Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) (5 page)

Whatever doubts she had harbored about magic receded in the beauty of this place, for only enchantment could explain this oasis surrounded by barren stone.

Down in the valley, protected from the winds and encircled by berry-laden rowan trees, sat row upon row of stone cottages topped with freshly thatched roofs. The rowan trees, she knew, had likely been planted for protection—a superstition passed down from their ancestors, although she had always thought of it as more lore than truth.

Out on the loch, an enormous structure with a cone-shaped roof sat like a wooden island connected to the land by a pier.

As they wended their way along the shoreline, she spied half-naked fishermen, some of them mooring their boats after a day out on the loch. Darker-skinned than most men she had known, and with hair the color of a raven’s wings, they appeared primitive and foreign to her eyes. Standing bareback in the shallows, they watched the small cavalcade pass by, something like mirth alight in their eyes. Torn between anger and fear, Lìli bristled at their expressions. By the rood, ‘twas good their moods were so light, for hers was black—as black as the sin they had set before her.

“Wicked,” the priest muttered beneath his breath, and crossed himself yet again.

His fear was contagious. As they neared the village, a feeling like doves took flight in her belly.

Any moment she would meet her betrothed...

Was he as savage as the tales proclaimed? Did he wear his ancestor’s bones for jewelry? Did he bathe? Would she be forced to share his bed straightaway? Would he skewer their priest? For that matter, was there even to be an actual wedding? Or did he simply plan to drag her by the hair into his den?

Her escorts had ceased their banter. Even the priest fell into a daunted hush. The seven of them pressed silently onward. Aveline, who had barely spoken a word all day, now sat taking in their surroundings with wide, fearful eyes. Lìli could sense their unease like a tension in the air and her heart began to pound. The palms of her hands felt damp, and she swiped them anxiously upon her wedding gown—a gift from David she would have gladly tossed back in his face if they hadn’t been holding her son hostage. It was a gift meant to deceive and she was a bride dressed in the colors of a queen... made to woo a king.

What a farce.

Pulling her arisaid about her shoulders, she tried to still the shivers that suddenly besieged her.

At last, the troupe rounded the wooden island that had blocked much of Lìli’s view of the village itself, and she saw that the townsfolk had gathered near the beach to receive her. Most appeared the same as anyone she might have known at home, but she swallowed hard as her gaze alit upon the small gathering at the foot of the pier.

A man dressed in barely anything at all—a breacan at least—stood with three women and a young man. Alongside them, stood an old crone with a wooden staff. She knew instinctively by the arrogant stance that this was Aidan dún Scoti.

Her betrothed.

Painted with intricate blue markings wherever his flesh was bared, he watched her approach with canny eyes. She could tell their color even at this distance for they were unnaturally green. The man towered over everyone who stood near him, his shoulders wide and brown—and bare, despite of the lateness of the summer. His claymore, a massive weapon meant to cleave men in two, was sheathed within his belt. His boots were laced and his legs were bare as well, revealing thighs that were as strapping as oaks.

Her heartbeat sped to a painful cadence as her mount halted along with her troupe.

She hadn’t even realized they had stopped until her companions slid to the ground to face their welcome party. Even Aveline dismounted while Lìli sat frozen in her saddle, swallowing convulsively, unable to rouse herself to move.

Aidan knew without having to be told which was to be his bride.

Despite that she wasn’t the only woman to arrive with the little troupe, he could not have mistaken Lìleas MacLaren. The other woman appeared pale in comparison.

Seated primly atop her white speckled mare, she was a vision in violet, with chestnut hair and eyes the color of bluebells. Her creamy skin was pale but flawless and he ceded that the tales he’d heard of her were all too true. Confessing to her beauty, he bent to whisper into Una’s ear. “She’s as lovely as they claim.”

The old woman cackled low, leaning upon her walking stick for support. She gave Aidan a knowing glance. “’Twas easy enough to foresee simply by looking at her minny, but dinna e’er say I canna wield a curse!” She nodded proudly, and looked back at the girl, thrusting out her chin as she added a caution, “Her first husband cocked up his toes precisely as foretold, so dinna go losin’ your head o’er the winsome lass.”

Una had been with them for as long as Aidan had memory. Her hair had never been anything but white and her skin reminded him of the stones they used to build their cairns. She seemed ancient, with her one good eye. Not even the meaning of her name was quite certain, for some called her the great white witch, and others called her The One. Still others whispered—especially when she abandoned them every year on Beltane—that she was Cailleach Bheur herself, the blue-faced mother of winter who protected them from the fury of the Highland winters, striking up corries wherever she willed them. Where she actually went every summer, Aidan hardly knew. She claimed she wandered the Highlands after the snows ebbed and the winds mellowed, plying her trade amongst the neighboring tribes. But she always returned to them late in the summer, bringing with her a sense of belonging as old as time. She was the Mother of their clan, their healer, their elder, and the longest living Keeper. She was also the only mother Aidan had ever known.

Aidan laughed, reassuring the old woman, “Dinna worry aboot that, Una.”

“Aye?” Lael challenged. “See that ye dinna, brother mine, for I have eyes in my face, and can see verra well the way ye are ogling her!”

In unison, all his siblings turned to glower at him, and Aidan scowled back at each in turn. In truth, he didn’t believe in the curse, but neither would he go losing’ his head over a winsome face. Curses and jests aside, there was enough at stake here that he wouldn’t take chances with his kin. She was the enemy’s daughter. That was something he was bound never to forget. In fact, that was precisely why she was here today—that, and the simple fact that Una seemed to believe the girl was the answer to all their ills.

The little troupe reined in before him, and Aidan observed his bride a moment. Looking much as though she would swoon in the saddle, she simply sat looking petrified, her gaze focused directly upon him. By the sins of sluag, he had seen standing stones with far more life than she was displaying at the moment. For all her beauty, she could have been a bloody totem!

So she would sacrifice herself to the pagan king, would she?

He smiled grimly and when it seemed she would never dismount, Una craned her neck up to look at him, her wrinkled face set in lines of disapproval. “Put that child out of her misery,” she hissed.

As he watched, his bride allowed her cloak to slide down her back, revealing a tight-fitting English gown that was constricting enough to shove her breasts halfway to her chin. He crossed his arms. “She hardly seems a child to me,” Aidan complained.

“Aye? And what aboot Catrìona?” Una countered. “Is Cat a woman or child?”

Annoyed by the question, Aidan frowned at the old woman, for he knew very well what she was trying to say. His sister Cat was a wedded woman now, though he would forever see her as a babe. Aye, Cat may have a right to choose the course of her life, but if her new husband did not treat her with as much reverence as she deserved, Aidan vowed to fly down the mountain and carve the blood eagle from his breast.

Bloody damned Scots.

“Aw, but Una,” Lael protested beneath her breath, coming to Aidan's defense. “We’re simply havin’ a wee bit o’ fun.”

Aidan cast a glance at his sister—at the bold blue lines she had once again drawn above her brows—paint that made her look as fearsome as any man. Her black hair, so like his own, was pulled back severely into one thick plait, and then plastered back at her temples and forehead with a thin coat of blue paste to keep the strays from her face.

“The paint is itching,” the youngest of his sister’s complained. “We’ve been wearing it far too long!” And she bent to scratch her thigh.

In answer, Lael elbowed Sorcha, unbalancing her. “Ye should wear it more oft to remind ye from whence ye came!”

Sorcha hopped to regain her bearings, frowning up at Lael.

“True,” said Una. “But this is cruel, and if ye would wear the paint, wear it to honor the gods. For this, they wadna approve.”

“What gods?” his brother taunted, all whilst Aidan’s bride sat waiting atop her nervous palfrey. Arms crossed, Keane nettled the old woman simply because he could. Aidan knew his little brother cared little about the state of his soul. At his age he worshipped only what lay betwixt a woman’s thighs. Aidan had long since outgrown that youthful bent, and no longer cared to sow his seeds in a garden he didn’t wish to tend.

The second eldest of Aidan’s sisters remained silent. Cailin missed Cat, he knew, and for that he blamed David of Scotia. Unfortunately for the lovely lass seated so stiffly upon her palfrey, at the moment he also blamed David’s emissary. And yet if he took her to be his wife, he was bound to give her everything due her as his bride... everything except his heart.

If he didn’t kill her first.

She had yet to dismount, he noticed, and before Una could think to elbow him yet again, he abandoned his siblings to "put his bride out of her misery" and bid her welcome. Enough was enough, he decided. Una was right. It was past time to put an end to their charade, amusing though it might have been.

But as he approached, her eyes widened—as though he were wearing his bollocks on his chin—and seeing the horror etched upon her face, he wished he’d left his claymore in his chamber, along with his paint. Inasmuch as it was rumored they walked around bare-assed in winter slathered in war paint, it was not true. The woad was simply a tribute to their ancestors, meant for one of two things—neither of which was appropriate at the instant.

He made his way down the pier, startled to find he had a skip to his step.

Resisting the urge to peer back at Lael, he slowed his pace, hardly pleased to be showing such exuberance over meeting his outlander bride—especially one who likely had treachery in mind.

Lìli had the sudden urge to flee.

The closer the dún Scoti came, the bigger he appeared, until he loomed at her side like a pagan stone rising from the depths of the earth.

His hair, black as sin, fell just below his shoulders. Braided on both sides so as to keep it from his face, it was otherwise straight and clean, revealing chiseled, high cheeks and a frown that seemed carved in stone.

Stilling the beat of her heart, she offered her hand politely so that he might help her dismount, and was startled when he ignored it, reaching out to pluck her unceremoniously from her mount. She swallowed her protest as he set her down upon the ground. The beast had lifted her as effortlessly as though she were but a child!

“
Fàilte a mo dhachaidh,
” he said in the old tongue.
Welcome to my home.

Lìli had learned a bit of the old language from the midwife who had come to tend her during Kellen’s birth. “
Tapadh leat,
” she replied.
Thank you.

One brow arched, but she saw a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. “
A bheil gàidhlig agaibh
?”
You speak the old tongue?

“
Tha, rud beag,
” she answered.
A little.

Lìli was acutely aware that all eyes were fixed upon her now, but she held Aidan’s gaze. His green eyes assessed her shrewdly.

Whatever else he might be, he was not the least bit dull-witted, of that she was certain, for she spied keen intelligence in the cool depths of his eyes.

He smiled suddenly, his teeth flashing a brilliant white, and then he turned to one of his men standing nearby. “Disarm them,” he demanded at once.

“But we assure you…” Rogan stepped forward, “We come in peace.”

Aidan’s smile deepened. “Then ye have no need of weapons here,” he said in the Scots tongue, and turned to Lìli, dismissing Rogan, “You must be weary?”

“Quite,” she confessed.

He raised his hand and flicked his wrist to dismiss the crowd that had gathered. And just like that they all went, like rats racing from the shadow of a torch. Peering over his shoulder, he bade the small group of onlookers standing upon the pier to come forward. They did so at once, if reluctantly it seemed.

Lìli joined her trembling hands before her as he introduced them one by one, three sisters and a brother.

The bright blue smears on the eldest sister’s face were hideous—painted without the least care for adornment—as though she had prepared herself for battle instead of meeting her brother’s bride. Her green eyes—so similar to Aidan’s glittered with far less welcome—if that were possible. Her black hair, slathered away from her face with blue paste, gave her a severe appearance that was only emphasized by the gleam of the enormous knife she had tucked into her belt—and another in her boot. Her clothes were simple—a clean, rough-hewn tunic of unstained linen. Leather straps crossed her breasts, as though to keep all her womanly parts in one place while she fought. Both her sisters were dressed the same, except that while they too had paint on their bodies, Cailin and Sorcha wore braids in their hair and no paint upon their faces.

The youngest of the lot, Sorcha, was the only one who did not share their dark countenance. With hair the color of Lìli’s and eyes that were as blue as a bellflowers, she peered up at Lìli with a question in her eyes.

Standing beside the child, the crone was as wrinkled as a withered prune with bright white and wiry hair, as though she had been caught in the fiercest of windstorms. She wore a faded black patch over one eye. “
Ceud mìle fàilte!
” she exclaimed.
A thousand welcomes!