Highland Storm (9 page)

“Empty your flasks,” he commanded his men. “Fill them with snow.” It was better than water from the burn, considering everyone’s upset stomachs and considering what he knew about the dangers of drinking contaminated water.

“Ach, Keane! The ale’s the one thing keeping my bollocks from freezing in this bitter weather,” Teasag complained.

“Empty your flasks,” Keane demanded again. And though his tone might appear harsh, he, more than anyone, knew how quickly sickness could take them.

His command was followed by a profusion of curses, though he didn’t linger to see that they obeyed. He simply expected them to do so. He didn’t care if they chugged down the ale in a single gulp. At least then it would keep them warm—for awhile—and there was little to no chance of drunkenness in this sobering weather. Most folks drank little water by choice, but the ale would dehydrate them quicker and he wanted everyone to have good, clean water at the ready, no matter how much they protested.

They should all be pleased enough to be on their way, but the change of plans did not suit Keane very much. He’d been counting on a leisurely morning to speak to Cameron, and then to gain his bearings, before helping Lianae find her lost stones, and better determining what to do with her. As it was, everything was in a muddle.

But the one thing he wasn’t confused about was this: He would kill the bastard who’d dared lay a hand on her—not simply because his mood was foul. And not because of what had happened between them this morning. But Keane felt fiercely protective over her. She’d looked at him with such a look of gratitude upon waking—such veneration—if Donal hadn’t distracted him, he might have completely lost himself in her arms. Only now, with his head a bit clearer, he realized what she was trying to do—thank him for coming to her aide.

The very idea made him sick to his gut. He would
never
have a woman that way.

Despite the number of lassies who’d rubbed their arses against his lap, the last woman he lay with was Meara. He did not partake when his men all went whoring. He much preferred a wank all to himself, far too aware of the consequences he would face, if his seed were to plant itself where he would not wed. To this day, Meara was the only woman he’d ever contemplated wedding, and the gods saw fit to keep that from happening.

Someone sabotaged them.

Who?

No one had been overly pleased over the prospect of making camp at Lilidbrugh, but no one—save Cameron—had opened his mouth to voice a complaint. By the same token, no one had any clue that he’d wished to remain, so hurrying their departure couldn’t possibly be the reason behind the theft. Keane was half tempted to empty all their saddlebags, just to be certain the thief wasn’t one among them, but if he did such a thing, without proof, there was no turning back from such an accusation. It would put their half-militant band of Scots out of their gourds. Already, they were edgy and ready to disband, partly because, until now, there had been no clear leader. This was something Keane intended to change.

His next thought was for Cameron, who seemed to have spent the entire night awake and brooding, if his look of fatigue was any indication. However, he was more than certain Cameron would never do such a thing. Even if they had no friendship between them at all, in a single word, Keane knew precisely what would keep him from sabotage: Cailin.

Which left Keane with three more possibilities, none of which were pleasing.

It could have been another one of his men, hoping to divert them from their destination, though if this was the case, that man would suffer right alongside them before he could fill his belly again. And it would be easy enough to catch someone if he kept sneaking away for a piss and a chew.

It could also be that their thief might be whomever was out there searching for Lianae, but then, why hadn’t they made themselves known? Why come into a camp, steal food and naught else, then leave behind the very person they hoped to find?

Unless they hadn’t realized Lianae was there, and simply needed supplies? But if they had followed her trail so far, why abandon any camp they encountered without learning something more than they already knew before they’d arrived?

Unless they knew she was here and were outnumbered and meant to dwindle their numbers—and in such case, why not take the horses as well as the food?

Nay. None of these scenarios made any sense, and the possibilities were endless.

The most reasonable explanation was that it was the men they’d been tracking before stumbling upon the ruins. If this were the case, mayhap it was not a matter of men stealing into their camp, but someone stealing out, and since all heads were presently accounted for, it could be they did, indeed, have a spy, after all—someone who’d snuck away in the middle of the night whilst they’d slept to rendezvous with the scouts, and then returned and slid himself back into his bed, hoping no one would be the wiser. But why take the rations? To give them supplies?

One thing was certain: The contents of their saddlebags didn’t disappear by
magik
—no matter what Teasag claimed.

Whatever the reason for their rations’ disappearance, they could no longer linger. They must go now and make use of whatever daylight hours they had remaining—which also meant that they didn’t have the luxury of time to stick around and dig in the snow to locate coldstones. Keane loathed to disappoint the lass, but there was nothing to be done for it. He allowed Lianae to search while she could, rallying his men and readying the horses, never telling her that he intended to cut her time short, but she already knew.

She was on her knees, shoveling around heaps of snow and he cursed beneath his breath as he thought of her meal last night—and his own empty stomach—wondering how long she could make it in the saddle. Already, his belly was grumbling and with the storm, it was a waste of time to try to hunt. Even the squirrel he’d spied this morn was wise enough to find shelter. Tomorrow might be the soonest they could hunt a proper meal. He pulled Cameron aside, issuing orders privately, so as not to muddle things further between them. Loyal or not, Cameron would have his pride.

“When you have the occasion, check Murdock’s and Brude’ satchels. One or both have something to lose once we reach Dunràth.” Both were under suspicion for treason, though as yet there was no proof.

“Should we press on?”

“Dunràth is but a day’s ride at most. The entire point was to dawdle along the way, to lure out the spy, so nay. Rather I am thinking Dunloppe, where we can resupply.”

“The men will suspect, since they have no knowledge of our mission. Why not Ailgin or Nairn—or even Keppenach? All these are closer and Jaime would see to our needs without question.”

So would Broc, although Cameron clearly did not wish to involve his cousin. It just so happened that Dunloppe belonged to Broc Ceannfhionn, who ruled the fortress in the MacEanraig name. He followed David by oath, but not by blood. If Keane should feel the need to defy David over the girl, he wanted to be in the most neutral place. Pondering that fact, Keane looked over his shoulder at Lianae, who was still crawling about upon her hands and knees, rifling through drifts of snow. Her gown was now damp and her hair lashed about her face. Unmindful of the snow that pelted her in the pate, she continued to search.

He dared not go to Keppenach… not yet.

Jaime Steorling was far more loyal to David, and Keane didn’t want to place his sister in a position to defy her husband.

“Dunloppe is the better choice,” he maintained.

Cameron gave a nod, his jaw taut, and Keane knew he understood instinctively why he had chosen Dunloppe. For a moment, he appeared as though he wished to argue the point, and then he shook his head and walked away.

Keane understood the position he would be placing Broc in, but until he knew for certain what Lianae was running from, he didn’t intend to place the girl at further risk. It couldn’t be helped. Nor did he intend to simply hand her over to David. Alas, the last place he could take her was the safest place he could go: to the vale. Despite that his brother had never refused him aught, Keane knew very well that Aidan would refuse him this—although what
this
was, he wasn’t entirely sure. In the end, all that would matter to Aidan was that Keane had brought conflict to his precious vale.

He gave Lianae until the final moments to search for her stones, and then Keane went to fetch her. “It’s time to go,” he said.

With the wind rising, it was nearly impossible to say whether she’d heard him or not, but she remained on her knees, tunneling desperately through the snow.

“Lianae,” he said, louder this time. “The snow is much too thick, lass; you’ll never find your stones.”

When she wouldn’t look up, Keane reached out to touch her arm. She shrugged him away. Refusing to be denied, Keane gripped her about the arm, gently drawing her to her feet. “It’s time to go,” he said again, more firmly.

Her eyes were full of unshed tears. “You promised!”

“I know I did, lass, and I had every intention of helping, but now it’s time to go.”

“Nay!” she shouted, shrugging away. “You go—I dinna have to!”

Only a madwoman would think to stay in this raging weather, without food and without shelter. Cailleach herself would have had naught to do with the place. The best thing they could do now would be to press on and find shelter elsewhere. It would be colder yet come nightfall, so Keane tilted the girl a sympathetic look, lifting a hand to her face, brushing a thumb against the bruise on her cheek. “Do ye truly mean to stay? I would not see you come to harm, Lianae.”

He couldn’t make her go—not without force—but he wasn’t entirely certain he could walk away. If she forced him to decide one way or another, he would send the men away rather than force her where she would not go. But that would breed a whole new set of problems for them all. Fortunately, her anger seemed to melt away at Keane’s touch. She lifted her hand to his. “Ye dinna ken,” she said, her eyes beseeching him. “I
need
those stones.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

She guarded her mysteries as well as Dubhtolargg, but Keane was no stranger to secrets. He could see them in her eyes, undecipherable as they were. “Are they worth your life, Lianae? What of the men who are after ye? Would ye have them find you here…
alone
?”

More than aught, Keane wanted to help her find her damned stones. In terms of gold, they were worth more than his horse, but this was not the time. The storm was worsening and they had one more mouth to feed and no rations to sustain them. As it was, Dunloppe was within two day’s reach.

“We will come back,” he said, and meant it. “I swear.”

“We?”

“We,” he affirmed with a nod. “Ye have my word, Lianae.” And with that promise, she gave him a nod and then her hand.

W
e
.

The way he’d said the word was strange to Lianae’s ears.

Whilst her father and mother still lived, there had been a sense of
we
, but that
we
had been different somehow. Her father had been a leader of men, a lesser
Ri, a minor king,
and her mother, a woman who’d cared for his brood. That
we
was never the sum of two.

She contemplated this fact as she rode with Keane in the saddle. She rode behind him, his body shielding her from the worst of the storm. In keeping to the woodlands, they avoided the wind, but it also shielded them from whatever bit of sun there was to be had. Cold and wet, shivering, Lianae leaned against his back for warmth.

But she would not fool herself.

Wherever it was they were going, she was a heartbeat away from being returned to the Earl—like so much chattel. There were few enough of her people remaining and fewer yet who would be willing to risk the Scot’s king’s wrath. And yet staying in Lilidbrugh was not in her best interest either, whether or not Keane kept his promise to retrieve her charm stones.

After a mild beginning, winter was a raging boar. Every minute grew colder than the last. The simple flurries that had graced the sky yesterday evening had become cutting sheets of ice, bombarding them from a black and blue sky. They couldn’t gather the camp quickly enough, and in a short time they were mounted and on the way.

Through it all, Lianae might as well have been a specter, for it was as though she were invisible to everyone, but Keane. None of the other men ever dared to look at her, much less talk to her or treat her unkindly, and she had a feeling she knew why.

Keane.

They feared him.

It was impossible to see aught past the length of one’s hand, but she knew there were fourteen men in all. She spied only six—the one called Cameron, who every so oft cast Lianae dubious glances, and five others. These handful of men remained nearest to Keane, riding in a pack. The others lagged behind, forming yet another. And even surrounded by trees, the wind blew so furiously that Lianae had little choice but to put her arms about Keane’s chest, tucking her cloak beneath her arms to keep it from billowing in the wind.

This morning’s embrace had been so vastly different and the memory of it continued to warm her cheeks albeit nothing else. Fortunately, if he thought less of her for the liberties she had taken, he didn’t say so, nor did he behave as though Lianae had offended him. If aught, he seemed even more solicitous, reaching back now and again to steady her in the saddle and to pull her legs close. Lianae didn’t bother trying to speak to him, not even to thank him. Despite their proximity, he wouldn’t have heard her anyway. Like an angry banshee, she heard only the wind shrieking past the trees.

Cold wind rushed up her skirts, and she tried to adjust them now and again so that they wrapped more firmly about her legs—as much to hide her bruises from prying eyes as to keep her legs warm. But no matter how many times she made the adjustment, her skirt billowed out with the wind, whipping furiously. And with every furlong they rode, she felt the loss of her stones more acutely. More than a few times she’d wanted to check to see that the remaining stones were still safe in her hem, but it was all she could do to stay warm in the saddle. Thankfully, Keane had allowed her keep his thick woolen breacan and her greatest solace was that she had his thick wool still wrapped about her feet. Savage or nay, the man was a godsend after all.

It was early afternoon before the winds began to ease and the sky turned some color besides rude grey. Finally, a hint of sun peeked out from between somber clouds and through the pine trees. After awhile, a small gray hare raced before them, and Lianae’s stomach complained loudly. “We’ll stop soon,” he said, patting her on the leg.

Realizing that he’d very likely heard her belly grumble, Lianae’s cheeks burned. “Thank you,” she said, and was grateful for his care. He had already done more for her than most men might do under the same circumstances. As yet, he’d not even asked her but once what she was doing so far from home. And truthfully, at the moment, she regretted having repaid his kindness with naught but rudeness, when he’d inquired about her dress. “If you must know, I was to wed,” she confessed belatedly.

He was quiet a long moment, and Lianae waited for him to speak, prepared to tell him anything he wished to know—apart from revealing who she was. It was the least she might do to make up for her rudeness and repay him for his kindness.

“Somehow, I dinna imagine ye a dutiful wife.”

Lianae smiled, for she sensed ’twas not said as an insult. In fact, there seemed to be a note of admiration in his voice. “You flatter me, I believe.”

In truth, she had never envisioned herself wed to some fat, greasy lord. It was always Elspeth who was meant to spend a dowry. Lianae had been more than content to tend her father’s farm, and Óengus too seemed perfectly pleased to allow her to stay. Her mother had been the one who’d had other notions, for she’d longed for a passel of grandchildren. Because her sons hadn’t seem overly inclined to give them to her, she’d hoped both Elspeth and Lianae would wed and soon.

“Is that why you fled? Because ye dinna wish to wed?”

“Nay.” Lianae would have done so simply to please her mother. But up until a few days ago, she had never realized how cruel men could be. Fortunately, her mother had not lived to see Elspeth’s sightless eyes, her bruised neck and blue lips.

Keane made no more inquiries, and Lianae didn’t elaborate. Enough words had been spoken for now, and it eased her to know he would not pry. She rested her cheek against his back, stealing his warmth and allowing the steady beat of his heart to lull her back to sleep.

When she awoke after awhile, she couldn’t be certain how long she’d slept or how long they’d been in the saddle, only that her tummy was growling all the louder and that her lashes were frosting together. But the wind was now gone, and she could hear the crunch of hooves marching endlessly through the snow. This was something that amused her: In the stories her grandmother often told—of times long past—she’d spoken of Vikings marauders stealing quietly through the snow. In Lianae’s experience, there was naught very quiet about snow. The sound was more a loud crunch, and just now, with fourteen horses and fifty-six legs, the din was relentless.
But, alas, not louder than her wrathful stomach.

He patted her yet again. “Ye’re awake?”

Lianae nodded sleepily. “But I wish I were not.”

“Why lass?”

Swallowing with some difficulty, Lianae clung to his cloak lest she topple from the horse, weary from lack of food and sleep. Her stomach hurt, and everyone else’s seemed equally as uncomfortable as hers, all except Keane’s. “’Tis my belly,” she said, despite that she suspected what ailed the men was something other than hunger.

“I am sorry, lass,” he said. “’Tis the grouse, I suspect. We’ll find something to settle your belly, I promise.”

Lianae smiled, for he sounded like her mother, despite that he looked like a murdering savage. Not even her brothers had ever coddled her so, and she found herself wishing his men had not interrupted them this morning. The taste of his lips stayed with her and she didn’t have to try to remember that tantalizing scent. She needed only but inhale a breath…

What would it be like to spend the rest of her days with a man like Keane?

Far better than with the Earl, that much was certain. Lianae had the sense that Keane would be quick to protect the people and things he valued most, unafraid to stand up to men like William fitz Duncan.
Unlike her brother Lulach.
And he was handsome, as well, even without any finery and garbed as he was in rudimentary clothes—like some warrior of old.

In fact, he reminded her a bit of the Viking warriors her grammy had gone on about, except that he was darker in countenance, not golden haired—more like the Painted Ones who’d once inhabited these Highlands before. They were gone now, although Lianae sensed they were still around, like the men and women of Moray, hiding in plain sight.

Of course, it was better for the people of Moray to hide. There weren’t enough of them now to stand against the usurpers. But the next thing one knew, the Moraymen would all be gone, and if any remained—like Lulach—they would keep their fancy clothes and attend their fancy chapels, and raise their sons and daughters to be good little Sassenachs. This was the destiny she envisioned… unless she could find Ewen and Graeme and they could restore the Mormaerdom. She liked to imagine them as hundreds strong now… waiting for the chance to rise up and retake what belonged her people.

As soon as Lianae had the chance, she would retrieve those charm stones and find a way to reach other brothers. There might be enough coin left over that she could donate to their cause.

“How many did you recover?” Keane asked, as though he’d read her mind.

“Five,” Lianae replied.

“How many did you have before?”

“Twelve.”

She felt more than saw him nod and once again she rested her chin on the small of his back. “You know what they are?”

“I do,” he confessed.

“Ha’ ye ever seen any before now?”

“I have.”

“Ach, do ye speak more than two words at a time?”

“I do,” Keane said again, and once again, she sensed rather than saw him smile. It was there, in the tone of his voice. The muscles of his chest seemed to relax beneath her hands.

Lianae laughed softly, wondering why he’d been so reluctant to take what she’d offered him this morn. Did he have a wife already? That possibility both pleased and frustrated her at once, for she had never known a man to be so loyal to his woman—and this must be a good thing, though now that she had set her sights on gaining Keane’s protection, she needed his heart to be free. “So, then… if you’re so fond o’ women, ye must be wed?”

K
eane’s lips
curved over the arrogantly phrased question and the unmasked curiosity in her voice. She said it rather like a statement, as though there could be no other cause for his shooing her out of his bed. And aye, he knew intuitively that’s what her question was all about:
that kiss.
“I am not,” he replied.

He felt her sigh—a long, hot breath against the small of his back. He felt it penetrate the layers of his garb. “Well, there we have three words,” she said, and Keane couldn’t quite suppress his mirth.

His shoulders shook with laughter. “Nay, lass,” he said, to be clearer. “I am no’ wed.”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but she seemed to scoot a wee bit closer after his admission and, despite the relenting weather, that fact pleased him more than he could say.

“And you are certain you’re no pillow biter?”

Once again, Keane stifled his laughter, clearing his throat. “Quite certain.”

“I see we’re back to two words. Does it anger you for me to ask?”

“Why should it anger me? If you’re curious, how else will ye know if ye dinna ask?”

She sighed again, leaning her sweet cheek against his back, and Keane inhaled a deep, heady breath, enjoying the feel of her. “That’s what I used to tell my da,” she said. “When he complained I asked too many questions.”

“Used to?” Keane peered over his shoulder, glimpsing the top of her pale red curls.

“Aye.”

“Is he no longer with us?”

“Aye.”

“And your minny?”

“Dead.”

“Ach now, Lianae, do ye speak more than one word at a time?”

She laughed quickly, and the sound was like music to Keane’s ears.

“Ha’e ye anyone left?”

Her lean arms encircled his chest—a gesture that felt not unlike a hug, and the sensation gave Keane a strange lump in his throat. But he sensed her answer before she spoke again, and it filled him with sadness.

What must it be like to be truly alone?

He’d often thought of himself as alone, but the truth of the matter was that Keane had kinfolk who loved him and who would welcome him home no matter the circumstances.

“No,” she said after a long moment.

“No brothers, no sisters?”

“I
had
three brothers, one sister.”

She didn’t offer up anymore information and it took Keane a long moment to vanquish the instinct not to pry.

“I’ve been told my brothers and my sire all fell at Stracathro in Forfarshire, and my mother—well, she died three years past.”

“And your sister?”

“Murdered.”

Keane didn’t anticipate that answer, and sensing they were venturing into painful territory, he refrained from making jokes about her return to one-word answers. And yet she seemed in the mood to talk, and so he asked the one question he wished to know. “Tell me, lass… who were you running from?”

Her entire body shuddered, and her fingers unlocked about his chest, her hands falling away, though she didn’t answer and Keane frowned.

“If ye dinna tell me, ye’ll leave me with no choice but to hand you over to the king.”

Her tone was flippant now. “And is that what you do with all the strange women you encounter?”

“Of course not.”

“Why then would ye turn me over to
your
king.”

There was naught simple about the girl, Keane decided. And, in fact, she might be the most complicated woman he’d ever met—his sisters included. As for the barb—although it wasn’t meant to be one, he took offense at her reference to
his
king. David mac Maíl Choluim was not his king.

And then there was this: There were some who as yet did not welcome David’s rule—particularly in Moray—but more and more every day the choice was no longer their own. David mac Maíl Choluim had won himself Northhampton and Huntingdon, as well as most of the lowlands. Now, after the victory at Stracathro in Forfarshire, he ruled Moray as well as much of the Highlands. After all these years, he could rightly call himself the High King of the Scots and Chief of Chiefs. Whether Lianae had intended to or not, she had revealed much to him with her simple question, and now more than before he was glad he’d chosen Dunloppe as their immediate destination. And still he pressed her. “
My
king?”