David waved a hand dismissively. “Let us dispense with the trivialities,” he said.
Keane blinked, uncowed.
“You have been accused of defiling a princess of Moray.”
It was the last thing Keane expected to hear. “Lianae?”
“Indeed…. Lianae.”
“And does this accusation come from Lianae’s own two lips—” He turned to Cameron. “Or is this the word of ambitious climbers?”
“It was Lianae,” Jaime interjected soberly, sensing Keane’s unspoken accusation of Cameron MacKinnon. “Cameron stood by you with every word he uttered, Keane. He is not your enemy here today.”
Only now did Cameron look away, his expression clearly wounded.
“Who is my enemy?”
“Not I,” Jaime said.
The king merely smiled and Keane inhaled a breath. He shook his head, trying to comprehend. “It was Lianae who said this?”
“Indeed,” the king said, and continued to tap his long, lean fingers on the arm of his chair. “Of course, none of us were inclined to believe it, and after some time she did rescind her claim. And yet,” the king continued, his gaze studying Keane. “She did also confess the two of you lay together willingly and this poses a problem.”
For a moment, Keane remained dumbstruck, uncertain what to say. Close on the heels of a sense of relief that he might not face the gibbet, after all, was the simple realization that Lianae had lied. He’d never once touched any part of her save her lips, and her hands and feet, and aside from the kiss itself, none of it had afforded him much pleasure. He had merely meant to help, and instead, he stood here, facing an inquiry from the king…
“The problem, you see, is that she was promised to de Moray.”
I am but a simple maid of Moray, she had said.
Keane felt the truth impact him like a blow to his gut. Although Lianae clearly hadn’t been lying about that, damn her to hell for choosing her words so carefully Keane never suspected her relation to the man.
And yet… why hadn’t he, dressed as she was?
All the signs had been there, and yet he had chosen to believe she was a woman still within his reach. He had kissed her as though she could be his. He clenched and unclenched the fist he held at his side.
“And then… there is the matter of those bruises…”
Clearly, David wished to see what Keane would say about that, and when he said nothing at all, the man continued.
“I fear I know how she received the marks, and despite that I dinna wish to anger the man—for the sake of peace, ye ken, not because I fear him as a rival—I canna in good faith return the lass to Moray.”
It was another moment before Keane opened his mouth to speak, but the king held up a hand to silence him.
“You did lay with her, after all.”
It wasn’t a question.
Neither Jaime nor Cameron spoke to defend him, and Keane realized they all believed it—that he had bedded the lass, in front of gods and men alike. The notion infuriated him, and yet he held his tongue.
“You have a choice now,” the king said.
Keane’s jaw tightened with his anger. “What choice is that?”
“Wed the lass.”
Silence fell upon the room. Keane shot Jaime a beleaguered glance. “You would see me wed a liar?” he asked.
“Now that you have bed her, is she no longer pleasing to you?” David interjected, clearly annoyed.
Pleasing? Pleasing! That was not in question here. Even now, seated in Jaime’s solar, faced with a scourge upon his honor, his cock stirred at the memory of their kiss… the scent of her hair. But whether she pleased him was not the point!
David slapped a palm atop the table. “But not all is lost, you’ll ken. I have a proposal,” he suggested. And when Keane did not immediately speak, he continued, “Wed the lass, confess yourself as the father of her child, and I will give you Dunràth in payment.”
Lianae carried a babe?
“Dunràth?”
The king gave him an affirmative nod.
Giving him Dunràth would only heighten the potential conflict with de Moray. “Moray is still a place of unrest,” Keane argued. “Ye dinna realize, but despite de Moray’s oath, ye are but a spider’s breath away from losing what ye have gained to the Mormaer.”
“Which is precisely why I would give you a seat in Moray.”
“What about the sons of Óengus?”
Lianae’s brothers.
The ones she’d been searching for.
“I cannot concern myself with the sons of Óengus when there are matters of greater import at hand.” David threw up his hands. “Have you not heard the news of Henry’s death?”
Keane nodded.
“He was more than my friend, and far more than my sister’s husband. He was an ally. It is by his leave that we have maintained the peace in Northumbria. But here, you see, is my dilemma: I ride for Carlisle soon, and I would not leave the North solely in de Moray’s hands—not when I know he still craves to seat himself upon the stone at Scone. Do ye ken?” he asked.
Stunned by the unexpected offer, Keane met Jaime’s gaze.
“Steorling has assured me you are a man of honor, Keane dún Scoti, and I have come to love your sister well. So… I can hang ye here, today, now. Or I can lift you up and grant ye Dunràth and you can swear me an oath of fealty as your rightful king—as your brother should have done years ago.”
The room remained silent.
Keane had spent the whole of his life denying the dún Scoti name. And here, today, the king would have him join his ranks, and name himself a Scot. On pain of death, Aidan would have denied him. But it would serve no one for Keane to hang for this offense, and least of all Lianae.
“Only think of it,” David added. “You are, after all, a man whose blood bears the soul of Scotia… your bride would be a daughter of kings.”
David mac Maíl Chaluim continued to stare, watching Keane’s reaction, though Keane merely sat, mouth agape, contemplating the offer—contemplating Lianae all the more, if the truth be known. She had accused him wrongly, but beneath his outrage, he sensed her underlying desperation.
Had the Earl given her those twin bracelets? Had he violated her already? Planted his seed in her belly? He felt both furious for Lianae’s sake—and for himself. Never in his life had he experienced such a rage of conflicting emotions.
He thought of Lianae’s sweet face on the morning he’d awoken next to her, the innocence with which she had embraced him, and his vision darkened with ire.
Close on the heels of these confusing images, he imagined her face as she’d stood right here, in this very room… and lied. To the king of Scotland. To Jaime. Keane’s gaze fell upon his brother by law. By virtue of this fact… she had lied to his sister as well. Did Lael know that Lianae had accused him of getting her with a babe? Did these men not realize it was impossible to ken such a thing in only two days? If the girl was pregnant, it wasn’t by Keane. He shot Cameron a glance. “Do my men all remain under my command?”
The king’s dark eyes glinted. “All save Murdoch, who will hang for his treason. And I will provide you one hundred more to safeguard your seat in Moray.”
It was a generous offer—one that likely had as much to do with safeguarding the king’s interest in Dunràth Castle, but that was nothing less than to be expected.
Keane thought about Lilidbrugh, and the demise of his kinfolk, the prophecy Una had shared with them as children—the last words she’d said to him before leaving Dubhtolargg: I ken ye’ll know what to do when the time arrives…
Keane spoke before he could stop himself. “I will wed the girl,” he said. “And I will take Dunràth Castle, but I want Lilidbrugh as well.”
“Lilidbrugh?”
There was an echo about the room. “Lilidbrugh!”
The king screwed his face. “God’s teeth! That wretched pile of stones?”
“Aye,” Keane said resolutely, his gaze
meeting the king’s, his jaw taut with conviction. And once again, silence ensued, as the king considered his counter offer.
“Your fealty for Lilidbrugh?” he said after a thoughtful moment.
“And Dunràth,” Keane insisted. And merely so no one could mistake him, he said with deadly earnest. “My oath of fealty for Lilidbrugh and Dunràth, and I will wed Lianae of Moray and claim her child as my own.”
“And will you give me a true oath of fealty… despite what your brother might say?”
“I am my own man,” Keane assured him.
David mac Maíl Chaluim smiled, like a cat who’d waited very patiently for his meal to come to play. “Then the deal is done,” he agreed with a fierce note of satisfaction. “Now,” he said, magnanimously, “let us prepare a feast in celebration!”
Chapter 18
On the altar behind the dais, a sea of candles danced, their celebratory glow lending the front of the chapel a golden light. But no lutes played this day, no violas, no voices rang with cheer. It was a somber occasion.
Lianae stood next to Keane before the king’s prelate, begging her knees to cease knocking beneath her new gown. For the first time in days, she felt clean. She’d scarce been able to wait to rip off that other gown—the one belonging to Elspeth. It had offended her every second she’d worn it, despite that it was more lavish than the one she now wore.
This gown was simply made, but made of blue and gold sendal, with gold trim about the neckline and sleeves and a girdle made of gold. The cloak was velvet, trimmed with minerva and Lianae wore it thrown back, clasped at her throat with a golden broach. Her battered and bruised feet were swaddled in pale blue silk.
Standing at her side, dressed in dark blue and gold, Keane looked more a prince than a simple warrior. His shining black hair was clasped at the back, as were his hands, as though he meant to keep them from strangling Lianae where she stood.
The priest cleared his throat. “Who comes forth to be wed today?”
It was the king who replied. “Keane dún Scoti and Lianae of Moray.”
“And who gives the bride to be wed?”
“I do,” said the king.
Lianae swallowed her grief, for she had hoped it would be her father’s right—and if not her father’s mayhap her brothers. Behind them, the congregation remained silent, so silent she could hear the drip, drip of melting snow outside upon the eave.
“Do any oppose these two be wed?”
Keane cleared his throat although he did not speak, and Lianae held her breath as she watched the candles shiver in their sconces.
No one else spoke a word, but she had visions of the Earl bursting in through the chapel doors. Or mayhap Keane’s sister tearfully beseeching the King on her knees. None of these things came to pass, however. The room remained painfully silent, waiting for the priest to continue.
“Enough,” the king bellowed impatiently. “There will be none who oppose this union.”
And the prelate cleared his throat. “Very well,” he relented. “Will you, Keane dún Scoti, newly appointed laird to Dunràth, have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thyself only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
The priest was looking straight at Keane and when Keane didn’t immediately respond, he asked, “Will you?”
Her betrothed’s reply was curt. “Aye,” he said.
The priest settled a far less nervous smile upon Lianae. “Very well now, Lianae of Moray, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey and serve him, love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thyself only unto your laird husband?”
It seemed to Lianae that the priest accused her with his question. “I will,” she replied.
“Louder, child, so all may hear!”
“I will,” she repeated, enunciating the words more distinctly.
The priest smirked at her, avoiding Keane’s gaze. “Very well, then may God, who is merciful and just, bless this union and make you fruitful that you may bring forth sons and daughter to praise his name.”
“So be it,” Lianae said, when Keane remained silent.
“So be it,” Keane said tightly.
Lianae turned to face her new husband, vowing never to give him cause to rue this day. She would be a good wife to him, bear his bairns and she would cherish him until the day she died. She begged him to understand, pleaded with her eyes.
Forgive me, Keane.
The priest held up a small reliquary, asking them both to place a hand atop the sacred relic to consecrate their vows. Lianae did so, and was acutely aware of the weight of Keane’s hand as he placed it atop hers.
“As this man and woman have now sworn afore God and the bones of St. Peter, henceforth they will be known as man and wife. Amen.”
“Amen,” said the king very quickly.
“Amen,” said all those gathered in the chapel.
“Amen,” whispered Lianae.
Only one man did not voice the final benediction: The man standing at her side.
But it was done, and it was far more than she had dared to hope for, when all she’d ever wanted was to be spared a life from the tyranny of William fitz Duncan.
Her husband clearly did not share her joy. He stood beside her, his expression grim, and he could barely look at her, despite the lovely attire his sister had dressed her in.
What more fitting union?
A prince of the forgotten Pechts and a daughter of the conquered Moray? Her people, like Keane’s, were the last of their kind, and for this alone, he might have welcomed her into his bed… into his home… and, aye, even into his heart. But some part of him longed to walk away, even now—the prideful part of himself that would be wounded by her lies.
“You may exchange the kiss of peace with your bride,” the priest allowed.
His bride.
His beautiful, treacherous, lying, conniving bride.
Kiss of peace?
How could there ever be peace now betwixt them?
Lianae met his gaze boldly, standing as tall as she could. Even despite that she wasn’t particularly small, she rose only as tall as Keane’s shoulders. Her golden-red hair was braided like two silken cords and her eyes glistened like polished amber. She made the loveliest of brides—far lovelier than he might have imagined—but this too was besides the point.
Her cheeks blossomed with color and she bit nervously at her lower lip, swelling it with her blood. And despite Keane’s fury, their bodies seemed naturally drawn together.
They were so close now that Keane could feel the heat emanating from her mouth. The scent of her dizzied his senses, and still he refrained… hovering near.
Only this morning he might have given anything to kiss her just once more, and if he merely did so now, he would walk away with Lilidbrugh, Dunràth, a seat on the king’s council and a lovely new bride.
But he hesitated, wanting more…
He wanted what Aidan had—what Lael had discovered. He wanted what Cameron only longed for, and until this instant, Keane hadn’t realized he did too.
Lianae stood waiting, anxiously nipping at her lip and finally, resentfully, he pulled her close. She swallowed visibly and he held her more firmly yet, wanting her to comprehend what it meant to be forced. It would serve her right after all the lies she’d told. But he could not force her. Nor did she test him. She melted into his embrace and grew pliant, and only then did Keane bend to cover her mouth with his own.
Sweet and heady, that was her taste.
She promised him heaven and yet she’d already sent him to hell.
Keane’s body tensed, and for one ungodly moment, he forgot entirely where it was they stood. Once again, they were standing in the snow-covered woods, her hands clinging to h
is waist. The taste of whitebeam filled his mouth and he stifled a groan lest it slip like juice betwixt her lips. His loins tightened at the feel of her so near and he longed to deny his own desire—until such time as Lianae could look him in the eyes and speak the words he longed to hear…
“Ahem,” the priest said, clearing his throat.
The kiss was bittersweet, and it took much of his willpower, but Keane peeled himself away, inevitably leaving a piece of him as he did so.
The priest’s eyes shifted from Keane to Lianae, and then he declared, “What God has joined let no man put asunder.”
No man… or woman…
But she already had…
Needing succor, Keane sought his sister’s gaze. In Lael’s familiar eyes, filled with equal measures of hope and regret, he found what he needed to see, love without condition and freely given. Until he spied that in his wife’s eyes, he would harden his heart. A kiss might have sealed his fate, but it would never rob him of his hope.
For all that they were much too pious, Jaime was pleased with the tapestries Lael ordered for the great hall. The thick material easily muffled the sound of idle chatter and the deep reds and golds, coupled with the new chandeliers managed to give the room warmth and cheer, neither of which the wedded couple managed to exude.
Somehow, his wife had managed to rouse the entire household to prepare a feast fit for a king. She’d served Jaime’s favorite—a dessert called blancmanger that she’d introduced to him at their own wedding. And along with the blancmanger, she’d served currant cakes, pheasant, brawn en peuerade, a delicious pork in wine sauce, connynges in grauey—rabbit in broth—and dauce egre, a wonderful fish cooked in a sweet and sour onion sauce. There was plenty of warm bread, sweet cheese, mead and ale. The only one thing there wasn’t enough of was laughter. The evening was entirely too sober. Despite twinkling candles, music and a smattering of uisge, the great hall had all the good cheer of a funeral. In fact, he’d attended hangings that were far more joyful than this. The entire affair reminded him all-too-much of another wedding some years past—his own.
Highland Storm Page 17