Maddog eyed her pallet, half hidden in one corner of the south transept. “I know ’tis been difficult, lass. If ye’ll but gi’ me time, I’ll help ye better your lot.”
“How can you possibly? You have naught to your name, Maddog—just the same as me!”
“Aye, but I have something of value… to sell… and now I have a plan.”
She turned to face him, adjusting her cloak, curious despite herself. “Even if that were so, why would I help ye?”
He shrugged.
As tempting as it might be to think of a warmer bed, anything that came from Maddog would bear the stink of dishonor. She turned to go, fully intending to tell the laird—or at least her new mistress as she sensed in her heart that Lael would defend her. This was truly no way to live!
Maddog seized her by the cloak, like the cruel hand of a grim reaper. “I hope ye dinna think to tattle now. Ye swore for Bowyn, ye’d best recall.”
For a moment, she thought to scream, but two new guards appeared in the nave. Kenna shrugged away as the two guards passed them by. She held her tongue, watching as Maddog shared a pointed glance with one. She realized then that no matter how much he poormouthed, he still had a hold upon many who remained. They would do his bidding, if for naught else than because they feared him.
If she were smarter, she would fear him too.
“If ye go and tell, I will say ye were the one who kilt the poor boy.”
“But that’s not true!”
Maddog shrugged. “Ye swore for Bowyn,” he said again, and it gave her pause. She had sworn for Bowyn, right to the Butcher’s face. If Maddog answered for that crime, so, too, would she.
Afraid of the consequences, she turned back to seek her bed. “Go on then and leave me be,” she begged. “I dinna need or want your help!”
“Ye’re naught but an ungrateful witch,” Maddog spat, but he turned to leave her anyway. “Ye’re on your own,” he warned.
For once in Kenna’s life it didn’t feel entirely true. She sensed a change on the horizon—a change that included her somehow. It charged the air about her even now in the cold, dark recesses of the old forgotten chapel.
Maddog grumbled as he went away, and she waited until he was gone, then sought her bed, concealed in the corner by a pile of debris, praying now for the light of day.
The donjon gaol was by far the most unlikely place for a summit, but here they were nevertheless. Broc was seated in a chair beside a small table. A carpet lay beneath his feet and a well-lit brazier warmed the cell. A heap of blankets lay atop his pallet and the Butcher sat facing him from his stool on the other side of the bars. Little by little the cell had transformed into a well-appointed bower, if one might overlook the stone walls and roughhewn floor, though Broc had endured far worse.
“Enjoying the uisgee?”
“Uisge beatha,” Broc corrected him. “Dinna say it like the bluidy Èireannach. Aye, ’tis a good nip.” He set his tankard down upon the table.
The Butcher shook his head. “Ye must know I cannot return Keppenach to you, though I can lobby the king for Dunloppe?”
“A ruined keep for what should have been mine?”
“The land is good, but nevertheless, you have no choice. David will never give you Keppenach. As far as he is concerned, you remain a traitor to the crown. He would no more reward your efforts—no matter how just you believe your actions to be—than he would renounce his crown.”
Broc lifted his cup, taking a sip of his uisge, grateful for the warmth that sidled down his throat. He listened patiently, uncertain what to say or do. These visits had continued, and he had come to know and trust the man seated before him.
The wood in the brazier crackled, spitting cinders.
“As for me, I have no true affinity for Keppenach, nor to Dunloppe, but I do know a desire to rebuild my legacy, much the same as you.”
Broc nodded. A good woman could do that for a man. His wife Elizabet and his children were the reasons he cared to better his own circumstances. “Lael?” he asked, assessing the man with keen blue eyes.
It took the Butcher a measured moment to respond, but then he finally nodded.
Broc smiled. “She’s a pawky one,” he assured. “She’ll gi’ ye heartburn far sooner than she’ll warm the cockles of your heart.”
The Butcher chuckled low. “This I know.”
“And yet ye would keep her as your bride?”
“I would.”
“You’re a lucky mon,” Broc said. “’Tis God’s own truth, were my own heart free, I’d have loved her as do ye.”
“But it’s not?”
Broc instinctively understood why he asked. “Nay. I’ve a bonny lass at home,” he confessed to the man. “A bonny Sassenach at that… which only goes to show that there’s hope even for a gruesome lad like ye.”
The Butcher laughed outright.
So did Broc.
“Your a good fellow,” his captor said.
“So are ye—give or take a few heads ye’ve removed. Fortunately none were mine, so I’d see fit to bury the hatchet now.”
“So long as ’tis not in my back,” the Butcher countered.
Broc chuckled. “Aye well… did I see fit to gi’ ye my blade, it wadna be between your shoulders, Sassenach.”
There was an unexpected twinkle in the Butcher’s eye. “We share that in common,” he revealed.
With that matter settled, Broc continued. “As for Keppenach, I ken what ye say and if ye believe that David mac Maíl Chaluim will consider your behest, I will accept Dunloppe in Keppenach’s stead. ’Tis far more than I have now—a cottage by the MacKinnon’s good graces.”
“If it gives you any comfort, Keppenach is only barely less in ruins.”
Broc nodded agreement. “So it is.” He peered into his cup, and then his gaze traveled the length and breadth of the tunnels.
“This cannot be helped,” the Butcher added, seeming to read his thoughts. “David will expect you to remain imprisoned until the terms of our agreement have been met. If I set you free before then—I know him well—he will not feel you have paid your dues and he will not consider our settlement request. He will not be seen to reward his enemies, but I tell you now… the man has not been given his due. Given the opportunity, he is a worthy leader and a man of honor. If you serve your time here, Broc, he will be more than willing to agree to my bequeathal of Dunloppe to you.”
Broc realized the man spoke true. From the instant they’d met he had not once treated Broc with disdain, even whilst he hung at the end of a noose.
In fact, were it not for the Butcher, he would be dead right now, and for but a single breath, he would have been set upon a burning pyre, along with the rest of his crew. “What of the sword?” he dared to ask.
The Butcher gave a shake of his head. “I have seen hide nor hair of it, but I will continue to search. If what you say is true, ’tis my duty to return it to my king.” He paused. “And yet… if you should find a way to retrieve it on your own… I can assure you it would be added incentive for David to hear your claim… if you should think to gift it on your own”
Incredulous, Broc stood up from his chair and approached the bars, putting his hand to one and gripping it tightly. “You would be willing to look the other way?”
The Butcher leaned forward, linking his fingers together into a fist, and then he peered down at the ground between his knees. Broc could tell he was measuring his words. He peered up again, casting a glance at the guards he had posted some ten feet away, then once again met Broc’s gaze. “David claims he chose me for this assignment because I was a Scot. He said it was time I learned to be one. I must confess I did not ken what that meant when he first spoke the words. I spent the entirety of my life eschewing my mother’s legacy and clove to a father I did not know, but who others spoke of with utmost respect. In truth, I can claim no love for any of my kin, but I was born a Scot and lived a Scot until David chose to embrace me. But I did not know how much I needed a h
ome until I wed Lael, and now I ken. Until now there is one thing I have never understood about David’s rule, though now I do. Betimes you must make a choice for the good of the people, not so much for the good of a king. That is what it means to be a Scot. That is what David has so oft done. He has done much to bring enmity to himself but to further the gain of his chosen people.”
Broc swallowed at hearing the Butcher’s heartfelt words, and despite that they were not meant to do so, they made him feel humiliated to have placed pride over beneficence. Men had died to return his birthright, when all along he had a place amidst kinfolk who loved him as their own. Mayhap David did not deserve the reputation he’d received? Mayhap his unwillingness to raise his sword was less a testament to his fear and more a testament to his strength?
“Very well,” Broc ceded. “I will do my time and I will gratefully receive Dunloppe instead of Keppenach.”
To illustrate his commitment, Broc slid his hand between the bars and the Butcher rose to embrace it.
“I was not blessed with a brother,” the Butcher said, “though I will henceforth call you mine.” They shook hands. “You’re a good man Broc Ceannfhionn.”
Broc gave him a lopsided grin whilst their hands were still joined. “Brother Jaime,” he entreated. “Can ye spare aught more of that blancmanger? I find my appetite has returned.”
Jaime barked with laughter. “God’s teeth, mon! Ye’ll eat my entire pantry afore the winter has gone!”
Broc’s grin widened. “Aye, though if you’ll allow me to send word to the MacKinnon. We’ll fill your stores at once so then ye may fill my belly.”
He said it as a jest, but truth was laced amidst his words.
Jaime gave him a nod. “Consider it done, but for now, let me return to my wife, lest she discover precisely where I spend my time. It suits me well enough to let her believe ye’re down here suffering,” he said with a wink.
Broc’s hand snaked out to seize him by the shoulder. “Love her well and love her long,” he entreated. “She’s a good lass.”
“I will, my friend. I will.”
Broc shook him gently. “Go and get ye a bloody bairn so I can go home to my wife before my bollocks turn blue.”
Jaime laughed. “At least it willna be on account of the cauld.”
“I hear the burr in your words already, Sassenach. Ye’ll make a fine Scotsman after all.”
The two men shared another laugh and then Jaime left and Broc returned to his uisge-beatha, contemplating the strange turn of events.
If all went as it should, he might yet return to his bonny Elizabet before the snows entrenched themselves for the winter. He prayed to God Lael was as pleased with Jaime as her husband was with her, and that their union would quickly beget a child with lungs as powerful as hers.
His conversation with Broc at the fore of his thoughts, Jaime climbed the steps to his bower. He was surprised to discover his wife already there, seated upon the bed, unplaiting her hair.
“Jaime?” she said, startled from her revelry.
It was the first time ever she’d spoken his name, and it gave him a rush of unbridled pleasure. He entered the room, closing the door behind him, staring like a besotted youth despite himself. In the soft light, she was a raven-haired goddess, with soft rosy cheeks and eyes that glimmered by the firelight. Soft ebony waves fell across her shoulders wherever the bindings were loosed.
He tried to find his voice, but words escaped him so he crossed the room and poured himself a dram, determined now to find a way to restock the heady drink.
“I never thanked ye properly for my gift,” Lael said with a smile in her voice.
“Your smile was gift enough,” Jaime assured her, and Lael rose from the bed, her feet moving of their own accord. Before she could think better of it, she laid her hand gently upon his shoulder and he froze at her touch.
Try as she might she could not stop thinking of the way he’d gazed at her while gifting her his mother’s dirk—so full of anticipation it wrenched at her heart.
Never in her life had she received a gift that bespoke so much trust. Coupled with the tenderness of their first night—and every night since then—everything she thought she knew seemed wrong.
In truth there was little chance for a Sassenach butcher and a daughter of her people but here, in their tower room, with no one about to judge them, it was so much easier to see him as someone other than who he was: her captor, in truth.
And yet…
He turned to face her, his gaze so full of uncertainty.
Lael lifted a finger to his brow, tracing his scar gently with her thumb, as though to heal it by her touch.
“Will you come to leave me, Lael?”
She gave him a rueful little smile. It was impossible to say what might have been had she come to him of her own accord. Her gaze pleaded with him to understand. She answered with a question of her own. “Will ye set me free?”
His silver gaze penetrated her to her very soul. “Nay,” he whispered, answering truthfully.
Unbidden his fingers moved to the plait she’d yet to unbind, untangling the braid and combing his fingers gently through her hair. And then, because there was naught more to be said, he moved his hands behind her nape and drew her close for a tender kiss.
But after all… I have love for you.“Ach ged a bha… tá grá agam duit,” she whispered into his mouth. He responded with a little shudder as he swept his tongue between her lips. Falling readily into his embrace, Lael only prayed he wouldn’t ask her what it meant.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Recalling the strange box beneath the bed in the adjacent room, Lael went immediately up the tower stairs, curiosity getting the better of her.
With her gift from her husband tucked into one hand and a fire iron in the other, she flirted with a smile, thinking that perhaps it gave her far too much pleasure to feel the bite of cold steel in her hand—nearly as much as it gave her to hear her husband utter the word, “yes.”
While breaking their fast she’d simply asked him if she could employ the adjacent room for her maids, and he had agreed.
Her sister Cat once swore that men were easy enough to please, and it certainly appeared to be so. The more Lael embraced her husband, the more eagerly he gave her her heart’s desires—anything save her freedom or a visit to the gaols. Those were two things she could never broach without his temper turning to ire.
Ach, well, until the opportunity arrived for her go, it would serve everyone far better if she simply endured her sentence with a smile. After all, she hardly wished to be recalled the way she remembered poor Aveline of Teviotdale—morose, unfriendly and ill fated from the first. In fact, she needn’t embrace misery at all. A caged bird might sing a lovely song, but if you opened his door, he would spread his wings and fly away; so too would she. Broc must return to his people and so must she.
No matter what feelings Lael might now bear the man she was coming to know as her husband, this was not some good faerie’s fabrication. Lives were at stake, not merely her own. She could no more forget about Broc Ceannfhionn, and carry on as though she were a blushing bride, than she could seem to ignore the yearnings of her traitorous body.
And yet… if she had simply known what drove a woman into a mon’s bed, she might not have been quite so stubborn about staying out of them. Now at last she understood all the titters of her friends.
As for Mairi, Ailis and Kenna… She hadn’t told them yet about the tower chamber, but she hoped they would be as pleased as she was. Once the room was emptied the lassies could use it as they pleased—as a solar perhaps? Though first she intended to retrieve that box and then she planned to fill those peep holes in the wall. It hardly pleased her to know that anyone could spy into either room from the other side.
Contemplating which of the MacLaren lairds must have placed those holes, and which had had the ill-graces to use them—mayhap all—she shoved the gifted blade into its sheathe at her belt and then opened the door
and went straight to the bed, getting down to her knees to peer beneath.
There it was, precisely where she’d left it, at the far corner, shadowed in mystery. Her belly fluttered.
What else could it be but someone’s secrets?
Feeling giddy with anticipation, she pushed the fire iron beneath the bed, and with it, she batted the box gently until it was in a position to drag it out from under the bed and then, leaving the iron on the floor, she slid the box out and lifted and placed it upon the bed, sitting down beside it.
For a long moment, she simply admired the box itself. It was exotic. Made of some type of soft wood, it was carved and painted along the sides with lions, stags and wolves. Expectation fluttered once more in her belly as she set her hand to the lid, though upon opening it and peering within, she was at once disappointed with the mysteries it held.
It was filled with small pebbles and a child’s bloodstained teeth, along with sundry baubles—a copper penny, with the front-facing image of a king surrounded by the words Pillemus Rex. The reverse side of the coin bore a cross and she could make out the words on Lewes.
The coin was a curiosity, because they didn’t use them Dubhtolargg. Everything was bartered there. If a roof needed mending, they pitched in together. She did not ken the need for amassing metal coins. It took up space better used for something else. And the metal itself would make far better tools.
But this, again, was not her life, and it was yet another reason she must leave. This was a place where coffers were built to safeguard shiny metal pieces that were more intended to proclaim one’s worth.
Disgusted, she tossed the coin back in the box, and her gaze fell upon three small rolled parchments.
Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) Page 26