Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) Read online

  In fact, her betrothed was hardly an aged man. He was in fine fettle, even if his manners were boorish and left much to be desired.

  For a moment, she watched him walk away...

  Thankfully, whatever Stuart’s brother was thinking, he kept it to himself, or perhaps he simply didn’t care to be overheard. Whichever the case, Lìli was grateful he refrained from speaking to her. Merely the sound of his voice grated upon her nerves, and—forsooth—at the moment, her nerves were near to shattering.

  Brandishing her cane, the old woman ushered them toward the village center. “Come!” she said and took Lìli by the arm.

  Without having to be asked, a handful of villagers rushed forward to tend their mounts.

  “’Tis certain ye’ll wish to rest before we sup.”

  Lìli glanced back at Aidan’s retreating form on the long dock. He disappeared into the odd building, followed by his brother, and she chewed her lip, trying to determine what it was she was feeling right now—relief?

  Disappointment, perhaps?

  She was certainly grateful he wasn’t some greasy old man with wiggling jowls, but neither had she envisioned him that way. And yet, that his countenance was fair was no reassurance in itself, for Rogan was a comely man and she had learned that comeliness was no guarantee of kindliness.

  But Aidan’s gaze was hardly comforting.

  If Lìli felt relief, she told herself, it was only because it seemed she had been granted a reprieve from his company. But that hardly explained the intense feeling of disappointment that lingered after his rude dismissal.

  In fact, no man had ever dismissed her quite so. They gave her piteous looks, or they ogled her breasts, or they tried to wheedle her, but none had ever simply cast her aside.

  She found herself wondering why the laird of Dubhtolargg had agreed to this union to begin with since he seemed to be wholly unaffected by the one thing other men seemed drawn to: her face. The only answer she could come up with was revenge. Aye, they would wed her to her enemy, in truth. God save her, she must somehow win this battle, lest she become another casualty of war.

  “Tonight, we celebrate,” Sorcha announced, intruding on Lìli’s thoughts.

  Lìli’s gaze snapped to meet Lael’s in horror. “The wedding?” she asked. Mercy! Nay! Not only was she dreading the moment she would be forced to share the dún Scoti’s bed, they had been traveling now for days and she was desperate for a bath.

  Once again, the old crone cackled beside her.

  Lael shot her a glance as sharp as the dagger she wore strapped to her leg. “We are no’ quite so barbaric as that,” she replied acidly. “We would hardly drag ye from your sweaty mount and set you willy-nilly before an altar.”

  Lìli’s face heated, though she wasn’t given time for chagrin. Lael shoved past her, picking up her pace to lead the way, clearly as disgusted by Lìli as her brother seemed to be.

  Sorcha and Cailin flanked her at once and the old woman fell back to walk alongside Rogan. Aveline followed silently and Lìli heard the old woman begin to chatter away, seemingly without regard for any response from Rogan, though she heard Rogan mutter crossly beneath his breath. May God forgive her, but Lìli felt an instant of communion with Aidan’s siblings, for she realized that it grated upon Rogan’s nerves to be treated little differently from women and servants. His ego was boundless. No doubt he had expected to be accorded a king’s honor in David’s stead, but Aidan had not addressed him once—not even an acknowledgment, she realized only belatedly.

  His gaze had been fixed solely upon Lìli the entire time.

  Alas, but her good humor was quickly tempered by her own disappointment, for clearly, the dún Scoti had judged her and found her lacking.

  The man seemed to care not a whit for civilities, nor had she expected him to, judging by the tales she’d heard of him. ’Twas said the messenger who was sent north to barter her marriage had returned with the reek of urine in his breeches. And who could blame the poor lad when faced with a man who, at the tender age of ten, had killed his first foe—two at once if the tales were true?

  Not for the first time, she silently questioned her father. Why? Why had Padruig provoked these mountain folk? Why had he not simply let them be? They were harming no one living secluded in these corries, but like a sleeping bear, anyone waking him from his slumber may not live to regret it.

  Once again intruding on her thoughts, Sorcha reached out to touch the soft velvet of Lìli’s bliaut. “I ha’ never seen a gown so fine!” she said with awe.

  Lìli saw no reason not to be completely truthful. “Neither have I,” she confessed, and when the lass peered up at her in surprise, Lìli winked and smiled.

  From that moment forward, Sorcha seemed far more amicable, explaining each structure’s use as they passed it. There was little difference in their villages, Lìli noted, save that these huts were all very well tended. They passed a butcher and a baker and a smith. Behind the huts lay an orchard laden with fruit and berry trees. In the near distance, she spied a shepherd tending his flock upon the slope of a hill, a pastoral view if ever she had seen one. The fact that their bodies were painted for war and they were armed to the teeth only confused the image.

  Aidan’s sisters walked beside her, while the old woman, Una, prattled on at her back, and one by one their little troupe dispersed. Rogan was given his own quarters while the King’s men were accorded a single dwelling to share. Una remained to see the men settled, leaving Lìli and Aveline to continue along with Aidan’s sisters.

  Apparently, until after the ceremony, no one would be permitted within the hall where the laird’s family slept—a fact that Sorcha felt not the least reluctant to share. Lìli had no complaint about that, except that the house they led her to was meant to be shared with Aveline.

  “How crude,” Aveline whispered, as she entered the tiny cottage, with its simple wooden furnishings. She ran her fingers along the surfaces of the furniture, finding her fingers clean after leaving each piece. Still, her face remained pinched with disapproval. Lìli had an overwhelming urge to remind her that Rogan had no influence here. She didn’t know how that could have been made more clear. The gleam of Lael’s knives were more than enough warning to apprise Lìli to use her manners.

  Aveline had a noble bloodline, but apparently good breeding was no assurance of good manners. And yet, while the accommodations were a far cry from the massive stone towers of Keppenach Keep, the cottage was immaculately kept, with fresh rushes on the floor and new thatch on the roof. Clearly, these folk had worked hard to prepare for their arrival and someone had given up their home as it was doubtful they had constructed the domicile simply for them. There were blankets that had been lovingly knitted by someone folded neatly upon the bed, and adornments that said this home was beloved. Regardless of what else she might feel, Lìli appreciated the effort they had made in their behalf, even if her betrothed seemed to want nothing to do with her.

  Both Cailin and Lael watched from the doorway while Sorcha showed them within.

  Along the journey north, they had brought but a single wooden cart. But it wasn’t until they brought in Aveline’s oversized trunks that Lìli realized how meager her own coffers were in comparison. She’d brought only two small chests while the trunks took up half the space of the diminutive dwelling. Sorcha wandered over to examine one of Aveline’s trunks. “Are these yours?” she asked Lìli, running her fingers over the intricate carvings in the corner of the largest coffer.

  “Mine!” Aveline snapped, and the girl withdrew her fingers at once, tilting Lìli another questioning glance.

  Her older sisters stood with arms crossed, peering at one another without saying a word, but Lìli knew they must have been wondering who the true mistress was—clearly not Lìli. She didn’t fail to note their disdainful glances toward the trunks and then toward each other.

  Discomfited by the sisters’ scrutiny, Aveline softened her voice. “I meant only to say your blue paint may ruin the
woodwork.” The trunk was fashioned from expensive oak and the carvings were delicately painted, but there was no paint on the girl’s hand. Lìli gave Aveline a quelling glance. Very soon, whether she liked it or not, these would be Lìli’s people as well, and it would be her responsibility to protect them—from Aveline’s sense of self-importance, if from nothing else. However, Lìli was certain much of Aveline’s haughtiness would be tempered naturally once Rogan was gone. Once again noting the silver knife handle gleaming over the top of Lael’s boot, Lìli nervously lifted up one of the candles sitting atop a table. She brought it to her nose to inhale the lovely scent of beeswax. “Oh!” she exclaimed in surprise. “What an honor to be given the best of your candles!” she said to Sorcha.

  From the doorway, Cailin gave a little twitch of her brows.

  The eldest of the three sisters continued to watch Aveline circle the room and Lìli forced herself to ignore Rogan’s mistress, centering her attention on Sorcha and Cailin. “At Keppenach we were not so fortunate. Our candles were all made of tallow.”

  Sorcha screwed her face. “Oh, they must have reeked!”

  Lìli smiled. “Indeed,” she confessed, meeting Lael’s gaze just for an instant. Lael lifted a brow, but that was all she conceded, and Lìli returned her attention to the candle in her hand. Decorated by an outer layer of braids, the handiwork was quite ornate. She studied it with genuine fascination.

  Still Lael said nothing and simply continued to watch from the doorway, her stance nearly as imposing as any man’s, but Cailin walked over to remove the candle from Lìli’s hands. She turned it over, peering up with a tentative smile. “This one is mine,” she declared. “See? We place our marks upon the bottoms so everyone may know.” Clearly, she took pride in her work.

  “How lovely,” Lìli said sincerely and continued to scrutinize the braid work. It was incredibly detailed and quite unlike anything she had ever seen. It reminded her a bit of the etchings on the stone her son had found in her garden. “Will you show me how to make one later?”

  Cailin gave her a another smile, and then seeming to recall herself, she peered back at her eldest sister. Their exchange was indecipherable, but it appeared to Lìli that somehow she had won a tiny victory when Cailin turned, lifted her shoulders and said, “Mayhap.”

  But that apparently did not please Lael, for she suddenly waved her sisters away from their guests. The look she gave Aveline was scathing, but all emotion was shuttered when her gaze returned to Lìli. “I trust ye will discover all to your satisfaction,” she said, slanting a look at Aveline that could have sliced the heart out of a man.

  Aveline took a startled step backward and Lìli stifled a tiny smile.

  “As my sister has said, we prepared a welcome celebration,” Lael offered rather grimly. “When ye are ready to sup, simply follow your noses.” And then she gathered her sisters and ushered them out of the cottage, remaining just a moment longer to impart a warning...

  She centered her gaze upon Lìli. “Ye’ll find us quite accommodating, but take care. My sisters may not recall what betrayal looks like, but my brother and I will n’er forget.” She passed another glance to Aveline, her gaze lingering a second longer before returning to Lìli. “I may have promised Aidan my best behavior in your presence, but not even Aidan will fault me for gutting ye from belly to throat if I find ye have perfidy in mind. Dinna betray my kin,” she warned, and with that she smiled sweetly, her face suddenly softening despite the war paint. “Welcome to Dubhtolargg,” she said, and turned and walked away.

  This was the longest era of peace their tribesmen had ever known.

  From the moment of its conception, Dubhtolargg had been plagued with betrayals and deceptions, and it seemed history was bound to repeat itself.

  Apparently, Aidan was little different from his father—so hungry for peace that he would find himself once again bargaining with traitorous devils.

  With an explosion of curses, he burst into the hall, angered to find himself in the position he was in—hopeful for a treaty of peace, but heedful of the consequences of letting down his guard. But that dilemma now presented itself with an entirely new quandary. He was torn, feeling intensely protective over his new bride and equally distrustful.

  That pleading look in those violet eyes tugged at his heart, but for all he knew she had been sent to gut him in his bed.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t intend to give her any opportunity to put him in the ground, and whether or not he believed in the curse, there was only a danger for the husband who lost his heart over the violet-eyed wench, and that was something Aidan was not inclined to do—no matter how imploring a look she gave him.

  Love was not a part of this bargain.

  The only love he bore any woman was the love he had for his sisters, and his mistress was the land of his birth. That would not change, no matter how well his bride packaged her lovely breasts.

  His brother sauntered in behind him and Aidan stilled his tongue, ready to rebuke Keane for having abandoned the others, but he was well aware of the example he had set. If possible, his mood darkened as he made his way toward the cupboard to snatch himself a tankard and a pint of uisge. After retrieving both, he sat down at the long table, pouring himself a liberal dose, wondering how Caimbeul’s daughter fared with his sisters.

  Keane sat down and Aidan eyed his brother over the rim of his tankard. “Once we are wed, you will afford her the respect due her as your chieftain’s wife.”

  There was no need to clarify of whom he spoke, for they both understood very well.

  Keane sat watching as Aidan swallowed a hefty draught. The sweet golden liquid burned as it slid down Aidan’s throat. When it was gone, he set the tankard down upon the table. “That includes remaining in her company e’en when I canna abide it.” And then to himself, he added, “I wadna relish the thought of that bastard giving your sisters e’en the tiniest slight.” Again, there was no need to say of whom he spoke, for he knew his brother had spied the exchange that had angered him and sent him on his heels. “In that case, I would return him to David in snippets.”

  Keane nodded, merely listening, knowing better than to argue. His brother could be a defiant lad, but never with him. He was well aware that Keane venerated his every move. It was both a boon and a burden, for Aidan could never relax his guard. Some day, Keane might well lead the clan in his stead and, to that end, he had groomed Keane from the time of his boyhood, well aware that his own life could end at any given moment. It seemed there was ever some fool who yearned to rule them despite that they made it a point to stay out of Scotia’s politics.

  For more than two hundred and fifty years their kin had been positioned here in the Red Mounth—not hiding, per se, but neither did they wish to be troubled. After the murder of King Aed in the year 878—by his most trusted friend and advisor—his kinfolk had retreated here to this refuge in order to safeguard the one true relic that could protect and ensure the reign of future Kings over a peaceful nation—a sacred stone that as yet no one even realized had gone missing. In its stead, they had left a perfect replica that not even the priests at Scone seemed able to differentiate, for David was the twentieth so-called king they had crowned upon that other slag of stone. He poured himself another draught and swallowed, considering the replica and the men who had sat their fat arses upon it.

  Even once the throne had been returned to Aed’s heirs, Aidan’s people had made the decision to keep the true stone hidden, for Aed’s son and nephew had returned from exile as Gaels, their manner and customs no longer true to the old ways. It was little wonder Aed’s nephew had been the first to hail himself as a king of Scotia, for what else was Scotia but a new name for an old land occupied by a new regime?

  Such as it was, Aidan’s tribesmen were the last of the painted ones—those the Roman’s had once called Pechts. It was a legacy his people strove to preserve. They did not recognize Scotia, nor any of its kings, and he was angry that he had been forced to allow his sister
Cat to wed a feckless Scotsman. Simply by virtue of the fact that they hailed themselves as Scoti, the clans were fated to war upon one another, for the real stone of destiny was vaulted deep within the Red Hills. It could only be awarded to a rightful heir—but who should that be? The Pechts were no more and the Scots were bloody traitors and murdering bastards—all of them!

  “Get yourself a tankard,” he commanded his brother.

  Keane was four and ten now. There was little reason not to treat him as a man.

  At his command, Keane leapt up so fast he nearly toppled the bench he was seated upon. Aidan watched him run to the cupboard, snatching the first tankard he could find. He hurried back to the table and sat down again, slamming the cup down with a greedy gleam in his eye.

  Aidan lifted up the jug, refilling his own cup before reaching across the table to pour Keane a dram as well. Although he had long ago ceased to treat Keane as a child—and he knew full well the lad pinched from the barrels when it pleased him—this was the first time he had ever drank with his little brother. The moment was far more significant than it might appear. Aidan was proud of him. It was long past time to bless him. If indeed Aidan were to expire in his wedding bed, he must have faith in his brother’s ability to rule in his stead.

  But that was yet another burr in his side—now that Aidan was to wed, his firstborn son should be his rightful heir—a child with Scots blood. That fact burned his gut far worse than a shot of fresh uisge.

  He poured another gullet full, wincing at the sweet burn in the back of his throat, and then set his tankard down upon the table.

  Of all his siblings, Lael was by far the most adept to lead. There was not a fool alive who would gainsay her if he knew what was good for his health. At least it was something to consider…

  “Will ye keep your promise to wed the Scoti wench?” Keane asked, coddling his cup before him. “Ye dinna have to,” he suggested with one brow raised.