Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2)

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  “Tailard!” he still heard the barb. “Ye think I gi’ a bluidy damn aboot your mangy kinfolk? Listen and see!” And then he built a bonfire in the center of the bailey and rounded up the innocent—men, women and children, Jaime’s young sister among them—demanding Jaime leave. But Jaime could not, for he rode by the king’s command and when he refused to go, Donnal kept his word. That evening the dying howled like banshees across the moorlands, a sound that haunted Jaime until this day. Seized with a fury so black that it stained his soul, Jaime flew into a rage. With proof of his sister’s demise—the charred remains of her body cast out over the side of Dunloppe’s wall—he set the motte aflame, reducing it to ash, burning every last body within. As far as Jaime was concerned it wasn’t enough justice for the murder of innocents.

  To his dismay, today the scent of burning flesh clung to his nostrils, hounding him like a specter. Haunted by his memories, his eyes followed the black smoke that curled upward into the overcast sky. A sliver of sunlight stabbed him in the eye and he turned away, casting his gaze across the surrounding land.

  The huts were razed to the ground. The trees within arrow-shot were burned to nubs, their withered black trunks smoking like chimneys. Further out, the gnarled, defoliated trees reminded him of cranky old men, who with skinny, gout-filled limbs, raged against the fates. The ides of winter were upon them. This was farther north than he had ever ventured.

  From within he heard the magistrate’s declaration filter over the walls, pronouncing a sentence in the king’s name without so much as a trial. “For crimes against David mac Maíl Chaluim, Prince of Cumbrians…”

  Jaime’s disgust over the lack of due process warred with his sense of practicality. He’d come late to this battle and had no idea what these men may have done. For all he knew, they may have committed such atrocities that they deserved precisely what they got. Reluctantly, he forged ahead, cantering into the gates at long last, examining the prisoners one by one. If someday he must answer for every death beneath his watch, he should at least know them by face.

  Thin sunlight poured across the gallows and his gaze paused on the last prisoner and there remained. But it took his travel-weary brain an instant too long to filter what his eyes saw.

  They would hang a woman?

  A murder of crows shot up from the ramparts.

  So eager to hang them, the magistrate raised his gleeful voice for the benefit of the gathering crowd. “For crimes against David mac Maíl Chaluim, Prince of Cumbrians, Earl of Northhampton and Huntingdon, High King of the Scots and forebear of Kenneth MacAilpín… I hereby sentence you five to death by hanging!”

  All hope of reprieve fled at the proclamation. A choked sob caught at the back of Lael’s throat.

  He was the cause of it all!

  David mac Maíl Chaluim.

  This instant she loathed him with every fiber of her being. A terrible regret beset her—a sense of regret so fierce that it manifested in her breast like a leaden weight. Regret for not having killed David after he stole her sister. For all the things she should have said and done. For every time she passed her sisters without stopping to give them a kind word. For never having opened her heart to love.

  Ach, for all her blather about loving where she pleased, she would die here a virgin! She swallowed convulsively.

  Until this very instant she’d had visions of her noble brother riding in through the gates on his mare, despite what he’d sworn. But time was up. They began the hanging procession, from left to right.

  Ach! She wasn’t prepared to die!

  What did Una say? Their priestess claimed that time here in this realm was an illusion, that all the world was one, and that the barrier between life and death existed only for those who refused to see the truth. If Lael had ever believed in Una’s words, she must hold fast to them now, for this would either be the end, or the end of everything she knew.

  In that heart-pounding instant she could suddenly see everything with startling clarity. The beat of her heart sounded like drums in her head. The metallic scent of her own blood accosted her nostrils.

  Her gaze fixed straight ahead.

  Instead of a noble white mare, in through the gates trod a gelding whose coat was black as ink. On his back was a rider whose countenance was equally as dark. Raven-haired, the man was fully attired in in black, from his oiled leather boots to his dark-leather hauberk. On his chest was emblazoned the bright yellow and red of Scotland’s royal sigil, David’s lion rampant.

  He looked her way and Lael held his gaze. They might put her to death but they could not strip away her dignity. She refused to show him fear. He was death incarnate, and he’d brought his dark angels in the form of mounted warriors, ready to lay waste to everything in their way.

  The seconds passed like hours.

  Tensing as the executioner moved closer, Lael lifted herself higher on her tiptoes, as though by that effort alone she could escape the noose.

  At the far end of the dais, the first of the floor panels fell and terror shot through her veins as she listened to the strangled sounds coming from the first of their men to meet his fate. The next went down, and for long moments thereafter—or mayhap mere seconds—the rope creaked, straining under the man’s thrashing weight. The next fell with a startled cry, his heavy weight snapping his neck instantly. In the eerie silence that followed his hanging, Lael heard them attempting to pry loose Broc’s floor panel, for the wood was swollen and stuck.

  She shut her eyes, hot tears threatening to flow—but nay! She refused to weep. She chose this path, and by God, given another chance, she would do it all again. She forced herself to open her eyes, to meet death with dignity as the executioner stood before Broc. Her throat constricted, threatening to cut off her breath before the noose could do its work.

  “Please,” Broc pleaded at her side. “Let the lass live. I beg ye… let her go… I will gladly die in her stead!”

  “As though ye had a choice,” David’s henchman said, snickering. To the man beside him, he turned and quipped, “They’ll both be shitting themselves afore long, eh?” And then he snorted derisively. The other man cackled, the sound hideous and faraway. It scarce penetrated Lael’s fogged brain.

  Her ears rang but she heard the most distinct and tiniest sounds as though they were amplified in her head. Steeling herself, her gaze sought Broc Ceannfhionn’s, hoping to lend her friend the last shreds of her strength to see him into the otherworld.

  His blue eyes met hers for an instant, full of sorrow, and then with a strangled cry he dropped away from her field of vision. Tears flooded her eyes and she choked on another sob, but her gaze did not follow him down for she did not wish to see his face turn crimson or watch his bowels release at the moment of his death.

  The gods have mercy—any God—all gods—she could not seem to see this through with any dignity.

  Her gaze returned to the Butcher, seated like the grim reaper upon his black steed.

  Her heart pounded. Laughter filled her ears. Chatter from the ramparts. “Forgive me, Aidan,” she whispered. And then the henchman faced her at long last, pulling at the joists beneath her feet. She was barely aware of Broc’s body struggling at her side, vying for a last breath. Then suddenly there was an ungodly sound and the demon in black flew toward the dais, sword raised and aimed at her head. His gray-blue eyes, the color of steel met hers just an instant before he swung his massive blade. A long scar blazed across his brow—his devil’s mark. And Lael swallowed hard. As the fates would allow, his face was the last thing she would see before she closed her eyes.

  Chapter Three

  All thought flew from Jaime’s head as he raced across the bailey, unsheathing his sword as he bore down upon the dais.

  If they could hang a woman, what other injustices were committed in the name of David mac Maíl Chaluim?

  With a strangled cry, the hangman darted away from the gallows and Jaime swung his longsword furiously, hacking down the man hanging beside the girl.
It was too late for the others, but the burly blond giant plummeted toward the ground.

  Staring straight into Jaime’s face, the girl stood before him, ready to meet whatever fate he demanded. Her emerald gaze speared him with loathing, but to her credit she said not a word. He cut her rope, and once it was severed, she folded to her knees. He turned away to slash the ropes of the others who’d already succumbed. They fell lifelessly beside the blond giant. Once he was done, he searched the bailey. His horse sidled beneath him, snorting. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  “The dún Scoti bitch is guilty of treason!” shouted a man high up on the wall.

  Jaime’s gaze sought the bearer of the voice, knowing instinctively that it would belong to whomever King David had appointed to hold this demesne until Jaime’s arrival.

  Accused of treason, the woman remained upon her knees, her gaze lifting to meet Jaime’s, her green eyes glittering with rancor, until the man beside her began to sputter and then with wide eyes she propelled herself toward him, tumbling off the dais with the agility and speed of a cat. She buried her face against the crook of the blond giant’s neck, like a wolf ready to feed. It was only once she lifted her gaze once more to peer through her tangle of black hair that Jaime realized she had the man’s noose between her teeth, attempting to wrest it free.

  Jaime slid out of his saddle. “Remove their bindings!” he demanded.

  He went to the woman’s aid, helping her free the rope from about the man’s neck, half expecting her to bite him as he attempted to help. He slid his hand between them and tugged at the rope, loosening its grip upon the man’s neck. In the meantime, the magistrate rushed forward to help undo the bindings at her wrists.

  “Lael,” the man croaked, choking on the word even before clarity returned to his clouded blue eyes. Luckily for him, the rope hadn’t the time to do its worst. The blow to his chest forced air back into his lungs. His fellows weren’t nearly so fortunate. The others had shat themselves—he could smell it from where he stood—but Jaime checked their pulses anyway just to be certain. Finding the worst was true his gaze sought and found the man who’d spoken from the ramparts.

  “What good are these men dead? I explicitly bade you wait until I arrived!”

  “We did wait, my lord,” the man contended, pronouncing my lord in the English manner, as though to remind Jaime he was the outlander. “That dún Scoti witch put a dagger through my man’s heart.” He pointed to a pile of corpses that were all heaped miserably and without respect. From where Jaime stood, it was difficult to tell which of them might have been the enemy and which were his own.

  The woman’s face contorted with anger. “I did because he tried to abuse me,” she spat. On her knees, she nevertheless had the bearing of a queen, despite the gnarled hair and dirty face.

  Jaime couldn’t say why, but believed her.

  He thought about his own mother, and the sister he’d barely known, and hoped to God that if either had ever endured such an injustice they too might have been brave enough to gut the bastard with a blade. But he shoved the miserable thought out of his head. Now was not the time or place.

  He turned to his squire, bidding him to come forward—a son of his father’s liege, although now the tables were turned and FitzStephen’s son was Jaime’s vassal. At seventeen, Luc was still too young to be tested on the battlefield, despite that Jaime himself had tasted his first blood as a boy of sixteen. Not all men had the spirit for war. Unfortunately, in these days of unrest, youth and old age were luxuries not every man could afford—nor every woman for that matter.

  His eyes sought the green-eyed girl, but she turned away.

  He fully intended to investigate this case further, but at the instant he was tired, thirsty and his arse hurt from riding too long in the saddle.

  Re-sheathing his longsword, he demanded, “See these men get a decent burial, and put him—” he peered down at the blond behemoth, still gagging on his own tongue “—in a proper cell.” His gaze swept over the castle to gauge his options. “Secure the girl somewhere in the tower. Leave her with two of my guards, then report to me.”

  Once the orders were issued Jaime walked away, resisting the urge to peer back at the she-wolf still seated upon her knees—at least that’s what she appeared to be. God’s breath! There was no need to look back to be certain his demands were being met, but he succumbed to his curiosity and turned long enough to issue yet another, surprising himself, “First,” he commanded Luc, “get that girl a bath!”

  Get that girl a bath?

  Of all things he might have uttered, that was the last thing Lael expected to hear come out of the Butcher’s mouth.

  Get that girl a bath?

  Locked inside a tower room, she half intended to defy the Butcher and refuse to bathe. However, the tub, filled to brimming with steaming water, held more appeal to her at the instant than sacks full of gold—far more, since she had little use for gold.

  After having stood for hours in the freezing mist with a noose wrapped about her neck, she felt an ague in her bones that she wasn’t at all accustomed to. Still, she hesitated, testing the water with a hand, conflicted.

  They dragged Broc to the gaols, but at least he was still alive.

  Still it gave her a pang to know that simply because she was born a woman they had given her a warm bath and Broc Ceannfhionn a cold, damp cell.

  Mere seconds later and they might have both been meant for the other side of the sod—both saved by the Butcher, though gratitude in the same breath as the Butcher’s name somehow left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Frowning, Lael turned away from the bath to inspect the room, wondering whose it could have been. It was not large, nor was it fine and the wind whistled through cracks in the ancient stone.

  The laird of this demesne was dead, slain in battle by her brother. Rogan MacLaren had been a cruel man. He had tortured and threatened his own nephew—Lìli’s son. And then he’d forced Lìli to wed Aidan with the intention of murdering him. And this he had apparently devised with David’s blessings. To Lael’s way of thought that alone should have ensured Aidan would take up his sword in defense of Keppenach. But her brother had chosen not to, and for the first time in twenty some years, they’d parted ways.

  Never in Lael’s life had she felt more alone than she did this instant.

  Along the north wall, there was but a single narrow window fitted with bars. The shutters were closed now, but the chamber remained drafty. The room itself was barren but for an odd bed made of timber. The mattress too was old and filled with boiled straw, but at least there was a mattress. She spied a coffer in one corner—one she recognized, much to her surprise.

  She went over to inspect it and found that it was, indeed, the same ornate chest Aveline of Teviotdale brought to Dubhtolargg when she came to serve as Lìli’s maid—with all the pomp of a queen, and bearing more coffers than Lìli herself. Later, they learned that Aveline was Rogan’s mistress, sent to spy upon Lìli for her lover. Though instead of counting her good fortune to be away from the tyrant, the dafty had wept buckets until Aidan allowed her to leave in order to bear Rogan’s babe here at Keppenach. And then she’d vanished—to where was anybody’s guess. They only knew she was missing because Aveline’s father sent riders to inquire over his daughter’s whereabouts. Alas, the last anyone at Dubhtolargg saw of Aveline was the day they left her at Keppenach’s gates. And here was further proof she arrived—the coffer she’d once nearly slapped Sorcha’s hand simply for touching. Luckily for Aveline she did not, for Lael was in a mood that day, and she would have to slice off the girl’s hands at her wrists for the insult. It could not bode well for Aveline that all her worldly possessions were here, but she was not.

  Lael stood, peering about the room, examining it with new eyes.

  Aveline’s prison?

  But why? The girl had been a slave for Rogan. She would have done anything the lout asked of her. Hadn’t she abett
ed him, after all?

  Even more curious now, Lael bent to open Aveline’s chest and found it filled with clothing and baubles. Another chest—also belonging to Aveline, she presumed—was filled with more baubles, ribbons, a brush, a comb and a mirror.

  Lael’s fingers brushed over edges of the comb and the mirror, testing the sharpness of the metal. Stripped of all her daggers, these might well be of use if it became necessary. She lifted up the mirror and swung it. The muscles in her forearm clenched as she considered how hard the blow must be dealt in order to pierce the skin. The edges were far too blunt to inflict much damage, but at the very least, she could pluck out an eye.

  Placing the weapons back into Aveline’s garish chest, she closed the lid and rose to inspect the remainder of the room, peering into every nook and cranny. And because she wasn’t the sort to leave any stone unturned, she peered under the bed and found a small wooden box tucked away in the far corner. However, as the bed was far too low to the ground to crawl beneath, she couldn’t reach the box and decided to leave it for later. She came out from under the bed, brushing the palms of her hands on her clothes.

  Meanwhile, at her back, the water continued to beckon, steam dissipating in the chilly room. Clearly, they did not trust her enough to leave her with a brazier. Smart men, because Lael would use whatever means she could to regain her freedom, including burning down the keep.

  Get the girl a bath?

  Humph!

  She was not a bampot. She’d spied that look in the Butcher’s steel-gray eyes as he’d examined her there upon her knees. Why else would he have ordered a bath for her and the gaols for Broc unless he hoped to avail himself of her body? It was hardly likely that he’d ordered the bath out of the goodness of his big Butcher heart.

  Ach, well, she must admit he was not an unappealing man. In fact, with those piercing eyes, that chiseled face and fierce jawline, he could never be mistaken for a boy. The sight of him riding toward her with his sword raised and that black look in his steel-gray eyes had given her a terrible start—and yet for some odd reason, she did not truly fear him, not even when he’d swung that gargantuan blade toward her head. It was as though some voice inside had reassured that all would be well.