Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) Page 6

  “A mon’s word is his honor,” Aidan told him. “The price of breaking it—e’en once—is the trust of his clan. Aye, Keane, I will wed the lass, but that doesna mean I’ll no’ kill her if she proves to be a deceitful bitch.”

  Keane grinned, lifting his tankard to his lips. Aidan knew he was trying to be nonchalant, but the boy’s hands trembled as he peered up anxiously to see if Aidan watched.

  “Oh, and,” he said, “lest ye forget... I am the only one who may call my bride a wench. Dinna let me hear such disrespect pass your lips again.”

  Keane nodded, at last taking a swig of his uisge, succumbing immediately to a fit of coughs and sputters. But he drank again even before his hacking had subsided, and Aidan smiled, for Keane was a lad after his own heart.

  Keane’s face split into a silly grin and he took another hefty chug. When he came up again from his cups he had a new glitter to his eyes.

  Aidan rewarded him with a nod and a smile. Their uisge was not for the faint of heart. ‘Twas said their recipe for the water of life came straight from the faeries who had first led his people to this glen. Like everything in this little slice of heaven on earth, the recipe was a legacy to their ancestors, kept for generations and changed not a whit.

  Like the crannóg they slept in.

  Made completely of wood, the building had been designed to hold an entire village in the event of war, but Dubhtolargg was far larger than it had been when their ancestors had first arrived here. Despite that many Highland villages were now protected by new stone fortresses that buttressed the sky, they had no need of such bastions here. Those monstrous creations of men were monuments to fear. Here they were protected by the land itself—and some would say by the ancient faerie glen where men must pass before coming down into the vale. This was not a country for the enfeebled, and very soon he would discover precisely what Lìleas MacLaren was made of. If his bride would seek a warm bed, she would need gather near, for the walls here were no doubt far thinner than those she was accustomed to at Keppenach.

  Now it was Aidan’s turn to cough, for the thought of Lìleas lying naked in his bed sent a surge of lust through his veins that stirred his cock, startling him so that he swallowed his uisge down the wrong pipe. Mo chreach! He couldn’t recall the last time a lass had such sway over his willie. The women of his clan were hardly shy. They held as much dominion as any man, and loved where they would, but Aidan had never been able to stomach the thought of fathering lads with a woman he didn’t care to live with.

  Enemy or nay, Lìleas was a lovely thing, with curves in all the right places and breasts that were far riper than a body so lean should have a right to bear. He reasoned that it must be because she had already borne a child, but her belly belied that fact. She was a beautiful contradiction, his bride—everything about her. And though he had contemplated returning her to her father if she didn’t please him, he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he would not.

  In fact, there was no reason to delay the hand fasting, he decided in that very instant. If Lael managed not to kill her this afternoon, he would wed Lìleas MacLaren on the morrow.

  A tiny smile curled his lip, for the simple fact that none of his sisters had returned with news of Lìleas’ demise was a verra good sign. In celebration, he poured himself and Keane another cup full of uisge. “Drink!” he commanded. “Tonight we celebrate.”

  If Lìleas made it through the afternoon with his sisters, at the very least they would celebrate not having to go to war with her bloody Da.

  Chapter Five

  The instant Aidan’s sisters were gone, Lìli sent Aveline to retrieve water for the basin in their room. She waited for about an hour, and when Aveline had yet to return, she went in search of water herself and found a well not far from the cottage. But even after hauling the bucket back, Aveline was nowhere to be found.

  All the better, Lìli decided, for she wasn’t accustomed to having anyone wait on her anyway and she preferred not to have an audience while she bathed.

  Aveline was likely with Rogan anyway, Lìli thought.

  Poor girl... she had come to Keppenach as Rogan’s ward and though he had wasted little time in bedding her, he clearly did not intend to wed her. He had cast her off so easily. He never showered her with gifts, nor did he publicly acknowledge her as his mistress. Whatever Aveline owned she had brought along with her from her father’s home—and quite a lot there was!

  With some effort, Lìli moved Aveline’s enormous trunks out of the way to get to her measly two chests. Lìli had brought very little in regards to clothing, but she had stuffed all the herbs she could fit in her coffers. Realizing that once she was gone they would allow her garden go to weeds, she had harvested everything she could. Half the other trunk was full of herbs as well, for the herbs were far more valuable than any dress she owned, including this ridiculous gown David had gifted her with. For her son, she’d left but a few herbs, primarily rosemary to help him ward away the terrible dreams he suffered by night. But she had also left a few medicinals with a nursemaid she trusted. Her son was a healthy lad, though she worried about him anyway. He was her only son and she missed him more than words could say.

  They had given her one year to see her new husband dead—one year to contemplate the atrocities they would commit upon her son if she did not obey.

  Lael’s words came back to taunt her: My sisters may not recall what betrayal looks like, but my brother and I will n’er forget.

  What did she know? Was betrayal written so clearly upon Lìli’s face even though she did not even know how she would accomplish the task? Could she murder a man in cold blood? More than anything, for once in her life, she hoped the curse was true, for then she could lay Aidan’s death squarely upon his own hands, for it was his kin who had cursed her, after all.

  Save for one wee complication... to die from the curse, Aidan would have to love her, and the affection of the laird of Dubhtolargg was something she doubted she would ever earn. Considering the dark look Aidan had given her before he’d abandoned her to his sisters, she would be quite fortunate if he didn’t strangle her in their bed on their wedding night.

  But of course, she preferred not to think of that right now.

  She was no innocent maid. She understood what would come and what would be expected of her, and the thought of the bedding made her cheeks flame. An image of Aidan, standing nearly bare upon the dock accosted her, and she shoved it away, unable to bear the thought, for it made her belly flutter and her heart dance against her ribs.

  Reining in her wayward thoughts, she rifled through her chest.

  Amidst her belongings, there was one small pouch she truly hoped never to open. The tiny brown nondescript sack contained a very deadly concentration of nightshade and hemlock—so potent that one must endeavor not to even touch it with bare hands. Also inside that sack was the ring Rogan had given her—a poison ring so she might lace Aidan’s food or drink without his notice.

  It crossed her mind to wonder why Rogan would have such a trinket to begin with. If Stuart had not perished in the manner he had, surrounded by witnesses, she might begin to wonder if his brother had intended the device for him. Certainly Rogan was capable of it. Shuddering at the thought, she shoved the pouch with the ring down deeper into her chest, concealing it. Another small pouch, similar in color, was full of rose petals, and she snatched that one out and closed the chest.

  Rose petals had many uses, but she most loved to throw the petals in her bath water. These, however, were no longer supple, so she would use them to freshen her wedding gown. She took from her coffers a far plainer bliaut, a deep sapphire blue gown fashioned from soft wool, with light-blue embroidery along the hem and sleeves. She had sewn the dress herself and was quite proud of the result, even if it was worn now with age. As Rogan had intended, she had made her appearance in the lavish gown David had gifted her with, and now she would leave it for her wedding night and wear something far more appropriate to the weather. This far north th
e night would bring a chill.

  Stuart had once told her that the color of her blue gown complimented her eyes—but that was not why she chose it.

  Besides, she told herself it didn’t matter what Aidan dún Scoti thought of her.

  In the pouch, there was also a phial of rosewater, which she used to scent her bath water. Not daring to tarry much longer, she made quick work of her bath, donning the gown hurriedly and then retrieving her beloved arisaid from her coffer.

  Until she was duly wed she saw no reason not to continue wearing the MacLaren plaid. Stuart might be dead now, but although these were her last days as a MacLaren, some day her son would do these colors proud. For now, wearing the arisaid made her feel bonded to Kellen. The simple fact that she would soon be forced to abandon it left her with a hollow feeling deep in her soul. But she sighed, deciding that once she put it aside, she would save it for the woman her son would wed and prayed she would live long enough to see that day come.

  Once her private ministrations were done, she smoothed her gown down around her ankles and then brushed and plaited her hair so that it fell in one thick braid down her back. A few wispy strands could not be contained, but she couldn’t bother herself to try. She was too weary and glum and the laird of Dubhtolargg had already shown her what he thought of her—apparently not very much.

  What had she expected anyway?

  Far from being a love match, this wasn’t even a political match. What it was precisely, she had yet to determine, for she knew enough about Aidan dún Scoti to know he had no interest in alliances with anyone. In truth, there was only one thing he could want with her, though Lìli could well see that they had gone out of their way to provide her with all that she would need here. Apparently, at least for the moment, he didn’t intend to make her suffer for her father’s sins. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of impending doom because vengeance could be his only motive. What would be his method of punishment?

  Surely he had something planned...

  Pondering that with a wary heart, she sat upon the bed she was meant to share with Rogan’s mistress and found it plump and clean. Aveline would think it insufferably crude, but the feather bed was a pleasant surprise.

  Outside, the sound of the reed rose upon the air and Lìli waited, expecting someone to knock upon her door at any moment. When you are ready to sup, simply follow your noses, she recalled Lael saying. Apparently, she had meant that quite literally. When no one came to retrieve her, Lìli suspected no one would and she finally ventured out toward the sound of the reed.

  On the beach near the loch, Aidan’s kinsmen had built a bonfire. Beyond it, she could see the torches lit along the pier to the wooden fortress perched out upon the water. However, the pier was empty and there was no sight of Aidan. The sky was alight with a deep golden light that reflected upon the glassy water, and despite that a chill had risen in the air, there was nary a breeze and the fire burned true and high.

  Little by little, the townsfolk abandoned their daily tasks and gathered around the fire, but their numbers grew slowly, for it seemed no one was in the mood for a celebration. In fact, the looks upon their faces as they gazed at her reminded her of the way the villagers at Keppenach regarded Rogan whenever their haughty master wasn’t looking. In contrast, they had loved Stuart, and Lìli might have grown to love him as well if she’d had half a chance. As it was, she was grateful to him, for he had shown her the greatest kindness she had ever known. However, he had died within the first year of their marriage, and she hadn’t truly had time to know or love him as he had deserved.

  Watching the townsfolk gather, Lìli stood alone at the edge of the bonfire, ignoring the wary looks the people cast in her direction. As the sun continued to fade, more and more clansmen were drawn to the warmth of the fire. Finally, Aveline reappeared. She stood at Rogan’s side on the other side of the bonfire, whispering into his ear. Her face was flushed and despite the fact that the conversation was no doubt in part about Lìli, neither of them peered in Lìli's direction. Lìli felt invisible and alone, an outsider without asylum, but she refused to go join Rogan and his dour-faced mistress. While these were not her people as yet, neither were Rogan and Aveline. They were as much her adversary as was Lael.

  At least Lael did not mince words.

  Listening to the evocative sound of the reed, Lìli drew her arisaid higher over her shoulders, mesmerized by the dancing flames. Watching the crackling timber, she remained rooted to the spot, thinking of her son—the look upon his face as she’d left him alone—and she swallowed a knot of grief that arose in the back of her throat.

  Suddenly she felt more than heard the presence at her side and turned to find Aidan dún Scoti standing beside her. She had not even heard him approach.

  He was no longer bare-chested, nor was he painted, and he had traded his claymore for a simple dirk that he had sheathed within his belt. Wearing an unstained tunic along with his breacan, there was nothing savage about the man’s appearance now save the look in his eyes. They were cold and hard, and for the longest instant, he held her gaze transfixed, then he eyed her arisaid with narrowed eyes.

  Lìli pulled the cloak around her shoulders defensively and met his gaze without flinching. “’Tis cold, my lord. I have no other.”

  Was she baiting him?

  Aidan wondered.

  Clearly she did not come to him with open arms, but neither did she strike him as being a contrary wench, despite her earlier mettle. And yet she stood before him, wrapped in MacLaren colors for everyone to behold.

  Was it a message for him perhaps—that she might wed him but her heart would always belong to another? Or was she simply cold, as she'd claimed?

  He reminded himself that until they were wed she had a right to wear whatever she chose, but it rankled nonetheless. For all his outward calm, he felt like stripping off her accursed MacLaren cloak and covering her with his own. But to do such a thing had far greater consequence than simply assuaging his wounded pride. The women of his clan would as soon box a man’s ears than to put up with his jealousy, and yet he felt a twinge of it now. Still he held his tongue, battling through strange emotions that assailed him. In all his years he had never felt possessive over any woman. Foreign as the feeling was, he recognized it nevertheless and didn’t like it one bit.

  He couldn’t see much beneath the arisaid, but she had changed into a simpler gown. He spied a glimpse of the dark-blue wool beneath the plaid. His sisters, Cailin and Sorcha, had changed, as well, although Lael had refused. The eldest of his sisters was as stubborn a wench as any who had ever breathed—even more headstrong than their mother had been, but Aidan could barely recall much else about the woman who had borne him. That fact alone rankled, and his new bride—the woman who would share his bed—was the daughter of the man he held responsible for her death.

  “Widowhood suits ye,” he remarked. “Though dinna become accustomed to it, for I dinna intend to be so accommodating as your first husband.” He crossed his arms, his countenance dark as he again fixed his gaze upon her odious MacLaren cloak.

  Averting her gaze, Lìleas peered across the bonfire, where her companions stood huddled together. She seemed to be weighing her words, her jaw working slightly as she stared at her companions. “I am no more responsible for my husband’s death than you are for your father’s,” she suggested.

  “Is that so?”

  Her violet eyes snapped up to meet his. “Aye, my lord, it is.”

  “My name is Aidan,” he corrected her. “Here we do not adhere to haughty English customs as the rest of Scotia seems inclined to do.”

  “Mayhap,” she allowed. “But ye are now my keeper and thus my lord, are ye not?”

  Mo chreach! The wench was no more subservient than his bloody sisters! And yet though he felt a stab of anger over her words, he did not truly wish her to be anything less, he realized. He took a deep breath, summoning patience before speaking. “I am neither your keeper nor your husband as yet, mo chr
oí—my heart. And, in fact, I am reconsidering the wisdom of inviting the woman whose hands bear the blood of my father into my bed.”

  “Would that you had decided sooner!” she dared to scold him. “But I did not kill your father, Aidan dún Scoti. Your people cursed an innocent child.”

  Hearing the name her kinfolk called him, the Scot from the hills, Aidan grimaced. By the sins of sluag, he was no bloody Scotsman! “Aye,” he argued, “though your father did—in cold blood I might add. If, in fact, your life has been accursed, mo chroí, you may blame Padruig Caimbeul, not my kin.”

  Illuminated by the rising flames, her violet eyes seemed to deepen to a shade this side of black. “I never said I blamed your kin.”

  “And yet you do?”

  The question was a challenge. They both knew very well that there was enmity between them—enmity that stemmed from circumstances far beyond this moment—beyond any words that had ever been spoken between them.

  Her eyes glistened by the light of the fire, but she dared to lift her chin. “As you blame me?”

  That too, was a challenge.

  The bonfire grew brighter, crackling in the twilight.

  Aidan was well aware that now that he had arrived, those of his kinfolk who had avoided the celebration before were drifting into the circle. They were watching him and his bride. Even the children looked to their chieftain for direction, for if these guests rose up against them, he would be the one to lead his warriors to their defense.

  But this was no warrior standing before him.

  She was a woman... a woman unlike any he had ever known.

  She looked like an English loving Scot, sounded like a Scot, but her eyes gave him a feeling of kinship that he should not in good conscience share with a woman whose father had committed such atrocities upon his clan.

  And yet... he had agreed for her to become his wife. At some point, he must find a way to put aside their differences and embrace her... for the good of all.