Highland Storm (8 page)

Nay, he didn’t
want
her to get up, but it was past time for both of them to rise—well past time for his
old chap
to lie down for a rest.
Blood simmered through his veins, undermining his resolve...

Now?” she asked, and Keane groaned inwardly. Were it any other moment… had he not a company of soldiers watching… if she hadn’t sounded quite so much like an innocent—or mayhap if she weren’t gazing at him with that sweet look of gratitude… as though she might wish to repay him for his good will…

And yet, despite all his reservations, he let her ease into his space, craving the feel of her warm, sweet body pressed against his own.

He wanted to kiss her, he did.

More than anything...

And those lips, they seemed to beg for proof of his desire. Ach, god, he wanted her more than any lass he’d ever craved—even more than Meara that first day. By the stone, he could warm an entire village with the heat emanating from his loins.

She moved closer yet, leaning her face into his, and Keane cursed, if only to himself, finding his resolve weakened. He tried to will himself to speak—to warn her to get up—now, before he lost his head… but she puckered her sweet mouth just a bit, and he growled deep in his throat.

Just one kiss?

There was little chance he would simply take her here and now, surrounded by all his greedy-eyed men, and yet if the lass wanted him to kiss her… who was he to deny her?

Keane reached out to touch her cheek…

And this time, Lianae didn’t push him away.

I
t was
in that instant Lianae realized what she must do.

The answer to all her prayers came to her as she stared into Keane’s bold green eyes… It wasn’t as though she would trap him into wedding her… The king would never allow it, for this man was but a lowly border guard, with a handsome face and a kindly disposition. And yet he was far more like the man she had envisioned losing her virginity to—nothing like the Earl. And the more she considered it, the more she realized it was the right thing to do…

She wasn’t wholly unwise to the ways of the world. Virginity was only a boon if one wished to wed a king, and even then it wasn’t all it was said to be. Her mother had certainly never complained a day in her life.

Kissing this man, embracing him to her bosom… it was
not
the worst thing that could happen to her by far, for then, if they should happen to catch her, she could tell the auld lecher Earl she was ruined, that another man had claimed her long before him. His prickly English pride would never allow him to accept another man’s leftovers, and he would repudiate her before kith and kin—most assuredly before his king. And then mayhap she would be free to wed no one at all.

He wanted to kiss her.

She recognized the desire in his eyes.

And suddenly, she wanted to kiss him too… and it wasn’t all a ruse.

But she had never kissed a man before.

Not even the sound of men rising from their pallets could dissuade her now, for then she would have all the witnesses she would need to prove she spoke the truth.

And anyway, they were mostly sheltered from prying eyes, half hidden behind a mound of snow where once had been a crumbling wall. Lianae couldn’t see anyone so she surmised they probably couldn’t see her either—not entirely.

Curling her toes, she reached out to boldly press her lips against Keane’s mouth, inhaling sharply at the scent of his male skin—horse and man and
something else
… something she had never scented before now. Cocooned as they were, he smelled oddly like pollen, like that sweet, heady aroma that flared her nostrils every spring. But this was the essence of
him
, a tantalizing aroma that sent her pulses skittering and her heart beating like a hapless prisoner against her ribs.

“Ach, lass,” he said, and followed the protest with a low, confused groan.

Emboldened by his reaction—by her will to be free of the Earl—Lianae arched into his embrace, reaching down to pull his hand out from between them, wanting to feel him lean into her, his body heavy and full with ardor. She had never had a chance to ask her sister how it should feel, but this is how she’d always imagined it.

And that was all the encouragement he seemed to need. His arms enfolded her, and Lianae pressed herself more fully against him, marveling at what she encountered. Ach, but nay, the man was very,
very
fond of women—and particularly fond of her, she realized. Words alone would not serve her now, and so she said naught. Instead, she moved closer, into Keane’s space, pressing her body more fully against him.

With a guttural sound, his hand swept the length of Lianae’s body, stopping to cup the curve of her bottom and pulling her hungrily against his arousal. Lianae cried out softly, her body convulsing in secret places. His lips softened and his tongue found her own, unexpectedly foraging into her mouth. Dazed by the gesture, and intoxicated by the taste of him, Lianae lay for a moment, until he slackened his embrace—as though he meant to stop. And before he could pull away, she shoved her tongue between his lips, mimicking his actions, and moaning softly as he let her come inside to explore…

“Ach… nay, lass,” he said, but he didn’t stop. His hands continued to explore Lianae’s curves, dancing over her thigh. Too lost in the moment to care precisely what it was that was happening, Lianae reveled in the feel of his strong hands exploring her flesh. Even despite that she was a virgin, she knew very well that she wasn’t behaving like one, but right now, she didn’t care overmuch. It was for a good cause, she assured herself, and the simple fact that she was enjoying it so immensely was a wonderful surprise.

He shifted his weight so that he straddled her beneath the covers, and Lianae’s heartbeat quickened as she peered up at him, meeting his gaze. With a tiny knowing smile, she nudged him gently at his loins… urging him to continue.

“You’re a wee siren,” he whispered. “A kelpie for sure…”

Beauteous faeries who seduced men to ride and then plunged them into the raging sea.

“Dinna stop,” Lianae whispered against his mouth. “Dinna stop.”

He enfolded her once more, and Lianae marveled at the strength of him, the feel of his hard body, and very much unlike that time with the Earl, she did not pray for someone to save her… and yet someone did. The instant he bent to kiss her again, someone cursed roundly, thoroughly breaking the spell.

“Ach… I am so sorry, lass,” he said, thrusting his long fingers into the hair at the back of her head and tugging her gently away. He held her down so she couldn’t follow.

And that was that; he was up and out of the covers faster than Lianae could blink.

Her would-be savior was gone.

T
he blare
of a shepherd’s horn heralded their approach.

Straightening in the saddle, Kellen dún Scoti rode side by side with his new bride—he on a winter-white mare, and she on a Barbary black.

Riding ahead, along with his captain, Kellen’s father picked up the pace, eager to be home. So was Kellen, although he was overanxious about what his mother might say about the lovely woman riding at his side.

The past few weeks had proven a wonderful adventure, and he had come home a brand new man, but he cast a nervous glance at his bonny new wife and felt far less grown than he would have liked.

Would his mother welcome Constance with open arms? Would she be angered over the present circumstances? Would she acknowledge that, at sixteen, he was a man grown and allow him to establish his own home?

Or would she embarrass him before his MacKinnon wife?

Either way, Kellen realized that his mother was bound to be disappointed, if for nothing else, for not having been present for his nuptials. But ultimately, he hoped she would see it as a boon, for by his marriage to Constance, they now held blood ties to the MacKinnon laird, a man who was well respected throughout the north. These were turbulent times, and it would behoove them all to bind themselves together.

Painted white beneath a great blue sky, the hillside meandered into a valley that was bordered on three sides by corries and on the fourth by a beautiful loch. Down in the valley below, protected by the corries and encircled by bare-limbed rowan trees, sat row upon row of stone cottages—one of them soon to be his own. Today, the vale appeared much the same as it did when he’d first arrived at the tender age of five, but during the summer those same trees would all bloom, and in the fall they’d be filled with bright red berries that would hold fast to their boughs until frost. Even now the last stubborn fruits were layered in frost, shimmering like jewels beneath the waning sun.

He grinned, for the look on his wife’s face was worth the wait and she smiled beauteously as the small cavalcade approached the village, and one by one, his people filed out of their houses to welcome them home.

Out on the loch stood an enormous structure with a cone-shaped roof. This was the crannóg he’d spoken to his wife about, where he and his family kept their beds. While at Chreagach Mhor, she had been fascinated by Kellen’s stories and he couldn’t wait to show her the crannóg firsthand, although his father had already promised him a cottage of his own. After all, it wasn’t fitting for a man to bed his wife under another man’s roof—or so his father had said. It was far more meet for Kellen to make himself a home all of his own—so long as his mother agreed.

“’Tis lovely as ye said,” Constance avowed, and the sweet sound of her voice filled Kellen with joy.

“Not more lovely than you,” he countered.

How far he had come since Keppenach, eh?

At Keppenach he’d been just a wee lad, all alone, without any friends, and no siblings. His room had been cold and his bed as hard as stones. If they’d stayed there any longer, he might have been dead by his uncle’s hands. Neither he nor his gentle mother had ever had any love from Rogan MacLaren, but Kellen rarely thought about that odious man anymore. His real father had died when he was but a tot, and Aidan was the only father Kellen had ever known. While Stuart MacLaren had been a goodly man, Kellen was far more a dún Scoti than he had ever been a MacLaren, despite that he did not share his step-father’s blood. Through his years, he’d come to understand that familial bonds were not forged by blood, but by mutual respect and love. “Ye will love my sister and my aunts,” he reassured Constance.

“If they are anything like Cat, I know I will,” she happily agreed. “And ye may have yoursel’ another sister soon,” she suggested, referring to his mother’s new babe. “What think you of that, Husband?” she asked with a smile.

Like a sapling that had been shown the sun, Kellen sat a bit straighter in the saddle at hearing her endearment. “I hope it will be a boy,” he confessed. It would be good to have a wee lad to replace him, for his father’ sake. No matter how well his step-father loved him, he realized that it plagued Aidan quite a lot to lack an heir of his blood. They had a legacy to continue, after all, and Kellen did not bear the Guardians’ blood. He said naught for a moment, trying to picture his mother with a wee bairn. It was a strange thing to think about—particularly if he and Constance were breeding as well, though he supposed his mother was not so old as she liked to believe.

How would that work? he wondered. His son or daughter might be a niece to his infant sister. Confusing, though it was no more confusing than to think of his step-sister Sorcha as his aunt, as well—a fact that was
not
known except by a chosen few. Since Kellen shared none of their blood, his mother had been quick to reveal this truth so that he might never think of Sorcha untowardly. As yet Sorcha still did not know, and Kellen was sworn to secrecy. But Dubhtolargg was full of secrets—not the least of which included the Stone that had been stolen from Scone and now lay hidden in their ben.

“And your aunt Lael wed the demon butcher?”

Kellen swung about in his saddle, peering over his shoulder to see who else might have overheard. He lowered his voice as he turned to his wife, placing a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “I wadna use that name about here. Lael wadna like it verra much.”

“Oh.” Constance replied. “Will she be here as well?”

“Nay,” Kellen said, though he wished it were otherwise. His eldest aunt was by far his favorite aunt of all. Lael had embraced him first, protecting him with her life that wintry night he’d arrived in the vale. In fact, he sorely regretted having told Constance about the Butcher at all, for how many times had his mother and father both cautioned him to carry no tales of the vale. It was for this reason Kellen had yet to tell her about the Stone from Scone. He’d lived here many, many years before he’d ever learned about the Destiny Stone himself—and not before he was old enough to comprehend its value. And it was the first thing his father had pulled him aside to warn him about, even before he’d taken his vows…

The secrets of the vale remained in the vale
, he’d said in his firmest voice.

“His name is Jaime,” he corrected her.

Constance nodded obediently, although her words were not quite so conforming. “Dinna fash yoursel’, husband. I will not speak the Butcher’s name again.”

Husband.

She’d said it again, and Kellen felt the tell-tale heat rise into his cheeks. “Verra good,” he said, puffing up his chest. “He saved my aunt from the gallows,” he informed Constance. “That’s how they met. He cut her down from the gibbet, took one look into her eyes and fell in love—at least that’s what my uncle claims.” Constance blinked prettily, her long blond hair blowing softly in the cool breeze, and Kellen could scarce believe his good fortune. “A bit like you and me,” he explained “I knew I loved you from the instant I looked into your lovely blue eyes.”

Constance blushed and smiled. “You have such a way with words and such exciting tales to tell. Nothing ever happens much in Chreagach Mhor.”

Kellen lifted a brow. “What about FitzSimon?” he asked her, referring to the ordeal they’d only just left behind. Her cousin Malcom had saved his stepmother from certain death at the hands of a brother she’d not even realized she’d had. In the process, Malcom slew his own grandfather. Kellen heard tell now that Malcom might inherit a castle in Northumbria that was three times the size of Keppenach. Whether he did so or not would be a matter for kings to decide. Nevertheless, Kellen was content enough with his own lot. His tiny cottage in Dubhtolargg was worth a thousand castles anywhere else and he couldn’t wait to make a home with his lovely new bride. But he could see that Constance was still worrying her thumb, nibbling it thoughtfully—a habit that reminded him very much of his aunt Sorcha.

“Do you think your mother will like me, Kellen?”

Kellen wanted so much to tell her yes. His sister and aunts would embrace her easily. But his mother… well, that was another matter entirely. Despite that she had rarely ever taken a dislike to anyone, she had long expressed other ideas for the course of Kellen’s life. She might not wish to be thwarted, and she could very well blame Constance for the way events had unfolded.

But this was the truth: Kellen never touched Constance untowardly, not until they were properly wed. They had merely sought a bit of privacy up in the stables so they could kiss awhile. Not once had he put his hand up her skirt, nor did he place his palm across her breast… not until their wedding night. In fact, the very thought of it still made his cheeks burn, and he hated that fact for he was supposed to be a man.

They were near enough now that he could spy his mother emerging from the crannóg, unmistakable with her belly and her wobble and the pit of his stomach heaved, even as she waved and hurried down the long pier to greet them.

“Dinna worry, Constance. She will love you as I do,” he said, and prayed to God it would be true. Whatever the case, they would know it all too soon, for awaiting them below was the moment of truth.

* * *

T
he rations were gone
.

Upon receiving the news, Keane’s mood went from optimistic to ominous—not unlike the weather. As the morning proceeded, the hint of sun that had teased them at first light vanished as completely as the contents of their satchels. The surrounding bluffs no longer shielded them from a bitter wind. The trees thrashed in protest, shivering away loads of snow. If there had been prints left in the snow following the theft, they no longer remained. Wind lifted and shifted the drifts, making it impossible to say whether anyone stole in or out of their camp.

Quite convenient,
Keane thought.

Donal and Wee Alick both stood, scratching their big heads, icicles hanging from the hairs of their nostrils, whilst the rest of his men all argued heatedly amongst themselves, producing far too much body heat in their arguments to grow icicles themselves.

“
You
were the last to handle the rations, Brude.
You
were the first to rise!”

“Not me! It was Cameron. I only came to take a bite. We had plenty left after two nights of grouse,” Brude explained. “My belly craved a biscuit after all that grease.”

“Aye, well, if ye dinna drink your own piss oot o’ the burn, mayhap your stomach wadna need any settling, eh?”

“Let’s see what comes out o’ his arsehole this morn, then we’ll ken how much a bite he took. My belly is achin’ too an ye dinna see me stealing food.”

“Wee clipe!”

“It was the damned grouse—Alick, lazy bugger—probably found it dead.”

“Nay! I dinna!”

Brude turned on them now. “How would any o’ ye whoremongers know what I was doing, lest ye were sitting here watching every single move I make like beady-eyed hawks—and why would ye do so lest ye meant to steal a bite for yourselves?”

“It was the faeries,” interjected auld Teasag, his tone distressed. The man reminded Keane quite a lot of auld Fergus, back in the vale. “A penance for poaching upon their lands—so be the aching bellies. Mine isna well either.”

“What penance? This isna Holy Church,
eejit
. We’re no Sassenachs!”

“Aye, it
is
like Holy Church,” argued Teasag. “This place—” He waved a hand to indicate the whole of Lilidbrugh— “is no longer in the realms of men.”

Murdock made a face. “Ach, ye dolt! What faerie would want aught to do with a pile of broke stones? Shut up about it already, ere I break your bones!”

“Aye, we’re tired o’ listening to ye,
Tea Sack
.”

Through all this, Cameron remained silent, occupying himself by folding the small tarp they’d used to shelter the horses from the weather, preparing for their imminent departure.

“Shut your gobs,” Keane commanded them at last—before anyone should happen to brandish a knife. The snow was wet. No need to turn it red, although Keane certainly understood the inclination. At the moment, aside from having blue balls, he was cold and angry that these bunch of dafties would argue like auld biddies.

They’d begun their campaign with rations enough for ten days. After six in the saddle and quite a few supplemented meals, they should have had more than enough remaining for a week or more. With a bit of luck, Keane could have seen their bellies filled for a good sennight or more. But now
everything
was gone, as though some faerie had indeed waved a hand at their satchels and everything comestible had vanished.

With fourteen men, one woman, and no biscuits, no salted pork, no cheese and no liquids, except for a few flasks of ale, it went without saying that remaining to explore Lilidbrugh was completely out of the question.

By the same token, taking the girl back to whomever she’d fled from was also not on Keane’s list of destinations—even if it so happened that she’d come from allies who would welcome them with a feast and buckets full of ale—not unless he meant to start a war.