Lianae stood dutifully beside her new husband, her expression sullen and full of—in Jaime’s estimation—what appeared to be regret.
For Keane’s part, he looked like a man who’d been led to the gibbet rather than to an altar. His smiles were few and far between, and most were directed at Lael, in order to reassure her. Betimes he envied their close-knit sibling relationship. Even all these years later, he and Kenna scarcely knew each other, despite that she lived beneath his very roof. In fact, she was closer to Lael than she was to him.
All day long Kenna had been brooding, and now it appeared she had eschewed the celebration entirely. He was searching the crowd to see if he could find her, when his wife came tugging at his sleeve. She looped her arm about Jaime’s, drawing him close. “Do you think they will be alright?” she asked.
He followed her gaze to the dais, noting the couple’s general discord. “I do not know. In truth, have never seen him quite so…”
Wooden. Stoic. Quietly seething.
“Unyielding?”
Over the past five years, Jaime had come to know the man well. Thanks to Keane, Jaime had been able to join the battle at Stracathro in Forfarshire with some more peace of mind whilst he’d remained here at Keppenach along with Lael. He knew it had cost Keane his brother’s affections, and the two rarely spoke anymore. For that alone, he felt an obligation to see to his wellbeing.
Lael sighed loudly, her fingers tightening about his forearm. “I would be furious, in truth, had I not spent a few moments with the girl when I took her the gown. She was reticent, and yet every other word was, ‘will Keane like this?’ ‘Will Keane like that?’ To my way of thought ’tis a lot of fretting over a man she’d only meant to impugn.”
Jaime considered that a moment, remembering the wild look in the girl’s eyes in the solar. “’Tis my opinion she was merely trying to save herself.”
“Save herself?” Lael peered up at him, her lovely brows lifting. “From what, perchance?”
“Aye, well, that would be the question.” He stared down at his wife, knowing the answer to the question he would ask, despite his need to hear a little white lie, “Did you carry on that way before our nuptials?”
“Like Lianae?” Lael laughed and then shot him sideways glance. “Nay, husband!”
“So, then, ye dinna wish to please me, not at all?”
His wife tilted him a coy smile. “I dinna care to remind ye, husband. I would have greatly preferred to pluck out your eyes.”
Jaime’s shoulders shook a bit with laughter, realizing that she likely spoke the truth. That night so long ago, there had been naught between them but lust, and mostly on his part. His beautiful wife would have preferred to gut him from head to toe—and she might well have, given her skill with the blades. Even after all these years, she far surpassed most of his men and had shown little desire to put away her sharp little toys. Even now, despite that she was far more adept at concealing them, he knew she secreted one beneath her dress, strapped to her ankle in a soft pocket of fine silk—a gift from Jaime on their fifth year together, the day he’d left her to do battle in the north. Alas, his eldest daughter had taken up her torch. God help any man who dared to cross the Steorling women.
“Where are the children?” he asked.
“Here and there,” Lael replied, waving a hand dismissively, no doubt as much an accomplice to their foolery as were his errant daughters.
They had four—four clever little sirens, who would all someday lure hapless men to their doom—as surely as their lady mother had done to him. But be damned if he didn’t love his life. His gaze returned to the newly wedded couple, considering what his wife had said.
He had a good feeling about Óengus’s last living daughter, and it was a good thing, because elsewise, given Keane’s demeanor, Jaime doubted he could have supported the king in his decision to force them into matrimony—which by the by, confused him a bit…
William fitz Duncan was a clear and present rival for Scotia’s throne. By the letter of the law, he would have had a greater claim than even David. That David mac Maíl Chaluim would have given Óengus’s daughter to fitz Duncan in the first place was a risk to be sure and Keane had spoken the truth. As much unrest as there remained in Moray, fitz Duncan could easily claim the greater right to the throne by virtue of his own birthright, strengthened by the royal blood of his Moray bride. The one thing David had in his favor was that the people did not like fitz Duncan. But, on the other hand, they adored the sons and daughters of MacBeth. So give Lianae a man of might—like Keane—someone people were naturally drawn to follow. Give her someone who also brought to the union the blood of much revered kings—again, Keane, despite that the dún Scoti abstained from Scotia’s politiks. Add to this the fact that Keane was also Pecht—no matter that his kinsmen no longer referred to themselves this way. He, together with Lianae, could wage a battle for the North… and win. And given that they held a man within their dungeon at Dunràth a man who might see it done… well, he did not understand what David was up to… and yet he knew his king well enough to know that he did not take chances. Whatever was unfolding was well within David’s command. Alas, Jaime was sworn to keep this secret from his lovely wife, and God’s truth, these were the moments when he most loathed his position. But his brooding thoughts went unnoticed by his wife.
Up on the dais, Lianae seldom took her eyes off Keane. Whatever he did, she did. When he smiled, so too did she, despite that Keane seemed completely oblivious to this effort. Jaime cast a knowing glance at his wife. “Would that you were always so biddable as she.”
Lael returned his smile, her brilliant green gaze twinkling by the candlelight, and the gleam in her eyes made him wish they were alone. “Ye wadna like me verra much, I think.”
They shared a meaningful look, and a private smile. “Quite right, love.”
Husband and wife returned their gazes to the newly wedded couple, watching Lianae as she watched her husband brood.
“Those are not the actions of a woman who holds a man in contempt, wouldn’t ye say?”
“And yet… she spoke such terrible lies about my brother. It will bode them ill. Keane hasn’t a mean bone in his body, though he does not have a particularly open, or forgiving way once he has been crossed.”
“Aye, well, I’ve a good feeling, nonetheless,” Jaime confessed.
“Aye?” There was hope in her voice.
“Di’ ye not see that kiss?”
“Who could have missed that kiss?”
“Aye, well… that,” he reassured his lovely wife, “Is not the mark of a man who would loathe his bride. I’ll vow every witness thereof has been hornier than a two-peckered dog all night long.”
“Even you?”
Jaime grinned lasciviously. “Especially me, wife.”
The entire evening was a lie.
A sham.
A ruse.
A bitter pill to swallow.
The more Keane thought about it, the angrier he became.
“Bed her!” came the cries. “Bed her!” The insistent shouts grew louder, infinitely louder, into to a deafening roar, until the voices nearly shook the rafters.
“Bleed her!”
“Bed her!”
The energy in the hall was palpable, and the more people drank, the more they fueled their own base desires. Despite that he struggled to keep his wits about him, Keane was not immune to it. Ever since that kiss, his nerves had been on edge, ready to shatter with merely a word from his mendacious wife. But all the while she remained silent, sullen and looking like an exquisite little martyr, standing dutifully by his side. He could scarce even look at her now, but he felt her presence like a sharp blade turning in his side.
Once the crowd began to gather around them, pressing ever closer, he gave in, sweeping up his beautiful, treacherous wife into his arms. He carried her out of the hall before the throng could see fit to follow. Squealing with surprise, Lianae clasped her hands about his neck, holding tigh
t as he bore her across the dais, straight to the tower steps. He didn’t bother to look back. He trusted Jaime to stop the guests before marching up the stairs. Ribald jests shot up the stairwell when it became clear the guests would not be allowed to follow in order to witness the bedding—or the bleeding, for that matter. Distasteful affair. It wasn’t his people’s custom and perchance it might be hers, but he wasn’t about to admit witnesses for what he knew was to follow.
His bride was neither a virgin, nor was she his precious lover, and he wasn’t about to stir his cock for this travesty of a union. He wasn’t an animal ready to breed at a moment’s notice—nor would he play the fool.
In perfect silence, he carried Lianae up the tower steps, and the higher he climbed, the more the voices faded away.
He could feel her nails prick the back of his neck, so tight was her grip upon him.
At last, he reached the suite his sister had assigned to them—the same room he’d occupied five years before when he’d come to live, save that tonight, the chamber had been lavished with little luxuries. He pushed open the door to set loose a myriad of scents. Rose petals. Roasted almonds. Vin—the King’s favorite, or so he’d claimed—a gift from the sovereign of Scotland, hand chosen from King Henry’s cellars in Lyons-la-Foret in France.
Keane had the briefest moment of ill humor over the notion—wondering if in fact the vin might be poisoned. A gift of death for Scotia’s remaining sons and daughters.
Wouldn’t that serve David well? He could keep the crown for himself, without any fear of reprisal—not that Keane had any use for Scotia’s bloody crown.
Then again, he realized Jaime loved the man, and he trusted his sister’s judgment without fail. She’d said she’d come to like the man—far different words than she’d spoken ten years past.
Once inside, Keane kicked the door closed, carrying his wife into the cozy chamber. Halfway inside the room, he set her down on the floor—well away from the bed—and marched straight for the carafe of vin.
“H-have I done aught to displease you?” she asked, incredibly.
Had she done aught to displease him?
Keane coughed, a sound that was part laughter, part something else he could not define. He poured himself a cupful of vin and then met Lianae’s gaze. “Truly? You have the gall to ask such a question?”
Chapter 19
Lianae froze where she stood, impaled by her husband’s hard, glittering gaze as surely as though it were a killing blade. They must have told him everything by now and he might loathe her for the rest of her days. But at least she trusted him not to harm her—which hardly relieved her terrible sense of guilt.
What a choice to be made?
Impugn an innocent man, or suffer like her sister Elspeth?
That was no choice at all.
He was titled now, landed—something for which he might be grateful, but there was nothing of the look of gratitude in his posture or in his gaze. If she were flammable, the fire in his eyes would have easily set her ablaze.
Uncomfortable with her husband’s scrutiny, Lianae turned to examine the grandiose bed. It was overlarge—more befitting a king, with elaborate gold curtains that hung like festoons from a rich dark frame. The bedding itself was made of golden velvet. She made her way over to the gilded monstrosity, and ran her fingers across the soft blanket, marveling over how well King David’s earls seemed to live. To the contrary, she and her family had lived simply.
Images flashed before her eyes—of Elspeth on her wedding night—her final moments of life. The look of dread on her sister’s face as she’d taken her vows and then later, as she lay so still upon her marriage bed, the bruises ringing her neck… the sheets stained with her blood…
Lianae swallowed convulsively, her throat thickening uncomfortably as she waited for Keane to make his move. Now that they were here, she didn’t know what to do. In contrast to the cacophony down below, the room was unbearably silent. And when finally, it seemed he would never speak, Lianae turned to face him and asked breathlessly, “Shall I undress for you, my laird?”
“Nay!” He eyed her distastefully and poured a bit more wine, quaffing it down in a single gulp.
Lianae was confused. “But… the bedding. Will they not expect—”
One dark brow arched malevolently. “Blood?”
Lianae nodded, and he smiled thinly, slamming down his cup upon the small table. “Dinna fash yourself,” he said. “I have a solution for that.” And he marched toward her, reaching into his belt for an ornate dirk he had sheathed there.
Lianae gasped, and seeing the flash of his blade, she took a frightened step backward.
He came only as far as the heel of the bed and ripped away the blankets, exposing the white bedding beneath, and then he held out his hand, palm side up.
Was he asking her to join to him now?
How could he expect her to come to him so easily when he was looking at her so furiously? His green eyes glinted as sharply as did the steel of his blade. He stared for a moment, his mouth twisting ruefully and then he sliced the blade across his hand, cutting a fine, deep gash across the pad beneath this thumb. Lianae cried out in horror as blood spilled from his wound, into the palm of his hand. He turned it then, and let the blood trickle down over the white sheets.
“If blood is what they want,” he said. “Blood is what they’ll get. But we both ken verra well that ye’ll no’ be bleedin’ for me tonight, Maid of Moray.”
Constance found herself standing near the entrance of the cave, screaming at the top of her lungs. Ash filled her throat and nose, making it difficult to breathe. The mountain rumbled all about her and she stumbled to her knees. “Help,” she cried, frozen with fear where she knelt. “Help me!”
Lachlann was the first to arrive. His post was the closest on the mountain, but Aidan’s captain could barely hear the girl wailing over the rumble and din of a mountain collapsing.
Una remained somewhere below. It was impossible to imagine how anyone could escape such a catastrophe from deep in the belly of the ben. The caves were decimated, the entrance barred with enormous, immovable boulders that were three times the size of a man.
“The light,” Constance sobbed. “I saw light! Now I see naught,” she cried, bursting into tears. She covered her face with trembling hands. “I canna see,” she said over and over again. “I canna see!” Until the words became a litany.
“I canna see!”
Grief stricken, Kellen escorted his disconsolate wife to his old chamber in the crannóg, where she would be safe. All able-bodied men gathered on the hill, moving stones as best they could, tugging relentlessly and in vain at others that refused to budge.
There was scarce more than a crack large enough to send a fly into. And for all that he was the laird of his clan, Aidan worked hardest of all, with tears burning his eyes, unashamed to weep. All about, there was nary a pair of eyes that were not veined with red and no cheek to be found that was not salted by tears.
It should have been impossible to escape the shower of stone—impossible, and yet, somehow Constance had managed to do so. Until Aidan discovered how, he refused to stop searching for Una. Men and women worked tirelessly into the evening, by the light of pitch torches, and every so oft, a man broke down and fell despondent to his knees, sobbing without constraint.
The Stone of Destiny was buried half a league down beneath the cold, hard ground. But far more importantly, so was their beloved Una—for Aidan and his brethren, the only mother they had ever known. The old woman birthed their babes, as well as nearly every single man and woman present. She had tended their wounds. Loved their aged. She’d guided Aidan and his father and his father before him. She’d cursed their enemies, taught their children, loved their bairns. She was more a part of the dún Scoti clan than any living being. But the love they bore her couldn’t save her. She never emerged from the cave—not that night, or the next morning, and it soon became apparent Una was lost.
And still, every
kinsman available moved stone after stone, stubbornly seeking a way in and cursing amongst themselves every time they reached a dead end.
In the snow and freezing rain, they tried everything—attempted to breach the cavern through a crevice they’d sealed some years past, but that too was unbreachable now. No matter where they attempted to dig, they made little progress, reaching solid granite at the end of their spades. Two long days they labored without rest, until their hopes began to dim. Tired and hungry, and soaked to the bone from ice-cold rain, they crowded together in the crannóg’s long hall, taking turns by the pit to warm their frozen bones. Filthy from a hard day’s work, Aidan emptied the cabinets of uisge and set the jugs out for anyone to have. The mood in the hall was doleful and there was little appetite for food, but the mind-numbing uisge would be welcomed.
“Cha bhithidh a leithid ami riamh,” Lachlann offered after a moment of silence, raising a cup to Una. Her equal will never be among us again.
Aidan was not yet ready to let her go, and yet he drank a toast with the rest of his kin, his throat too thick to utter a single word.
Sorcha sat at the table, her head cradled within her arms, weeping softly. With red rimmed eyes, Cailin patted her youngest sister on the shoulder. Lìli sat beside them, cradling the newborn babe—a child Una would never know.
With skinned legs and bloodied fingers, Kellen had retreated to his chamber to console his poor wife, who had yet to recover her sight.
No one could quite make out Constance’s story, but as best as they could decipher, she had gone down into the tunnel below Una’s grotto, after finding the door ajar. She found Una lying prayerfully upon the ground, next to the altar bearing the Stone from Scone. She read aloud from the plaque, she’d said—a scripture Aidan knew by rote.
Unless the fates be faulty grown
And prophet’s voice be vain
Where’er is found this sacred stone
The blood of Alba reigns.
And then light exploded, blinding the girl, shattering the caverns like glass. Like their beloved kinswoman, the stone called clach-na-cinneamhain was now lost. It was once the destiny of his people, but now they would be guardians nevermore.
Highland Storm Page 18