Highland Storm

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Lael released the prison bars, crossing her arms, stepping back to survey his cell. “If they dinna release ye soon, I will send blankets and food.”

  Keane nodded a bit more soberly, realizing his sister was tormented. He didn’t wish to give her any more grief.

  She pointed to the cell beside him. “Even after all these years, I canna come here and not think of her. This is where they found her, ye ken.”

  Aveline of Teviotdale.

  Even without her speaking the name, Keane knew instinctively that it was who Lael was referring to. Aveline had been Rogan MacLaren’s mistress, sent to spy upon Lìli in Dubhtolargg. Though instead of counting her good fortune to be away from Rogan, the lass begged Aidan to return her to Keppenach to bear Rogan’s babe. And then she’d vanished, just as simply as that. Apparently Rogan buried her alive. When they discovered her body, her mouth had been stuffed with a wad of cloth, her hands were gnarled, her fingers bent to claws, as though she’d taken her last breath while attempting to scratch her way out of the casket she’d been buried in. There were claw marks along the ceiling of her tomb, bloodstains marking the splintered wood and splinters beneath her black nails.

  Lael pulled her her cloak together against the damp chill of the gaols. “They locked me in the cell with her. I found her only by chance, digging to pass the time.”

  Rogan MacLaren was long dead, but the stories of his terror lived on. Keane could still spy the agony of it writ upon Lael’s face. “Rogan was a bastard,” he said.

  “Tell me about it,” she agreed. “And while you’re at it, tell me ye dinna know that she was a daughter of Moray.”

  Keane’s gaze must have registered his shock.

  “You did not know?” his sister asked breathlessly, clearly relieved to discover it was so. She exhaled a long breath and her shoulders rested, a bit more relaxed.

  “Lianae?”

  Lael nodded. “’Tis true,” she said. “She confessed as much before the king, and I heard it with my own two ears.”

  “A daughter of Óengus?” Keane said, just to be sure he did not misunderstand.

  Lael nodded. “The very one.”

  Closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the bars, Keane processed the new information. For a long, long moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He thought about the bruises on Lianae’s legs, and realized what it meant: The man she would have been promised to would be a man of consequence… the Earl of Moray came to mind—a rightful claimant to the throne. Despite that fitz Duncan should have inherited the crown as King Duncan’s eldest son, he took a bribe instead, settling for the title of Mormaer. The man’s temper was renown. He was a cruel bastard on the field, to be sure. Clearly, he was in his bedroom as well. It was said he, himself, had felled Óengus of Moray on the field during the battle at Stracathro in Forfarshire…

  Fitz Duncan killed Lianae’s father.

  Had they already spoken their vows?

  The pit of Keane’s stomach turned at the thought.

  His sister accurately read his expression. “Ye dinna mess around, brother dear,” she said, and then she laughed softly as she shook her head.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Keane knocked his head once against the cold, hard steel. “What else di’ ye hear?”

  “Not much,” his sister confessed. “Even despite that I kept my gob shut—for once—they tossed me out.”

  “Jaime?”

  “Nay.” She shook her head. “It was David. But I, for one, have never seen him so furious, and Jaime daren’t defy him over this. Nor would I.”

  Lael shivered yet again, and this time Keane understood it was probably not from the cold. The look in her eyes was full of agony and for the first time since his arrest, he fully realized the severity of his position.

  This was not a simple matter. Not only had he abetted a woman who would flee her given duty—by the king’s writ—it was Lianae’s brothers who had been suspected of rousing the rebels. It was their men his mesnie had been sent to ferret out from the northern woodlands.

  While Lael was once held here and somehow escaped the gallows, she was not proof against Keane meeting the same fate. With the kingdom so much at odds, it would be an easy enough decision for the king to make to simply wipe this frustration off his plate. He had more than enough to deal with in Northumbria, and Keane had never once made his loyalties known. If he were David, he would wish to eliminate all trials in the north before traveling south. Cailleach only knew, where the man stood now—with most of Scotia under his rule—not even Aidan would be a threat. And now—only now—did he understand the true folly in never choosing sides. “What do ye think he will do?”

  “It all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what she says to him now.” She eyed Keane meaningfully. “They brought Lianae into the solar as they ushered me out.”

  “Una! Una! The babe is come!”

  Realizing time was of the essence, Constance shouted at the top of her lungs, tripping over her own two feet as she stumbled up the stone-littered hill. There was just enough snow on the ground that she couldn’t see the smaller stones and she didn’t know precisely where to go. Alas, but everyone else was far too busy, boiling water and preparing for the birth of the laird’s new child.

  Some day, she and Kellen would be expectin’ their own.

  The very thought renewed her pace—past the guards on the hillside. Like stone effigies, they seemed completely oblivious to the falling snow, and she marveled that they could remain, night and day, guarding the vale, come what may. She had never witnessed such steadfast loyalty as she did in these men, not even with her uncle Iain, who claimed a blood lineage to Kenneth MacAilpín!

  Forsooth, but it was cold, despite that the sun was shining brightly. Still, Constance was pleased to help with this small task and she wished desperately to prove herself useful. It was a wonderful feeling to belong somewhere, at long last.

  Although Chreagach Mhor was the only home she had ever known, and she knew well that her kinfolk loved her, she had never had a true sense of belonging living in Chreagach Mhor, particularly after her cousin Broc left. Thereafter, she had lived mostly alone, in a small cottage, cooking for no one. Her brother Cameron was never around for long, and even when he came to visit, he was most often distracted by one thing or another. Constance had always been an afterthought, a forgotten child.

  But now, now she was a wife—duly wed—and she intended to be the very best wife Kellen could ever hope for. If Constance would have her way, her sweet husband would want for naught and he would never have cause to regret the moment he took her as his bride. That night, up in the loft, he had been such a sweet, sweet soul. He had only kissed her all night long. But in the morning, faced with Iain’s wrath, he’d stood up for Constance and offered to wed her, then and there, even despite that her virginity was still intact. Later, once the vows were spoken, they had discovered the pleasures of the flesh together. Smiling, she patted her flat belly now beneath her cloak and prayed she would find herself growing a wee bairn very, very soon.

  Life was good today!

  Picking up her pace, Constance thought of the house Aidan and Lìli had gifted them with—a small but well kept hut—and she vowed to fill it with all the love in her heart. She would cook and clean as a good wife must do, and she would mend all her husband’s clothes. Already, she had them neatly piled into a coffer, with those that still needed mending sitting on top. She would learn to make soup that was never bitter to the tongue, and she looked forward to the day when she could sew for her wee bairns as well. Praying Lìli’s babe would only wait until she could retrieve the midwife, she called for Una again.

  It was curious the old woman would live in a cave on the hill, but certainly not unheard of. Constance once knew a woman back in Chreagach Mhor who’d lived in a cave in the faerie woods with her da until the day she’d wed. Seana was her name. Her uisge was both a scourge and a blessing to men, depending on the time of da
y one dared to ask. And yet as soon as Seana had been given a choice, she abandoned that cave in the blink of an eye. To Constance’s way of thought, there was little reason to live in a cave, but to each his own.

  She found the opening easily enough and passed through, noting the crates that were filled to brimming with supplies. Curious as she was to their contents, she was in far too much of a hurry today to stop and explore. She found the ladder Sorcha spoke of, went down quickly, but to her dismay, she found Una’s grotto empty.

  Mist rose from an opening beneath the old woman’s table. Puzzled, but too excited about the babe to consider where the hole might lead, Constance hopped down from the ladder, and went to see what she could see. She peered down the hole, and found another ladder made of rope. “Una?” she called hesitantly.

  A frisson of something like fear raced down her spine. For a moment, she considered going back, but Lìli needed the auld woman, and Constance would not fail her new mother by law. She was well aware that Lìli did not wholly approve of their marriage, and so she must prove herself worthy here today.

  Clearly, there would not be a rope here if it was dangerous. What a ninny she was being. For the good of her marriage, for the betterment of her relationship with Kellen’s mother, she climbed down into the darkness below.

  “Una?”

  Still, there was no response, though now she heard something odd—a strange rumbling, like the sound of a hungry belly. Shining through the darkness, she spied a bit of virescent light coming through a crack in the wall, a fissure through which she might squeeze through. Making her way quickly over, she pushed her way through to the other side.

  There, in a cavernous room, lit by a strange pale light, the old woman lay upon the ground, next to an altar bearing a very large stone. Horrified because Una looked as though she might be dead, Constance ran to her. Her skin was a little blue, and her white hair stood straight on end as though she’d rubbed a palm across the entirety of her head and made the strands rise up. Her lips were blue as well—darker yet—and the one eye that was not covered by a patch, remained closed.

  “Una?” she called softly, shaking the old woman gently by the shoulder. Her body was still warm, as though she were merely sleeping.

  Despite the mist that had coalesced outside the room and up into Una’s grotto, inside this chamber the air was perfectly clear and still, filled with a strange energy that seemed to hum. It made Constance feel as though bugs were loose and crawling across her scalp and that her teeth were rattling in her skull.

  Blinking with confusion, she peered up at the dark smooth rock upon the altar. There were holes on the sides where handles must have once been, but clearly, this wasn’t an object meant to tote about. On one side, it bore a plaque, and sensing it was an important discovery, the babe was forgotten for an instant as Constance reached out to touch the stone, brushing her fingers over the worn, etched letters. Her brother Cameron had taught her to read and so she knew precisely what it said. She spoke the words aloud:

  Unless the fates be faulty grown

  And prophet’s voice be vain

  Where’er is found this sacred stone

  The blood of Alba reigns.

  The old woman screeched like a banshee, opening her eyes, and bounding up from the floor. Constance screamed.

  With a terrible cacophonous shout, Una raised her staff high and brought it crashing down on the chamber floor. There was a boom and a crack and the room erupted with blinding, white light.

  Chapter 16

  Dirty ocher light filled the chamber, fueled by fat tallow candles and a short, husky brazier smoldering beside the king’s chair.

  But no sooner were the words out of Lianae’s mouth when she regretted them at once. If possible, they made her feel dirtier yet than the hateful gown she still wore—even dirtier than the warm, stale smoke that thickened about her nostrils.

  May God forgive her; she would never return to the Earl.

  The mood in the room grew more somber yet. All five men present stared at her across the table, none with any measure of charity, despite the atrocity she’d only just confessed.

  With narrowed eyes, King David sat in his chair, tapping his fingers on the wooden arm, considering her allegation. “And you have proof?” His expression was sober, his long, lean face stern and his complexion nearly as rufous as his beard.

  Until now, they had fed her, and mostly treated her well, but Lianae was wise enough to know that despite these small courtesies, her fate would be decided here today with a flick of that long finger the king was using to abuse his chair. He could very easily send her back to the Earl—and why should he care what happened to her from there? Why should he give a damn that her sister had died at William fitz Duncan’s hands? His ally, in truth. And yet, there was something in the depths of the king’s gaze that gave Lianae hope—some inkling of compassion.

  “Lianae… have you proof?” the king persisted.

  It just so happened she did. The bruises William gave her had been so dark and injurious that they had left her with twin bands of his rage. That he did not finish what he’d started had been a mere matter of minutes and her brother’s infuriating sense of diplomacy—for this alone she could thank him for, no more.

  And yet, she was not implicating the Earl here today.

  If she were defiled, fitz Duncan would never take her back. His pride was too great to allow it, whether or not she was a princess of Moray.

  She had been horribly afraid the king would consider it the right of a betrothed to taste what would be his. Theirs was a precarious alliance betwixt two men who would both be king, and she feared David would need a better reason to keep her from William fitz Duncan’s bed, and what better way to do so than to claim she was defiled by another man?

  And it should have been true.

  She had shared Keane’s bed every night since finding him at Lilidbrugh. It should have been easy enough for anyone to believe—that a man like Keane—so big, so strong—could take it upon himself to plant his seed inside her.

  But Lianae had been so desperate to escape her own fate that she had never stopped to suppose what it would mean for Keane. Guiltily, she met Cameron’s gaze. He would know her claims weren’t entirely true, though unless she meant to prove herself a liar, her words could not be undone. For better or worse, she must press her case.

  Wanting to weep now, Lianae slowly pushed her chair away from the table and stood. Her tears were real. She didn’t have to pretend. Her grief was genuine and the taste on her lips was bitter—a sour blend of guilt for the honor of a man she had just impugned as much as for the memory of what she had endured at the Earl’s hands. Fear left a fouler taste in her mouth and an even uglier taint upon her heart.

  Reminding herself that a woman must do what she could to survive, she cast a glance at the other occupants of the room, her gaze returning to the king’s. She bent to pull up the hem of her gown, showing the king the bruises that encircled her ankles, angry dark rings that were still visible even days later.

  “Keane did this?” the laird of Keppenach asked. His gaze snapped to meet Luc’s and then to Cameron MacKinnon. His tone was clearly disbelieving, leaving Lianae to wonder how well Keane knew this man. Aside from the king and Luc and Cameron, she had little inkling who any of these people were. But she felt a sudden rush of fear, for the look in Jaime Steorling’s eyes was none too pleased, and his ire seemed directed at Lianae. Still, she nodded, quite certain that it was her only choice.

  If she did not mistake the sound, the King growled. Startled, Lianae took a step backward and an instant of true fear squeezed at her heart.

  If the king would not believe she was defiled, he might send her back to Fitz Duncan. “I-I am… late,” she hurried to say.

  Another lie.

  They were piling up now faster than Lianae could remember them. And still she pressed her case. For emphasis, she moved a hand to her belly, watching the king’s eyes as they fell upon her once mo
re, also moving to her belly. Neither did the laird of Keppenach miss her gesture and he shared a look with his king, arching his devil’s brow.

  The king turned now to Cameron MacKinnon now, asking for his counsel, rather than the laird of Keppenach’s or Lianae’s. “You have spent the past five years in close quarters with the man, the past few months without fail. Is Keane dún Scoti capable of such a thing?”

  Lianae could see the muscles in Cameron’s jaw working. There was no telling what he would say. She knew the two men were at odds, but she also sensed his disapproval of her claims.

  “The mon I know would ne’er abuse a woman,” Cameron said, his expression sober. He shook his head, belying Lianae’s claims. And he shot Lianae another look of contempt.

  Lianae nearly cowed over the hateful glance. Confused, disheartened, she wanted nothing more than to throw herself over the table and beg for forgiveness—for lying about his friend most of all—but if she didn’t do this, she might well find herself dead. Like her sister Elspeth.

  The king’s gaze reverted to Lianae. He gave her a pointed glance. “I have him down in the gaols,” he apprised her, his dark eyes piercing.

  Panic rose up in Lianae’s breast.

  Keane?

  He was here?

  Now?

  “I could have his head for this,” the king continued.

  “Ach, nay!” Lianae exclaimed. She shook her head desperately. “Please, nay!” she begged. “It was not his fault, Your Grace!” And she fell at once to her knees.

  David slapped his palm down upon the table, making a terrible clatter. “Not his fault?” he roared. “How can ye say such a thing in the very same breath ye would impugn him?”

  Hot tears pricked at Lianae’s eyes. By the gods, this was going terribly, terribly awry. She’d never meant to bring Keane to harm.