: lake
Quintain: a piece of training equipment used for jousting, often formed in the shape of a person
Reiver: raider on the English-Scottish border
Scotia: Scotland, also known as Alba
Sluag: God of the Underworld
Targe: a circular shield used for defense
The Mounth: range of hills on the southern edge of Strathdee in northeast Scotland
Trews: close-fitting tartan trousers
Uisge-beatha: whisky, literally means water of life
Vin aigre: vinegar or sour wine
Woad: a dye extracted from the woad plant
Prologue
Dubhtolargg, The Highlands
Summer, 1125
“Catrìona’s gone!”
Those were the rudest words Lael had ever heard upon waking.
“What d’ ye mean gone?”
“Gone,” her brother repeated with deadly calm.
Lael leapt from her bed, tossing away the covers, the veil of sleep vanished.
“Taken,” he clarified, lest she mistake him, and then he seized one of her newly sharpened blades from a brace upon the wall, slipping the shining steel into the scabbard at his belt. He took another of her knives, shoving it into his boot, preparing himself for war. That’s how she greeted the morn, with news that her beloved sister was stolen by Scotia’s poppet king.
Sassenach-loving cur.
She hurried after Aidan as he gathered supplies. “How? Why?” she demanded to know, all the while snatching up provisions for herself. She most certainly intended to go after Catrìona, along with Aidan. David’s party couldn’t have gone far. Worst case, they might be a half day’s ride ahead. Lael’s skills as a tracker would serve them well; she was the best of their clan.
Besides, there was little enough reason for her to remain, only to twiddle her thumbs. Despite that she was the second eldest of her siblings, she was not a mother to them like her Cat. Neither did she have Cailin’s jubilant spirit, nor Sorcha’s innate sweetness. Her sisters—all three—had been born with far greater virtues than she. From the day Lael took her first breath, she knew herself to be differ
ent from her brood and she’d found her purpose on the day her father died.
She was a warrior to the bone.
“I dinna ken, but I intend to find out,” her brother vowed.
“I’m going w’ ye!” Lael announced.
“Nay.”
“Aye, Aidan, I will! Ye canna make me stay. Cat is my sister too. I can fight as well as ye!”
Her brother, her laird, turned to pierce her with a look she recognized only too well. “I need ye to remain here, Lael.”
“Nay!” Lael refused. “Ye need me.”
Her greatest fear was that Aidan would have need of her and she would not be there to defend him. And nay, it did not ease her mind at all that every last man in Aidan’s company would give their lives for her brother as soon as she. “I am far better with my sword than any of these men you would take and I can shoot straighter than ye.”
His face set in grim lines, her brother remained silent, gathering foodstuffs from the pantry now—enough to last for days.
Sorcha, her youngest sister, came stealing into the hall, rubbing red-rimmed eyes. “I am sorry, Aidan,” she whimpered. “I dinna hear them.”
Both Cailin and Keane shuffled sleepily through the doorway, their faces long. “Dinna worry sweetling,” Cailin cooed, rushing to Sorcha’s side. “’Tis no’ ye’re fault.” Cailin patted Sorcha’s shoulder. “Aidan will find her, dinna ye fret.”
Lael nipped at her bottom lip, considering her options. Aidan would not wait long enough to see her dressed, she knew. But she was determined to go, even if she must ride out in her shift—the only true women’s garb she’d ever owned. She felt vulnerable and exposed, but she didn’t care.
“How long d’ ye think they’ve been gone?” Keane asked. He looked far more like a man in that instant than Lael could ever recall. And yet he and Cailin both were far too young to be of any service to Aidan. Only Lael could match him in skill and experience—and unlike Keane, she was not meant to rule this clan if aught should befall her eldest brother. Nay, she was the logical one to join her brother on this mission. If she could but slip back into her room long enough to change her clothes, she could ride out behind him and quickly catch them if she must.
Preoccupied, his jaw taut and his shoulders tense, Aidan cinched his sack and strode with purpose toward the table where his targe lay waiting. Lael realized he blamed himself. After their father’s death, her brother had sworn to let no stranger sleep beneath their roof. But David mac Maíl Chaluim had arrived the day before, claiming he and his men were attacked by brigands on the pass near Dubhtolargg. His supplies were low, he’d said. He merely sought the aid of friends. And then, like a thief, he’d stolen into Cat’s room and seized her from her very bed.
Sorcha wept, inconsolably now. “David is a terrible mon!” she cried. “Why di’ we let him stay here, Aidan? Why?”
Never again, Lael vowed.
Never again would she trust anyone, whether or nay they called themselves a friend. As for King David, he was no king of hers and she vowed to rip out his ignoble heart when she faced him at last. “I am coming,” she maintained, and followed Aidan as he turned toward the door.
She knew by his stride that he was tight as a bow, ready to loose his fury upon her, but she persisted. For once in her life, she was not going to sit idly by and do naught while her brother placed himself in danger yet again. He could not always keep her from harm. The day her father died she was far too young to help, but she was no longer a child, and she was more than skilled enough to keep her brother safe. Determined, she followed Aidan onto the pier. “Who else is going w’ ye?”
“Lachlann, Fergus, his son—I dunno who else. Lachlann is gathering them now.” His voice was low and clipped. She knew her brother well enough to know that his calm was deceiving. When finally he caught up with David, Scotia’s king might end without a head. In the meantime Aidan needed her and Lael needed to help him.
Choose your words carefully Lael.
He who loses his head, loses, her father’s voice rang like a shadow in her ears, an echo from the past.
Her brother may not be raging this instant, but he was blind in his anger nevertheless. She must go to watch his back. She must. Aidan was all they had left. If he perished, who would protect them? Who would protect the stone? Who would protect the vale? Keane was yet a child, no matter how grown-up he might seem.
“Aidan!” Lael shouted at his back, feeling as helpless as the day she was begot. She stamped her foot.
He spun to face her on the dock, losing his temper at long last—in front of Lachlann, who waited now on the beach with horses ready to ride. “I said nay!” he shouted furiously. “I need ye here, Lael.”
Lael’s face flamed, though only partly out of chagrin, for her brother had never shouted at her this way. She froze in her stride, watching him turn again and storm away, leaving her mute with fury.
In that instant she vowed to kill David mac Maíl Chaluim. If hatred alone could wrest a man’s life, he would be dead a thousand times.
She watched her brother reach the end of the pier and hoist himself onto the back of his mare. The morning sun spiked against his targe as he shifted the shield to his back, and in that instant, Lael vowed two things: Never again would she hold back from following her heart… and secondly, if somehow David mac Maíl Chaluim managed to survive her brother’s wrath, she herself would kill him with her own bare hands.
Chapter One
Dubhtolargg, The Highlands
Summer 1126
“I will join the fight for Keppenach.”
The lute’s melody came to a cacophonous end.
The long table had yet to be cleared, and now no one dared. Tankards froze in midair, whilst fat yellow candles in their braces burned low, flickering in the silence that followed Lael’s declaration.
Long faces peered back at one another across the table, the longest yet belonging to her brother. Aidan’s proud features were set in hard lines that were made all the more severe by the tight braids at his temples. He might not have been swathed in woad for these particular guests, but he did not come to sup without his sword in his belt—a fact that did not go unnoticed. The silver of his pommel glinted above the tabletop, polished to a shine, like a well-caressed lover. His knuckles were bone-white about the tankard of uisge he held in his hand. He was furious, she realized… but she also realized her brother would not insult their guests with a show of temper, nor would he frighten his wee bairn, sleeping so peacefully in Lìli’s arms.
Aidan’s dear wife peered down into her daughter’s face, then turned to bid her young son to quit the hall. Fourteen-year-old Sorcha, growing more mature with every passing day, sensed the coming fray and hurried forward to take little Kellen by the hand, rushing him out of the hall. As they fled, Lìli cast Lael a worried glance, but then understanding intuitively that her presence here at the table wasn’t helping matters, she stood and bade their guests goodnight. It came as little surprise to Lael that despite the fact that Keppenach remained her son’s patrimony by law, she made no protest for herself.
“As always,” Lìli reassured the MacKinnon men, “ye art welcome in our house. But please forgive me as I take my leave and put this wee lass to bed ere she wakes to raise the rafters.” She eyed Aidan, a pleading look in her knowing violet gaze, and turned back toward Broc Ceannfhionn—Broc the Blond as he was aptly called, even now that he meant to re-establish the MacEanraig name. Lìli smiled wanly. “She has a temper not unlike that of her da’s,” she said, as a warning, though not for Lael. Lael knew it better than anyone, better than Lìli, in fact.
Lael was relieved to see them go. Despite that Aidan’s new wife was bound to feel vested in the final decision made here tonight, the sleeping bairn would keep discussions at bay, and now that Lael had come to a decision, there was hardly any chance their guests would simply depart, no matter what her brother decreed.
Lael was a grown woman, able to make up her own mind.
&nb
sp; She was not a child to be commanded at will.
Broc, last of the MacEanraig clan, had presented his case well, and Lael intended to support him. She understood well enough what it meant to be the last remaining hope of one’s people.He possessed the sword of the Righ Art, the sword of the High King and Chief of Chiefs, the sacred blade that had been lost for centuries amidst the Sìol Ailpín, the fractured Highland Clans who all claimed lineage to the first Ailpín king. The sword was lost, though now it was found… and here it lay upon their table.Her eyes sought the markings on the blade, words etched in steel forged at the dawn of time: Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich.
Hills and streams and MacAilpín.
The maxim declared a bloodline as old as the Highlands themselves. It meant to say that no piece of earth existed before the first MacAilpín reign.
Aidan’s jaw worked angrily as he watched his wife rush away from the table and Lael waited patiently until she was gone. Only once she heard the click of a heavy door closing in the distance, did she open her mouth to speak.
“Ye will not join this fight,” Aidan said, speaking low but with a steely determination to his voice that Lael had heard only once before. It was not her brother’s way to lay down edicts… and yet, there was no other way it could be taken. He was forbidding her to go. But Lael was a woman with her own mind and she would not take orders, even from her laird brother.
In the center of the hall, the hearth fire crackled—the only sound to breach the raging silence.
All three of the MacKinnon’s men—Broc Ceannfhionn included—held their tongues, realizing instinctively that now was not the time to intervene between brother and sister. Two days ago they had returned to the vale with a final bid for Aidan’s support, because Keppenach sat at the foothills of the Am Monadh Ruadh, the red hills, where Lael’s kinfolk made their home. Throughout the long winter, the fortress had kept a lean garrison, all the while flying King David’s lion-rampant standard from its angry stone towers. But now word had arrived heralding the approach of an army led by none other than Henry’s Demon Butcher.